longed to foster an exclusive sentiment of piety, threw himself into a cloister; he covered his head with a monk's hood, and the world understood and respected him; but if the blood was bounding in a man's veins, and he panted for enterprize, and for spectators for his enterprize, he joined, his steed and lance perhaps all his wealth, the banner of his sovereign, or some adventurous noble, and pricked forward with a heart as entirely selfsatisfied. The Church, that reproved all in turn, gave a free scope to all. We moderns are so educated by selfreflection and mutual observation, and are so familiar with the thoughts and passions of other men, in other positions, that what we ourselves are, we scarcely know. These men performed their part in life, doubtless with even more egregious blunders than we poor mortals commit, but with a heartiness and sincerity which more cogitating animals can never experience.

Let us be allowed to terminate this our glance at the Dark Ages by the portrait of one whose life and character display them very vividly in all their glory and superstition, in their high faith, in their absurd fears, in all their ignorance and heroism. It is Joan d'Arc, or the Maid of Orleans, we wish to call to remembrance, one whose character and exploits, marvellous as they are, we have ample means of understanding. The judicial examination both of herself and of other witnesses, taken when she was in captivity to the English, supply more certain materials for biography than are usually possessed. Mr Sharon Turner, who is invaluable for the diligence with which he collects his materials, and the impartiality with which he spreads them on his page, has, in his History of England, framed his account of Joan from these examinations, and his account we follow in the present sketch.

In the village of Domremy, on the borders of Lorraine, there is a little girl of humble parents, who are not, however, as some relate, the keepers of an inn, but small farmers cultivating their own land. She is now about the age of thirteen or fourteen, and is remarkable for her amiable temper and singular piety. She prefers solitude and the sacred service to the village fête; and may often be found kneeling alone in the church before the crucifix or the Virgin Mary. There is a beautiful tree in the neighbourhood; they call it the fairy tree, and other children are afraid to pass by it unaccompanied; she takes her work and sits there by herself. She sees no fairies, but the forms of angels and of saints. St Margaret and St Catharine come and stand beside her, and smile so sweetly on her, that she weeps when the vision departs. At other times she sits watching her father's sheep; and so gentle is she, that the birds will come and feed from her hand, and so modest and bashful, that, if addressed by a stranger, she is utterly disconcerted.

Notwithstanding this susceptible temperament, she grows up into no weak and sickly frame. With this musing visionary mood she combines the rustic and invigorating labours of her station; and now, as she rides her

father's horses, which she has frequent occasion to do, for the pond at which they drink is at some distance from the house, she arms herself with a wooden lance or long pole, and, ma. naging her steed in quite knightly fashion, she tilts at the trees or any other object she can make a mark of, and deals her blow with wondrous force and dexterity. Alone she prays, alone she muses, alone she rides and tilts, growing up in a complete world of her own of visionary religion and chivalrous exploit.

Henry V., the conqueror of Agincourt and the terror of France, is dead-his infant son has been crowned at Paris, King of France and England -to the Dauphin, now Charles VII., a very small share of his hereditary kingdom remains-Orleans is the only town of any magnitude that adheres to him-the Regent Bedford has laid siege to it-the siege is far advanced, the little court of Charles is in despair, and Charles himself meditates a flight from his lost dominions, into Spain or Scotland. The village of Domremy is far from the scene of contest, but is not without sharing its agitation. It lies on the borders of Burgundy, and the Duke of Burgundy is an ally of England. The very next village of Marcy is of the Burgundian faction; and the youths of Domremy and Marcy have frequently met and fought each other upon this very quarrel.

Joan d'Are hears all this with beating heart, and grows up a warm friend of her native prince. Nay, there is a prophecy current, that from the borders of Lorraine a virgin should arise who would deliver France. When did France need deliverance more than now? She prays more devoutly than ever-visions and voices attend herand now it is not St Catharine only, and St Margaret, but the martial form of St Michael that enters on the scene. She begins to talk mysteriously to her friends of something that must be undertaken by one as yet unthought ofshe must go and raise the siege of Orleans, and crown the Dauphin, as she still calls him, in the city of Rheims!

But how is a peasant girl to introduce herself even, on the theatre of such exploits? In a neighbouring village, there dwells a Seigneur of some consequence in the world, Baudricourt by name. To him she will go, he will introduce her to Charles. In that same village she has an uncle, and through him she can be presented to Lord Baudricourt. The uncle is first gained; he takes his niece, a country girl, now about the age of eighteen, dressed, as we are told, in "her shabby red gown," and presents her to the Seigneur as the champion of France, commissioned by Heaven to deliver the kingdom from its enemies, and to crown its native sovereign. Baudricourt will not listen a momentbids the uncle " whip the girl, and send her back home."

Home, however, Joan by no means goes. She stays at the village with her uncle-she talks of her divine mission-she is perpetual in her religious exercises. The old prophecy is brought up; people listen and believe; Lord Baudricourt holds serious discourse with the clergymen of the place; they visit her together. At this time the Duke of Lorraine is lying ill of a fever which his physicians do not understand, and thinks this maid may probably have some spell, some witchcraft, or saintcraft, by which to cure him. She is introduced to the Duke; but she declares she knows nothing of pharmacy-her business is with France, and to set her prince upon his throne. All this, however, increases her celebrity. Baudricourt Is shaken. He consents, at length, to

give her letters to the King, and supplies her with a horse, arms, and an escort. "Go," says the half-believing, half-doubting man; " go! and let come what may of it."

The first step, which is proverbially so difficult, is achieved. Her fellowtravellers, being constant witnesses of her firmness, her intrepidity, her unshaken confidence in her holy mission, are made converts, and believe in her. All ranks visit her; and many who come in sceptical mood, return, declaring, with tears in their eyes, that "she is a creature of God." Dressed in male attire, her countenance pleasing, her shape beautiful, but yet proportioned rather for strength than gracefulness, she is introduced to Charles. His council are divided in opinion, but even those who share not the popular enthusiasm think fit to profit by it. Stories are circulated which, whether inventions of these cooler heads, or the genuine blunders of credulity, serve still further to promote that popular faith by which they gained their credence. Has she not whispered to the Dauphin a secret which none but himself could by natural means be acquainted with? Has she not sent her messenger for a sword concealed behind an altar of St Catherine; a sword whose existence none knew of, and concealed in a church where she herself had never been? The clergy solemnly examine her. To one, who requests a miracle to be performed instanter, in proof of her divine mission, she replies" Conduct me to Orleans, and there I will show you for what I am sent." "The miracle," she said to another, "which is given me to do is to raise the seige of Orleans. Give me men-at-arms, in what number or as few as you please, and I will do it!"

How she went-how she won her way into the town-what brave sallies she made from it-how she turned the tide of hope and victory-is matter of very familiar history. She infused as much terror into the English as of confidence in the French. Not that our ancestors, good catholics as they were, could believe that Heaven had commissioned the Maid to scourge them out of France-no; but there were other powers, beside St Michael and the Virgin, very busily at work in those days. Dreadful things were done by magic and the influence of demons. As prayers and pious offerings secured the assistance of a saint, so there were incantations and sacrilegious rites that would prompt and direct the malevolence of fiends. They suffered from her witchcraft. Her spells had withered their hearts, and paralysed their limbs.

When Joan had performed her promise, had raised the siege of Orleans, crowned the King at Rheims, and turned the tide of conquest decidedly in favour of her countrymen, she wished to retire from the scene. But the selfish policy of the King would not permit it; she must still animate his soldiers by her presence. Her career was, however, run-she was taken prisoner, and the angel of France was now the captive sorceress, forsaken of her demon. Bedford and others of the English council treated her with great cruelty. After having, by promises of pardon, on the one hand, and, on the other, by long confinement and the torture of repeated examinations, worn down the enthusiasm of her mind, and reduced her to the level of a sad, weak, and suffering woman-after having, by the influence of the clergy of their own faction, driven her to confess like a penitent, and lament as a sinful presumption the lofty imagination that had been the source of all her glory-after having thus destroyed all the charm that surrounded her, they nevertheless resolved upon her execution. To obtain some pretence for their breach of good faith, they tricked her into what they called a relapse into witchcraft. All her exploits had been performed in male attire, and with that dress were associated all her dreams of glory. Since her captivity she had been cloth ed in the usual garments of her sex. One night they conveyed into her cell that old attire in which she had fought

like a hero, and been almost worshipped like a saint. Her enemies watched her conduct. They saw her, after looking long at the once familiar dress, begin to put it on. They rushed into her presence and proclaimed her relapsed.

Do not the character and career of the Maid of Orleans illustrate with singular felicity the spirit of the times she lived in? The combination of qualities which she herself presents to our view is curious in the extreme; but the greater curiosity lies in the temper, and notions, and tendencies of the age, which could have brought such a person into the very foremost position of public life-placed her in the van of armies-at the head of councils. In the mind of the Maiden herself we see the noblest heroism, a courage undaunted, an ardour and perseverance fitted for the actual conduct of great enterprises, and all these animated by dreams, and fancies, and spectral illusions. Strange that a courage so real should have been under guidance of visions so weak! Strange that the imagination of a lonely girl should not have forsaken her on her entrance upon the palpable scene of military action! But still more strange that this nursling of solitude should find in the living world a theatre for the realization of her visionary hopes! But the world without was fantastic as the world within. The villager of Domremy, without quitting her dreams, leads the armies of France to conquest. Her supernatural power is undisputed either by friend or foe, but, alas! very differently construed. She places the crown with her own hands upon the brows of her monarch; and this admirable heroine dies, burnt at the stake for a pestilent witch!

Or late years the works of Mr Coleridge, both in prose and verse, have been continually gaining upon public notice, and now enjoy, we believe, a pretty extensive popularity. Most of them have been reprinted since his death, and several volumes of posthumous miscellanies have been added to their number. Their celebrity being thus established, and on the daily increase, we think it not improbable that his Biographia Literaria (one of his principal works, and one which has been long out of print) may likewise be re-issued before long by some enterprising bookseller. But at the same time we think it would be highly discreditable to the literature of the country, if any reprint of that work were allowed to go abroad, without embodying some accurate notice and admission of the very large and unacknowledged appropriations it contains from the writings of the great German philosopher Schelling. Partly, therefore, for the sake of any future editor or publisher who may choose to profit by our animadversions, and partly because we think the case can hardl

fail to be a matter of some interest to the general reader, as disclosing a curious page in the history of literature, we propose to do our best to supply the requisite information on this subject-tracing Coleridge's plagiarisms to their true sources, fixing their precise amount, or nearly so, (as far, at least, as Schelling is concerned,) and arguing the whole question on its

broadest grounds, both literary an moral.

We are aware that this subject is not now broached for the first time. It was mooted some years ago in Tait's Magazine, (September 1834,) and in the British Magazine, (January 1835,) Mr De Quincy appearing in the former for the prosecution, and Mr J. C. Hare in the latter for the defence. But on both sides the case was very badly conducted; indeed we may say it was altogether bungled. Neither party appears to have possessed a competent knowledge of the facts; and the question was not fairly and fully argued on the grounds either of its condemning or justifying circumstances. The Opium-Eater was evidently ignorant of the extent to which Coleridge's plagiarisms from Schelling had been carried; and therefore, with all his willingness, he was not in a position to press the charge very far or very successfully. But besides this, even in the one great instance in which he convicts Coleridge, losing sight of his usual extreme accuracy, he not only does not lead us to the right work of Schelling from which the "borrowed plumes" are taken; but he refers us to a work which, under the title he gives it, is not to be found in the list of the German philosopher's publications. As the source of Coleridge's plagiarisms, his accuser refers the inquisitive reader to a work which never existed! * This, it must be admitted, is not a very sa

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tisfactory way of conducting a discussion, or of throwing light upon a doubtful matter; and therefore, so far as the Opium-Eater's side of the controversy is concerned, he will excuse us for saying that he has left the question as much in the dark as ever, or rather involved in greater confusion and obscurity than before.

He

Neither is Mr Hare's side of the question a bit better managed. likewise is either ignorant of the amount to which Coleridge was indebted to Schelling, or else he does not choose to speak out. He talks of Coleridge having transferred into his work "half-a-dozen pages," or little more, of Schelling. By our Lady! they are nearer twenty. He brings forward what he conceives to be the triumphantly exculpatory circumstances of the case, as they are to be found in the Biographia Literaria itself; but he evidently sees through them as little as though they had been so many milestones, and the inferences he draws

from them appear to us to be very shallow and very questionable. The reader shall be able to judge of this for himself by-and-by. And, lastly, the great body of his defence consists of recriminations against Mr De Quincy for having been the first to bring the charge of plagiarism against a man who had been his friend, and whom he admired so much as if the Opium-Eater's delinquency in this respect, admitting it to have been which we do not the blackest ever committed under heaven, were any exculpation of Coleridge, or had any thing whatever to do with the merits of the case. We think, therefore, that the whole question requires to be revised, and that some attempt ought to be made to bring out its details with the justice and accuracy befitting a literature which does not choose to close its eyes, and have foreign productions palmed off upon it as the indigenous growth of its own soil.

In bringing this matter before the public, we have no fear that the read

ers of this Magazine will suppose us actuated by a desire to detract from the merits, or to affix a stigma upon the memory, of Mr Coleridge. The high terms in which he has been spoken of all along throughout our pages, and the exalted rank assigned therein to his genius, will secure us, we should hope, against any such imputation. We are extremely unwilling to hold him guilty of any direct and intentional literary dishonesty, but it is only when we take into consideration what we believe to have been his very peculiar idiosyncrasy, that we are able to attribute to some strange intellectual hallucination a practice, which, in the case of any other man, we should have called by the stronger name of a gross moral misdemeanour. But, be that as it may, we are not going to sacrifice what we conceive to be truth and justice out of regard to the genius of any man, however high it may have been, or to the memory of any man, however illustrious and apparently unsullied it may be. Fair play is a jewel: and we think it our duty to see fair play upon all sides; and, if our admiration of Coleridge has whispered in our ear to keep this disclosure back, our admiration of Schelling (which we admit to be greater than that which we feel for Coleridge) was ever at hand, appealing to our conscience with a still louder voice to bring it forward, and to do justice to the claims of foreign philosophy and of individual genius, by showing that one of the most distinguished English authors of the nineteenth century, at the mature age of forty-five, succeeded in founding by far the greater part of his metaphysical reputation-which was very considerable-upon verbatim plagiarisms from works written and published by a German youth, when little more than twenty years of age!

We start, then, by supposing it admitted (as it must be) that Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, borrowed to a certain extent from Schelling, without making any specific acknow