IX THE HEROINES Godiva GODIV ODIVA. My husband, my husband! Will you pardon the city? Leofric. Sir bishop! I could not think you would have seen her in this plight. Will I pardon? Yea, Godiva, by the holy rood, I will pardon the city, when thou ridest naked at noontide through the streets. Godiva. O my dear cruel Leofric, where is the heart you gave me? It was not so! Can mine have hardened it? Bishop. Earl, thou abashest thy spouse; she turneth pale and weepeth. Lady Godiva, peace be with thee. Godiva. Thanks, holy man! peace will be with me when peace is with your city. Did you hear my lord's cruel words? Bishop. I did, lady. Godiva. Will you remember it, and pray against it? Bishop. Wilt thou forget it, daughter? Godiva. I am not offended. Bishop. Angel of peace and purity! Godiva. But treasure it up in your heart: deem it an incense, good only when it is consumed and spent, ascending with prayer and sacrifice. And now what was it? Bishop. Christ save us! that he will pardon the city when thou ridest naked through the streets at noon. Godiva. Did he not swear an oath? Bishop. He sware by the holy rood. Godiva. My Redeemer! Thou hast heard it! Save the city! Leofric. We are now upon the beginning of the pavement these are the suburbs: let us think of feasting; we may pray afterward: to-morrow we shall rest. Godiva. No judgments then to-morrow, Leofric? Godiva. The saints of heaven have given me strength and confidence: my prayers are heard: the heart of my beloved is now softened. Leofric (aside). Ay, ay—they shall smart, though. Godiva. Say, dearest Leofric, is there indeed no other hope, no other mediation? Leofric. I have sworn: besides, thou hast made me redden and turn my face away from thee, and all the knaves have seen it; this adds to the city's crime. Godiva. I have blushed too, Leofric, and was not rash nor obdurate. Leofric. But thou, my sweetest, art given to blushing: there is no conquering it in thee. I wish thou hadst not alighted so hastily and roughly; it hath shaken down a sheaf of thy hair; take heed thou sit not upon it, lest it anguish thee. Well done! it mingleth now sweetly with the cloth of gold upon the saddle, running here and there, as if it had life and faculties and business, and were working there upon some newer and cunninger device. O my beauteous Eve! there is a Paradise about thee the world is refreshed as thou movest and breathest on it. I cannot see or think of evil where thou art. I could throw my arms even here about thee. No signs for me! no shaking of sunbeams! no reproof or frown or wonderment-I will say it-now then for worse-I could close with my kisses thy half-open lips, ay, and those lovely and loving eyes, before the people. Godiva. To-morrow you shall kiss me, and they shall bless you for it. I shall be very pale, for to-night I must fast and pray. Leofric. I do not hear thee; the voices of the folk are so loud under this archway. Godiva (to herself). God help them! good kind souls! I hope they will not crowd about me so to-morrow. O Leofric! could my name be forgotten! and yours alone remembered! But perhaps my innocence may save me from reproach! and how many innocent are in fear and famine! No eye will open on me but fresh from tears. What a young mother for so large a family! Shall my youth harm me! Under God's hand it gives me courage. Ah, when will the morning come! ah, when will the noon be over! W. S. Landor P.S. The story of Godiva, at one of the festivals or fairs [at which] I was present in my boyhood, has always interested me; and I wrote a poem on it, sitting, I remember, by the square pool at Rugby. When I showed it to a friend in whom I had most confidence, he began to scoff at the subject; and on his reaching the last line his laughter was loud and immoderate. This conversation has brought both laughter and stanza back to me, and the earnestness with which I entreated and implored my friend not to tell the lads; so heart-strickenly and desperately was I ashamed. The verses are these, if any one else should wish another laugh at me : In every hour, in every mood, And at the close of such a day, When we have ceased to bless and pray, To dream on thy long hair. May the peppermint be still growing on the bank in that place! Joan of Arc I W. S. L. WHA HAT 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 splendour and a noon-day prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a by-word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the sceptre 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 Domrémy as echoes to the departing steps of the invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at Vaucouleurs 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 as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges of thy truth, that never once-no, not for a moment of weakness-didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honour from man. Coronets for thee! Oh no! Honours, if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domrémy, 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. Cite her by the apparitors to come and receive a robe of honour, but she will be found en contumace. When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that 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; 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 |