M. Michelet, indeed, says that La Pucelle was not a shepherdess.  I beg his pardon:  she was.  What he rests upon, I guess pretty well:  it is the evidence of a woman called Haumette, the most confidential friend of Joanna.  Now, she is a good witness, and a good girl, and I like her; for she makes a natural and affectionate report of Joanna’s ordinary life.  But still, however good she may be as a witness, Joanna is better; and she, when speaking to the Dauphin, calls herself in the Latin report Bergereta.  Even Haumette confesses that Joanna tended sheep in her girlhood.  And I believe, that, if Miss Haumette were taking coffee alone with me this very evening (February 12, 1847)—­in which there would be no subject for scandal or for maiden blushes, because I am an intense philosopher, and Miss H. would be hard upon four hundred and fifty years old—­she would admit the following comment upon her evidence to be right.  A Frenchman, about thirty years ago, M. Simond, in his Travels, mentioned incidentally the following hideous scene as one steadily observed and watched by himself in France at a period some trifle before the French Revolution:—­A peasant was ploughing; and the team that drew his plough was a donkey and a woman.  Both were regularly harnessed:  both pulled alike.  This is bad enough:  but the Frenchman adds, that, in distributing his lashes, the peasant was obviously desirous of being impartial:  or, if either of the yoke-fellows had a right to complain, certainly it was not the donkey.  Now, in any country, where such degradation of females could be tolerated by the state of manners, a woman of delicacy would shrink from acknowledging, either for herself or her friend, that she had ever been addicted to any mode of labor not strictly domestic; because, if once owning herself a praedial servant, she would be sensible that this confession extended by probability in the hearer’s thoughts to having incurred indignities of this horrible kind.  Haumette clearly thinks it more dignified for Joanna to have been darning the stockings of her horny-hoofed father, Monsieur D’Arc, than keeping sheep, lest she might then be suspected of having ever done something worse.  But, luckily, there was no danger of that:  Joanna never was in service; and my opinion is that her father should have mended his own stockings, since probably he was the party to make the holes in them, as many a better man than D’Arc does; meaning by that not myself, because, though certainly a better man than D’Arc, I protest against doing anything of the kind.  If I lived even with Friday in Juan Fernandez, either Friday must do all the darning, or else it must go undone.  The better men that I meant were the sailors in the British navy, every man of whom mends his own stockings.  Who else is to do it?  Do you suppose, reader, that the junior lords of the admiralty are under articles to darn for the navy?