O Meuse, beside thy waters clear.
So gently murmuring by.
The Voices, whispering in her ear.
Taught her to live - and die.
At last she has come into her own. At last, after nearly five hundred years the Maid of France has taken her rightful place in the ranks of the Church Triumphant, and has been placed upon the Calendar of Saints, having received from the hands of the Sovereign Pontiff the highest honors it is possible for the representative of Christ on earth to confer. It was Pius X, of saintly memory, who first elevated the Maid among the Blessed and she was canonized on 13 May 1920, by our Holy Father Pope Benedict XV.
By no country on earth, except her own, has this news been welcomed with more enthusiasm than by America; especially since the close of the war, during which the American soldiers rivaled the French in their devotion to her, putting themselves under her protection on the battle-field and wearing - Catholic and Protestant alike - her medal, as a talisman against danger and death.
The latest statue erected to her memory is that on Riverside Drive, New York. It is of bronze, thirty-five feet high, and is the only statue ever erected to a woman in that great emporium of the world. The money was raised by subscription, principally in small sums by those unable to give more - a genuine gift of the people to the great heroine of patriotism, piety, and humanity.
Even those least familiar with her wonderful story are aware that she ranks among the greatest heroines of the world, while many of those better informed have but a hazy idea of the times and conditions under which she lived. They were times of great stress and disturbance. France, in particular, had long been in the throes of civil war, with all the evils attendant upon a distracted and disunited kingdom.
Worn out with internal strife. Burgundy at length appealed to England for relief, an appeal which was eagerly welcomed by the sister-kingdom, seeing in the disorganization and weakness of her neighbor across the channel an opportunity for the conquest she had long desired.
Charles VII, the King of France, had succeeded his father to the throne during this distracted period; some of his subjects acknowledged his supremacy, others were not so loyal. An exile and a wanderer from his capital, he had never been crowned, and was still commonly spoken of as the Dauphin, because the diadem of sovereignty had not yet been formally placed upon his brow. Never a brave warrior, he preferred to evade responsibility, whenever possible. It was at this critical period that the star of Saint Joan of Arc rose upon the horizon - a sudden, brilliant and wonderful star, quickly to reach the zenith of glory, too soon to fade into the darkness of ingratitude.
Even before her time, her native Lorraine and its sister-province, Alsace, originally belonging to Germany, though on the French bank of the Rhine, had always been more French than German. For France they had fought and bled, to France they had pledged their loyalty and devotion. To them the German tongue was almost unknown, the people aliens, their habits, customs and ideals as foreign, perhaps, as those of Spain or Italy. Only a river separated them, but generation after generation had widened the barrier which divided them. Here, on the banks of the Upper Meuse, at Domremy, one of the numerous villages that nestle there, on 6 January 1412 - according to the most authentic records- Saint Joan of Arc was born. Although, from all the great wars which from time to time devastated France, it bore scars of the tragedies in which it had taken part, it has always been, in the peaceful years between, an ideal and picturesque spot. Alas, in this last and most bloody of all wars, how often have the gently flowing waters of that beautiful river run crimson, dyed with the life-torrent of its faithful Lorrainers; its green banks, waving with garden-flowers, downtrodden beneath the tramp of many feet, its little islets, clothed with mossy verdure, grown hideous and ghastly, obliterated and forgotten their fragrant bushes of living green!
The father of Saint Joan was named d'Arc, her mother Isabelle Romée. Up to the time of her birth there had been four children in the family, three boys and a girl, named Catherine, who died in her infancy. Her native village, save for the ravages which war has made, is very little changed since the day when the newly-born child was taken to the church for baptism. This church, toward which her innocent, childish feet were early bent, the scene of her prayers and aspirations, where she armed her soul with the shields of virtue, constancy, and courage, is more than lowly - it is poor, though full of harmonious colors, with one little corner which is shown to visitors as the spot where Saint Joan was accustomed to pray.
On the threshold stands, or stood, a statue of Saint Joan, more simple than devotional. Among the trees, at a few paces from the church, is, or was - we know not how war has left it - a bust of Saint Joan in white marble. A stone's throw distant stands the dwelling in which she was born. "Trees envelop the walls with their overhanging branches," writes one who reverently visited it some years ago. "A third part of the roof, at least, is covered with ivy. Above the door, which is low, are three shields of armorial bearings - or, to speak more correctly, the door is surmounted by three escutcheons: that of Louis XI, who caused the cottage to be embellished; that which was granted to one of the brothers of Saint Joan named Lys; and a third bearing a star under three plowshares, to symbolize Saint Joan's mission and the lowly condition of her parents." Jacques d'Arc was a man of good standing in the country, the proprietor of a farm, owning sheep, oxen, and cows. He and his wife were devout Christians and sincere patriots - French to the core of their loyal, honest hearts. They had seen France divided, the King of England master of Paris, the King of France deserted, continually a prey to increasing misfortunes.
In the fields and by the firesides the terrible state of their country was the constant topic of conversation among these faithful villagers, and we read that it was the nightly custom of Isabelle to clasp her children's hands together and teach them to say, "O, God! save France!"
Into this pious family was born our heroine, who, as soon as she was able to speak and understand, began to love her desolated fatherland with an all-overpowering love. She was a true Frenchwoman, energetic and enthusiastic, quick on her feet, skillful with her hands, ready with swift smile and bright repartee, but above all things prudent, pious, and finding her greatest pleasure before the altar of God. She had an uncle who was a cure, and a cousin, Nicolas Romée, a religious in the Abbey of Cheminou, who later became her chaplain. She herself could neither read nor write and learned her prayers, the Ave Maria, the Our Father, and the Creed, from the lips of her devoted mother.
- taken from A Child's Life of Saint Joan of Arc, by Mary Ellen Mannix