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some warlike exploit; but nowhere do you meet with so many memorials of those bygone days as in the fine old city of Rouen, which for so many years was as a second capital in France, the residence of the regent of her English sovereign. There at every turn some object rises full of interest to English eyes, though some of them are of such a nature as to raise the blush of shame rather than the glow of triumph; for here stands the castle in which, if old chroniclers say true, the cruel tyrant John of Anjou, usurper of the crown of England, with his own hand murdered his young nephew Arthur, the rightful heir to the throne; and here we may view the dungeon and the trial-chamber of the heroic Maid of Orleans, that extraordinary woman, whose actions brought about such wonders, that, even at the present day, we feel it almost difficult to believe that the in

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spiration she prefessed, and herself believed, was not in truth a reality, but only the result of over-excited fancy; here is the death-place of that high-minded woman, whose courage and enthusiasm won back for Charles the throne he had thought lost for ever, and freed her country from a foreign rule.

There, in the centre of the Place de la Pucelle, the Maiden's square, on the very spot where her body was reduced to ashes, stands her statue, a lasting memorial of her virtues and her wrongs. Formerly, a fountain occupied that spot, but that was destroyed during the French Revolution, although one would have thought that even the wildest of those who took part in the terrible excesses of that fearful time, would have respected such a monument. It is creditable to the better feelings of returning good sense, to have erected a fresh

mark of honour to the memory of her who should never have been forgotten by any Frenchman. As I, a solitary English traveller, stood on this place, retracing in my mind the strange career of the heroine, it occurred to me that I might, whilst in the midst of the scenes which had witnessed her achievements, fill up many of the hours which so often hang heavy on the hands of a lonely wanderer, by collecting and arranging the various recorded facts which form the brief history of her on whose statue I was gazing “ And this,” thought I,

may perhaps be welcome to my young friends at home; and they will find that Uncle Rupert, though he meets them no more under the ash-tree or at the fireside, forgets them not in his wanderings abroad.” Acting on this resolve on the instant, I drew forth my sketch-book and commenced my labours by making a drawing of the scene

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