About Cherokee phoenix. (New Echota [Ga.]) 1828-1829 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 21, 1829)
POETRST. avjl ■ [From ihe Rnnpniber-Me.J A CHFIIUB, BY GEOKCSG W. DOANE. “Ar<* they not all ministering spirits, sent Forth to minister to them that shall be hens of sai\ ation.” B aut'.ful thing, with thine eye oflight, Ami t hy brow of cloudless beauty bright, Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne Of him who dwelieth in light, alone, Ait thou hasting now, on that golden wing, With the burning seraph choir to sing. Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness, Our darkling path lo cheer and bl'ssr 1 Beautiful thing! thou art come in love, W.th gentle gales from that world above; Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss, Bearing our spirits away from this, To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies. Where heaven’s unclouded sunshine lies. Winning our hearts, by a blessed guile, With thatJnlant look, and angel smile. Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy, With the look, with the voice, of our dar ling bov, Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts H ha l twine ! about with his infant arts, To dwell, from sin and from sorrow far, In the golden orb ot’his little star— There he rejoiceth, while we, Oil! we Long to be happy and safe as he. B 'autiful thing! thou art come in peace, Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease, Wiping the tears that, unbidden, start From their fountain deep in the broken heart, Cheering us still on our weary way, Lest our hearts should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, crowned for the conquest, at last, we shall be. Beautiful thing, with our hoy, and thee 1 STANZAS—BY MRS. MUZZY. Doubt, wiien radiant smiles are shining— Doubt, when clasping hands are twining Doubt, when honied words are flowing— Doubt, when blushes warm are glowing— Bit never doubt the proof sincere That glistens in the starting tear. Doubt, when mirthful tones invite thee— Doubt, when gayest hopes delight thee— Doubt, whate’er is fondest, fairest— Doubt, whate’er is Brightest, rarest— But never doubt that truth can live In hearts that sutler and forgive. i. O’j'UVCKO (PJiSlD It.IJfvGr-T, tvw* JWvS/, 3GR Tl > T4«!a > SStihrs4<»aZ .UthW, 3, O’F.eCTJl CPTF Dh RS-A fr; e*v*z q«i.ia4^aj tt'S/liT Goiiy SS.UU40V.I. 3. ihTi TV WCzA RT.FRFT?«SMC hA.4-4 t,w»; CPAAC?* . D4 Ty<*)S-aa*v%. * 0>JtC=^.3Z. 4. V>AWO-J> CPJ6Id D4 Ed,\Vh4A; TS>J'’SCK/9.pZ D& a c^hoep^z. 5. IpV <Fh TSFcSW/ta VX4 OW*, ,sy icrotfop D4 O’f’O-A lrV. 6. O’AWOJ) CPASIp J)'J hyi54<TT, db o?yi«)t.a,sj D4 ©o«>pa tss.j S4tVJ KK. t. cSlX/ltVOA CsR.4 <*x/t-qo®y *oep, yWJ)W» F.Wh4 ovo-Fa Amjp. 2i. (»4 M eAVT>«V t * t,.y DXBO-Ay, LwJt DX(f0riPLO> DWQcX Jo®y. I. Dire ao-xvjejc 9op I*0-^0?wl Dh 8cThA<!-T; otyAFF'o® AW*. 4. t,.y* D4 hAA-Q. Ei^F«»8<»AA, L(»A nyptsttiO^ »^WvI P3. 5. r»\j»A E4-V*.T ZR oSVAPCW, ♦mvjz F.Aoiy ed SKELETON OF THE WRECK. While Sir Michael Moore was in the command of the Amethyst frigate, and was cruizing in the Bay of Biscay, the wreck of a merchant ship drove past. Her deck was just above wa ter; her lower masts alone standing. Not a soul could he seen on board, hut there was a camhouse on deck; which had the appearance of having been re cently patched with old canvass and tarpaulin#, ae if to ntford shelter to some of the crew. It blew at this time a strong gale: but Sir Michael, listening only to tbe v dictates of hu manity, ordered the ship to be put a- bout and sent oif s boat with instruc tions to board the wreck, and ascer tain whether thert was any being still surviving, whom tie help of bis fellow men might save from the grasp of death. The boat rowed towards the drifting mass,and idiile struggling with the d tticulty of getting through a high inning sea dose alongside, the crew shouting ali the tine as loud as they could an object, iile in appearance to a bundle of clothe^ was observed to roll out of the canbouse, aparentb against the lee shrouds of the mas With the end of tie boat hook they managed to get holt of it, and hauled it into the boat, wlun it proved to be ihe trunk of a man b?nt head and knees together, and so wasted us scarce to be felt within the ample clothes which had once fitter it in a stale of life and strength. I’ll?, boat’s crew hastened back to the Amethyst with this miserable remnant of morality; a id so small was it in bulk, thnta lad of fourteen years of age was abty with his own hands to lift it into tht ship. When placed on deck, it showed for the first time to the astonishment of all, signs of returning life; it tied to move; the next moment mutte a hollow' sepulchral tone “t/iere other man." The instant these words were heard, Sir Michael ordered the: boat to shove off again for the wreul; and looking into the cub-house, l hey found two other human bodies, wastttl like the one they saved, to the very bones, but without the least spark of life re maining. They were sitting in a shrunk up posture, a hand of on; rest ing on a tin pot, in which therfc was a g.il of water, and a hand of the other reaching to the deck, as if to regain a bit of salt beef, of the size of a walnut, which had dropped lium its nerveless grasp. Unfortunate men! they had lived on their scanty store, till they had not strength remaining to lift the last morsel to their mnilhs! The boat’s crew having completed their last melancholy survey, return ed on board, where they found the at tention of the ship’s company ergross- ed by their efforts to preserve the generous skeleton, who seemed to have just life enough to breathe tie re membrance, that there was stiil ( an other man.” his companion in suffer ing, to be saved. Captain S. committed him to the special charge of the surgeon, who spared no means which humaiily or skill could suggest to achieve tie no ble object of creating anew as it were, a fellow creature, whom the uniaral- lelled famine had striped of almost every living energy. For three weeks he scarcely ever left his patient, giv ing him nourishment with his own hand every five or ten minuites; and at the end of three w«cks more, the “Skeleton of the wreck” was seen walking on the deck’of the Ame thyst,—and tojjthc surprise of all who recollected that lie hail been lifted in to the ship by a cabin!boy, presented the stately figure or a man nearly six feet high. Bat Emerald. in %s an- From the Philadelphia Recorder. THE SIMOON IN PALESTINE. Tornadoes or whirlwinds, followed hy thunder, lightning, and rains, were by no means uncommon in Palestine, during the winter and cold seasons The Prophet alludes to them as oc curring in the deseris which border on the south of Jud$a; (Isa. xxi. I.) Ezekiel speaks of one coming from the north; (Ezekiel i. 4.)—but it most frequently blows from the south, in which case it is generally attended with fatal consequences to the trav eller. Mr. Bruce describes one of these tornadoes, in a plain near the Nile, as lifting up a camel, and throw ing it to a considerable distance with such violence. v as to break several of its ribs; whirling themselves and two servants off their feet, and throwing theta with violence on the ground. Abut was also demolished hy it the materials one half of which were dispersed all over the plain, leaving the other half standing. How striking is the image ry oi the prophet, (often from tiiis phenomenon: ‘-The whirlwind shall lake them away as stubble ’’ (Isa. jfi. 24.) ‘"Chased as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling tiling before the whirlwind.” (Isa. xvii. 13.) But the most dan- genous wind lo which the country is subjected, is the famous Samoun, Sa- miol, or Simoon. The principal stream oi this pestilential blast always moves in a line, about twenty yards in breadth, and twelve feet above the surface of the earth; but its parching influence pervades all places for a considerable distance. The only means of preservation from its nox ious infiiience, is, to lie flat, with the face upon the ground, until the blast is over. The beasts from instinct take Ihe same precaution, by pushing their mouths into the sand. The ap proach of this destructive wind is in dicated by redne.63 in the air, and when sufficiently near to admit of be- ■ig observed, it appears like a haze, :n color resembling the rainbow, but iot so compressed or thick.—A per son exposed to this terrible blast, is attacked by a violent giddiness, ae- ompanied with burning thirst; head ache, and frequent fits of shivering ensue; and these end in a violent fe ver. The effects of the Simoon on die bodies of those whom it destroys, are peculiar. At first view, its vic tims appear to be asleep; but if an arm ora leg be smartly shaken or lift ed up. it separates from body, which shortly becomes black. Thevenot mentions one of these whirlwinds, vlm.h, in lb,58, suffocated twenty thousand men in one night; and ano ther in 1G55, which suffocated four thousand persons. It was no doubt the same “blast,” that destroyed the army of Sennacherib in one night, (2 Kings xix, 7, 35. A singular phenomenon is recorded hy Dr. Shaw, while travelling in the valleys of Mount Ephraim. They were attended for more than an hour by an ignisfatuus, which assumed a variety of surprising appearances. Sometimes it was globular, sometimes it resembled the flame of a candle; instantly it would spread itself, and involve in its pale and inoffensive light; then, contracting itself, it would seem to vanish from the sight, but in a few moments would resume its lustre, or, moving from place to place, would 1 expand at intervals over two or three acres of land, ft should be. observed that in the preceding evening the at mosphere had been uncommonly thick and hazy, and the dew remarkably unctuous. It would seem from a passage in the Psalms, that what is now termed coup de soliel, or stroke of the sun, and which, in the East Indies, fre quently causes sudden death, was not unknown in Palestine. “.The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.” •. (Tsai. exxi. 6.) The son of the woman of Slninem ap pears to have died in consequence of a stroke of the sun (2 Kings iv. 18—20.) FEMALES IN SOCIETY. Did females but know how' deeply the heart of man is enchanted by that of vvnmen whose conversation presents the picture of simplicity and grace, of ease and politeness in a gfoupe; the spirit of whose conversation is a com pound of sprightliness, sense, and mod esty; who seldom dispute; and never wrangle; who listen with attention 'o the opinions of others, and deliver their own with diffidence; would they not be more ambitious to please than' to conquer? But they would be sure of conquering in the noblest sense. Paint to yourselves,"by Way of con trast, a woman who talks loud, con tradicts bluntly, looks sullen, contests perniciously, and. instead of yielding, challenges submission. How different a figure! How forbiding an object! Feminality is gone; nature is trans formed; whatever makes the male character most rough and turbulent, is taken up hy a being who was de signed to tranquillize and smooth it. But may there not he occasions -where wisdom and worth in women, as in men, are called upon to sssert themselves with a dignity that shall repress the forward, and over-awe the insolent! Certainly—and to give such proceeding the name of pride were ynjust.i Is a sensible and manly youtli de sirous of passing his leisure hours in a species of pleasure equally sociable and innocent, of acquiring the most proper demeanor, with the most gen teel, and at the same time, the most easy turn of thought, as well as hab its of the best kind—let hina seek the society of lemales who join good breed ing and liberal sentiments lo purity of mind and manners. * * * * * The truth is, that in the society I recommend, a young man, who does not wish to go astray, will feel him self under no fetjer; but will learn genuine courtesy without labor or study. Amiable women of genteel education aie, indeed, beyond com parison, the best mistresses of this science—for two reasons: In the first place, (bey best undeistand it, having frym nature a peculiar aptitude to please, with a wonderful faciliiy in adapting themselves to the tempers of others, and fiom culture a ready ac quaintance, which they soon acquire, with such fori, s of politeness as, with out the aid of insincerity, give an ele gance and a heightening lo the native emanations of a good mind. In the next place, they teach it without ap pearing to teach it, by a secret pow- er over the conceptions of their scho lars; who, naturally ambitious of ap proving themselves to such agreeable tutoresses, learn it from them insensi bly, snd yet effectually, as people, in general, -catch the sentiments and manners of those they esteem. Let monks and misanthropes pre tend what they will—the soul of man will scidom be long satisfied without the entertainment of female conver sation. It was so formed by the un erring Creator; nor, perhaps, will any thing, next to “the wisjloni that is from above,” guard it more power fully agsinst the sorcery of vice, than the near and frequent view of female' excellence. Er. Fordyce, LIFE OF AN EDITOR. # * # * Then there is another species x>f correspondents, who, under the pretence of giving advice, are the most abominable, saucy, and impudent fellows in the world, and who modestly give their crude suggestions as infalli ble axioms, which if you do not obey, you must lose their invaluable friend- shi)) and support. Thus, one will tell you, “your paper is insupportably dull, ahd he can’t read it unless it contains an account of all the prize fights and other occurrences in the sporting world;” another declares that” if you pollute your columns with such trash, lie will cense to take in your journal.’ 0 ie correspondent thinks your paper of too literary a east, and wishes you to give a little mo/e variety, and now and then to pop in a few remark able and horrid accidehts—or a bloody murder; “those are the things. ’ says he, “to make it sell.,’ A second Says, that you “fill your paper with a col lection of stories only fit for old wo men—and begs to have a luminous cri tique on the various works of taste and imagination as they appear.” Mr. Dis mal says, the paper is “too dull; whilst Miss Prude thinks, “it has not a sufficiently serious turn.” Miss Lan guish begs for “ a little more poetry,” and hopes.“ you will let it be all about love;” whilst Farmer Giles writes to pou“ to leave oui all that stuff of poet ics, and put in more about the price of corn, and such like.” A sentimental young lady, who signs herself Flirtilln, begs that“you!vvili put in all the pretty love stories you can pick up;” whilst the maiden aunt says “you ought not to suffer the W'ord love to appear in print.” Horace Gadabout wishes you “to be particular in giving spirited and copious notices of the drama;” whilst Mr. Cantwell desires that “ his paper may be discontinued, unless you omit all mention of such heinous and abom inable proceedings.” Thus every man wishes his own particular taste to he gratified, without any regard to his neighbor’s; and the only way in which an editor can act is to disregard all such partial solicitation, and to keep on the even tenor of his way, without paying any respect to the con fined views of h'j correspondent, London Literary Gazette. The five Consciences.—There are fiye kinds of consciences on foot in the world: first, Jin Ignorant Conscience, which neither sees nor says any thing, neither beholds the sms in the soul, nor reproves them: secondly, The Flatter ing Conscience, whose speech is worse than silence itself; which, though see ing sin, poothes men in the committing thereof: thirdly, The Scared Cotu- cience, which hath neither sight, speech, n<?r sense, in ‘men that are past feeling:’ fourthly, The Wounded Conscience, frightened with sin:—tho fifth is a Xiuict and CIfar Conscience purified in Christ Jesus. A woundei consoience is rather painfnl than sin. ful; an affliction, no offence; and is i tt the ready way, at the next remove to be turned into a quiet conscience.” REALITY OF VIRTUE & VICE] I have already, in a former Lee* ture, alluded to the strength of the c- videncc, which is borne by the guilty to tlie truth of those distinctions which they have dared"' to disregard. If there be any one who lias an interest ia gathering every argument which eteit .sophistry can suggest, to prove that virtue is nothing, and vice therefor# nothing, and who '.;•&? strive to yield himsfelf readily to l! ; ia Cfroolatory per suasion, it is surely ihe crimnal who trembles beneath a weight of memory which he cannot abake off. Yet even he who feels t he power of virtue only in the torture which it iullio's, doe# still feel this power, afd feeh; it with at least as strong conviction of its re* ality, as those to whom it in evaty mo ment diffusing pleasure, nud wh# might be considered perhaps as not very rigid questioners of ae iiluoica which they felt to be delightful. The spectral forms of superstition have, indeed, vanished; but there is one spectre w'hich will continue to haunt the inind, as long as the mind itrelf is capable of guilt, and has exerted this dreadful capacity,—the spectre of a guilty life, which docs not haunt only the darkness of a few' hour3 of night, but comes in fearful visitations, when ever the mind has no other object be fore it that can engage every thought, in the most splendid scenes, and in the brighest hours of day. What en chanter is there who can come to the relief of a sufferer of tlm class, and put the terrifying spectre to flight? M e may say to the murderer, that iu poisoning his friend, to succeed a little sooner to the estate, which he knew that his friendship had bequathed to him. he had done a deed- as merito rious in itself, as if he had saved the life of his friend at the risk of his own; and that all for which there was any reason to upbraid himself was, that he had suffered his benefactor to re main so many years in the possesion of means of enjoyment, which a few grains of opium or arsenic might have transferred sooner to him. We may strive to make him laugh at the ab surdity of the scene, when on the ve ry bed of death, that haftd which had often pressed his with kindness before t seemed to press again with delight the very hand which had mixed and presented the potion. But, though we may smile—if vve can jraile—at such a scene as this, and point out the incongruity with as much ingenious pleasantry as if we were describing some ludicrous mistake, there will be no. laughter on that face from which we strive to force a smile. He whe felt the grasp of that hand will feel it still, and will shudder at our def soription; and shudder still more at the tone of jocular merriment w ? ith which we describe what is to him-## dreadful.—Broun'e Philosophy. THE LAW OF CONSCIENCE There is one true and original law, conformable to reason and to nature, diffused over all, invariable, e^ernal^ which calls to the fulfilment of duty and to abstinence from injustice, and" which calls with that irresistible voice, which is felt in all its authority wherever it is heard. This law can* ' not he abolished or curtailed, nor af fected in its sanctions by any law of man. A whole senate, a whole peo ple, cannot dispense from its para* mount obligation. It requires no com mentator to render it distinctly inteL ligible, nor is it different at Rome, at Athens, now, and in the ages before and after, but in all ages,—one a#' that God, its great author and pro mulgator, who is the common Sover eign of all mankind, i$ himself one K . Man is truly man, as he yields to this Divine influence. He, cannot resist it, but by flying »s it were from bii own bosom, and laying aside the gen eral feelings of humanity—hy which very act, ho must already have imr flictod on himself the severest of pun ishments, even though he were to n»- void whatever is usually accounted punishment.-*—-Cie«tro^, translated k£ : Brown.
