Among the sly hits at our nation, which abound in the lively pages of the Sieur d'Argenton, is one to the effect that an Englishman always has an old prophecy in his possession. The worthy Sieur is describing the meeting of Louis X. and our Henry II. near Picquini, where the Chancellor of England commenced his harangue by alluding to an ancient prophecy which predicted that the Plain of Picquini should be the scene of a memorable and lasting peace between the two nations. "The Bishop," says Commines, "commença par une prophétie, dont," adds he, _en parenthèse_, "les Anglois ne sont jamais despourveus."[1] Even at this early period, we had thus acquired a reputation for prophecies, and it must be confessed that our chronicles abound in passages which illustrate the justice of the Sieur's sarcasm. From the days of York and Lancaster, when, according to Lord Northampton "bookes of beasts and babyes were exceeding ryfe, and current in every quarter and corner of the realme,"[2] up to the time of Napoleon's projected invasion, when the presses of the Seven Dials were unusually prolific in visions and predictions, pandering to the popular fears of the country--our national character for vaticination has been amply sustained by a goodly array of prophets, real or pretended, whose lucubrations have not even yet entirely lost their influence upon the popular mind. To this day, the ravings of Nixon are "household words" in Cheshire; and I am told that a bundle of "Dame Shipton's Sayings" still forms a very saleable addition to the pack of a Yorkshire pedlar. Recent discoveries in biological science have given to the subject of popular prophecies a philosophical importance beyond the mere curiosity or strangeness of the details. Whether or not the human mind, under certain conditions, becomes endowed with the prescient faculty, is a question I do not wish to discuss in your pages: I merely wish to direct attention to a neglected and not uninteresting chapter in the curiosities of literature.