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POETRY.
From the Christian Watchman.
THE STILL SMALL VOICE.
1 Kings xix. 9—18.
AH sorrowful th p proph p t at
W'th rocks impal p <l around,
And fearful majesty was spread
O’er Horeb’s sacred ground,
A counterpart his bosom met
In nature’s dark array,
yVliile desolate and lorn, be wept,
And mourned the hours away.
But hark—it roars—a mighty wind!
It lavs the forest bare!
fy: is the voiee of God—but no—
Jehovah was not there.
jTis tranquil all—it shakes again—
It rends th p mountain’s brow—
The falling cliff leaps from its throne,
To meet the vale below.
{Tis still again—the flaming Arc
Bursts on the gloom of night,
Enwraps the hill-top, gleams abroad,
And reigns in fearful might.
Cod was not there—the earthquake’s
voice
Was but terrestrial ire,
’Twas quickly soothed:—his form was
not
Amid the rolling fire.
The stars gleamed forth upon the night
In hushed tranquility,
The full-orb’d moon was riding on,
Iu silent majesty.
The prophet listed—bowed the knee—
He raised a silent prayer;
•A still, small voice was whispering,
And God—his God was there. F.
THE FEMALE SLANDERER.
Th ere is a spell on beauty’s power,
A cloud upon her noon-ciav hour—
On her whit a virgin robe a stain,
O’er native grace a fettering chain,
Some wizard art, like that which led
In eastern loveth’ Arabian maid,
In one fair form thy potent spells
tJnite what charms and what repels?
And like the magnet’s adverse poles,
Attracts, yet frights the gazers’ souls;
Her eye with beams of love is bright,
But pestilence is in its light;
Her cheek with softest crimson glows,
But there’s a canker in the rose,
There’s venom in that ruby lip,
Where love his arrowy store should dip;
And accents form’d most strangely there,
Taint and infect the ambient air;-
It is as if on seraph’s tongue
A demon's withering curses liungt
The enchanted fruit a dragon keeps,
Soon as we hear the thrilling hiss,
From that luxuriant bovver of bliss,
That fair redundancy of charms,
The Loves their purple pinions ply,
And from the scer.e affrighted fly.
*Tis Malice lankling in the heart,
’Tis viperous Slander's baneful art,
Tjrus blights the biocm to beauty given.
And mars the workmanship of Heaven I
-Crorn Mrs. Opie’s “Detraction Displayed.”
ON DEFAMATION.
I have given a specimen of the dia
logue of taltfe s-over, and shown the
jirogresa of detraction, and though i
shrink from the task, I shall venture to
display in another dialogue the pro
gress of defamation.*
We will suppose the parties first
assembled to be the master and mis
tress of the house, their two daugh
ters, a boy of thirteen, their son, and
myself, luncheon being almost conclud
ed, and the elder girl is showing me
Anne fine prints in the next room, but
p, the door is open I hear all that pass
es. ‘‘Hark! there is a knock my
dear! Ring the bell to have the
luncheon taken away.” “Make haste,
sister!” cries one of the girls, lower
ing her voice, “for it is Mrs. Kappa,
an 1 >ve must have more luncheon for
her if she secs it, for she has such an
appetite!” “Dear me, mamma,’ * 1 Il
cries the other girl, “she always con
trives to come, at our luncheon time,
for she is so stingy, she does not allow
herself any at homo.” “Indeed!” says
the papa. “Yes, I. believe it is true,”
cries the mamma. By this time the
bell has rung, the luncheon is remov
ed, and the visiter enters just as the
mother has expressed her joy that the
table is cleared.” “How are you,
my dear Mrs. Kappa,” says the mis
tress of the house, “glad to see you.”
“Pray sit down, my good friend,” says
her husband, “our luncheon is only
just gone.” “I am sorry you did not
come sooner,” says the wife. “You
are very good,” replies Mrs. Kappa,
“but I rarely cat luncheon.” “But,
perhaps, you will take something, a
piece of cake, and a glass of wine.”
—“Oh! no, thank you,” she replies
faintly, meaning to he pressed, but her
no is suffered to pass for what it was
not meant to be, a negative; and the
parties sit down, all but the master of
the house, who leans against the chim-
nev-piece, with one hand in his west-
mat pbeket* swinging himself back-.
wards and forwards, and the eldest
daughter and my sell who are now turn
ing over a port folio on the table.—
“Well, Mrs. Kappa,” says tile mas
ter of the house, "is there any news
stirring?” “Yes, a good deal, but then
il may not bo true.” “No matter,
what is it/” “They say young Zeta
has gone off iu debt, and has robbed
his father to a con.iderable amount!”
“That was to be expected from his
bringing Up.” “Yes, certainly.” In
this opinion all join, and there is a cho
rus of “Parents that spoil their chil
dren must take the consequences.”—
At this moment a Major Mu is announc
ed, and, after the usuai compliments,
the Major says, “Well, have you
heard the news?” “Yes,” says the
elder girl, “if you mean that young
Zeta is gone off.” “Oh! he is gone
quite off, is he, and not taken?” replies
{lie Major. What do you mean?”
“Why, they say lie committed a for
gery.” “Very likely, but are you
sure of it?” “Oil! no, not sure; nay,
I believe it was only said that some
one had supposed it most likely he had
committed forgery. t ’ “Oh, that is
all; well, but what other news have
you?” “The lovely Helen Omicroii's
going to be married to a man som*
years older than her father!” “Very
likely!” observes Mrs. Kappa, “she
had outstaid her market, and I dare
say the gentleman is very rich.”—
“Besides,' 1 says the father, “she has
made herself so talked of, for our friend
Sir William Rho, that she may think
herself well off to get married at all
With Sir William! 1 never heard of
that before. I remember she was
violently in love with a young ensign,
and once, 1 believe, was just saved
from eloping with her singing master.’
‘At last' cried the Major, ‘she is pro-
tided for, and will soon be safe from
elopements, 1 trust.’ ‘That is not
sure,’ says the father significantly,
‘but who is the gentleman? ‘Sir Mar
tin Tau, Baronet.’ ‘A Baronet, too?
what luck! where did she meet him?’
•Oh! at a watering place.’ ‘They
have given her the chance of those
places every season, you know,’ cries
the Major, ‘for her best days were
long ago over: she was talked of for
me! (drawing up his ^eckcloth) and I
had the run of their house, but it would
not do—stie was too old.’ ‘So it was
at a watering place, was it?’ says the
mother. At which her friend Kappa,
who was not pleased, probably, at
missing her luncheon, and had great
talents for stinging and Hinging, be
sides some cat-like propensities, ob
served in a soft tone, ‘1 think, my
dear friend, you never take your
daughters to watering places',’ well
knowing that they went to one every
year, and the mother with a heighten
ed colour replies to the stinger, Oh!
dear, yes I do, but all persons' daugh
ters have not the same luck.’
Lady Lamda is now announced, who
says, when we are ail seated, - I sup
pose you have heard that old Lady Pi
is dying at last, and that as soon as
decency permits, her husnaud will
marry .Miss Jjigisa.” ‘Decency!’ is
the general exclamation! ‘If they
hud any regard to decency,’ says the
mistress ol the house, ‘the marriage
could not have been talked of, hut his
fondness for that girl was notorious!
howl have pitied poor Lady Pi!’—
‘Oh!' cries the major, slie had her
consolations!' putting his hand to his
mouth as if drinking.
‘0! fye! ; cries Lady Lambda, giv
ing him a reproving pat, in which
there was much encouragement; ‘this
is scandal, and I hate scandal.’ ‘But
is it not scandal,' says one of die party,
‘to talk of this marriage al ail? 1 —
‘Perhaps so,’ replied Lady Lambda,
‘hut they talk much toorse scandal, 1
assure you.’ ‘Indeed,’ cries the eager
Kappa, drawing his chair closer to
Lady Lambda, “and they do say ’
‘VVliat?’ eagerly exclaimed both la
dies. ‘That when Miss Sigma was
staying at the house, Lady Pi missed
a gown and some fine lace out of her
wardrobe; and one of the servants was
suspected of having stolen them.—
But one day, when Lady Pi was con
fined to her room, and Miss Sigrna
was to have the carriage to carry
her to party, Lady Pi, who had been
carried to the window for air, saw
Miss Sigma get into the carriage in
the very gown which she missed, and,
as she believed, her own lace on her
collarctt!’“Really! what impudence!”
“But,” observed one of Abe party,
“why should not this young lady have
a gown like Lady Pi’s.” “Oh, but it
was a very expensive flowered mus
lin gown, and Miss Sigma could not
afford to buy such a one.”
*‘But Sir George Pi could afford lo
give,” said the Major. “ True,” said
the master of the house, “but Miss
Sigma is, you know, a very taking wo
man.” “Excellent! excellent!”—
“But you know,” said the Major, em
ulous of his friend's punning fame, “If
Sir Lnorge takes the lady, she will,
after all, find herself mistaken.”
“What mistaken?” says one. “I
don’t exactly see that,” cries another;
while the mortified Major is on the
point of being forced to explain his
vile quibble, when Lady Lambda ex
claims, “Oh! I see it! excellent! ex
cellent! Major, Miss, taken.” “But,
Major,” cried the master of the house,
alarmed for his laurels, “L».dy Pi her-
seil, according to you, was a taking
woman,” and a chorus of laughs re
pays him.
And n .w that, like the knife of the
heathen priest, their detracting weap
on is sharpened for the sacrifice of
victims by imagined wit, they eagerly
demand more news, more scandal, and
the ready weapon descends on a new
victim in the shape of Colonel Upsi-
lon.
“Well, but Lady Lambda, you said
you had more news,” asked the mis
tress of the house, when this interrup
tion was over. “Oyes, Colonel Up-
stlou has made his choice at last; he
ias given up the widow Theta, and is
to have the widow lota; it is said his
pocr wile, knowing he was courting
both, advised this preference.”
“1 im quite sure,” cries one of the
party lather indignantly, “that his wife
had n| reason to be jealous; he was
one oftiie mosi kind and attentive ot
husbands, and such a nurse.”
“A very attentive nurse‘indeed,”
says Lfidy Lamuda. “Yes,” says the
lady ol the house, with an emphasis.
“Jiuslii hush, my dear,” ..lies the
husbani. “No; ; choose to speak out,
my lovh; they do say that he chose to
prescrue tor iiis whe as well as nurse
her, and medical men think she was
none lie belter lor iiis prescriptions.”
This they began by a charge of rob
bery, an accusation of forgery, impu
tation i of levity in one young lady, and
they imply against another a charge
of Hilling with a married man, and
stealing his wife s clothes; and they
end by charging a husband with ] ie-
seribing wrong medicines for his wife!
What a climax of defamation! yet aw
ful as it is, I have witnessed such an
one frequently in the cou.se of expe-
perience, and have commonly been a-
bie to trace some of it to the resulis
ol competition.
Un this occasion, 1 wish my readers
to believe, that 1 quilted the ccin-
ptuy auei this last speech, glad to
make rnj escape, mougii 1 knew that
i leii my character bemud me for a
prey anu a pastime.
And wiiut coiu-biooded, heartless,
anu mean, as well as criminal, enjoy
ment whs this defamation! what uu-
saie ml lea.tul amusement!
VV lien accidents happen and lives
are lost, whether on i.-.ncl lor water,
we led our pity and regret increased
ii Lie hilled or drowned meet then
fate on a party of pleasure: and whence
does tins proceed, but from the ailiic-
ung eonliast between the gi&d expec
tation and i he mournful reality, be
tween the views ot the unconscious
panies and tlie.r miserable results?—
but those who believe defamation
to be a great crime, and that utter-
eis are liable to the wrath of an off
ended Deity, must listen to the con
versation oi deiamors with pity of the
same nature* but of a still greater de
gree of strength, for they must .con
sider them as having met, like the
victims oil the land and water, for the
purpose i.J'pleasure; and having incur
red, by the calumnies in which they
sought enjoyment, that second doath
more terrible than the first—the death
not of the body but the soul.
Defamation is, indeed, a crime so
consciously lowering, that most per
sons are unwilling to own that they
commit it; and though they call the
slanders \«hich they hear detestable,
they distinguish which those they utter
by the plausible name of the expression
of proper indignation and retributive
justice.
The speakers in a dialogue, like
that which I have given, would each
in turn exclaim, at the first opportu
nity, probably, against the detracting
and defaming tongue of their recent
associates. Few persons, if any,
have courage enough, admitting that
they have sufficient self-knowledge, to
say to themselves, ‘I am a detractor,
lama defamer, I propagated an evil
( report ogaiifld that man on such a day,,
because J was envious of him; and n-
nothet* day I injured such a wesssn’s
reputation, by telling slanderous sto
ry of her, because she had wounded
my self-love.’ Yet there are many
persons in the world who might make
the confession to themselves almost
any day in the week. Once and only
once I saw, as I believe, a person
deeply impressed with the weight of
the crime of defamation; and as if the
burdened heart wished, but dgre not,
to throw off its load entirely by a
complete confession. A gentleman
called on my husband and myself one
evening, with whom we had spent the
preceding afternoon at the house of a
mutual acquaintance. “Did you stay
long after us?” said my husband.—
“Oh yes!” replied the other, “long in
deed! I staid, sitting up with the man
and Iiis wife, till near two in the mor
ning; for we did not know how time
went!” “Then your conversation must
have been very interesting.” “Yes!”
was the reply, in an odd tone and with
a flushed cheek; “but it was dreadful
also; there was not one of our acquain
tances'that wc did not bring before
our- tribunal; and we did not show any
mercy! Oh! it was too bad!” He
then covered his face, adding, “and
there was that fiend, his wife, preten
ding to be shocked at our severity,
and calling us odious calumniators!
but if our cruelty abated a moment she
would goad us on again by some dia
bolical remark; till at last we had
gone so far m deadly defamation that
we felt almost ashamed to look each
other in the faee!”^. We were really
shocked into silence, and were im-
pressed^at the same moment with the
same conviction, namely, that we our
selves had been two of the victims of
fered up at the shrine of defamation,
and the speaker wished to satisfy his
conscience by confessing it, but dared
not do more than insinuate the degra-.
ding laet. I may add that wc rejoiced
to be the objects, rather than the ut-
terers of the unmerciful defamation.
•Though ignorant of the Greek language,
l liaye ventured to give the persons in toy
dialogues the names of the Greek alphabet,
because 1 feared il l pur Mrs. or Mr. L—
or D—, some persons might choose to tancy
I meant some particular individual,
ENVY.
The malevolent affection, with
wlncn some unfortunate minds are ev
er disposed to view those whom they
consider as competitors, is denomina
ted jealousy, when the competitor,
or supposed competitor, is one who
has not yet attained their height, and
when it is the future that is dreaded.
II is denominated emy, when it regards
some actual attainment of another.—
But the emotion, varying with this
mere difference of the present and
the iuture, is the same in every oth
er respect. In both eases, the wish
is a wish of evil, a wish of evil lo the
excellent, and a wish which, by a sort
of anticipated retribution, is itself evil
to the heart that has conceived it.
*******
The wishes of evil which, flow from
sjch a breast, aie, as i have said, evil,
in the first place, to the breast which
feels them; as the poisonous exhala
tion, which spreads death perhaps to
otners, is itself a proof of the disease
ot the living carcase that exhales it.
Envy is truly, in its own miseries, the
punishment of itself.
It is hence, by a sort of contradict
ory character, what one of the old
theological writers has strongly stated
it to be, “at onee the justest of pas
sions, and the most unjust,” ex omni
bus atfectibus iuiquissimus simul et
aequissunus;” the must unjust, i£the
wrongs which is ever conceiving or
perpetrating against him who is its
object; the justest, in the punishment
with which it is ever avenging on it
self the wrongs of which it has been -
guilty.
Il even, in thinking of the happiness
of those whom they hate, the envious
saw only that happiness, as it truly is,
mixed with many anxieties, that les
sen the ^.joyment of honours and dig
nities to their possessor, the misery
with which those dignities of others
are regarded would be less. But the
chief misery of a mind of this east is,
that the happiness on which it dwells is
a happiness which it creates in part lo
its own conception, a pure happiness,
that seems intense in itself only because
it is intensely hated, & that continually
grows more and more vivid to the ha
tred that is continually dwelling on it.
The influence of happiness, as thus
contemplated by a diseased heart, is
is like that of light on a diseased eye,
that merely, as pained by rays which
j give no pain to others, imagine the
fhlnt colours which are gleaming 8n ;
to be of dazzling brilliancy.
When a statue had been erected bi
his fellow citizens of Tliasos to The*
genes, a celebrated victor in the i, U |,
lie games of Greece, wo are io|(j
that it excited so strongly the envib#
hatred of one -of his rivals, that h,
went to it every night, and endenv.
oured to throw it down by repeated
blows, till at last, unfortunately g Uc J
cessful, he was able to move it from
its pedestal, and was crushed to d
beneath it on its fall. This, if w# ]
consider the self-consuming misery 0 f
envy, is truly what happeps to evert
envious man. He may, perhaps
throw down his rival’s glory, but he#
crushed in his whole soul, beneath tl#
glory which he overturns —Brom\
Phil.
THE MORALIST.
When a mother is taken from young
children ahd the husband ofheryouth
they stand in need of comfort; & tip
highest comfort flows from the remem
brance of her piety & virtue. If while
the mourner indulges his sorrow, by
reviewing the history of a life dear as
his own, the Christian temper appears
throughout sustained & adorned; if the
days ofheryouth were marked by un
wearied attention to parents; if the du
ties of every subsequent relation were
studied & Tulfilled; if a principle ofo-
bedience to God,cherished by devotion
pervaded her conduct; if she attend*
ed to worldly cares, but with no anx*
ious solicitude, and welcomed human
comforts with no high epiotion, & saw
them retire without much regret, still
preferring the humblest duties to the
most favorite enjoyment; if no unkind*
ness ever harboured in her breast, and
no angry passion ever ruffled it, and
that perfection was almost attained
which offends not in word; if in every
trial the power of religion prevailed;
and if in the last trial while under a
disease at which nature shrinks, and
which baffles all the powers of medi
cine, she could possess her soul in pa
tience; if the remembrance of a well
spent life yielded consolation to her
parting spirit; if she left to her chil
dren the efficacy of all her prayers
and the memory of all her virtues, a
sacred legacy; if thus, with the re
membrance of a departed friend, the
remembrance of exalted virtue min
gles, the mourners hear as it were ft
voice behind them, this if the way,
v>alk ye in it, a vt.ice from on high,
come up hither.—Sat. Ev, Post.
CIVIL WARFARE EXEM?LIFI-
lil>-
Mrs. Martin, oT Edgefield, wa3 the
wife of Gen. Wm. Martin, of that
district, and is the principal object of
my narrative. During the civil war
between the whig# and tories in the
time of the Revolution, in old Ninety-
six district, Gen. Martin took on ao
live part with the former, and was
devoted by the latter to destruction.
This warfare was not alwsys waged
openly, as when one meets his enemy
in battle, and fights with him face to
face; but lo waylay a man in the day,
and to shoot him as he rode along un
suspectingly, or to stab him at mid
night in his house, in the presence of
his wife and children, were the com
mon occurrences of the times, and not
confined to Ninety-six alone. Msrtia
had often escaped the malice of his
enemies; but netfr the close of the
war, when the British had been driv
en into Charleston, and peace seemed
to be restored to Ninety-six, the Gen
eral returned home, expecting to en
joy some repose in the bosom of his
family. But soon after his arrival, at
midnight he was awoke in his hed by
a loud knocking at his door, and cries
of “Come out, you d d febel,
come out; we’ve caught you at
last.” Consulting only his reso
lution, general Martin jumped out
of Iiis hed. and drew his sword. No
other nan was in the house. But iu
a moment Mrs. Martin ran to the next
room door, and knocking with si! hef
might, called over aloud the names of
some dozen of the General’s bravest
mpn, and urged them to rise, to srm,
and to come to his assistance. The
tories heard her, and immediately
fled. Thus, by an admirable pres
ence of mind. Mrs. Martin saved the
life of her husband.
Longkvjtv.—In the village of Pomi-
f’et. in Yorkshire there is now resid
ing a man named Rhodes, who has at
tained the extraordinary age of 124.
His hair is quite white, hut he is up
right in stature, enjovs good heslth,
and is in the full possession of all' l$ta
faculties..