And as the virtuous young man is thus led into ruin by the flattering tongue of the strange woman; so the virtuous young female is sometimes led into ruin by the flattering tongue of the lurking enemy of beauty and innocence. I cannot give a more striking and pathetic illustration of this than the one portrayed by the incomparable hand of Pollok:—
“Take one example, one of female woe.
Loved by her father, and a mother’s love,
In rural peace she lived, so fair, so light
Of heart, so good and young, that reason scarce
The eye could credit, but would doubt, as she
Did stoop to pull the lily or the rose
From morning’s dew, if it reality
Of flesh and blood, or holy vision, saw,
In imagery of perfect womanhood.
But short her bloom—her happiness was short.
One saw her loveliness, and with desire
Unhallowed, burning, to her ear addressed
Dishonest words: ‘Her favour was his life,
His heaven; her frown his woe, his night, his death.’
With turgid phrase thus wove in flattery’s loom,
He on her womanish nature won, and age
Suspicionless, and ruined and forsook:
For he a chosen villain was at heart,
And capable of deeds that durst not seek
Repentance. Soon her father saw her shame;
His heart grew stone; he drove her forth to want
And wintry winds, and with a horrid curse
Pursued her ear, forbidding her return.
Upon a hoary cliff that watched the sea,
Her babe was found—dead; on its little cheek,
The tear that nature bade it weep had turned
An ice-drop, sparkling in the morning beam;
And to the turf its helpless hands were frozen:
For she, the woeful mother, had gone mad,
And laid it down, regardless of its fate
And of her own. Yet had she many days
Of sorrow in the world, but never wept.
She lived on alms; and carried in her hand
Some withering stalks, she gathered in the spring;
When they asked the cause, she smiled, and said,
They were her sisters, and would come and watch
Her grave when she was dead. She never spoke
Of her deceiver, father, mother, home,
Or child, or heaven, or hell, or God; but still
In lonely places walked, and ever gazed
Upon the withered stalks, and talked to them;
Till wasted to the shadow of her youth,
With woe too wide to see beyond—she died;
Not unatoned for by imputed blood,
Nor by the Spirit that mysterious works,
Unsanctified. Aloud her father cursed
That day his guilty pride which would not own
A daughter whom the God of heaven and earth
Was not ashamed to call His own; and he
Who ruined her read from her holy look,
That pierced him with perdition manifold,
His sentence, burning with vindictive fire.”
The flattering talker possesses a power which turned angels into devils, and men into demons—which beguiled pristine innocence and introduced the curse—which has made half the world crazy with self-esteem and self-admiration. A power which has dethroned princes, involved kingdoms, degraded the noble, humbled the great, impoverished the rich, enslaved the free, polluted the pure, robbed the wise man of his wisdom, the strong man of his strength, the good man of his goodness. It is emphatically the power of the Destroyer, working havoc, devastation, woe, and death wherever it has sway, spreading disappointment, weeping, lamentation, and broken hearts through the habitations of the children of men. “He is,” as an old writer quaintly observes, “the moth of liberal men’s coats, the ear-wig of the mighty, the bane of courts, a friend and slave to the trencher, and good for nothing but to be a factor for the devil.”
Mr. Sharp was a young student of amiable spirit, and promising abilities. Soon after he left college he took charge of an important church in the large village of C——, in the county of M——. He had not been long among his people before he won the good-will of all; and his popularity soon extended beyond the pale of his own church. Meantime, he did not appear to think of himself more than he ought. He was unassuming in his spirit, and devoted to his work, apparently non-affected by the general favour with which he was received.
There was a member of his church whom we shall call Mr. Thoughtless; a man of good education, respectable intelligence, and in circumstances of moderate wealth. He was in the church an officer of considerable importance and weight. He was, however, given to the use of soft words, and complimentary speeches. In fact, he was a flatterer. He used little or no wisdom in his flattery, but generally poured it forth in fulsome measure upon all whom he regarded his friends. Mr. Sharp was a particular favourite with him, and he frequently invited him to his house. He did not observe the failing of his host, but considered him a very kind man, sweet-tempered, one of his best friends, the only member of his Church from whom he received any encouragement in his ministerial labours. Mr. Sharp became increasingly attached to him, and passed the greater part of his leisure hours in his company. The fact was, Mr. Thoughtless did not restrain his expressions of “great satisfaction” and “strong pleasure” in the “character and abilities” of Mr. Sharp. He was the “best minister ever among them”—“every one admired him”—“what a splendid sermon he preached last Sabbath morning”—“the congregations were doubled since he came”—he was “delighted with his general demeanour”—he “really thought his abilities were adequate to a larger Church in a city, than theirs in the country”—but he must not be “considered in speaking these things to flatter, for he should be ashamed to say anything to flatter a young minister whom he esteemed so highly,” and besides, he “thought him beyond the power of flattery.” Such were the flattering words which he poured into the undiscerning mind of Mr. Sharp at different times.
Not long after this close friendship and these frequent visits, Mr. Sharp began to manifest a change in his spirit and conduct, which gradually developed into such proportions that some of the Church could not help noticing it.
“I do not think,” said Mr. Smith—a truly godly man—to Mrs. Lane—who also was in repute for her piety—one day in conversation, “that our young pastor is so unassuming and devoted as when he first came among us.”
“Is it not all fancy on your part, Mr. Smith?” asked Mrs. Lane.
“I only hope it may be, but I fear it is true.”