Chapter I

The village of Domremi, near Vaucouleurs, on the borders of Lorraine, is distinguished as the birth-place of the celebrated Joan of Arc, in the year 1402. Born in a humble sphere of life, her education was limited. Her parents, James D’Arc and Isabella Romé, were poor, and not being able to educate Joan, sent her, when still young, to take the situation of servant in a small inn. Having a robust frame, and an active temper, she employed herself in a manner rather unsuited to her sex, in currying the horses of the people who frequented the inn, and riding them to water. In short, she took pleasure in all the active occupations attending the situation, at the same time that her conduct and manners were entirely free from reproach.

At this time, the situation of France was very interesting and critical, roused the attention, and formed a constant theme for conversation in all parts of the kingdom, and among all ranks of people. The prince having been expelled from his throne, the kingdom was of course in a state of division and anarchy. At the same time, the English army were laying siege to Orleans, whose inhabitants were making the greatest efforts to avert their probable fate. Joan listened with interest to the news, as it was repeated by the changing guests of the inn; all the “rumors of wars” reached her ears, and struck her imagination. She listened with daily increasing interest to the story of the unfortunate dauphin, till her bosom was filled with a sentiment of loyal attachment to his cause. She pondered on the probable means of his deliverance, and dwelt upon the miseries of her country till her mind became disordered and bewildered, and she thought that she was impelled, by supernatural voices, to expel the enemies of her bleeding country. Her mind was filled with visions, her heart with high hopes, and her habits of life and fearless temper urged her on to the accomplishment of that which her youth and sanguine ardor led her to deem possible.

Filled with these fancies, she could no longer remain in the inactive sphere in which her parents had placed her; she was no longer content, and, packing up her small wardrobe, she returned to her family, and communicated to them her projects and her hopes. Touched by her enthusiasm, her friends accompanied her to Vaucouleurs, where the governor, whose name was Baudricourt, resided. Having obtained admission, she imparted her mission, told him her high hopes, painted to him in glowing colors the visions that had visited her from above, and conjured him to aid her in effecting the great object she had at heart. Above all, she warned him not to treat with neglect or contempt the revelations of God. The governor at first deemed her insane and unworthy of attention, but at length, impressed by her perseverance, and by the representations of a gentleman by the name of Longport, who had conceived a high idea of the character of Joan, he had her conducted to the French court, which was then residing at Chinon.

It is pretended by those addicted to the marvellous, that Joan, having offered in the name of the Supreme Being, to raise the siege of Orleans, to conduct the dauphin to Rheims, and there to anoint him king, she impressed him with a strong sense of her divine authority, by confiding to him a secret which he supposed only known to himself. She is said to have described minutely a sword which was kept in a certain church, and which she had never seen. She also required this instrument to aid her in the victories that she expected and promised to perform. Hope and enthusiasm now combined to animate the drooping spirits of the royalists. Heaven itself appeared to smile on their cause, and declare itself in their favor. The affairs of the king were in too desperate a state to reject any means, however insufficient or romantic, which might flatter the hopes of his adherents, and faith and confidence silenced the cold suggestions of reason.

After many debates in parliament, many scruples among the king and his ministers, and various investigations by the divines of the pretensions of the prophetess, her wishes were complied with, and, mounted on horseback, and armed cap-a-pie, Joan exhibited herself to the admiring populace. Her fine figure, animated face, and the graceful manner in which she managed her pawing steed, added to the popular enthusiasm. Shouts and acclamations rent the air; her former occupations were forgotten; chivalry, religion and sentiment united to captivate the fancy and influence the hearts of the multitude.

All things being now ready, preparations were made to put in execution the plans of the heroine. A large convoy, escorted by ten thousand men, and headed by Joan, were ordered to march to Orleans. Mounted on a white horse, her head crowned with a helmet, she bore in her hand a consecrated banner. In her prophetic character, she insisted that the convoy should enter Orleans by the direct road from the side of Beausse; but Dunois thought proper to differ from the maid, and conducted his troops on the opposite side of the river, where the enemy were less strongly entrenched. Previous to their march, Joan had addressed a letter to the English generals, exhorting them to leave the country, and not to resist the will of God, whose commission she bore. The officers treated her pretensions with derision and scorn, and ridiculed the desperate situation of the dauphin, who had recourse to so absurd an expedient to improve his condition. The soldiers, however, were affected with superstitious terror by the stories which had reached their camp, and were many of them nearly deprived of courage and confidence.

While the convoy approached the river, the inhabitants of Orleans sent boats to receive the provisions, while Joan protected them with her troops. The English did not venture to attack her, and after accomplishing their purpose, the French returned in safety to Blois. The complete success of this undertaking produced a corresponding effect upon the minds of both parties. Joan made a triumphal entry into Orleans, and was received as one sent from heaven by the enraptured citizens.

The next convoy which was sent to Orleans, entered, as formerly desired by Joan, on the other side of the river. Struck with panic, the besiegers offered no resistance, but allowed the convoy to proceed straight through their redoubts, in silence and consternation. The English general saw himself placed in a most extraordinary and perilous situation; the minds of his troops were unnerved by a fanatic influence, against which valor had no effect, their spirits were depressed, and thus everything conspired in favor of the besieged, and led the way to further triumphs.

Joan, reading at a glance the situation of the English soldiers, and profiting by the ardor inspired by this fortunate train of circumstances, now addressed the garrison, and exhorted them to make a sally upon the enemy. Waving her consecrated banner, she called upon the generals to aid her, and the troops, thus assured of the assistance of Heaven, poured with fury upon the English, whose forces, unnerved by superstition, were cut to pieces, and many of them taken captive. Such was the panic, that Sir John Talbot, who arrived at this time with troops for the relief of the garrison, retired again, not daring to attack the victorious and heaven-led army.

The maid and her followers, excited by success, and not doubting that they could carry everything before them, now proposed to attack the main body of the enemy. Dunois, who had more discretion, though equal zeal, urged them rather to attack the English forts, which lay on the opposite side of the river. To this Joan consented; the forts were assailed, and, for a moment, the French were repulsed, but the inspired maid, animating her troops by her voice, her gestures, and her lofty bearing, rallied her recreant troops, led them back to the charge, and was completely victorious. Having received a wound in the neck from an arrow, she retired behind the troops, and extracting the weapon with her own hands, she exclaimed, “It is glory, and not blood, which flows from this wound.” After having it slightly dressed, she returned, placed herself again at the head of her victorious troops, and succeeded in planting her victorious standard on the enemy’s ramparts.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

The musical instrument called the trombone is the _sackbut_ of the ancients. It was revived in 1790, after a model found at Pompeii. It produced every semitone by sliding out and in, like a telescopic tube.

Our Correspondence.

We have the pleasure to acknowledge the letter of a subscriber from Holliston. The communication of J. Q. is also received. His curiosity in respect to the tale of Dirk Heldriver will be satisfied in the progress of the story. Our little friend, George G----, must have patience. He shall know all about Dick Boldhero in good time. His adventures will carry us through a number of chapters. The following letter sufficiently explains itself:

_Point Shirley, August 21st._

MR. MERRY,--Although the weather is very hot in Boston, it
is very cool down here. To prove this, I send you answers
to two puzzles, which are to be found in your Museum. That
for the one in the June number, is B_u_onaparte. The true
spelling of this name is Bonaparte. Do you think it right,
Mr. Merry, to puzzle your readers with a false spelling?

The answer to the puzzle in the August number is Norwich, a
town in Connecticut; and a very pleasant town it is.

Now, Mr. Merry, I have answered the puzzles, and though
they were not very deep, yet I should hardly have done this
had I been spending the dog-days in Boston. But here I feel
as lively as if it were October. I walk along the sea-shore
every morning and evening, and sometimes I ramble as far as
Chelsea Beach. I love the blue sea, and I think I shall
make a voyage upon it as soon as I am old enough.

Yours, J. H.

_Cleveland, Ohio, August 4th._

MR. ROBERT MERRY,--Though we are eight hundred nines from
Boston, we get Merry’s Museum every month. Sometimes it
comes late, and this disappoints me; but I am glad to get
it after all. I see that some of your subscribers write you
letters; I venture to follow their example, and shall tell
you something about Cleveland.

It is quite a pleasant town--at least, I think so, for it
is my birth-place. It is situated on a bluff eighty feet
high, upon the south side of Lake Erie. The streets are
straight, and cross each other at right angles. You can
look out upon the lake from many of the streets, and as it
is seventy miles wide, on the north side you cannot see the
land.

The streets are very level, and many of the houses are
handsome. I was once at New Haven, in Connecticut, and I
think some of the streets in Cleveland look like some of
those in New Haven. We have, however, no mountains, like
East and West Rock. Indeed, the country is flat around
Cleveland, and, far as the eye can reach, you can see
nothing like a mountain.

The river Cayahogo empties into the lake west of the town.
At the mouth of this is our harbor, and here you see a
great many small vessels. Some of these come from Buffalo,
some from Detroit, some from Canada, some from Sandusky,
and some from other places. They often carry away four
or five thousand barrels of flour in a single day. Fine
steamboats come here every day, and at this season we see
many people in them from Boston, New York, and Philadelphia.

Thus you see, Mr. Merry, though we are so far from Boston,
we are not quite out of the world. The steamboats go almost
a thousand miles farther north and west than we are, and
I am told that some of the emigrants, when asked to what
place they are going, say, “to Sun Down.”

I have now filled my paper, though I ought to tell you that
this is a very cheap place to live in. You can buy a barrel
of flour for three dollars; a ton of excellent coal for two
dollars and fifty cents; eggs for six cents a dozen; and a
wild turkey for twenty-five cents. If any of your friends
can’t find room enough in Boston, let them come out here,
and we will take care of them. A letter of introduction
from you will ensure them a welcome.

Yours, S. P----T.

The Lark.

MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM.

1. I hear a pretty bird, but hark!
I cannot see it any-where,
Oh! it is a little lark
Singing in the morning air.
Little lark, do tell me why
You are singing in the sky.

Other little birds at rest
Have not yet begun to sing;
Every one is in its nest,
With its head behind its wing;
Little lark, then tell me why
You’re so early in the sky?

You look no bigger than a bee,
In the middle of the blue,
Up above the poplar tree,
I can hardly look at you.
Little lark, do tell me why
You are mounted up so high?

’Tis to watch the silver star
Sinking slowly in the skies,
And beyond the mountain far,
See the glorious sun arise.
Little lady, this is why
I am mounted up so high.

’Tis to sing a merry song
To the pleasant morning light;
Why stay in my nest so long
When the sun is shining bright?
Little lady, this is why
I sing so early in the sky.

To the little birds below
I do sing a merry tune;
And I let the ploughman know
He must come to labor soon.
Little lady, this is why
I am singing in the sky.

MERRY’S MUSEUM.

Vol. VIII. OCTOBER, 1844. No. 4.

It is October. The “sere and yellow leaf” is in the forest; the birds, one by one, have departed, and stillness begins to settle over the scenes where the ceaseless minstrelsy of the feathered tribes had prevailed. Yet the landscape is still beautiful: the woods have put on their “coat of many colors;” the nuts are beginning to fall, and the squirrels have to dispute with the boys and girls the possession of their first fruits.

Every season has its appropriate work to perform in the great household of nature: the winds of October and November disseminate the seeds which have been matured during the summer. The thistle down is now seen emigrating on its noiseless wing, bearing its little seed to some place where it may “settle.” A thousand other seeds are scattered by the winds and the waters, and thus the face of nature is covered with its variegated garments of vegetation.

We cannot do better than to close our notice of October, with an old piece of wit, which, however common, will bear repeating.

ECHO GIVES A LESSON.

It is October; the winds have left the forest and the field; the busy birds have ceased their labors, and have either departed, or sit songless upon the trees. Stillness settles at noon-day over the landscape. Step over into the valley, and see how your voice will be repeated to the hills. I suppose you to speak in the character of a glutton.

_Glutton._ My joy is a feast, my wish is wine!

_Echo_ replies,--catching the last sound,--swine!!!

Do you not feel rebuked? But go on
with the dialogue.

_Glutton._ We epicures are happy truly.

_Echo._ You lie.

_Glutton._ Will it hurt me if I drink too much?

_Echo._ Much.

_Glutton._ Thou mockest me! I’ll not believe it.

_Echo._ Believe it.

_Glutton._ Is it drink that brings infirmities?

_Echo._ It is.

_Glutton._ Then Temperance I’ll love thee.

_Echo._ I love thee.

_Glutton._ If that be true which thou dost tell,
Then Sensuality farewell.

_Echo._ Farewell!

Such is the lesson, which, according to an old book, Echo read to a glutton, some two hundred years ago. It is worth learning now.

The Chinchilla.

This pretty little animal is six inches long, with small rounded ears, large black eyes, and a tail of moderate length. It is a species of field rat, found in the northern parts of Chili, in South America. It lives in burrows, and feeds upon the roots of bulbous plants. Its fur is in great esteem, being very fine and of an ash gray color. It is very docile in temper, and extremely timid. If placed in the bosom, it remains as still and quiet as if it were in its own nest. It is very agile, and can leap to the height of several feet, its hind legs being longer than the fore legs. It usually sits upon its haunches, and is able to raise itself up and stand upon its hinder feet. It feeds in a sitting posture, grasping its food in its fore paws, in the same manner as the squirrel.

There is a variety of the chinchilla in Peru, but it is larger in size, and the fur is not so fine as that of the Chilian animal. It is equally good-tempered, and mild in its disposition, and, when domesticated, is very tame and playful.

Great numbers of these animals are caught, by boys with dogs, and sold to traders, who take them to Santiago. The extensive use of the fur has occasioned great destruction of them. The ancient Peruvians made coverlets for beds of this fur.

A Spanish writer, in 1591, thus mentions this animal: “The chinchilly is a kind of small beasts, like squirrels; they have a wonderful smooth and soft skin, which the people wear as a healthful thing to cover those parts which have need of a moderate heat.”

A seaman, in 1593, also describes them: “In Peru, they have little beastes, like unto a squirrel, but that hee is gray; his skinne is the most delicate, soft, and curious furre that I have seene, and of much estimation as is reason; few of them go into Spain, because difficult to be come by, for that the princes and nobles laie waite for them. They call this beast Chinchilla, and of them they have great abundance.”

The Branch of Elder.

A FABLE.

A hunter was wandering along over the fields with his son, and a deep brook flowed between them. The boy wished to go over to his father, but was unable, for the brook was very wide. Immediately he cut a branch from a bush, placed it in the brook, leaned fearlessly upon it, and with all his force gave a sudden spring. But behold! it was the branch of an elder-tree, and as the boy was swinging over the brook, the staff broke in the middle, he fell into deep water, a splash was heard, and the tide closed over him.

A shepherd saw what had happened, from a distance, and raising an alarm, ran towards the brook. But the boy blew the water from him, and swam, laughing, to the shore.

Then the shepherd said to the hunter, It appears that your son has been well instructed, but one thing you have forgotten. Why have you not taught him to examine within, before he opens his heart to confidence? Had he discovered the weak pith that was concealed, he would not have trusted the deceiving bark!

Friend, answered the hunter, I have sharpened his eye, and improved his strength, and I can now trust him to experience. Time must teach him to be suspicious. But he will persevere in the discovery, for his eye is clear, and his strength is practised.

* * * * *

The Oak Tree does not attain its full growth until it is two hundred years old.

Dick Boldhero.