“Hallowed days of my blessed boyhood!  Ah! they rise before me now, like holy, burning stars, breaking out in a stormy, howling night, making the blackness blacker still!  My short happy springtime of life!  So full of noble aspirations, of glowing hopes, of philanthropic schemes, of all charitable projects!  I would do so much good with my money! my heart was brimming with generous impulses, with warm sympathy and care for my fellow-creatures.  Every needy sufferer should find relief at my hands as long as I possessed a dollar or a crust!  As I look back now at that dead self, and remember all that I was, all the purity of my life, the nobility of my character, the tenderness of my heart—­I do not wonder that people who knew me then, predicted that I would prove an honor, a blessing to my race!  Mark you! that was St. Elmo Murray—­as nature fashioned him; before man spoiled God’s handiwork.  Back! back to your shroud and sepulchre, O Lazarus of my youth! and when I am called to the final judgment, rise for me! stand in my place, and confront those who slaughtered you! * * * My affection for my chum, Murray, increased as I grew up to manhood, and there was not a dream of my brain, a hope of my heart which was not confided to him.  I reverenced, I trusted, I almost—­nay, I quite worshipped him!  When I was only eighteen I began to love his cousin, whose father was pastor of a church in New Haven, and whose mother was Mr. Hammond’s sister.  You have seen her.  She is beautiful even now, and you can imagine how lovely Agnes Hunt was in her girlhood.  She was the belle and pet of the students, and before I had known her a month I was her accepted lover.  I loved her with all the devotion of my chivalric, ardent, boyish nature; and for me she professed the most profound attachment.  Her parents favored our wishes for an early marriage, but my mother refused to sanction such an idea until I had completed my education and visited the old world.  I was an obedient, affectionate son then, and yielded respectfully; but as vacation approached, I prepared to come home, hoping to prevail on mother to consent to my being married just before we sailed for Europe the ensuing year, after I left Yale.  Murray was my confidant and adviser.  In his sympathizing ears I poured all my fond hopes, and he insisted that I ought to take my lovely bride with me; it would be cruel to leave her so long; and, beside, he was so impatient for the happy day when he should call me his cousin.  He declined coming home, on the plea of desiring to prosecute his theological studies with his uncle, Mr. Hunt.  Well do I recollect the parting between us.  I had left Agnes in tears—­inconsolable because of my departure; and I flew to Murray for words of consolation.  When I bade him good-bye my eyes were full of tears, and as he passed his arm around my shoulders, I whispered, ’Murray, take care of my angel Agnes for me! watch over and comfort her while I am away.’  Ah! as I stand here to-day, I hear again ringing over the ruins of the past twenty years, his loving musical tones answering: