of herself and her name from every reproach.  This remarkable and indeed unique occurrence does not seem, however, to have roused any enthusiasm.  Perhaps France felt herself too guilty:  perhaps the extraordinary calm of contemporary opinion which was still too near the catastrophe to see it fully:  perhaps that difficulty in the diffusion of news which hindered the common knowledge of a trial—­a thing too heavy to be blown upon the winds,—­while it promulgated the legend, a thing so much more light to carry:  may be the cause of this.  But it is an extraordinary fact that Jeanne’s name remained in abeyance for many ages, and that only in this century has it come to any sort of glory, in the country of which Jeanne is the first and greatest of patriots and champions, a country, too, to which national glory is more dear than daily bread.

In the new and wonderful spring of life that succeeded the revolution of 1830, the martyr of the fifteenth century came to light as by a revelation.  The episode of the Pucelle in Michelet’s History of France touched the heart of the world, and remains one of the finest efforts of history and the most popular picture of the saint.  And perhaps, though so much less important in point of art, the maiden work of another maiden of Orleans—­the little statue of Jeanne, so pure, so simple, so spiritual, made by the Princess Marie of that house, the daughter of the race which the Maid held in visionary love, and which thus only has ever attempted any return of that devotion—­had its part in reawakening her name and memory.  It fell again, however, after the great work of Quicherat had finally given to the country the means of fully forming its opinion on the subject which Fabre’s translation, though unfortunately not literal and adorned with modern decorations, was calculated to render popular.  A great crop of statues and some pictures not of any great artistic merit have since been dedicated to the memory of the Maid:  but yet the public enthusiasm has never risen above the tide mark of literary applause.

There has been, however, a great movement of enthusiasm lately to gain for Jeanne the honour of canonisation(2); but it seems to have failed, or at least to have sunk again for the moment into silence.  Perhaps these honours are out of date in our time.  One of the most recent writers on the subject, M. Henri Blaze de Bury, suggests that one reason which retards this final consecration is “England, certainly not a negligible quantity to a Pope of our time.”  Let no such illusion move any mind, French or ecclesiastical.  Canonisation means to us, I presume, and even to a great number of Catholics, simply the highest honour that can be paid to a holy and spotless name.  In that sense there is no distinction of nation, and the English as warmly as the French, both being guilty towards her, and before God on her account—­would welcome all honour that could be paid to one who, more truly than any princess of the blood, is Jeanne of France, the Maid, alone in her lofty humility and valour, and in everlasting fragrance of modesty and youth.