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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..