 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corey Samuel. Miscellaneous Essays by Thomas de Quincey. Second Paper on Murder. Considered as one of the fine arts. Dr. North. You were a liberal man, liberal in the true classical sense, not in the slang sense of modern politicians and education mongers. Being so, I am sure that you will sympathise with my case. I am an ill-used man, Dr. North, particularly ill-used, and, with your permission, I will briefly explain how. A black scene of Columny will be laid open, but you, doctor, will make all things square again. One frown from you, directed to the proper quarter, or a warning shake of the crutch, will set me right in public opinion, which, at present, I am sorry to say, is rather hostile to me and mine, all owing to the wicked arts of slanderers. But you shall hear. A good many years ago you may remember that I came forward in the character of a dilettante in murder. Perhaps dilettante may be too strong a word. Connoisseur is better suited to the scruples and infirmity of public taste. I suppose there is no harm in that, at least. A man is not bound to put his eyes, ears, and understanding into his breeches pocket when he meets with a murder. If he is not in a downright comatose state, I suppose he must see that one murder is better or worse than another in point of good taste. Murders have their little differences and shades of merit, as well as statues, pictures, or oratorios, cameos, intaglios, or whatnot. You may be angry with the man for talking too much, or too publicly. As to the too much that I deny, a man can never cultivate his taste too highly. But you must allow him to think at any rate, and you, doctor, you think, I am sure, both deeply and correctly on the subject. Well, would you believe it? All my neighbours came to hear of that little aesthetic essay which you had published, and unfortunately hearing at the very same time of a club that I am connected with, and a dinner at which I presided, both tending to the same little object as the essay, that is, the diffusion of a just taste among Her Majesty's subjects, they got up the most barbarous columnaries against me. In particular they said that I, or that the club, which comes to the same thing, had offered bounties on well-conducted homicides, with a scale of drawbacks in case of any one defect or flaw, according to a table issued to private friends. Now, doctor, I'll tell you the whole truth about the dinner and the club, and you'll see how malicious the world is. But first, let me tell you confidentially what my real principles are upon the matters in question. As to murder, I never committed one in my life. It's a well-known thing amongst all my friends. I can get a paper to certify as much, signed by lots of people. Indeed, if you come to that, I doubt whether many people could produce a stronger certificate. Mine would be as big as a tablecloth. There is indeed one member of the club, who pretends to say that he caught me once making too free with his throat on a club night, after everybody else had retired. But observe, he shuffles in his story according to his state of civilization. When not far gone, he contents himself with saying that he caught me ogling his throat, and that I was melancholy for some weeks after, and that my voice sounded in a way expressing, to the nice ear of a connoisseur, the sense of opportunities lost. But the club all know that he's a disappointed man himself, and that he speaks quarrelously at times about the fatal neglect of a man's coming abroad without his tools. Besides, all this is an affair between two amateurs, and everybody makes allowances for little asperities and sorenesses in such a case. But, say you, if no murderer my correspondent may have encouraged, or even have bespoke a murder. No, upon my honour nothing of the kind, and that was the very point I wish to argue for your satisfaction. The truth is, I am a very particular man in everything relating to murder, and perhaps I carry my delicacy too far. The stagger-ight, most justly, and possibly with a view to my case, placed virtue in the two-misson, or middle-point, between two extremities. A golden mean is certainly what every man should aim at. But it is easier talking than doing, and, my infirmity being notoriously too much milkiness of heart, I find it difficult to maintain that steady equatorial line between the two poles of too much murder on the one hand and too little on the other. I am too soft, Doctor, too soft, and people get excused through me. Nay, go through life without an attempt made upon them, that ought not be excused. I believe, if I had the management of things, there would hardly be a murder from year's end to year's end. In fact I am for virtue, and goodness, and all that sort of thing, and two instances I'll give you to what an extremity I carry my virtue. The first may seem a trifle, but not if you knew my nephew, who was certainly born to be hanged, and would have been so long ago, but for my restraining voice. He is horribly ambitious, and thinks himself a man of cultivated taste in most branches of murder, whereas, in fact, he has not one idea on the subject, but such as he has stolen from me. This is so well known that the club has twice blackballed him, though every indulgence was shown to him as my relative. People came to me and said, now really, President, we would do much to serve a relative of yours. But still what can be said? You know yourself that he'll disgrace us. If we were to elect him, why, the next thing we should hear of would be some vile, butchily murder, by way of justifying our choice. And what sort of a concern would it be? You know, as well as we do, that it would be a disgraceful affair, more worthy of the shambles than of an artist's stelae. You would fall upon some great big man, some huge farmer returning drunk from a fair. There would be plenty of blood, and that, he would expect us to take, in lieu of taste, finish, cynical grouping. Then again, how would he tool? Why most probably with a cleaver and a couple of paving stones, so that the whole coup d'oeil would remind you rather of some hideous ogre or cyclops than of the delicate operator of the nineteenth century. The picture was drawn with the hand of truth, that I could not but allow, and as to personal feelings in the matter I dismissed them from the first. The next morning I spoke to my nephew. I was delicately situated as you see, but I determined that no consideration should induce me to flinch from my duty. John, said I, you seem to me to have taken an erroneous view of life and its duties. Pushed on by ambition, you were dreaming rather of what it might be glorious to attempt, than what it would be possible for you to accomplish. Believe me, it is not necessary to a man's respectability that he should commit a murder. Many a man has passed through life most respectably, without attempting any species of homicide, good, bad, or indifferent. It is your first duty to ask yourself, quid valiant humeri, quid ferre recusant. We cannot all be brilliant men in this life. And it is for your interest to be contented, rather with a humble station, well-filled, than to shock everybody with failures, the more conspicuous by contrast with the ostentation of their promises. John made no answer. He looked very sulky at the moment, and I am in high hopes that I have saved a near relation from making a fool of himself by attempting what is as much beyond his capacity as an epic poem. Others, however, tell me he is meditating a revenge upon me and the whole club. But be this as it may, liberavi animam mayam, and as you see, have run some risk with a wish to diminish the amount of homicide, but the other case still more forcibly illustrates my virtue. A man came to me as a candidate for the place of my servant, just then vacant. He had the reputation of having dabbled a little in our art, some said, not without merit. What startled me, however, was that he supposed this art to be part of his regular duties in my service. Now, that was a thing I would not allow, so I said at once, Richard, or James as the case may be, you misunderstand my character. If a man will and must practice this difficult, and allow me to add dangerous branch of art, if he has an overruling genius for it, why, he may as well pursue his studies whilst living in my service as in another's. And also I may observe that it can do no harm either to himself or to the subject on whom he operates, that he should be guided by men of more taste than himself. Genius may do much, but long study of the art must always entitle a man to offer advice. So far I will go, general principles I will suggest. But as to any particular case, once for all I will have nothing to do with it. Never tell me of any special work of art you are meditating. I set my face against it, in Toto, for if once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing, and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination. Once begun upon this downward path you never know where you are to stop. Many a man has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he thought little of at the time. Principus Obster, that's my rule. Such was my speech, and I have always acted up to it. So if that is not being virtuous I should be glad to know what is. But now about the dinner and the club. The club was not particularly of my creation. It arose pretty much as other similar associations for the propagation of truth and the communication of new ideas, rather from the necessities of things than upon any one man's suggestion. As to the dinner, if any man more than another could be held responsible for that, it was a member known amongst us by the name of Toad in the Hole. He was so called from his gloomy misanthropical disposition, which led him into constant disparagements of all modern murders as vicious abortions belonging to no authentic school of art. The finest performances of our own age he snarled at cynically. And at length this quarrelous humour grew upon him so much, and he became so notorious as allowed out at Temporus Acti that few people cared to seek his society. This made him still more fierce and truculent. He went about muttering and growling, wherever you met him he was sililoquizing and saying, despicable pretender, without grouping, without two ideas upon handling, without—and there you lost him. At length, existence seemed to be painful to him. He rarely spoke. He seemed conversing with phantoms in the air. His housekeeper informed us that his reading was nearly confined to God's Revenge Upon Murder by Reynolds, and a more ancient book of the same title, noticed by Sir Walter Scott in his Fortunes of Nigel. Sometimes, perhaps, he might read in a Newgate calendar down to the year 1788, but he never looked into a book more recent. In fact, he had a theory with regard to the French Revolution as having been the great cause of degeneration in murder. Very soon, sir, he used to say, men will have lost the art of killing poultry, the very rudiments of the art will have perished. In the year 1811 he retired from general society. Thode and Hull was no more seen in any public resort. We missed him from his wanted haunts, nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. By the side of the main conduit, his listless length at noontide he would stretch and pour upon the filth that muddled by. Even dogs are not what they were, sir, not what they should be. I remember in my grandfather's time that some dogs had an idea of murder. I have known a mastiff lie in ambush for a rival, sir, and murder him with pleasing circumstances of good taste. Yes, sir, I knew a tomcat that was an assassin, but now. And then, the subject growing too painful, he dashed his hand to his forehead, and went off abruptly in a homeward direction, towards his favourite conduit, where he was seen by an amateur in such a state that he thought it dangerous to address him. Soon after he shut himself entirely up, it was understood that he had resigned himself to melancholy, and at length the prevailing notion was that Thode and Hull had hanged himself. The world was wrong there, as it has been on some other questions. Thode and Hull might be sleeping, but dead he was not, and of that we soon had ocular proof. One morning in 1812 an amateur surprised us with the news that he had seen Thode and Hull brushing with hasty steps the dews away to meet the postman by the conduit's side. Even that was something. How much more to hear that he had shaved his beard had laid aside his sad coloured clothes, and was adorned like a bridegroom of ancient days. What could be the meaning of all this? Was Thode and Hull mad, or how? Soon after the secret was explained, in more than a figurative sense the murder was out. For in came the London morning papers, by which it appeared that but three days before, a murder, the most superb of the century by many degrees, had occurred in the heart of London. I need hardly say that this was the great exterminating chef d'oeuvre of Williams at Mr. Mars, number 29 Ratcliffe Highway. That was the debut of the artist, at least for anything the public knew. What occurred at Mr. Williamson's twelve nights afterwards, the second work turned out from the same chisel. Some people pronounced even superior. But Thode and the Hull always reclaimed. He was even angry at comparisons. This vulgar gout de comparison, as Labouier calls it, he would often remark, will be our ruin. Each work has its own separate characteristics. Each, in and for itself, is incomparable. One might perhaps suggest the Iliad, the other the Odyssey. What do you get by such comparisons? Neither ever was, nor will be surpassed. And when you've talked for hours, you must still come back to that. Vain, however, as all criticism might be, he often said that volumes might be written on each case for itself, and he even proposed a publishing quarter on the subject. Meantime, how had Thode and the Hull happened to hear of this great work of art so early in the morning? He had received an account by express, dispatched by a correspondent in London, who watched the progress of art on Thode's behalf, with the General Commission to send off a special express at whatever cost, in the event of any esteemable works appearing. How much more upon occasion of a niplu-ilkre in art? The express arrived in the night-time. Thode and the Hull was then gone to bed. He had been muttering and grumbling for hours, but of course he was called up. On reading the account, he threw his arms round the express, called him his brother and his preserver, settled a pension upon him for three lives, and expressed his regret at not having it in his power to night him. We, on our part—we amateurs, I mean—having heard that he was abroad, and therefore had not hanged himself, made sure of soon seeing him amongst us. Accordingly he soon arrived, knocked over the porter on his road to the reading-room. He seized every man as he passed him, rung it almost frantically, and kept ejaculating. Why? Now here's something like a murder. This is the real thing. This is genuine. This is what you can approve, can recommend to a friend. This says every man on reflection. This is the thing that ought to be. Then, looking at particular friends, he said, Why, Jack? How are you? Why, Tom? How are you? Bless me. You look ten years younger than when I last saw you. No, sir, I replied. It is you who look ten years younger. Do I? Well, I shouldn't wonder if I did. Such works are enough to make us all young. And, in fact, the general opinion is, the toad in the hole would have died but for this regeneration of art, which he called a second age of Leo X. And it was our duty, he said solemnly, to commemorate it. At present, and in attendant, rather as an occasion for a public participation in public sympathy, than, as in itself, any commensurate testimony of our interest, he proposed that the club should meet and dine together. A splendid public dinner, therefore, was given by the club, to which all amateurs were invited from a distance of one hundred miles. Of this dinner there are ample shorthand accounts amongst the archives of the club. But they are not extended, to speak diplomatically, and the reporter is missing, I believe, murdered. Meantime, in years long after that day, and, on an occasion perhaps equally interesting, that is, the turning up of thugs and thuggism, another dinner was given. Of this I myself kept notes, for fear of another accident, to the shorthand reporter, and I here subjoined them. Toad in the hole, I must mention, was present at this dinner. In fact, it was one of its sentimental incidents. Being as old as the valleys at the dinner of 1812, naturally he was as old as the hills at the thug dinner of 1838. He had taken to wearing his beard again. Why, or with what view, it passes my persimmon to tell you? But so it was, and his appearance was most benign and venerable. Nothing could equal the angelic radiance of his smile as he inquired after the unfortunate reporter. Whom, as a piece of private scandal, I should tell you that he was himself supposed to have murdered in a rapture of creative art. The answer was, with roars of laughter from the undersheriff of our county—nonest inventors. Toad in the hole laughed outrageously at this. In fact, we all thought he was choking. And, at the earnest request of the company, a musical composer furnished a most beautiful glee upon the occasion, which was sung five times after dinner, with universal applause and inextinguishable laughter. The words being these, and the chorus so contrived, as most beautifully to mimic the peculiar laughter of Toad in the hole. Et in Terrogatum est a Toad in the hole, Bubi est ille reporter, et responsum est cum caccino, nonest inventus. Chorus. Deyinde Iteratum est ab omnibus, cum caccinationi ungillante, nonest inventus. Toad in the hole, I ought to mention, about nine years before, when an express from Edinburgh brought him the earliest intelligence of the Burk and Hare revolution in the art, went mad upon the spot. And instead of a pension to the express for even one life, or a knighthood, endeavoured to burk him, in consequence of which he was put into a straight waistcoat. And that was the reason we had no dinner then. But now all of us were alive and kicking straight waistcoaters and others. In fact, not one absentee was reported upon the entire role. There were also many foreign amateurs present. Dinner being over, and the cloth drawn, there was a general call made for the new glee of nonest inventus. But, as this would have interfered with the requisite gravity of the company during the earlier toasts, I overruled the call. After the national toasts had been given, the first official toast of the day was The Old Man of the Mountains, drunk in solemn silence. Toad in the hole returned thanks in a neat speech. He likened himself to The Old Man of the Mountains, in a few brief allusions that made the company absolutely yell with laughter. And he concluded with giving the health of—Mr. Von Hammer, with many thanks to him for his learned history of The Old Man, and his subjects, the assassins. Upon this I rose, and said that doubtless most of the company were aware of the distinguished place assigned by Orientalists to the very learned Turkish scholar Von Hammer, the Austrian. That he had made the profoundest researches into our art, as connected with those early and eminent artists, the Syrian assassins, in the period of the Crusaders. That his work had been, for several years, deposited as a rare treasure of art in the library of the club. Even the author's name, gentlemen, pointed him out as the historian of our art, Von Hammer. Yes, yes, interrupted Toad in the hole. Who never can sit still. Yes, yes, Von Hammer. He's the man for a maleus hereticorum. Think rightly of our art, or he's the man to tickle your catastrophes. You all know what consideration Williams bestowed on the Hammer, or the ship's carpenter's mallet, which is the same thing. Gentlemen, I give you another great Hammer. Charles the Hammer, the Marteau, or in Old French, the Martel. He hammered the Saracens till they were all as dead as doornails. He did, believe me. Charles Martel, with all the honours. But the explosion of Toad in the hole, together with the uproarious cheers for the grand papa of Charlemagne, had now made the company unmanageable. The orchestra was again challenged with shouts the stormiest for the new glee. I made again a powerful effort to overrule the challenge. I might as well have talked to the winds. I foresaw a tempestuous evening, and I ordered myself to be strengthened with three waiters on each side, the vice-president with as many. Symptoms of unruly enthusiasm were beginning to show out, and I own that I myself was considerably excited as the orchestra opened with its storm of music, and the impassioned glee began. Et in Teregatum est atode in the hole, Ubi est ille reporter. And the frenzy of the passion became absolutely convulsing, as the full chorus fell in. Et it eratum est ab omnibus, non est inventus. By this time I saw how things were going. Wine and music were making most of the amateurs wild. Particularly toad in the hole, though considerably above a hundred years old, was getting as vicious as a young leopard. It was a fixed impression with the company that he had murdered the reporter in the year 1812, since which time, that is, twenty-six years, ille reporter had been constantly reported non est inventus. Consequently, the glee about himself, which of itself was most tumultuous and jubilant, carried him off his feet, like the famous choral songs amongst the citizens of Abdera. Nobody could hear it without a contagious desire for falling back into the agitating music of et in Teregatum est atode in the hole, et cetera. I enjoined vigilance upon my assessors, and the business of the evening proceeded. The next toast was the Jewish Sakari, upon which I made the following explanation to the company. Gentlemen, I am sure it will interest you all to hear that the assassins, ancient as they were, had a race of predecessors in the very same country. All over Syria, but particularly in Palestine, during the early years of the Emperor Nero, there were a band of murderers who prosecuted their studies in a very novel manner. They did not practice in the night time, or in lonely places, but justly considering that great crowds are, in themselves, a sort of darkness, by means of the dense pressure, and the impossibility of finding out who it was that gave the blow. They mingled with mobs everywhere, particularly at the great Paschal feast in Jerusalem, where they actually had the audacity, as Josephus assures us, to press into the temple. And whom should they choose for operating upon, but Jonathan himself, the Pontifex Maximus? They murdered him, gentlemen, as beautifully as if they had had him alone on a moonless night in a dark lane. And when it was asked, who was the murderer, and where he was, why, then it was answered, interrupted Toad in a hole, non-est inventus. And then, in spite of all I could do or say, the orchestra opened, and the whole company began, et interagatum est at Toad in a hole, ubi est ille saccaris, et responsum est ab omnibus, non-est inventus. When the tempestuous chorus had subsided, I began again. Gentlemen, you will find a very circumstantial account of the Sicari in at least three different parts of Josephus. Once in Book 20, Section 5, Chapter 8, of his antiquities, once in Book 1 of his wars, but in Section 10 of the chapter first cited, you will find a particular description of their tooling. This is what he says. They tooled with small cemeters, not much different from the Persian asynosy, but more curved, and for all the world, most like the Roman sickles, or sisi. It is perfectly magnificent, gentlemen, to hear the sequel of their history. Perhaps the only case on record, where a regular army of murderers was assembled, a justus exorcetus, was in the case of these Sicari. They mustered in such strength in the wilderness, that Festus himself was obliged to march against them with the Roman legionary force. Upon which, toad in a hole, that cursed interpreter broke out a singing, et interagatum est a toad in a hole, ubi est ille exorcetus, et responsum est ab omnibus non est inventus. No, no, toad, you were wrong for once. That army was found, and was all cut to pieces in the desert. Heavens, gentlemen, what a sublime picture! The Roman legions, the wilderness, Jerusalem in the distance, an army of murderers in the foreground. Mr. R., a member, now gave the next toast, to the further improvement of tooling and thanks to the committee for their services. Mr. L., on behalf of the committee who had reported on that subject, returned thanks. He made an interesting extract from the report, by which it appeared how very much stress had been laid formally on the mode of tooling by the fathers, both Greek and Latin. In confirmation of this pleasing fact, he made a very striking statement in reference to the earliest work of anti-Diluvian art. Father Mercen, that learned Roman Catholic, in page 1431 of his opera's commentary on Genesis, mentions on the authority of several rabbis that the quarrel of Cain with Abel was about a young woman, that, by various accounts, Cain had tooled with his teeth, Abel M. Fruisse Morsibus de Laceratum a Cain. By many others, with the jawbone of an ass, which is the tooling adopted by most painters. But it is pleasing to the mind of sensibility to know, that as science expanded, sound of views were adopted. One author contends for a pitchfork, St. Chrysostom for a sword, Irenius for a scythe, and Prudentius for a hedging-bill. This last writer delivers his opinion thus. Frata Prabati, Sanctitatis emulus, Germana curvo color frangit sarculo. i.e. his brother, jealous of his attested sanctity, fractures his brotherly throat with a curved hedging-bill. All of which is respectfully submitted by your committee, not so much as decisive of the question, for it is not, but in order to impress upon the youthful mind the importance which has ever been attached to the quality of the tooling by such men as Chrysostom and Irenius. DANG Irenius! said Toad in the Hole, who now rose impatiently to give the next toast. Our Irish friends, and a speedy revolution in their mode of tooling, as well as everything else connected with the art. Gentlemen, I'll tell you the plain truth. Every day of the year we take up a paper, we read the opening of a murder. We say, this is good, this is charming, this is excellent. But behold you, scarcely have we read a little further, before the word Tipperary, or Balina something, betrays the Irish manufacture. Instantly we loathe it, we call to the waiter, we say, Waiter, take away this paper, send it out of the house, it is absolutely offensive to all just taste. I appeal to every man whether, on finding a murder, otherwise perhaps promising enough, to be Irish, he does not feel himself as much insulted as when Madeira being ordered, he finds it to be cape, or, when taking up what he takes to be a mushroom, it turns out what children call a toadstool. Tithes, politics, or something wrong in principle, vitiate every Irish murder. Gentlemen, this must be reformed, or Ireland will not be a land to live in. At least, if we do live there, we must import all our murders, that's clear. Toad and Hull sat down growling with suppressed wrath, and the universal here, here sufficiently showed that he spoke the general feeling. The next toast was the sublime epoch of burkism and herrism. This was drunk with enthusiasm, and one of the members who spoke to the question made a very curious communication to the company. Gentlemen, we fancy burkism to be a pure invention of our own times, and, in fact, no pancerolus has ever enumerated this branch of art when writing de rebus depoditus. Still, I have ascertained that the essential principle of the art was known to the ancients, although, like the art of painting upon glass, of making the myrian cups, etc., it was lost in the dark ages for want of encouragement. In the famous collection of Greek epigrams, made by planudes, is one upon a very charming little case of burkism, it is a perfect little gem of art. The epigram itself I cannot lay my hand upon at this moment, but the following is an abstract of it by Salmasius, as I find it in his notes on Vopiscus. Est et elegans epigrama lucilli, well might he call it elegans. Ubi medicus et polinta de compacto sic egorant, ut medicus igros omnes curi sui commissos o sidoret. This was the basis of the contract, you see, that on the one part the doctor, for himself and his assigns, doth undertake and contract, duly and truly, to murder all the patients committed to his charge. But why? There lies the beauty of the case. Et ud polintori amico sui traderat polingendos. The polinta, you are aware, was a person whose business it was to dress and prepare dead bodies for burial. The original ground of the transaction appears to have been sentimental. He was my friend, says the murderous doctor, he was dear to me, in speaking of the polinta. But the law, gentlemen, is stern and harsh. The law will not hear of these tender motives, to sustain a contract of this nature in law. It is essential that a consideration should be given. Now, what was the consideration? For thus far all is on the side of the polinta. He will be well paid for his services, but, meantime, the generous, the noble-minded doctor gets nothing. What was the little consideration, again, I ask, which the law would insist on the doctor's taking? You shall hear. Et ud polinta visisim, telomonas, was furibata de polintione mortuorum medico mitoret donne at aligandre, vulnera aorum curabata. Now the case is clear. The whole went on a principle of reciprocity, which would have kept up the trade for ever. The doctor was also a surgeon. He could not murder all of his patients. Some of the surgical patients must be retained intact. Ray infecta. For these he wanted linen bandages. But, unhappily, the Romans wore woollen, on which count they bathed so often. Meantime, there was linen to be had in Rome, but it was monstrously dear, and the Greek telomonas, or linen swathing bandages, in which superstition obliged them to bind up corpses, would answer capitalally for the surgeon. The doctor, therefore, contracts to furnish his friend with a constant succession of corpses, provided, and be understood always, that whose said friend in return should supply him with one half of the articles he would receive from the friends of the parties murdered, or to be murdered. The doctor invariably recommended his invaluable friend, the polinta, whom let us call the undertaker. The undertaker, with equal regard to the sacred rites of friendship, uniformly recommended the doctor. Like Pilates and Orestes, they were models of a perfect friendship. In their lives they were lovely, and on the gallows it is to be hoped they were not divided. Gentlemen, it makes me laugh horribly when I think of those two friends drawing and redrawing on each other. Polinta in account with doctor, debtor by sixteen corpses, creditor by forty-five bandages, two of which damaged. Their names, unfortunately, are lost, but I conceive they must have been Quintus Burchius and Publius Herius. By the way, gentlemen, as anybody heard lately of her, I understand he is comfortably settled in Ireland considerably to the west, and does a little business now and then, but as he observes with a sigh, only as a retailer, nothing like the fine thriving wholesale concern so carelessly blown up at Edinburgh. You see what comes of neglecting business is the chief moral, the epimuthian, as Esop would say, which he draws from his past experience. At length came the toast of the day. Thugdom in all its branches. The speeches attempted at this crisis of the dinner were past all counting, but the applause was so furious, the music so stormy, and the crashing of glasses so incessant, from the general resolution, never again to drink an inferior toast from the same glass, that my power is not equal to the task of reporting. Besides which, Toad in the Hole now became quite ungovernable. He kept firing pistols in every direction, sent his servant for a blunderbuss, and talked of loading with ball-cartridge. We conceived that his former madness had returned at the mention of Burke and Hare, or, that being again weary of life, he had resolved to go off in a general massacre. This we could not think of allowing. It became indispensable, therefore, to kick him out, which we did with universal consent, the whole company lending their toes, uno pede, as I may say, though pitting his gray hairs and his angelic smile. During the operation the orchestra poured in their old chorus. The universal company sang, and, what surprised most of all, Toad in the Hole joined us furiously in singing. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Robin Cotter. July 2007. Miscellaneous Essays by Thomas DeQuincy. Joan of Arc. Part 1. In reference to Monsieur Michelet's History of France. Footnote, Arc. Modern France, that should know a great deal better than myself, insists that the name is not de Arc, for example, of Arc, but de Arc. Now, it happens sometimes that if a person whose position guarantees his access to the best information will content himself with a gloomy dogmatism, striking the table with his fist, and saying in a terrific voice, it is so, and there is an end of it. One bows deferentially, and submits. But if unhappily for himself, one by this docility, he relents too amably into reasons and arguments, probably one raises an insurrection against him that may never be crushed. For, in the fields of logic, one can skirmish, perhaps as well as he. Had he confined himself to dogmatism, he would have entrenched his position in darkness, and have hidden his own vulnerable points. But coming down to bear reasons, he lets in light, and one sees where to plant the blows. Now the worshipful reason of modern France, for disturbing the old received spelling, is that Jean Hordal, a descendant of La Pouselle's brother, spelled the name Dark in 1612. But what of that? Beside the chances that Monsieur Hordal might be a gigantic blockhead, it is notorious of what small matter of spelling Providence had thought fit to disperse amongst man in the seventeenth century, was all monopolized by printers. In France, much more so. What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that, like the Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a victorious act, such as no man could deny, but so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender, but so they did to the gentle girl, judged by the voices of all who saw them from a station of good will, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was, that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a byword amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the scepter was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Dom Remy, as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. She mingled not in the festival dances at Vocalus, which celebrated in Rapture the redemption of France. No, for her voice was then silent. No, for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl, whom from earliest youth ever I believed in is full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, that never once, no, not for a moment of weakness, didst thou revel in the vision of cornets and honor from man. Cornets for thee, oh no, honors if they come, when all is over, or for those that share thy blood. Footnote, those that share thy blood, a collateral relative of Joannas, was subsequently ennobled by the title of Julie. End footnote. Daughter of Dom Remy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her King of France, but she will not hear thee. Sight her by the Apparators to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will be found en compte-mas. When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl, they gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life. To do, never for thyself, always for others. To suffer, never in the persons of generous champions, always in thy own, that was thy destiny. And not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short, and the sleep which is in the grave, is long. Let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams, destined to comfort the sleep, which is so long. This pure creature, pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in senses more obvious, never once did this holy child, as regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was travelling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death, she saw not in vision perhaps the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into ruin, as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints. These might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future, but the voice that called her to death, that she heard for ever. Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it, but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her. But on the contrary, that she was for them, not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until in another century the wrath of God and man combined to wither them. But well Joanna knew, early at Dom Remy, she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her. But stop, what reason is there for taking up this subject of Joanna precisely in this spring of 1847? Might it not have been left till the spring of 1947, or perhaps left to called for? Yes, but it is called for, and clamorously. You are aware, reader, that amongst the many original thinkers whom modern France has produced, one of the reputed leaders is Monsieur Michelet. All these writers are of a revolutionary cast, not in a political sense merely, but in all senses, mad often times as march hairs, crazy with the laughing gas of recovered liberty, drunk with the wine-cup of their mighty revolution, snorting, winneying, throwing up their heels like wild horses in the boundless pompous, and running races of defiance with snipes, or with the winds, or with their own shadows, if they can find nothing else to challenge. Some time or other, I, that have leisure to read, may introduce you, that have not, to two or three dozen of these writers, of whom I can assure you beforehand that they are often profound, and at intervals are even as impassioned as if they were come of our best English blood, and sometimes, because it is not pleasant that people should be too easy to understand, almost as obscure as if they had been suckled by transcendental German nurses. But now, confining our attention to Monsieur Michelet, who was quite sufficient to lead a man into a gallop, requiring two relays, at least, of fresh readers. We in England, who know him best by his worst book, the book against priests, et cetera, which has been most circulated, know him, disadvantageously. That book is a rhapsody of incoherence. Monsieur Michelet was light-headed, I believe, when he wrote it, and it is well that his keepers overtook him in time to intercept a second part, but his history of France is quite another thing. A man, in whatsoever craft he sails, cannot stretch away out of sight when he is linked to the windings of the shore by towing ropes of history. Facts and the consequences of facts draw the writer back to the falconer's lure from the giddiest heights of speculation. Here, therefore, in his France, if not always free from flightiness, if now and then off like a rocket for an airy wheel in the clouds, Monsieur Michelet, with natural politeness, never forgets that he has left a large audience waiting for him on earth, and gazing upwards in anxiety for his return—return, therefore, he does. But history, though clear of certain temptations in one direction, has separate dangers of its own. It is impossible, so to write a history of France, or of England, works becoming every hour more indispensable to the inevitably political man of this day, without perilous openings for assault. If I, for instance, on the part of England, should happen to turn my labours into that channel, and on the model of Lord Percy, going to Chevy Chase, quote, a vow to God should make my pleasure in the Michelet woods three summer days to take, unquote, probably from simple delirium I might hunt Monsieur Michelet into delirium tremol. Two strong angels stand by the side of history, whether French history or English, as heraldic supporters, the angel of research on the left hand, that must read millions of dusty parchments and of pages blotted with lies, the angel of meditation on the right hand, that must cleanse these lying records with fire, even as of the old the draperies of asbestos were cleansed, and must quicken them into regenerated life. Willingly I acknowledge that no man will ever avoid innumerable errors of detail, with so vast a compass of ground to traverse this is impossible. But such errors, though I have a bushel on hand at Monsieur Michelet's service, are not the game I chase, it is the bitter and unfair spirit in which Monsieur Michelet writes against England. Even that, after all, is but my secondary object, the real one is Joanna, the Pussell de Orleans, for herself. I am not going to write the history of La Pussell, to do this, or even circumstantially to report the history of her persecution and bitter death, of her struggle with false witnesses, and with ensnaring judges. It would be necessary to have before us all the documents, and therefore the collection only now forthcoming in Paris. But my purpose is narrower. There have been great thinkers, disdaining the careless judgments of contemporaries, who have thrown themselves boldly on the judgment of a far posterity, that should have had time to review, to ponder, to compare. There have been great actors on the stage of tragic humanity that might, with the same depth of confidence, have appealed from the levity of compatriot friends, too heartless for the sublime interest of their story, and too impatient for the labour of sifting its perplexities, to the magnanimity and justice of enemies. To this class belongs the maid of Arc. The Romans were too faithful to the ideal of grandeur in themselves not to relent, after a generation or two, before the grandeur of Hannibal. Mithridates, a more doubtful person, yet merely for the magic perseverance of his indomitable malice, won from the same Romans the only real honour that ever he received on earth. And we English have ever shown the same homage to stubborn enmity. To work unflinchingly for the ruin of England, to say through life, by word and by deed, that one purpose of malice, faithfully pursued, has quartered some people upon our national funds of homage as by a perpetual annuity. Better than an inheritance of service rendered to England herself has sometimes proved the most insane hatred to England. Hyder Alley, even his far inferior son Tipu and Napoleon, have all benefited by this disposition amongst ourselves to exaggerate the merit of diabolical enmity. Not one of these men was ever capable, in a solitary instance, of praising an enemy. What do you say to that, reader? And yet in their behalf we consent to forget, not their crimes only, but, which is worse, their hideous bigotry and anti-magnanimous egotism, for nationality it was not. Saufren and some half-dozen of other French nautical heroes, because rightly they did us all the mischief they could, which was really great, are names justly reverenced in England. On the same principle, La Pousselle de Orleans, the victorious enemy of England, has been destined to receive her deepest commemoration from the magnanimous justice of Englishmen. Joanna, as we in England should call her, but according to her own statement, Jean, or as M. Michelet asserts, Jean de Arc, was born at Dom Rémy, a village on the marches of Lorraine and Champagne, and dependent upon the town of Vocaleuse. Jean. M. Michelet asserts that there was a mystical meaning in that era, in calling a child Jean. It implied a secret commendation of a child, if not a dedication, to St. John the Evangelist, the beloved disciple, the apostle of love, and mysterious visions. But really, as the name was so exceedingly common few people will detect a mystery in calling a boy by the name of Jack, though it does seem mysterious to call a girl Jack. It may be less so in France, where a beautiful practice has always prevailed of giving to a boy his mother's name preceded and strengthened by a male name, as Charles Anne, and Victor Victoire. In cases where a mother's memory has been unusually dear to a son, this vocal memento of her, locked into the circle of his own name, gives to it the tenderness of a testamentary relic or a funeral ring. I presume, therefore, that La Poussel must have borne the baptismal names of Jean, Jean, the latter with no reference to so sublime a person as St. John, but simply to some relative. End footnote. I have called her a Lorraineur, not simply because the word is prettier, but because Champagne too odiously reminds us English of what are for us imaginary wines which undoubtedly La Poussel tasted as rarely as we English. We English, because the Champagne of London is chiefly grown in Devonshire, La Poussel, because the Champagne of Champagne, never by any chance flowed into the fountain of Domremmy, from which only she drank. Monsieur Michelet will have her to be a Champagne noise, and for no better reason than that she took after her father, who happened to be a Champagne noise. I am sure she did not, for her father was a filthy old fellow, whom I shall soon teach the judicious reader to hate. But says Monsieur Michelet, arguing the case physiologically, quote, she had none of the Lorrainian asperity, unquote, no, it seems she had only, quote, the gentleness of Champagne, its simplicity mingled with sense and acuteness, as you find it in Jean V, unquote. All these things she had, and she was worth a thousand Jean V, meaning either the Prince so-called, or the fine old crusader. But still, though I loved Joanna dearly, I cannot shut my eyes entirely to the Lorraine element of asperity in her nature. No, really now, she must have had a shade of that, though very slightly developed, a mere sucon, as French cooks express it in speaking of cayenne pepper, when she caused so many of our English throats to be cut. But could she do less? No, I always say so. But still you never saw a person kill even a trout with a perfectly Champagne face of gentleness and simplicity, though often, no doubt, with considerable acuteness. All your cooks and butchers wear a Lorraine cast of expression. These disputes, however, turn on refinements too nice. Dom Ramy stood upon the frontiers, and, like other frontiers, produced a mixed race representing the sea and the trans. A river, it is true, formed the boundary line at this point. The river Meuse, and that, in old days, might have divided the populations. But in these days it did not. There were bridges, there were fairies, and weddings crossed from the right bank to the left. Here lay two great roads, not so much for travellers, that were few, as for armies that were too many by half. These two roads, one of which was the great high-road between France and Germany, decosated at this very point which is a learned way of saying that they formed a St. Andrew's Cross or Letter X. I hope the compositor will choose a good large X, in which case the point of intersection, the locus of conflicts for these four diverging arms, will finish the reader's geographical education, by showing him to a hair's breadth, where it was that Dom Remy stood. These roads so grandly situated, as great trunk arteries between two mighty realms, footnote and reminding one of that inscription, so justly admired Paul Richter, which a Russian Tsarina placed on a guide-post near Moscow. This is the road that leads to Constantinople, end footnote, and haunted forever by wars or rumours of wars, decosated for anything I know to the contrary, absolutely under Joanna's bedroom window, one rolling away to the right, past Monsieur Dark's old barn, and the other unaccountably preferring, but there is no disputing about tastes, to sweep round that odious man's odious pigsty to the left. Things being situated, as is here laid down, vids in respect of the decosation and in respect of Joanna's bedroom, it follows that, if she had dropped her glove by accident from her chamber window into the very bullseye of the target in the centre of X, not one of several great potentates could, though all animated by the sincerest desires for the peace of Europe, have possibly come to any clear understanding on the question of whom the glove was meant for. Hence the candid reader perceives at once the necessity for at least four bloody wars. Falling indeed a little farther, as for instance into the pigsty, the glove could not have furnished to the most peppery prince any shadow of excuse for arming. He would not have had a leg to stand upon in taking such a perverse line of conduct. But if it fell, as by the hypothesis it did, into the one sole point of ground common to four kings, it is clear that, instead of no leg to stand upon, eight separate legs would have had no ground to stand upon unless by treading on each other's toes. The philosopher therefore sees clearly the necessity of a war, and regrets that sometimes nations do not wait for grounds of war so solid. In the circumstances supposed, though the four kings might be unable to see their way clearly without the help of gunpowder, to any decision upon Joanna's intention, she, poor thing, never could mistake her intentions for a moment. All her love was for France, and therefore any glove she might drop into the quadrovinium must be wickedly missent by the post-office, if it found its way to any king but the king of France. On whatever side of the border Chance had thrown Joanna, the same love to France would have been nurtured, for it is a strange fact, noticed by Monsieur Michelet and others, that the dukes of Barr and Lorraine had for generations pursued the policy of eternal warfare with France on their account, yet also of eternal amity and league with France in case anybody else presumed to attack her. Let peace settle upon France, and before long you might rely upon seeing the little vixen Lorraine flying at the throat of France. Let Franco be assailed by a formidable enemy, and instantly you saw a duke of Lorraine or Barr insisting on having his throat cut in support of France, which favour accordingly was cheerfully granted to them in three successive battles by the English and by the Turkish Sultan, viz at Cresce, at Nicopolis, and at Agincourt. This sympathy with France during great eclipses, in those that during ordinary seasons were always teasing her with brawls and guerrilla inroads, strengthened the natural piety to France of those that were confessedly the children of her own house. The outposts of France, as one may call the great frontier provinces, were of all localities the most devoted to the fleur-de-lis. To witness, at any great crisis, the generous devotion to these lilies of the little fiery cousin that in gentler weather was forever tilting at her breast, could not been fan the zeal of the legitimate daughter. Whilst to occupy a post of honour on the frontiers against an old hereditary enemy of France would naturally have stimulated this zeal by a sentiment of martial pride, had there even been no other stimulant to zeal by a sense of danger always threatening, and of hatred always smoldering. That great four-headed road was a perpetual memento to patriotic ardour. To say this way lies the road to Paris, and that other way, to A. Les Chapelles, this to Prague, that to Vienna, nourished the warfare of the heart by daily ministrations of sense. The eye that watched for the gleams of lance or helmet from the hostile frontier, the ear that listened for the groaning of wheels, made the high road itself with its relations to centres so remote into a manual of patriotic enmity. The situation, therefore, locally of Joanna, was full of profound suggestions to a heart that listened for the stealthy steps of change and fear that too surely were in motion. But if the place were grand, the times, the birthing of the times, was far more so. The air overhead in its upper chambers were hurtling with the obscure sound, was dark with sullen fermenting of storms that had been gathering for a hundred and thirty years. The battle of Ajancourt in Joanna's childhood had reopened the wounds of France. Crécy and Poitiers, those withering overthrows for the chivalry of France, had been tranquilized by more than half a century, but this resurrection of their trumpet wails made the whole series of battles and endless skirmishes take their stations as part in one drama. The graves that had closed sixty years ago seemed to fly open in sympathy with a sorrow that echoed their own. The monarchy of France labored in extremity, rocked and reeled like a ship fighting with the darkness of monsoons. The madness of the poor king, Charles VI, falling in at such a crisis like the case of women laboring in childbirth during the storming of a city, trebled the awfulness of the time. Even the wild story of the incident which had immediately occasioned the explosion of this madness, the case of a man unknown, gloomy, and perhaps maniacal himself, coming out of a forest at noonday, laying his hand upon the bridle of the king's horse, checking him for a moment to say, "'O king, thou art betrayed!' and then vanishing no man knew wither, as he had appeared for no man knew what, fell in with the universal prostration of mind that laid France on her knees as before the slow unweaving of some ancient prophetic doom. The famines, the extraordinary diseases, the insurrections of the peasantry up and down Europe, these were cords struck from the same mysterious harp, but these were transitory cords. There had been others of deeper and more sonorous sound. The termination of the crusades, the destruction of the Templars, the papal interdicts, the tragedies caused or suffered by the House of Anjou, by the Emperor, these were full of a more permanent significance, but since then the colossal figure of feudalism was seen standing as it were on tiptoe at Crécy for flight from earth. That was a revolution unparalleled, yet that was a trifle by comparison with the more fearful revolutions that were mining below the church. By her own internal schisms, by the abominable spectacle of a double pope, so that no man, except through political bias, could even guess which was Heaven's vestigerent, and which was the creature of hell, she was already rehearsing, as in still earlier forms she had rehearsed, the first rent in her foundations, reserved for the coming century which no man should ever heal. These were the loftiest peaks of the cloudland in the skies, that to the scientific gazer first caught the colors of the new morning in advance. But the whole vast range alike of sweeping glooms overhead, dwelt upon all meditative minds, even those that could not distinguish the altitudes nor decipher the forms. It was, therefore, not her own age alone, as affected by its immediate calamities, the delay with such weight upon Joanna's mind, but her own age, as one section in a vast mysterious drama, unweaving through a century back, and drawing nearer continually to crisis after crisis. Cataracts and rapids were heard roaring ahead, and signs were seen far back, by help of old man's memories, which answered secretly to signs now coming forward on the eye, even as Locke's answer to Keyes. It was not wonderful that in such a haunted solitude, with such a haunted heart, Joanna should see angelic visions, and hear angelic voices. These voices whispered to her the duty imposed upon herself, of delivering France. Five years she listened to these monetary voices, with internal struggles. At length she could resist no longer. It gave way, and she left her home in order to present herself at the Dolphins Court. The education of this poor girl was mean according to the present standard, was ineffably grand according to a pure philosophic standard, and only not good for our age, because for us it would be unattainable. She read nothing, for she could not read, but she had heard others read parts of the Roman martyrology. She wept in sympathy with the sad Miserires of the Romish chanting. She rose to heaven with the glad triumphant Gloria in excelsis. She drew her comfort and her vital strength from the rites of her church. But next, after these spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain of Domrami was on the brink of a boundless forest, and it was haunted to that degree by fairies that the parish priest, Kéré, was obliged to read mass there once a year in order to keep them in any decent bounds. Fairies are important, even in a statistical view. Certain weeds mark poverty in the soil, fairies mark its solitude. As surely as the wolf retires before cities does the fairy sequester herself from the haunts of licensed victuallers. A village is too much for her nervous delicacy. At most she can tolerate a distant view of a hamlet. We may judge, therefore, by the uneasiness and extra trouble which they gave to the parson in what strength the fairies mustered at Domrami, and by a satisfactory consequence how thinly sewn with men and women must have been that region, even in its inhabited spots. But the forests of Domrami, those were the glories of the land, for in them abode mysterious powers and ancient secrets that towered into tragic strength. Quote, abbeys there were, and abbey windows, dim and dimly seen, as moorish temples of the Hindus, unquote, that exercised even princely power both in Lorraine and in the German diets. These heather sweet bells that pierced the forests, for many a league at Matin, or Vespers, and each its own dreamy legend. Few enough and scattered enough were these abbeys, in no degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region, many enough to spread a network or awning of Christian sanctity over what else might have seemed a heathen wilderness. This sort of religious talisman being secured, a man the most afraid of ghosts, like myself, suppose, or the reader, becomes armed into courage to wander for days in their silvan recesses. The mountains of the Vosques, on the eastern frontier of France, have never attracted much notice from Europe, except in 1813 to 1814, for a few brief months when they fell within Napoleon's line of defense against the Allies. But they are interesting for this, amongst other features, that they do not, like some loftier ranges, repel woods. The forests and they are unsociable terms. Live and let live is their motto. For this reason, in part, these tracts in the rain were a favourite hunting-ground with the Carl of Ingean princes. About six hundred years before Joanna's childhood, Charlemagne was known to have hunted there. That of itself was a grand incident in the traditions of a forest or a chase. When these vast forests also were to be found, if the race was not extinct, those mysterious fawns attempted solitary hunters into visionary and perilous pursuits. Here was seen at intervals that ancient stag who was already nine hundred years old at the least, but possibly a hundred or two more, when met by Charlemagne, and the thing was put beyond doubt by the inscription upon his golden collar. I believe Charlemagne knighted the stag, and if ever he is met again by a king, he ought to be made an earl, or being upon the marches of France, a marquess. Observe I don't absolutely vouch for all these things, my own opinion varies. On a fine breezy forenoon I am audaciously sceptical, but as twilight sets in my credulity becomes equal to anything that could be desired, and I have heard candid sportsmen declare that outside of these very forests near the Vosges they laughed loudly at all the dim tales connected with their haunted solitudes. But on reaching a spot notoriously eighteen miles deep within them they agreed with Sir Roger de Coverley that a good deal might be said on both sides. Such traditions, or any others that, like the stag, connect distant generations with each other, are for that cause sublime, and the sense of the shadowy connected with such appearances that reveal themselves or not, according to circumstances, leaves a coloring of sanctity over ancient forests, even in those minds that utterly reject the legend as a fact. But apart from all distinct stories of that order, in any solitary frontier between two great empires, as here, for instance, or in the desert between Syria and the Euphrates, there is an inevitable tendency, in minds of any deep sensibility, to people the solitudes with phantom images of powers that were of old so vast. Joanna, therefore, in her quiet occupation of a shepherdess, would be led continually to brood over the political condition of her country, by traditions of the past no less than by the mementos of the local present. Monsieur Michelet, indeed, says that La Pouselle was not a shepherdess. I beg his pardon. She was. What he rests upon, I guess, pretty well. It is the evidence of a woman called Homet, the most confidential friend of Joanna. Now she is a good witness and a good girl, and I like her, for she makes a natural and affectionate report of Joanna's ordinary life. But still, however good she may be as a witness, Joanna is better. And she, when speaking to the Dauphin, calls herself in the Latin report Begaretta. Even Homet confesses that Joanna tended cheap in her girlhood, and I believe that if Miss Homet were taking coffee alone with me this very evening, February 12, 1847, in which there would be no subject for scandal or for maiden blushes, because I am an intense philosopher, and Miss H would be hard upon 450 years old. She would admit the following comment upon her evidence to be right. A Frenchman about thirty years ago, Monsieur Simon, in his travels, mentioned incidentally the following hideous scene as one steadily observed and watched by himself in France at a period some trifle before the French Revolution. A peasant was plowing, and the team that drew his plow was a donkey and a woman. Both were regularly harnessed, both pulled alike. This is bad enough, but the Frenchman adds that in distributing his lashes the peasant was obviously desirous of being impartial, or if either of the yoke-fellows had a right to complain, certainly it was not the donkey. Now in any country were such degradation of females could be tolerated by the state of manners. A woman of delicacy would shrink from acknowledging, either for herself or her friend, that she had ever been addicted to any mode of labour, not strictly domestic. Because, if once owning herself a prideal servant, she would be sensible that this confession extended by probability in the hearer's thoughts to having incurred indignities of this horrible kind. Homet clearly thinks it more dignified for Joanna to have been darning the stockings of her horny-hoofed father, M. de Ack, than keeping sheep, lest she might then be suspected of having ever done something worse. But luckily there is no danger of that. Joanna never was in service, and my opinion is that her father should have mended his own stockings, since probably he was the party to make the holes in them as many a better man than de Ack does. Meaning by that, not myself, because, though certainly a better man than de Ack, I protest against doing anything of the kind. If I lived even with Friday in Juan Fernandez, either Friday must do all the darning, or else it must go undone. The better men that I meant were the sailors and the British navy, every man of whom mends his own stockings. Who else is to do it? Do you suppose, reader, that the junior lords of the Admiralty are under articles to darn for the navy? The reason, meantime, for my systematic hatred of de Ack is this. There was a story current in France before the Revolution, framed to ridicule the pauper aristocracy, who happened to have long pedigrees and short rent-rolls, vis that a head of such a house, dating from the Crusades, was overheard saying to his son, a chevalier of Saint Louis, quote, chevalier as tu don au cochon à manger, unquote. Now it is clearly made out by the surviving evidence that de Ack would much have preferred continuing to say, quote, ma fille as tu don au cochon à manger, unquote, to saying, quote, pousselle de au liant, as tu sauvais le fleu de l'île, unquote. There was an old English copy of verses which argues thus, quote, if the man that turnips cries cry not when his father dies, then to his plain the man had rather have a turnip than his father, unquote. I cannot say that the logic of these verses was ever entirely to my satisfaction. I do not see my way through it as clearly as could be wished, but I see my way most clearly through to Ack, and the result is that he would greatly have preferred not merely a turnip to his father, but the saving a pound or so of bacon, to saving the or fleum of France. It is probable, as Monsieur Michelet suggests, that the title of Virgin, or pousselle, had in itself, and apart from the miraculous stones about her, a secret power over the rude soldiery and partisan chiefs of that period, for in such a person they saw a representative manifestation of the Virgin Mary, who in a course of centuries had grown steadily upon the popular heart. As to Joanna's supernatural detection of the Dauphin, Charles VII, amongst three hundred lords and knights, I am surprised at the credulity which could ever lend itself to that theatrical juggle. Who admires more than myself the sublime enthusiasm, the rapturous faith in herself, of this pure creature? But I admire not stage artifices, which not la pousselle, but the court, must have arranged, nor can surrender myself a dupe to a conjurer's léger domain, such as may be seen every day for a shilling. Southie's Joan of Arc was published in 1796, twenty years after, talking with Southie, I was surprised to find him still owning a secret bias in favour of Joan, founded on her detection of the Dauphin. The story for the benefit of the reader new to the case was this. La pousselle was first made known to the Dauphin and presented to his court at Chignon, and here came her first trial. She was to find out the royal personage among the whole arc of clean and unclean creatures. Failing in this coup d'essay, she would not simply disappoint many a beating heart in the glittering crowd that on different motives yearned for her success, but she would ruin herself, and as the oracle within had told her, would ruin France. Our own sovereign, Lady Victoria, rehearses annually a trial not so severe in degree, but the same in kind. She pricks for sheriffs. Joanna pricked for a king. But observe the difference. Our own lady pricks for two men out of three. Joanna for one man out of three hundred. Happy Lady of the Islands and the Orient. She can go astray in her choice. Only by one half, to the extent of one half, she must have the satisfaction of being right. And yet, even with these tight limits to the misery of a boundless discretion, permit me, liege lady, with all loyalty to submit, that now and then you prick with your pin the wrong man. But the poor child from Dom Remy, shrinking under the gaze of a dazzling court, not because dazzling for envisions she had seen those that were more so, but because some of them were a scoffing smile on their features. How should she throw her line into so deep a river to angle for a king, where many a gay creature was sporting that masqueraded as kings in dress? Nay, even more than any true king would have done. For in South East version of the story, the Dauphin says, by wave trying the virgin's magnetic sympathy with royalty, quote, on the throne, I the wild mingling with the menial throng, some courtier shall he seated, unquote. This usurper is even crowned, quote, the jeweled crown shines on a menial's head, unquote, but really that is un coup fort. And the mob of spectators might raise a scruple whether our friend the jack-daw upon the throne and the Dauphin himself were not grazing the shins of treason. The Dauphin could not lend more than belong to him. According to the popular notion he had no crown for himself, but at most a petit ecu, worth thirty pence, consequently none to lend on any pretense whatever, until the consecrated maid should take him into riem. This was the popular notion in France. The same notion as to the indispensableness of a coronation prevails widely in England, but certainly it was the Dauphin's interest to support the popular notion as he meant to use the services of Joanna. For if he were king already, what was it that she could do for him beyond Orléans? And above all if he were king without a coronation and without the oil from the sacred ampula, what advantage was yet open to him by celerity above his competitor, the English boy? Now was to be a race for a coronation. He that should win that race carried the superstition of France along with him. Trouble us not, lawyer, with your quillettes. We are illegal blockheads, so thoroughly without law that we don't know even if we have a right to be blockheads, and our mind is made up that the first man drawn from the oven of coronation at riem is the man that is baked into a king. All others are counterfeits made of base Indian meal, damaged by sea water. La Pouselle, before she could be allowed to practice as a warrior, was put through her manual and platoon exercise as a juvenile pupil in divinity, before six eminent men in wigs. According to Southie, verse 393, book 3, in the original edition of his Joan of Arc, she, quote, appalled the doctors, unquote. It's not easy to do that, but they had some reason to feel bothered, as that surgeon would assuredly feel bothered, who upon proceeding to dissect a subject should find the subject retaliating as a desector upon himself, especially if Joanna ever made the speech to them which occupies verses 354 to 391 of book 3. It is a double impossibility. First, because a piracy from Tindall's Christianity as old as the creation, now a piracy, aparthe post, is common enough, but a piracy, aparthe ante, and by three centuries would, according to our old English phrase, drive a coach and six through any copyright act that man born a woman could frame. Secondly, it is quite contrary to the evidence on Joanna's trial, for Southie's Joan of Arc, Dom Remy, 1796, Cottle Bristol, tells the doctors, amongst other secrets, that she never in her life attended, first mass, nor second, the sacramental table, nor third, confession. Here's a precious windfall for the doctors. They, by snaky tortuosities, had hoped, through the aid of a corkscrew, which every DD, or STP, is said to carry in his pocket, for the happiness of ultimately extracting from Joanna a few grains of heretical powder, or small-shot, which might have justified their singeing her a little. And just at such a crisis, expressly to justify their burning her to a cinder, up gallops Joanna with a brigade of guns, on limbers, and serves them out with heretical grape, and de-estical round-shot, enough to lay kingdom under interdict. Any miracles to which Joanna might treat the grim DD's after that, would go to the wrong side of her little account in the clerical books. Joanna would be created a doctor herself, but not of divinity. For, in the Joanna page of the ledger, the entry would be, quote, Miss Joanna, in account with the church, doctor, by sundry diabolic miracles, she having publicly preached heresy, shown herself a witch, and even tried hard to corrupt the principles of six church pillars, unquote. In the meantime, all this de-estical confession of Joanna's, besides being suicidal for the interest of her cause, is opposed to the depositions upon both trials. The very best witness, called from first to last, deposes that Joanna attended these rites of her church, even too often, was taxed with doing so, and, by blushing, owned the charge as a fact, though certainly not as a fault. Joanna was a girl of natural piety, that saw God in forests, and hills, and fountains, but did not the less seek him in chapels, and consecrated oratories. This peasant girl was self-educated through her own natural meditativeness. If the reader turns to that divine passage in paradise regained, which Milton has put into the mouth of our Saviour, when first entering the wilderness, and musing upon the tendency of those great impulses growing within himself, quote, O would a multitude of thoughts arise, unquote, etc. He will have some notion of the vast reveries which brooded over the heart of Joanna in early girlhood, when the wings were budding, that should carry her from Orléans to Riem, when the golden chariot was dimly revealing itself, that should carry her from the kingdom of France delivered to the eternal kingdom. End of Joan of Arc, Part 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Robin Cotter. July, 2007. Miscellaneous Essays by Thomas De Quincey. Joan of Arc, Part 3. It is not requisite for the honour of Joanna, nor is there in this place room to pursue her brief career of action. That, though wonderful, forms the earthly part of her story. The intellectual part is the saintly passion of her imprisonment, trial, and execution. It is unfortunate, therefore, for southeast Joan of Arc, which, however, should always be regarded as a juvenile effort, that precisely when her real glory begins, the poem ends. But this limitation of the interest grew, no doubt, from the constraint inseparably attached to the law of epic unity. Joanna's history bisects into two opposite hemispheres, and both could not have been presented to the eye in one poem, unless by sacrificing all unity of theme, or else by involving the earlier half, as a narrative episode in the latter. This might have been done. It might have been communicated to a fellow prisoner, or a confessor by Joanna herself, in the same way that Virgil has contrived to acquaint the reader, through the hero's mouth, with earlier adventures, that, if told by the poet speaking in his own person, would have destroyed the unity of his fable. The romantic interest of the early and irrelate incidents, last night of Troy, etc., is thrown as an affluent into the general river of the personal narrative, whilst yet the capital current of the Epos, as unfolding the origin and incanubula of Rome, is not for a moment suffered to be modified by events so subordinate and so obliquely introduced. It is sufficient as concerns this section of Joanna's life to say that she fulfilled to the height of her promises the restoration of the prostrate throne. France had become a province of England, and for the ruin of both, if such a yoke could be maintained. Dreadful pecuniary exhaustion caused the English energy to droop, and that critical opening, la pucée, used with the corresponding felicity of audacity and suddenness that were in themselves portentous for introducing the wedge of French native resources, for rekindling the national pride, and for planting the dauphin once more upon his feet. When Joanna appeared, he had been on the point of giving up the struggle with the English distressed as they were, and of flying to the south of France. She taught him to blush for such abject counsels. She liberated Orleans, that great city so decisive by its fate for the issue of the war, and then beleaguered by the English with an elaborate application of engineering skill unprecedented in Europe. Entering the city after sunset on the twenty-ninth of April, she sang mass on Sunday, May 8, for the entire disappearance of the besieging force. On the twenty-ninth of June, she fought and gained over the English the decisive battle of Pate. On the ninth of July, she took Troy by a coup de main from a mixed garrison of English and Burgundians. On the fifteenth of that month she carried the dauphin into Riem. On Sunday the seventeenth she crowned him, and there she rested from her labour of triumph. What remained was to suffer. All this forward movement was her own, accepting one man the whole council was against her. Her enemies were all that drew power from earth. Her supporters were her own strong enthusiasm, and the headlong contagion by which she carried this sublime frenzy into the hearts of women, of soldiers, and of all who lived by labour. Hence forwards she was thwarted, and the worst error that she committed was to lend the sanction of her presence to councils which she disapproved. But she had accomplished the capital objects which her own visions had dictated. These involved all the rest. Errors were now less important, and doubtless it had now become more difficult for herself to pronounce authentically what were errors. The noble girl had achieved, as by a rapture of motion, the capital end of clearing out a free space around her sovereign, giving him the power to move his arms with effect, and secondly the inappreciable end of winning for that sovereign which seemed to all France the heavenly ratification of his rights by crowning him with the ancient solemnities. She had made it impossible for the English now to step before her. They were caught in an irretrievable blunder, owing partly to discord amongst the uncles of Henry VI, partly to a want of funds, but partly to the very impossibility which they believed to press with tenfold force upon any French attempt to forestall theirs. They laughed at such a thought, and whilst they laughed, she did it. Henceforth the single redress for the English of this capital oversight, but which never could have redressed it effectually, was to vitiate and taint the coronation of Charles VII as the work of a witch. That policy, and not malice, as Monsieur Michelet is so happy to believe, was the moving principle and the subsequent prosecution of Joanna. Unless they unhinged the force of the first coronation in the popular mind by associating it with power given from hell, they felt that the sceptre of the invader was broken. But she, the child that, at nineteen, had wrought wonders so great for France, was she not elated? Did she not lose, as men so often have lost, all sobriety of mind when standing upon the pinnacle of successes so giddy? Let her enemies declare, during the progress of her movement, and in the centre of ferocious struggles, she had manifested the temper of her feelings by the pity which she had everywhere expressed for the suffering enemy. She forwarded to the English leaders a touching invitation to unite with the French, as brothers, in a common crusade against infidels, thus opening the road for a soldierly retreat. She interposed to protect the captive, or the wounded, she mourned over the excesses of her countrymen. She threw herself off her horse, to kneel by the dying English soldier, and to comfort him with such ministrations, physical or spiritual, as the situation allowed. Quote Nolibat, says the evidence, utti onso suo, ut quem quam into fissieri. She sheltered the English, then invoked her aid in her own quarters. She wept as she beheld, stretched on the field of battle, so many brave enemies that had died without confession, and as regarded herself, her elation expressed itself thus. On the day when she had finished her work, she wept, for she knew that, when her task was done, her end must be approaching. Her aspirations pointed only to a place which seemed to her more than usually full of natural piety, as one in which it would give her pleasure to die. Then she uttered between smiles and tears as a wish that inexpressibly fascinated her heart, and yet was half fantastic, a broken prayer that God would return her to the solitudes from which he had drawn her, and suffer her to become a shepherdess once more. It was a natural prayer, because nature has laid a necessity upon every human heart to seek for rest, and to shrink from torment. Yet, again, it was a half fantastic prayer, because, from childhood upwards, visions that she had no power to mistrust, and the voices which sounded in her ear for ever, had long since persuaded her mind that for her no such prayer could be granted. Too well she felt that her mission must be worked out to the end, and that the end was now at hand. All went wrong from this time. She herself had created the funds out of which the French restoration should grow, but she was not suffered to witness their development or their prosperous application. More than one military plan was entered upon which she did not approve, but she still continued to expose her person as before. Severe wounds had not taught her caution, and at length in a sortie from Compiègne, whether through treacherous collusion on the part of her own friends is doubtful to this day, she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and finally surrendered to the English. Now came her trial. This trial, moving of course under English influence, was conducted in chief by the Bishop of Beauvais. He was a Frenchman sold to English interests, and hoping, by favour of the English leaders, to reach the highest preferment. Bishop that art, Archbishop that shalt be, Cardinal that mayest be, were the words that sounded continually in his ear, and, doubtless, a whisper of visions still higher, of a triple crown, and feet upon the necks of kings, sometimes stole into his heart. Monsieur Michelet is anxious to keep us in mind that this Bishop was but an agent of the English. True. But it does not better the case for his countrymen. That, being an accomplice in the crime, making himself the leader in the persecution against the helpless girl, he was willing to be all this in the spirit, and with the conscious fileness of a cat's paw. Never from the foundations of the earth was there such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its hellishness of attack. O child of France, shepherdess, peasant girl, trodden underfoot by all around thee, how I honour thy flashing intellect, quick as God's lightning, and true as that lightning to its mark, that ran before France and laggared Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnare, and making dumb the oracles of falsehood. It is not scandalous, it is not humiliating to civilisation, that even at this day France exhibits the horrid spectacle of judges examining the prisoner against himself, seducing him by fraud into treacherous conclusions against his own head, using the terrors of their power for extorting confessions from the frailty of hope. Nay, which is worse, using the blandishments of condescension and snaky kindness for thawing into compliances of gratitude those whom they had failed to freeze into terror. Wicked judges, barbarian jurors prudence, that sitting on your own conceit on the summits of social wisdom, have yet failed to learn the first principles of criminal justice, sit ye humbly and with docility at the feet of this girl from Domirémy, that tore your webs of cruelty into shreds and dust. Quote, would you examine me as a witness against myself? Quote, was the question by which many times she defied their arts. Continually she showed that their interrogations were irrelevant to any business before the court, or that entered into the ridiculous charges against her. General questions were proposed to her on points of causistical divinity, two edged questions which not one of themselves could have answered without, on the one side landing himself in heresy, as then interpreted, or on the other in some presumptuous expression of self-esteem. Next came a wretched Dominican that pressed her with an objection, which, if applied to the Bible, would tax every one of its miracles with unsoundness. The monk had the excuse of never having read the Bible. Monsieur Michelet has no such excuse, and it makes one blush for him, as a philosopher, to find him describing such an argument as weighty, whereas it is but a varied expression of rude Mahatmatin metaphysics. Her answer to this, if there were room to place the whole in a clear light, was as shattering as it was rapid. Another thought to entrap her by asking what language the angelic visitors of her solitude had talked, as though heavenly councils could want polyglot interpreters for every word, or that God needed language at all in whispering thoughts to a human heart. Then came a worse devil, who asked her whether the archangel Michel had appeared naked, not comprehending the vile insinuation Joanna, whose poverty suggested to her a simplicity that it might be the costliness or suitable robes which caused the demure, asked them if they fancied God, who clothed the flowers of the valleys, unable to find raiment for his servants. The answer of Joanna moves a smile of tenderness, but the disappointment of her judges makes one laugh horribly. Others succeeded by troops who up braided her with leaving her father, as if that greater father whom she believed herself to have been serving, did not retain the power of dispensing with his own rules, or had not said, that for a less cause than martyrdom, man and woman should leave both father and mother. On Easter Sunday, when the trial had been long proceeding, the poor girl fell so ill as to cause a belief that she had been poisoned. It was not poison. Nobody had any interest in hastening a death so certain. Monsieur Michelet, whose sympathies with all feelings are so quick that one would gladly see them always as justly directed, reads the case most truly. Joanna had a twofold malady. She was visited by a paroxysm of the complaint called homesickness. The cruel nature of her imprisonment and its length could not but point her solitary thoughts in darkness and in chains, for chained she was, to Dom Remy. And the season, which was the most heavenly period of the spring, adds stings to this yearning. That was one of her maladies—nostalgia, as medicine calls it. The other was weariness and exhaustion from daily combats with malice. She saw that everybody hated her, and thirsted for her blood. Nay, many kind-hearted creatures, that would have pitied her profoundly as regarded all political charges, had their natural feelings warped by the belief that she had dealings with fiendish powers. She knew she was to die. That was not the misery. The misery was that this consummation could not be reached without so much intermediate strife, as if she were contending for some chance, where chance was none, of happiness, or were dreaming for a moment of escaping the inevitable. Why then did she contend? Knowing that she would reap nothing from answering her persecutors, why did she not retire by silence from the superfluous contest? It was because her quick and eager loyalty to truth would not suffer her to see it darkened by frauds which she could expose, but others, even of candid listeners, perhaps, could not. It was through that imperishable grandeur of soul which taught her to submit meekly and without a struggle to her punishment, but taught her not to submit, no not for a moment, to calm me as to facts, or to misconstruction as to motives. Besides, there were secretaries all around the court taking down her words. That was meant for no good to her. But the end does not always correspond to the meaning. And Joanna might say to herself these words that will be used against me to-morrow and the next day, perhaps in some nobler generation may rise again for my justification. Yes, Joanna, they are rising, even now in Paris, and for more than justification. Woman, sister, there are some things which you do not execute as well as your brother, man, no, nor ever will. Pardon me if I doubt whether you will ever produce a great poet from your choirs, or a Mozart, or a Fideas, or a Michelangelo, or a great philosopher, or a great scholar. By which last is meant, not one who depends simply on an infinite memory, but also on an infinite and electrical power of combination, bringing together from the four winds, like the angel of the resurrection, what else were dust from dead man's bones into the unity of breathing life? If you can create yourselves into any of these great creators, why have you not? Do not ask me to say otherwise, because if you do, you will lead me into temptation. For I swore early in life never to utter a falsehood, and above all a sycophantic falsehood, and in the false homage of the modern press towards women there is horrible sycophancy. It is as hollow, most of it, and it is as fleeting as is the love that lurks in, luxuriousness. Yet if a woman asks me to tell a falsehood, I have long made up my mind that on moral considerations I will and ought to do so, whether it be for any purpose of glory to her, or if screening her foibles, for she does commit a few, or of humbly as a vassal, paying a peppercorn rent to her august privilege of caprice. Barring these cases I must adhere to my resolution of telling no fibs, and I repeat therefore but not to be rude, I repeat in Latin. Excudent ali melias sperantia signa credo equidem vivos ducent de marmor voltis altius ascendent atucaput iva memento sandalo ut infringas referenti oracula tenta. Footnote Our sisters are always rather uneasy when we say anything of them in Latin or Greek. It is like giving sealed orders to a sea-captain which he is not to open for his life till he comes to a certain latitude, which latitude perhaps he never will come into, and thus may miss the secret till he is going to the bottom. Generally I acknowledge that it is not polite before our female friends to cite a single word of Latin without instantly translating it. But in this particular case where I am only iterating a disagreeable truth they will please to recollect that the politeness lies in not translating. However, if they insist absolutely on knowing this very night before going to bed, what it is that those ill-looking lines contain, I refer them to Dryden's Virgil, somewhere in the sixth book of the Aeneid, except as to the closing line and a half which contain a private suggestion of my own to discontented nymphs anxious to see the equilibrium of advantages re-established between the two sexes. End Footnote Yet, sister woman, though I cannot consent to find a Mozart or Michelangelo in your sex, until that day when you claim my promise as to falsehood, cheerfully and with the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge that you can do one thing as well as the best of us men. A greater thing than even Mozart is known to have done, or Michelangelo. You can die grandly, and as goddesses would die were goddesses mortal. If any distant world which may be the case, are so far ahead of us, to Lurians in optical resources, as to see distinctly through their telescopes all that we do on earth, which is the grandest sight to which we ever treat them. St. Peter's at Rome, do you fancy, on Easter Sunday, or Luxor, or perhaps the Himalayas? Poo-poo, my friend, suggest something better. These are bobbles to them. They see in other worlds in their own far better toys of the same kind. These, take my word for it, are nothing. Do you give it up? The finest thing, then, we have to show them, is a scaffold on the morning of execution. I assure you there is a strong muster in those fair telescopic worlds, on any such morning of those who happen to find themselves occupying the right hemisphere for a peep at us. Telescopes look up in the market on that morning, and bear a monstrous premium, for they cheat probably in those scientific worlds as well as we do. How, then, if it be announced in some such telescopic world by those who make a livelihood of catching glimpses at our newspapers, whose language they have long since deciphered that the poor victim in the morning's sacrifice is a woman? How, if it be published on that distant world that the sufferer wears upon her head in the eyes of many the garlands of martyrdom? How, if it should be some Marie Antoinette, the widowed queen, coming forward on the scaffold and presenting to the morning air her head, turned gray prematurely by sorrow, daughter of Caesars kneeling down humbly to kiss the guillotine as one that worships death? How, if it were the martyred wife of Roland, uttering impassioned truth, truth odious to the rulers of her country, with her expiring breath? How, if it were the noble Charlotte Corday, that in the bloom of youth, that with the loveliest of persons, that with homage waiting upon her smiles wherever she turned her face to scatter them, homage that followed those smiles as surely as the carols of birds, after showers and spring followed the reappearing sun and the racing of sunbeams over the hills, yet thought all these things cheaper than the dust upon her sandals in comparison of deliverance from hell for her dear suffering France? Ah, these were spectacles indeed for those sympathizing people in distant worlds, and some, perhaps, would suffer a sort of martyrdom themselves, because they could not testify their wrath, could not bear witness to the strength of love, and to the fury of hatred that burned within them at such scenes, could not gather into golden urns some of that glorious dust which rested in the catacombs of earth.