It is a very clear evidence that their consciences reproached them for the weak and wicked manner in which they had yielded to the wishes and power of the Duke of Bedford. induced him to set about finding a plausable, quest. "Although poor Joan was prevented from taking her rest peaceably, yet human nature cannot endure without sleep. It may be, too, that the hearts of her keepers were not so hard as those of their masters. However this be, one night she slept soundly. One of the conditions she had agreed to, for the permission to live, was to put on woman's clothes, and this she had done. These clothes were, by the bishop's orders, removed, and the clothes she had been used to wear when she was free and happy, and had led on the soldiers of her king to victory, were laid by her side. When she awoke she had no choice but to put them on, or remain the scoff of the rude soldiers. She dressed herself in them, perhaps sadly thinking of the days that were past. The bishop was on the watch, and no sooner had he heard that she had done an act contrary to her agreement, than he hastened to make himself a witness of the fact, hurried away, and meeting the Duke of Bedford on his way, told him to make himself easy, for the thing was done,' proceeded to summon the other judges, and immediately procured a sentence of death on Joan, as one who had a second time disobeyed the orders of the church-as a relapsed heretic'-and her execution was fixed for the next day. { "At the hour of nine she was placed on a car between Martin and Isambert, another of her judges, the merciful one who had recommended her to appeal to the Pope. They both offered her all the consolations they could, and entreated her forgiveness for the share they had had in her death. She granted it; and thus, uttering bitter lamentations as she went along, so piteous that the very English soldiers who guarded her were moved to tears, she was led along to the place of execution, the marketplace, which has ever since been called by her name. Here her sentence was read by the Bishop of Beauvais. She declared her innocence, and entreated the prayers of all who beheld her. She was then led to the scaffold, which had been raised on a mound of earth, that she might be visible to all the people, of whom a vast multitude had collected. Martin still accompanied her in spite of the soldiers, who tried to keep him back. At the foot of the mound she begged for a crucifix; an Englishman who was present broke a stick, and made her a sort of a cross, which she took, kissed, and placed in her bosom; she then ascended the pile, where they bound her to the stake, and set fire to the faggots. Friar Martin still remained by her side exhorting her to put her faith in Christ, and to pray to Him to give her strength, even after the flames had begun to rise, and threatened to set fire to his dress. Joan was the first to perceive his danger and warned him of it. She "On the morning of the 31st of May, 1431, then requested him to take the crucifix, and the bishop sent Martin, an officer of the Inquisi-standing at the foot of the mound hold it full in tion, who had been one of the judges, to her sight till all was over, and continue to announce to Joan that sentence of death was exhort her-and this he faithfully did. passed upon her, and that she would be burned The pile was ill arranged and burned alive that morning. She was startled at the slowly. Still, in the midst of her torture, she intelligence, and fell into such an agony of grief was heard calling on the name of Jesus; and at that even the stern inquisitor was moved to length, after enduring long and terrible agony, pity at the sight of such misery in one so young, Joan of Arc, the saviour of the French kingand, as he full well knew, so innocent. Hedom, expired, to the everlasting disgrace of strove all he could to console her, and heard her both French and English, of her friends and her confession. She then entreated that the sacra- enemies. ment might be given her. Now, as sentence of excommunication had been passed upon her, it was against the rules of the church to permit her to receive the sacrament, and Martin hesita No one can read this account of Joan's death, ted. He consented, however, to send and con- without a strong feeling of pity and indignation. sult the bishop, who, strange to say, granted his It shows how the lust of power and dominion permission, and it was administered to her by destroys every humane principle, and makes of Martin. Now, if these men had believed her men the very demons they effect to execrate. guilty of all the crimes they had condemned her Among the many, many blots on the page of for, they acted wrong in acceeding to her re-history, this is one of the foulest. "After her death, the Cardinal of Winchester ordered her ashes to be collected and thrown into the Seine." The annexed cut represents the monument of Arc, at Rouen, the place where she was which has been erected to the memory of Joan burnt. For Arthur's Magazine. A SKETCH FROM THE HISTORY OF THE POOR. BY MRS. S. J. HALE. "Sorrow, early death, Sickness and poverty-O, these would be Her children's lot!" What avails it to count over, one by one, the waves of misfortune, that had swept on, rising higher with every wild burst, till finally her earthly treasures had all been overwhelmed The flood had passed-and all that was spared her from the wreck was the love of two little helpless beings, the babes of her youngest and darling son. While we have an object to love, and feel ourselves beloved in return, we are not wholly without enjoyment in life. Invest the wealth of the affections safely, and you can never be quite bankrupt. Some little green shrub-some sweet flower there will be, springing even in the sterile and desolate path of poverty, if we carefully cherish these humble blessings with the warmth and dew of the affections. It would, to a mind that only judged by worldly policy, seem as if those children must have become a great burden and trouble to their poor, old grandmother. Even some kind hearted people may be inclined to think that relieving her from the duty of providing for her charge would have been the most charitable act a generous benefactor could have performed. And we call this relieving of mere physical sufferings benevolence! It is the lowest grade of this virtue. Why do we not take the feelings, the affections, the hearts of the poor into the account when we would relieve them? Those little children were, to Mrs. Conant, all the world. She had nothing beside to call her own, to love and to live for ;-and yet, because she would not consent to part with them, put them out-(none but the widowed mother of little children can know the full. import of the phrase,)-she was called foolish and obstinate; and those who professed themselves willing to assist her could not consider it their duty to allow her to indulge and spoil her grandchildren. So they let her alone, as they said, that is, withheld their aid till she would become reasonable, and consent to accept it in their own way. People may be tortured till they yield, without being subjected to the thumb-screw or the ordeal by water. Mrs. Conant had been an excellent seam stress, and at seventy years old few, in plain needle-work, were more expert. Could she have obtained constant employment and a fair compensation for her work, she would have supported her little ones and herself (she always thought and spoke of their wants first) in comfort. But she could not, with all her seeking, obtain work to occupy more than four days in a week. Even with this encouragement, had she been justly remunerated, she might have subsisted, for she required but little nourishment herself, and the children were cheerful as larks, even when they had only two meals in a day, A SKETCH FROM THE because they enjoyed these with their dear grandmother. She once told a friend, a poor woman like herself, but one who could feel a sympathy in those generous emotions which the most grovelling cares can never entirely repress in the heart of a true woman,-she told, with tears and smiles blended on her furrowed cheeks, how her dear little grand-son Henry once proposed to his sister to save half their supper for three successive nights, and give it to their grandmother for her Sunday dinner, because she had spoken of the Sunday dinners she used to have when she was rich. "And they did save it," said Mrs. Conant, "and that very Sabbath as well as the Saturday before it, proved such stormy days, that I could not go out to obtain food, and the three pieces of bread, with a little cheese which the poor babes had saved, was all we had to eat during the day. For myself"-continued the patient woman, I only tasted a morsel to please the children-I am used to fasting on the Sabbath now-once it was otherwise; I made it the day of feasting; but God saw that afflictions were necessary, and he has withdrawn outward blessings. Yet I will bless his name while he continues to feed me with the true bread." HISTORY OF THE POOR. { 11 through the light of the Saviour's love, and all tears will be wiped away. These promises Mrs. Conant firmly believed, and they came like smiles of ministering angels to soften the gloom of her thoughts, as she sat, one cold winter evening, reflecting on the presentiment she felt that her own departure was at hand. There was only one reflection which she dared not meet-she must leave her dear grand-children, leave them, helpless as they were, alone in the world, where charity is not yet revealed in love, for the Christian mostly provides for the poor by law and though she had a firm hope of entering the heavenly rest, her tears fell like rain as the thought "what will become of my poor children?"-pressed like ice on her heart. The day had been gloomy as her reflections. She had not obtained any work for two days and all she had earned during the week was ten cents for making a muslin shirt and eight cents for a pair of duck pantaloons-work furnished her from a small clothing shop-eighteen cents to support three individuals for a week! Why did she not represent her case to some charitable society? She feared the children would be taken from her, or that they would all be sent to the alms “But you do not fast every Sabbath day, do { house, where she could no longer have them for you?" inquired her friend. "I do, and am contented to fast," was her meek reply but it wrings my heart to know that my children are hungry. And yet they never complain, and they always kiss me when they see me weep-as I sometimes do-and they say they don't want any thing only to live with me. And Henry will tell me what he intends to do when he is a little bigger, how he shall work and buy me cakes, and apples, and tea, and all good things. And Mary is now learning to sew-poor thing! I fear she can never earn her living by sewing." It was no wonder Mrs. Conant thought needlework poor business by which to live, she could get but ten cents for making a shirt, and even at that rate had only work sufficient to employ her four days in a week. No wonder she was discouraged. Her earthly labors were nearly finished. her own. "I am willing to go when God summons me," she said to herself- and I can commit these poor orphans to Him-but oh! I could not bear to have them taken from me by man;-while I live they must be mine." She had given them her last morsel of bread; they eat it in silence, for they saw that deep distress was on the face of their only friend, and as her gaze was earnestly and solemnly fixed on them they crowded closer together as they drew near her chair-they felt terrified, and yet knew not why they should so tremble and dread to have it grow dark. Poor little creatures! Their grandmother had often told them, she must die, but still they had no idea of death. They saw her raise her withered hands, and heard her as she sighed forth her last prayer- My darlings-O, God, { protect them-" her arms fell powerless, her eyes closed-and the shrieks of the children as they clung around the sinking form, could no more awaken her. She was dead! Who will take care of those children' Doubtless many of my fair readers would be Sorrows afflict every stage of human life; but they never appear so gloomy as when they press heavily on the aged and bow down the grey head to the dust. The feebleness that can hardly support the weight of years, when burden-willing to assist the orphans. Go into the ed with heavy griefs, would seem to find a pleasant relief in anticipating the rest which death will bring; and to the true believer there is the hope of a glorious resurrection, when all the dark passages of life will appear bright, seen houses of the poor in this city-in every city and if you do not find those two little children, you will find others equally deserving your pity. Many a poor, destitute widow, is now suffering for the common necessaries of life intercourse, such generous and grateful feelings fostered and established between the poor and unfortunate and the rich and prosperous make social life happier, and the whole community better and more prosperous? because she cannot obtain work, or, a fair, might be done! And would not such kindly compensation for her work. Must she and her children suffer from cold and hunger during this long winter? or shall they resort to begging, or even be driven to theft?-By their own work, needlework particularly, as now paid for, females cannot support themselves. What shall be done to make their condition comfortable? In those improvements which depend more on moral influences than physical or mechanical power, woman has a most important and influ In one important respect the system of charityential part to perform, because like the divine through Benevolent Societies or by the hands of some agent to whom donations are sent, does not seem the best or most effectual. It does not interest the hearts of those who give their money, as they would be moved if each one performed their own charitable duty. Nor does the mode of receiving assistance from a society call forth that fervent gratitude of the poor, which would be felt and expressed towards an individual benefactor. If every lady who has it in her power-and what lady has not ?-would interest herself in behalf of one poor family, provide work for the mother and pay her promptly and justly (not the mere pittance which the poor through necessity are often compelled to work for)-how much suffering might be spared, how much good agencies whose prototypes are love and charity, it can and must be chiefly effected in secret. Men cannot search into the hidden springs of domestic misery; they have not the wand of sympathy, whose touch opens the bursting bosom, or heals the bleeding heart. Woman is the helper- a ministering angel" when pain and sickness wring the brow, and want and wo break down the noble spirit and wither the delicate feelings of those who have once been proud and prosperous. Above all, the charity which carries the blessings of hope and comfort into the homes of the poor and destitute of her own sex is surely her province. Above every other form of benevolence, that which soothes the wounded spirit and encourages to virtuous exertion is the most blessed. |