Page:Notes and Queries - Series 10 - Volume 11.djvu/123

 10 s. XL JAN. so, im] NOTES AND QUERIES.

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Mr. Augustine Birrell used this phrase, not as a quotation, in an article on the Reformation in The Nineteenth Century, about ten years ago. G. W. E. R.

NOTES ON BOOKS, &a

The Maid of France : being the Story of the Life

and Death of Jeanne d'Arc. By Andrew Lang.

(Longmans <fc Co.)

WE have read many of the books, wise and foolish, relating to the Maid of Orleans, and have no hesitation in saying that Mr. Lang's study of her wonderful life is by far the most thorough which vre have encountered. He seems neither to have missed nor to have slurred over anything of the slightest importance in her marvellous career ; and in every instance where her heroism had to be depicted has written as aii historian, not as a partisan. French literature abounds with contro- versial matter regarding the Maid, but in recent days almost everything produced in this country or America has been highly favourable to her character, though we need not say that there have been wide differences of opinion as to the visions which formed so important a part in that strange life, owing to the differing psychological standpoints of those who have studied her career.

" The author evidently holds that she did in very truth hear the angelic and saintly voices by which she undoubtedly believed herself to have been inspired, and that they were objective pheno- mena, but would have been of little avail in the service of her country, had she not displayed also "dauntless courage and gift of encouragement; her sweetness of soul ; and her marvellous and victorious tenacity of will."

The evidence as to her loyalty to her country and her king is so overwhelming that it cannot be questioned by any one. nor can the evidence be resisted as to her wonderful ability in leading the forces under her command ; her series of victories, several of which were won in the most unlikely circumstances, is attested not only from the vic- torious side, but by the defeated also.

Jeanne knew from the first that her career would be but short that, indeed, when she had fulfilled her promise and by a series of astounding victories opened the way for the King to be crowned at Reims, her task would be nearly over. Her voices spoke to her no more of victory. They were not silent, but dwelt on her capture, and it may be death. She was to become a prisoner ere Mid- summer Day, but they did not tell the time of her death. She must have realized that there would be long captivity ere the end came, and what the end would be there can be little doubt was ever present to her.

She was captured by the Burgundians at Compiegne, and the Duke of Burgundy and Jean de Luxembourg sold her to the English, or, as we should rather say, to the English party in Paris, for it must never be forgotten that in the capital, as elsewhere, there were many who retained their loyalty to their native king. Thence she was sent to Rouen, where she suffered the misery of an imprisonment among a set of ruffians such as is heartrending to contemplate. This indignity lasted

until her trial for witchcraft was over, andprobably to the very morning when she was burnt. On the day of her death she was permitted to receive the Sacrament, which would have been regarded as an act of sacrilege, had her judges believed her to have been a witch. They professed to do so by the placard they caused to be posted near the place of torture, on which were sixteen terms of reproach, every one of which, as Mr. Lang says, was "the blackest of lies." On her head was placed a cap shaped something like a mitre, on which was inscribed " Heretic, Relapsed, Apostate, Idolater." She asked for a cross to gaze upon during her agony, and it is pleasant to know that an Englishman who was in the crowd gratified her last request. Afterwards the cross from the neighbouring church, or, as we may pre- sume, the processional crucifix, was held before her, that her dying eyes might rest upon it.

Several of the more distinguished of the English- nobles were at Rouen at the time. If they had" been willing, they could, no doubt, have saved her r even at the last, but the bishops and other eccle- siastical authorities, and the magnates of the- University of Paris, were possibly still more to- blame than our own countrymen.

Select Poems of William Barnes. Chosen and edited, with a Preface and Glossarial Notes, by Thomas Hardy. (Frowde.)

MR. HARDY has chosen for this volume " the greater part of that which is of the highest value "" in the poetry of Barnes, the portrait of whom as a dignified old man faces the title-page. The book is- one of much charm for those who relish the sim- plicity and artfulness of country dialect, and Mr. Hardy's Preface is brilliantly written, showing powers of criticism and derision which will not be strange to those who know his work well. He explains that Barnes, "primarily spontaneous," was= " academic closely after," and by no means an uncouth bard gettin? his effects by happy chance. On the contrary, "his ingenious internal rhymes, his subtle juxtaposition of kindred lippings and vowel-sounds, show a fastidiousness in word-selec- tion that is surprising in verse which professes to- represent the habitual modes of life among the western peasantry."

To the same series as the selection from Barnes belongs Echoes from the Oxford Magazine : being- Reprints of Seven Fear*, also published by Mr. Frowde. The text is printed from the second" edition (1890), and it maintains an admirable level of wit and point. The best of the pieces have been known to us for many years, and to renew aquaint- ance with them is very pleasant. Mr. Arthur Sidgwick's Greek pieces are the best specimens we know of a playing with scholarship which is apt to degenerate into pedantry. "A. G." (Mr. Godley of Magdalen) must always rank high among comie versifiers ; and we can almost find it in our heart to regret that the serious muse now claims the "R. L. B." who wrote in 'The Garden of Criti- cism ' lines like these :

From too much love of Browning, From Tennyson she rose.

And sense in music drowning, In sound she seeks repose.

Yet joys sometimes to know it,

A nd is not slow to show it,

That even the heavenliest poet Sinks somewhere safe to prose.