The Sun.
London, England, 1849-10-31 00:00:00

WEDNESDAY

heart of Jeanne o'.lre. A core of sadness was in all its
b:ightest wad harghtleit strains, or was communicated
by the sense that ieeeived i!; for at times the grandeur
and gloom of her destiny atmz-,d and affrighted even the
heroic deomcd one herseif.
" Music of whatever quality, furnishes the vague and
multiplying food of thought, in whose rich banquets the
imq.;.iliation lovks to myth It secm4 as if it were the

forgotun language of that blessed birthplace, for ever
lost and for ever regretted by mankind, wiles() meaning;
finer spirits retrieve in snatches. Or does its dreamy
eloquence revive the associations of the past, even the
sweetest, as the past ever presents itself to the fugitive
slider on time, who fee's the transitoriness of existet.ce
by its passage—with sadness? A deeper sadness, when
a nobler nature feels how wasted are its high thoughts
and energies in a vain struggle with the phantom un-
reality of

The Maid is represented in this work as entertain-
ing for the King, " a love—pure, sublime, impas-
sioned as light," for a time unconsciously even to
herself. hler feelings under this influence are thus
most beautifully alluded to :
" .Melar.eholy and musing became the dornino.nt
mocds of that once cloudless and glorj -bathing spirit.
Her reveries were no longer the magnificent dreams of
an inspired though silent poesy. The fiend of passion
had entered the Eden of her imagination, and the subtle
whisperings of the tempter—the glide of his beautiful ser-
pent gleam among the gorgeous flowers of love and fame—
mem d all the perfume and sweetness of that visionary
world. Every hour of the approach to Rheims seemed
to add a new violence and whirl to the tempest in her
heart, and there was such a mingling of joy and despair
in the gaze she fixed on the first rise of its towers on the
plain, that none could tell whether she beheld in it an
ark of redemption, or a rock of ruin."
A few detached passages will do but very inadequate
justice to the heart-touching description of the terrible
execution scene, still those few passages will nerve to
evidence the power and pathos with which this history
of the Maid of Orleans is beautifully suffused :
" Her appearance as she emerged from the gates of
this dark pile—eccording to the testimony of bye-
standers—was so weeping, wee •bt gone, and barbe-
r ouslv maltreated, that her enemies, who were ready to
greet her with insulting shouts of triumph—the popu-
lace, who intended to overwhelm her with scorn and
contumely—all were silent ! Still the last mighty moral
.pang was given to the breaking heart of the deliverer of
Franca when she perceived how many of the people of
Roue❑ had brought kindled torches to add to her funeral
pyre.

" Accordinw to custom, Jeanne d'Arc was led up the
scaffolding that she might be solemnly relinquished by
her judges to her doom. But the most determined and
exasperated of theta all shrunk back appalled from the
supernatural sorrow and reproach in her looks. Is was
the living hell of many to remember that glance of
mute appeal to an hour of their own existences, when
it arose before them like a summons to judgment.
But the Maid of Orleans strove, and with success,
to gain her composure when she beheld the immense
mass of the people all gazing fixedly on her alone. It
dimly occurred to her, that her demeanour in this dread
hour must stamp her either a martyr or a ceiminal.
Her dress was put on in a disordered manner, and with
a natural modesty she drew the cloak around her, bent
thrice to the multitude, while thrice a solemn and du-
bious murmur arose, and then she complied with the
imperious gesture of Cauchon, by vaulting oa a high
three-legg(d stool prepared for her, as lightly and deftly
as if upoa the back of her charger.
" Here she sate exposed to the universal gaze of the
people, and a confused mutter of commentary arose all
around, fur and near. She folded her alms on her
breast, and gazed over the multitude, and then turned
her eyes upward with a bewildered glare to the sky—
with what thoughts, with what anguish, who but He
that gives to the soul of genius its illimitable powers of
joy and suffering can tell ? But sho became, to all ap-
pearance, calm, and listened with an expression of pro-
found and melancholy resignation to the exhortation
which was again delivered against her by a preacher
chosen for the purpose.
"‘ Ye have condemned me to earthly flames, and
yourselves to everlasting ones,' said Jeanne, in a low
dizzy tone, but I have done that I had to do on earth,
and am ripe for death. I would not have given such a
doom to the vilest thing that lives ! Often when the
camp-fires blazed, and I was wearied, I have risen from
my couch to drive the bats from the flames—it is so
painful a death I But ye, God forgive ye, England
herself will hate your memories for this deed, and for
France—oh, France r —and her voice became suffocated
with the indignant grief, that swel:ed in her great heart.

" ' But—but, canst thou forgive me, Jeanne, for yield-
ing thee that Wert my prisoner, to this fiendish doom
which I fear thou dolt not merit as I once thought, so
Christianly speaking !' sobbed WulfAan
" Yea, good soldier ! I should have believed better
in thine honest face I I forgive thee, but with this con-
dition,' said Jeanne, and a mournful hope shed a last
irradiation over her face ; swear to me that thou wilt
take a handful of my ashes to Charles of France ! tell
him thou earnest with the safeguard of my dying
prayer, and he will reward the good deed, and it will
remind him—no matter ! wilt thou do it ?'