I cannot tell you all that passed between my Cousin Deborah and myself on that beautiful June morning. Locked up within my inmost heart are her sweet words of tender cheer, like the pulsing melody of sweetest music. On a rock where the moss had woven its brown and green and gold, where a thousand scarlet columbines hung down their jewelled heads, we seated ourselves, unmindful of the golden dimples that made so tempting the crimson berries at our feet, and ere our loitering foot-steps left the Rowans, my sweet Cousin Deborah was promised me forever! In patience waiting for that good time coming, far off, and through long weary years it might be, when I might ask her of my uncle John Massingale, and not fear his cold refusal.

III. IN THE INDIES.

YES, to wait patiently and hopefully until I might hope to gain my uncle John Massingale's consent. Alas! poor Philip! what a hopeless task is yours!

Thereupon, much to the surprise of my uncle, my resignation was sent in to the trustees of the Linklaen Academy. What could their poor five hundred dollars a year do toward making acceptable to my uncle John the suitor for his daughter Deborah? After much and grave debate, and some remonstrance, my resignation was accepted, and my connection with the Linklaen Academy then and there terminated. Not with much regret upon my part, 1 grant. It had been a weary toil to me, attended with much tribulation of spirit, and sanctioned only and made sweet by the presence of my Cousin Deborah. But now it was terminated, honorably and forever; my poor name on the faculty-page, with the college-appendix, appearing for the last time, and I no more troubled with the requests and desires of tender parents and watchful guardians.

Then came the bitterest scene of all, whose every act is burned into my heart and brain as though with a red-hot iron. The parting with my Cousin Deborah! It is needless to tell you that it was true and tender, broken with sobs, and filled with fervent vows. All the hopes and prospects of the future were discussed freely and fully. There was no restraint between us. She was content to wait hopefully and trustingly, she said; her heart was mine wholly and forever: but she wished to have her father's consent gained, and then she would surrender her destiny to my hands, and take no thought of the future. Oh! blissful words were those, dropping like balm upon my aching heart. Wherever I might be, this sweet assurance should be mine: that one heart, if no other, in all God's world of beating hearts, should beat warm and true for me forever. That no shadow of doubt should come between, but ever hoping, ever trusting, wait patiently until that sweet time should come, when with God's sanction binding us together, we might go hand-in-hand smoothing each other's pathway down to the green grass of the tomb! Alas! dear Deborah! as your soft cheek rested over that heart whose inmost thought and every throb was yours, and yours only; while you breathed those sweet words of trust and everlasting love, you little thought that you would never find resting-place there again; that the cold, unloving arms of Death would take the

place of those that were twined so lovingly and so tenderly around you, and that he by whose side you hoped to tread out the rosy hours of life, should go groping on alone, the world grown dark from thick-falling tears; whose hands just grasped the fruit Hesperian to find them only Dead-Sea fruit. O Deborah! my sweet Deborah! I watch above your grave, and wait the coming hours which in the end shall see us finally united!

So I went back to the great metropolis, among my dead father's former friends. At first I did experience some difficulty in obtaining a situation, I grant; but perseverance accomplished her end finally, as she always will, and sending back a word of cheer to my sweet cousin, I embarked for the Indies.

To me, those were five long, weary years I spent away from Deborah, unblessed by a single word of communication to let me know that she was well, and still hopefully trusting. For the latter I had no doubts; but how doubly sweet it would have been to hear even from the cold lips of a stranger, that my Deborah was living, and if living, waiting. So the time crept slowly onward. Toil was mine, encountered willingly, borne up under manfully, and in the end crowned with success. Fortune smiled upon me with no niggard smile; and like the genii of the fairy tale, every thing I touched turned into gold; at least, so it seemed to me and as the long five years drew slowly to a close, I felt as though I possessed wealth enough to win the favor of my uncle John.

I cannot paint to you the tremulous anxiety of that homeward voyage. How the great waves took up our giant ship as though it were a cradle, and rocked its inmates into peaceful slumber into the safe embrace of dear old Mother Earth. All sweet imaginings took possession of my soul, as I walked the deck and thought of Deborah : pictured to myself our meeting, which should last until the SEPARATOR of all delights, as the Arabs say, should part us. And so I went on dreaming golden dreams, not knowing that God's hand was upon me.

IV. IN PEACE.

well suppose.

What

I DID not remain long in the city, as you may ever business I had there to do was done quickly, and my glad feet turned toward my sweet cousin's home. It was a bright June morning, as beautiful as that on which my Deborah had promised to be mine in the old meadow called the Rowans.

The sun was shining beautifully, and the air was all perfume as I drove up the avenue that led to my uncle John's stately farm-house. There was an air of sad neglect about it, in the closed blinds and the untrimmed lawn, that struck a cold chill to my heart, and with a trembling hand I raised the knocker for admittance. After long waiting and repeated application of the iron knob, the door was opened, and a woman whom I remembered as kitchen-maid stood before me.

Inquiring for my uncle John, she told me he was not at home; and in the next breath asking for Miss Deborah, she shook her head and smiled sadly; then brightening suddenly, she asked if I was Mr. Philip Massingale, and on my affirmative, she bade me wait a moment, disappeared to return with a package addressed to Philip' simply, in my dear cousin's well-remembered writing.

That letter lies open on the desk beside me, blotted with many tears her tears and mine- and full of holy hopes and prayers for me. I cannot transcribe that letter to these pages. No mortal eye has ever seen it but hers and mine. And sitting here in my quiet library, I look out and see the white stone that marks her resting-place looming up through the fast-falling snow.

My uncle John is dead. Before she died, sweet Deborah told him of our hopes, our love; and standing by her grave, he grasped my hands, and with great tears rolling down his cheeks, implored my forgiveness, and called me his dear son. Of wealth I have enough and to spare; nor am I morose and always sad. GOD, in His manifold mercies, saw fit to chasten me, and bowing my head humbly, I watch and pray. In literary ease my life flows sweetly onward: genial and pleasant, sanctioned with sorrow and not unblest.

The pathway to that white stone which glimmers through the fastfalling snow, is often trod, and no matter how wild the storm, is ever open. In the summer-time, oft-going and returning feet wear away the tender grass; and in mournful, patient, waiting trust, I stand, with head uncovered, and read these marble letters:

'Deborah Sleeps in Jesus and in Peace.'

Now, while the wine in the gleaming glass glances,
See through its mimic waves floating fine fancies:
Down in the seething flood

Of the grape's purple blood
Is the Mirth-god's abode :
Deep in the chalice
Joy has his palace.

Now moving fitfully, whirling in dances,
Oh! how my senses the sweet sight entrances !
See, glides a merry band,

Strays from a fairy land;
LOVE, with a ray-like wand,
Leading the chorus,
Flitting before us.

Ripples, like drapery, now seem concealing
Shapes traitorous bubbles would fain be revealing:
Spirits most delicate,
Keeping their tiny state,
Wavering, seem to wait;
Tremulous groups,
Like uncertain hopes.

Here is a Lethe for cares that oppress us;.
Here is a gladness waiting to bless us:

E'er any envious slip,

Lift to the ready lip:

Let JOVE his nectar sip,

Red wine be ours,

Cups crowned with flowers.

HASCLER VADENROPT.

A STRANGE STORY.

BY CASTLEMAINE.

In the year 1854, while residing in Boston, I became acquainted with George Braybœuf, a young English gentleman, then travelling in this country. He was of an eminently insular nature, and possessed all the reserve and stiffness so characteristic of our cousin, John Bull; and our first intercourse seemed unlikely to result in any thing like intimacy. His bluff, phlegmatic ways were little assimilated to the mercurial temperament of a young American, nor did we have many things in common. In his veins ran some of the best blood of England. He was rich, and, as I said before, had all the hauteur of his race; while I was a student in the office of the eminent jurist, the late Judge Gray, with little else to depend upon for a livelihood than the labor of my brains in articles for the weekly newspapers. Braybœuf had brought letters of introduction to Judge Gray, who had shown him the usual minor attentions of dinner-invitations, and the like; and had introduced him to me, with the request that I would show him the lions of the town and its environs; which attention I performed rather as a task than otherwise, for I did not then possess a very warm regard for our transatlantic relatives. I had shown him all the objects of historical interest about Boston with a malicious pleasure, however, as there is nothing about them very flattering to British pride. He viewed every thing after the manner of the race, with a calm stolidity: I taking care to enlarge upon the victories of American, and the reverses of British arms, endeavoring to provoke him out of his national reserve; but to no purpose I could not vex him into any warmth of expression, and I was fairly disgusted with him. One afternoon, having exhausted most of the objects of interest about Boston, I proposed a sail down the harbor. He readily assented, and we drove down to Long Wharf, and engaged one of Mahan's boats. Hoisting the sail, we stood down the bay as far as Fort Independence; I, of course, descanting upon the wonderful strength of the structure, for the benefit of my companion, and pronouncing it impregnable, at the same time inquiring if the English had any such fortresses to which he replied that he thought not; the one at Gibraltar perhaps approached it as nearly as any in strength I winced a little at this home-thrust; but rallied enough to say that I believed Gibraltar was designed by an American engineer; to which veritable remark he deigned no reply, but proposed we should land and examine the post more closely. This we did, spending perhaps an halfhour; when, as we were returning on board, Braybœuf's foot slipped, and he fell into the water; the tide was running rapidly, and I knew he could not swim; but being tolerably expert in the art myself, I plunged in, and after some little trouble succeeded in saving him. On being brought to the shore, he simply said, 'Thank you, Castlemaine,' in so indifferent a tone, (as if I had just passed him the salt,) that I

felt half a mind to throw him in again. But from that time his manner toward me changed, and I could see pulsating beneath his English surface a warm heart; and as I knew him better, I became much attached to him.

Shortly after this, as we were sitting in his room at the 'Albion,' looking out upon the Bay one of the Cunard steamers coming in, a train just going, shrieking and puffing, out, over the Eastern Rail-road, its long streamer of smoke trailing behind it, and curling gracefully up over the Maverick hills; the whole city instinct with life and motion- -I said: George! suppose old Dr. Franklin could have had the wish gratified that he expressed upon seeing a fly taken from a bottle of old wine become revivified, and crawl about the table; and, as he desired, when he had seen the end of the Revolution, and the firm estab1 shment of our government, had been placed in a puncheon of NewEngland rum, and could come to life again, and look upon this, his native village, this afternoon, would n't he stare?

Suddenly the whole manner of Braybœuf changed. He seemed to fairly emerge from his English shell into a different being. So complete was his transformation, that I said: 'Why, my boy, what is the matter? You seem so much interested in my very original remark, that one would think you were the lightning-catching philosopher, himself.'

Said he Castlemaine! I am going to tell you a story, so strange that it passes belief; one which I have never breathed since its events transpired: I can hardly expect you to give it credence, I can only tell it to you.'

'You know I am an officer in Her Majesty's Coldstream Guards: we are quartered, when in London, in the Tower; that is, our messroom is there, and the officers of the day remain there during the night. On the twenty-second of May, 1851, Harry Lacy and I were doing 'guard duty.' Dinner was over, the other officers had gone, and left Harry and me to solitude, alone in the Tower. We lit our segars, and began conversation, which turned, naturally enough, upon the building in which we were: its wonderful history, the deeds of blood its grim walls had witnessed. We got so engaged in the conversation, and the oaken walls were lit up by the coal-fire burning in the grate (we had not lighted candles) with such weird and fanciful shapes, that, I vow, it seemed as if I could trace upon the ceiling, among its carvings, childish shapes which grim shadows were smothering, and murdered kings struggling with mail-clad assassins. Out of the gloom seemed to stalk in majesty the dignified and grave figure of the Sixth Henry; while behind him crouched, with sinister face, and drawn dagger, the Third Richard. From before the pointed oriel windows seemed to stretch a black-draped scaffold, and upon it a line of weeping queens bowed their heads to the block. Distinct among them was the sad face of the mournful Anne Boleyn,' measuring with white and jewelled fingers her slender neck, and smiling upon her masked executioner. All these I thought of, and many more things, while Lacy was rattling away, till he suddenly asked: George! did you ever see the place where the young princes were buried under the Tower stairs?' I said: No!' Said he: 'It is just the dismal place you would imagine : et's go and see it!' Being in the humor to 'sup full of horrors,' I