DORCAS. I was no little surprised to find such a reproach issuing from the lips of one who must have known that no man had yet sung her in his verse who had not violated the truth of history and smirched the beauty of a noble character, devoted solely to her country and her God, by picturing her as enamored of some mortal lover. Shakspeare must here receive his share of blame, although the national prejudices still existent in his age may offer some excuse. Voltaire is not to be mentioned, Schiller twaddles through a tissue of sheer inventions and impossible absurdities, and even Southey, who strives to be faithful to history, thinks he must invest her with a 'suppressed attachment' in order to render her sufficiently interesting to be the heroine of a poem. (Inconceivable and insane vanity, that imagines no woman can live her life through without laying her heart at the feet of one of the 'irresistibles'!) The historic character of Joan of Arc has been terribly maltreated and misrepresented by every man who has attempted to portray it, with the single exception of the German historian, Guido Goerres, whose work, by the way, has been reverently done into English by two sister women. PAUL. Well, and the final conclusion to all this? DORCAS. The final conclusion is, that a large portion of even the worthier souls in this world, is drifting away into a sea of materialism, shrouded in rose-colored mists of poetry and sentiment, and it behooves every earnest friend of humanity to sound the alarm, and at least strive to give warning of the danger. GLORIOUS! 'Far how can a man die better, Than in facing fearful odds. For the ashes of his fathers-- And the temples of his gods!' MACAULAY'S _Ballads of Ancient Rome_. Alone--and widowed so early, Aged only twenty-one-- Only so few of her years are past, And yet her life is quite done! Quite concluded her life is-- Nothing for hopes, or for fears; Nothing to think of, or look to see But a barren desert of years! Slender, lithe little figure-- Graceful and yielding form, Never again to be held in the close Clasp of a manly arm! Oh the sweet oval face, And the wonderful violet eyes! No more to be sealed with true kisses, And opened to love's paradise! And oh the sunny, brown hair, Which breaks into ripples and waves O'er her sad brow--like the laughter Of young children over graves! Put it away under widow's weeds-- Draw it as straight as you can: Never again will the dear little head Be held to the heart of a man. Dazed, she sits in the twilight Of the funeral-darkened room, Her whole soul gathered to listen--alas! For a voice that is stilled in the tomb. Dear voice, now silent forever! God help her! It seems a dream! She hopes, even now she may waken; But see yonder cruel sunbeam.