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 Rouen 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 sate upon it:  but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sate 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 Domremy 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 till 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 M. Michelet.  All these writers are of a revolutionary cast; not in a political sense merely, but in all senses; mad, oftentimes, as March hares; crazy with the laughing-gas of recovered liberty; drunk with the wine-cup of their mighty Revolution, snorting, whinnying, throwing up their heels, like wild horses in the boundless pampas, 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 M. Michelet—­who is 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, &c., which has been