For The Casket. THE HEART'S MUSINGS. BY BENJAMIN F. SLOCUMB. 'Twas night! and as I retired for a short respite from the gay throng about me, my heart beat sadly, and seemed anxious to disclose its grief. I bowed my head, and listened as it thus discoursed: "Oh, I am sad to-night! All around me is gay and busy life, and other hearts beat wildly with rapture, making music sweet as falling waters-love's incense - to cheer the other tenants of the clayey tabernacles dreary dwelling places of a day. And I fain would be merry, too. In other days I have beat and throbbed with joy, and tuned my young flutterings almost to the harmony of an angel's music. Oft have I pulsated in wild gladness, and danced as merrily as the rippling waves of some lithesome runlet, and thought all was happy round me. Methought that every heart tasted the same sweets that I delighted in, and that every heart which seemed gay and fair was happy. Life seemed all a fairy dream to me; and my path, I fondly thought, was forever to be marked through Elysian fields. But, oh! one fatal night, I removed the tinsel curtain that veiled another heart, and I saw hid there remorse and grief and wild despair: a tale of hidden misery, in a mournful wail, fell upon my ear, and in very sorrow I turned away. I was sickened; and the thought burst upon me, as I then gazed at my own garments, that joy was not of earth. I had believed it before I had never dreamed that so much of sorrow could be robed in white, or that hearts as merry as I could be so o'erburdened with the sins of earth. And then, for the first time, I thought to lift the covering from my own form, which hitherto had seemed so fair. Alas! there, too, lay the cankerworm of care, and a spirit voice whispered in my ear, 'Thou art of earth, earthy; and think not to escape its pangs think not to elude its woes and sorrows! The earth is all a dreary wild, and its pleasures an ignis fatuus glare, which lead the devotee into the quagmires of despair!' The voice was hushed; my senses reeled, and I sank down, oppressed with sad ness. The mazy dance and whirlpool of giddy fashion seemed all at once to lose their charms, and what before had seemed to me an angel of mirthful innocence, now stood before me a grim and ghastly spectre of the nether world! Oh, that horrid night! I feel its influence still." And the heart bowed low its head and sighed, as if racked with wildest agonies of pain. But soon the struggle wore away: a sudden gleam, bright and beautiful, flashed upon its countenance, and in a burst of rapture it exclaimed: "The fearful night has passed away - the gladdening day has come! Oh, I can sing again! My limbs bound lightly, and my voice is free! I can make melody with the joyous birds once more, and catch the inspiration of their glorious song! But oh, it is a holier delight—a holier merriment. 'Tis not the jubilant sounds of earthly joy, but the sublimer rapture of a heavenly strain! My HOME is no longer in this vale of sin- I go now to my Father's house in heaven, and there I'll sing more joyous strains than earth shall ever know!" HANOVER COLLEGE, 1852. For The Casket. THE FLOWER'S LESSON. BY ROSE RIVERS. A FLOWER grew, and looked up to heaven, and smiled when the sun shone upon it; and when the dew fell, it received its share and was refreshed, and drooped its head in grateful humility. And from the warm sun-beams, the fresh air and the sparkling dew, it distilled fragrance and sweetness, and still it looked up in gratitude to heaven. A humble bee came, and tried to woo its attention to himself: it gave him a portion of its fragrant pollen, but it would not avert its gaze from the sky, so the bee buzzed and went away. Then a butterfly floated near on radiant wings, and settled on the flower, attracted by its beauty; and the flower was pleased, and gave him a large portion of honey; but he would not look towards the sky, and when he found that she constantly looked upward, he waved his wings carelessly, and sailed away. And the flower smiled, and said, "He is not like me, though his wings are even brighter than my glowing petals, for he thinks not of that Heaven whence comes all my beauty and sweetness." Then a soft, murmuring sound was heard approaching, and a humming bird poised himself close to its rich cup, saying, "What a delightful pertume, and what delicious honey! Pray tell me how you obtained them." So the flower, in her joy, gave him a large share, and told him of the sun, the air, and the dew. And the humming bird said, "I, too, receive these blessings, but I cannot make honey." Then the flower was sad, though the humming bird often returned for honey, and thought what she had given was for naught; for she knew not that he carried all the honey home to his young, to nourish and strengthen them; nor did she know that the bee made of what she had given him a clearer and more delicious honey; but still she looked up trustingly to heaven, and heard a voice: "The kind deed and the gentle word are never forgotten. Thou hast well done, my flower; and the perfume and the honey thou hast given away, while yet resisting temptation, shall be rewarded. Though in the long cold winter that is coming, thy bright petals shall fade, and thy graceful stalk decay, thou shalt yet be preserved, and when the time of thy revival comes, thou shalt arise in renewed beauty, and the seed thou hast sown shall also appear around thee." Then the flower smiled, and peacefully awaited the day of its death, resting in assured hope of renewed life and beauty. For the Casket. JOHN KNOX BEFORE QUEEN MARY. Unmoved he stood, and calmly heard No belted knight am I, nor baron bold, No traitor I: it moves my heart He plead his cause with freedom bold, But hatred rankled in Queen Mary's heart. imprest Been wanting, nor woman blushed to view TENNESSEE. He stood before his sovereign's throne, And she, the lovely and the crowned And I will smile to see thee weep, Who did with joy ny tears behold, And to the dungeon's gloomy keep Consign thy traitor form so bold. For The Casket. THE MORNING CLOUD. I looked abroad before the sun, I looked again; the cloud was there No longer floating in mid-air But resting on the dark hill's brow, It seemed a fiery mountain now. And brighter still, and brighter glowing, It seemed about to deluge earth; As the strange vision greets my eyes. Another change: some seraph bright Again a spot of purest white, R. R. From the "Life Boat." THE DOOR IN THE HEART. quaintance with brickbats and the gutter, did that same hat produce. Then there was a coat, out of whose sleeves peeped a pair of elbows in rejoicing consciousness that they "could afford to be out." Add to these, reader, a shabby pair of faded pants, and you have the tout ensemble of the wretched being who had just commenced his daily potations in the only grog-shop he was allowed to enter. And yet that wretched, friendless man that sat there, under the stupifying effects of his morning dram, had a heart, and far up a great many pair of winding stairs in that heart, was a door easily passed by, and on that door, covered with cobwebs of time and neglect, was written "MAN." But nobody dreamed of this; and when the temperance men had gone to him, and promised him employment and respectability if he would "sign the pledge," and others (well-meaning men) had rated him soundly for his evil ways, and he had turned a deaf ear to all these things, and gone back with pertinacity to his "cups," every body said old Bill Strong's case was a hopeless one. Ah! none of these had patiently groped their way up to the heart's winding stairs, and read the inscription on the hidden door there. But while the unhappy man sat by the pine table that morning, the bar-keeper suddenly entered, followed by a lady with a pale, high brow, mild hazel eyes, and a strangely "But far away up a great many pair of winding winning expression on her mild face. The stairs in her heart, was a door easily passed by, and on that door was written woman."" - Chas Dickens. "And so it is with the drunkard: far away up a great many pair of winding stairs in his heart there is a door easily passed by, and he must knock at that door, once, twice, seven times-yea, seventy times seven, to open it."John B. Gough. He was an old man. Not so very old either, for the wrinkles that marred his cadaverous visage were not the autograph that Time's fingers had laid there, and the hand that placed upon the low pine table the welldrained glass did not tremble so with the weakening that age induces, yet very old and very wretched looked the sole occupant of that narrow room, with its red curtain, and floor stained with tobacco saliva, and an atmosphere abundantly seasoned by the barroom into which it opened. A hat, it must have been intended for one, half concealed the owner's uncombed locks, and unmistakable evidence of a familiar ac mán looked up with a vacant stare of astonishment as the bar-keeper tendered the lady a seat, and pointed to the other, saying "That's Bill Strong, ma'am ;" and with a glance that indicated very plainly his wonder at what she could want there, left her alone with the astounded and now thoroughly sobered man. The soft eyes of the lady wandered with a sad, pitying expression over old Bill's features, and then in a low, sweet voice, she asked "Am I rightly informed? Do I address Mr. William Strong?" Ah! with those few words, the lady had got farther up the winding stairs, and nearer the hidden door, than all who had gone before her. "Yes, that is my name, ma'am," said old Bill, and he glanced down at his shabby attire, and actually tried to hide the elbow that was peeping out. It was a long time since he had been addressed as Mr. William Strong, and somehow it sounded very pleasant to him. "I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Strong," responded the lady: "I have heard my father speak of you so often, and of the days when you and he were boys together, that I almost feel as if we were old acquaintances. You surely cannot have forgotten Charles Morrison ?" "Oh! no; Charlie and I used to be great cronies," said old Bill, with sudden animation and a light in his eye, such as had not shone there for a long time, except when rum gave it a fitful brilliancy. Ah! the lady did not know, as perhaps the angels did, that she had mounted the stairs, and was softly feeling for that unseen door, so she went on. "I almost feel, Mr. Strong, as if I could see the old spot upon which your homestead stood, I have heard my father describe it so often. The hill, with its crown of old oaks at the back of your house, and the field of yellow harvest grain that waved in front. Then there was the green grass before the front door, with the huge apple tree that threw its shadows across it. And the 'old portico,' with the grape vine that climbed over it, and the white roses that peeped in at the bed-room window, and the spring that went shining and bubbling through the bed of green mint at the side of the house." appeared, Willie would draw his little stool to his mother's feet, and she would tell him some pleasant story of Joseph, or David, or some good boy, who afterwards became a great man, and then she would part Willie's brown curls from off his forehead, and say in a trembling voice I can never forget, Promise me, Willie, when you are a man, and the gray hairs of your mother are resting in the churchyard, yonder, you will never disgrace her memory.' And Willie would draw up his slight form, lift his blue eyes proudly to his mother, and say, 'Never fear, mother, I will make a good man and a great one, too;' and then, after he had said his evening prayer, we would go, contented and happy, as the bird that nestled in the old apple tree, to rest. Then, just as we were sinking into a pleasant dream, we would hear a well-known foot-fall on the stairs, and a kind face bending over us would inquire if we were nicely tucked up.' It is a long, long time,' father would say, 'since I heard from Willie, but I am very sure he has never fallen into any evil ways. The words of his mother would keep him from that."" Rap! rap! rap! went the words of the lady at the door in old Bill's heart. Creak! creak! creak! went the door on its rusted hinges. (Angels of God! held ye not your breaths to listen?) The lady could only see the subdued man bury his face in his clasped Old Bill moved uneasily in his chair, and the muscles around his mouth twitched oc-hands; and while his frame shook like an ascasionally; but unmindful of this the lady kept on, in the same low, melting voice. 66 pen leaf, she heard him murmur amid childlike sobs, My mother! Oh! my mother!' and she knew the tears were washing those wrinkled cheeks - were washing out a long, dark record of old Bill's past life; so, with a silent prayer of thankfulness, she resumed: Many and many were the hours, so father would say, that Willie and I used to pass under the shadow of that old apple tree, playing at hide and seek,' or lolling on the grass, and telling each other the great things "But there was one thing my father loved we meant to do, when we became big men, to talk of better than all the rest. It was of while Willie's blue eyes would sparkle with the morning you were married, Mr. Strong. hope and happiness; and when the sunset'It was enough to do one's eyes good to look laid a crown of gold on the top of the oaks on the hill, Willie's mother might be seen standing in the portico, with the snowy cap and checked apron, and hear the cheerful voice calling 'Come boys, come to supper."" One after another, the big, warm, blessed tears went rolling down old Bill's cheeks, and falling on the pine table. (Ah! the lady was at the door then.) at them,' he would say, 'as they walked up the old church aisle: he, with his proud, manly tread, and she a delicate, fragile creature, fair as the orange blossoms that trembled in her hair. I remember how clear and confident William's voice sounded through the old church as he promised to love, protect and to cherish the bright, confiding creature at his side; and I knew he thought, as he "I was always at home at Willie's, father | looked down upon her, that the winds of would say, and used to have my bowl of fresh heaven would never visit her face too roughmilk and bread too; and when these had dis-ly.' And then my father would tell us of your pleasant home, and of the bright-eyed after, walked through without taking another boy and the fair-haired girl, that came after glass of grog; and he never passed over the a while to gladden it; and then, you know, threshold again. he removed to the West, Mr. Strong, and lost sight of you." Once again the lady paused, for the agony of the strong man before her was fearful to behold; and then in a lower tone she spoke -"I did not forget the promise I made my father previous to his death, that if I ever visited his native State, I would seek out his old friend. But when I inquired for you, they unfolded a terrible story to me, Mr. Strong. They told me of a desolate and broken household. Of the blue-eyed boy, that a father's heart might so well delight in, who had left his home in disgust and despair, for one on the homeless waters; of the gentle, suffering wife, who, faithful to the last, went down with a prayer on her lips for her erring husband, broken-hearted to the grave; and of the fair-haired orphan girl who followed her mother in a little while. Oh! it is a sad, sad story I have heard of my father's old friend." "It was I! it was I that did it! I killed them!" cried old Bill, lifting his bowed head, and gazing on the lady, every feature expressive of such wild agony and helpless remorse, that she shuddered at the despair her own words had aroused. Wide, wide open stood the door then, and the lady passed in. A soft hand was laid soothingly upon old Bill's arms, and a voice full of hope murmured, "Even for all this there is redemption, and you well know the first step towards it. Sign the pledge. In the name of the last prayer of your dying wife, and of the child that sleeps by her side, I ask you, will you do it?" Earnest-hearted reader, you whose soul may be glowing with sympathy for your erring brother man, who would gladly raise him from the depths of sin and degradation, and point him to the highway of peace and prosperity, remember there is a door in every human breast. See that you pass not by it. From the Westminster Review. TERRIBLE RETRIBUTION. THE Catholic faith had ceased to be the faith of the large mass of earnest, thinking, capable persons; and to those who can best do the work, all work in this world sooner or later is committed. America was the natural home for Protestants; persecuted at home, they sought a place where they might worship God in their own way, without danger of stake or gibbet, and the French Huguenots, as afterwards the English Puritans, early found their way there. A certain John Ribault, with about four hundred companions, had emigrated to Florida. They were quiet, inoffensive people, and lived in peace there several years, cultivating the soil, building villages, and on the best possible terms with the natives. Spain was at the time at peace with France; we are, therefore, to suppose that it was in pursuance of the great crusade, in which they might feel secure of the secrecy, if not the confessed sympathy of the Guises, that a powerful Spanish fleet bore down upon this settlement. The French made no resistance, and they were seized and flayed alive, and their bodies hung out upon the trees, with an inscription suspended over them, "Not as Frenchmen, but as heretics." At Paris all was sweetness and silence. The settlement was tranquilly surrendered to the same men who had made it the scene of their atrocity; and two years later, 500 of the very Spaniards who had been most active in the murder were living there in peaceable possession, in two forts which their relation with There was an expression almost ludicrous, the natives had obliged them to build. It from its intenseness of curiosity, on the bar- was well that there were other Frenchmen keeper's physiognomy, as the lady, after her living, of whose consciences the Court had long interview with old Bill, passed quietly not the keeping, and who were able, on through the shop; and the expression was emergencies, to do what was right without not lessened, when old Bill, a few moments consulting it. A certain privateer, named "I will," said old Bill, while he brought down his closed hand with such force on the rickety pine table, that it rocked beneath it, and a gleam of hope lighted up his features, as he seized the pen and paper the lady placed before him, which paper contained a pledge binding all who signed it to abstain from the use of intoxicating drinks, and when he returned it to her the name of William Strong lay in bold legible characters beneath it. |