there are chords in the feminine
organization beyond his comprehension--strange chords, the resolution of
which will be found only in that heaven where there shall be no marrying
nor giving in marriage.

PAUL. You mentioned Joan of Arc: did you observe that the
author of 'Hannah Thurston' notices the fact, that while she has been
poetized by Schiller, Southey, and others, no woman has ever yet made
her the theme of song?

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