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human being, however humble his station, has faculties to exercise and duties to perform, and these faculties can only be exercised and those duties performed in society, in daily and habitual intercourse with his fellow-men. From this time Mr Grahame was seen, to the great delight of all, moving about the parish as usual, engaging actively in every good work ; giving liberally of his means and substance for the promotion of all schemes of benevolence; personally superintending some of our parochial institutions; and kindly and cheerfully giving his assistance and advice to all who required them. Yet traces of the terrible struggle through which his mind had passed remained, in the deep wrinkles which furrowed his brow, in the grey and silvery hairs, and in the shadow of melancholy sorrow which sometimes overcast his usually serene and saint-like countenance.

But what became of William ? Does he still live ? Alas! his short life affords a sad yet instructive contrast to that of his rival, the Laird of Kincaldrum. Naturally of an extremely sensitive disposition, and having no solid abiding principles to uphold him in the day of trial, his frail tenement when the floods came and the waves beat, fell an easy prey to the storm. Within two days after Annie's death he had become a raving maniac. From the first his case was hopeless A fever of the brain may deprive for a time the patient of his reason, but recovery, though slow, generally comes at last. But poor Willie was crushed to the earth as with a thunderbolt-reason fled suddenly and for ever!

The first time I met him was about two months after the catastrophe. I was returning home alone one evening, and had just reached the fatal precipice, when, to my utter dismay, he darted wildly out of the arbour, calling piteously to me“Have you seen my Annie ? have you seen my Annie ?" and then, looking wistfully down the steep banks the stream beneath, he shuddered, sobbed, and wept like a child wringing his hands in the most acute anguish ; then, suddenly darting into the wood, he was in a moment out of sight, cry

ing mournfully as he disappeared—“O, my Annie ! I have lost my Annie !"

The only occupation that seemed to afford him any apparent pleasure was the cultivation of a little plot of flowers in his mother's garden. Here he had planted all the favourite flowerets of Annie, and tended them with more than parental care, watching their unfolding blossoms with the most rapturous delight. He trod softly among them, and spoke gently to them, as if they had been spiritual beings who ever held sweet communion with his beloved in some far-off land, and who would carry his thoughts and his wishes on their fragrant wings to her blest and sunny abode in the sky.

When any of them began to droop, and their cherished bloom to fade away, he evinced the greatest concern and sorrow, often hanging over them for hours, and murmuring softly—“Oh, my Annie ! I have lost my Annie !"

In the long dreary days of winter, he would mope beside the ingle, as if in a drowsy troubled dream, until the time of the evening when the catastrophe occurred, and which he seemed to know by instinct, when he would instantly bound away to the fatal spot, sob and weep on the banks of the stream, making the leafless woods to ring, and startling the passing traveller with the bitter cry—“Oh, my Annie! I have lost my Annie !”-a cry which, coming as it did, from the very depths of a broken heart, so plaintively wild and sorrowful, none who heard could ever forget.

With the voice of the cuckoo ushering in the advent of spring, came new life and vigour to the poor maniac, and he watched the rolling up of winter's white shroud, and the arraying of Nature in her vernal robes, and listened to the singing of the birds and the humming of the streams, with the most intense anxiety and delight; for he instinctively knew that the time of the springing of plants, of the bursting of leaves, and the blossoming of flowers, was come. Oh, with what rapture would he kneel on the


and kiss the first snowdrop that caught his eye! What a

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beautiful emblem of his Annie, snatched, in all her virgin purity in the spring-time of life, from this cold, uncongenial soil, and transplanted to bloom for ever in a sunnier and happier clime! And, poor soul! who knows but thine agitated mind could sometimes collect and concentrate its ideas upon some object like this, till a glimpse of reason was given thee to comprehend the type and the anti-type !

A beautiful and instructive trait in the character of the true Christian, must now be unfolded. The mother of the poor student was so broken down in health by the sad affliction that had befallen her, that she was totally unable to maintain either herself or her maniac son. A kind, though for some time an unknown friend, was, however, now raised up for her help, and not only did she not want the comforts and necessaries of life, but enjoyed many little luxuries which she had never before either wished for, or received. A tall, thoughtful-looking man was now often to be seen in the widow's cottage, kindly inquiring for her and her son, who would, on leaving, enter the little garden, and softly walk among the flowers, trying all the while to attract the attention of William, who, however, never seemed to be aware of his presence, but talked away to his flowers gently and softly, as if none but himself were there to listen to his soliloquies Do you not recognise in this visitor an old and valued friend! Yes; it is indeed the pious Laird of Kincaldrum. Oh, God! how wonderful are thy ways to man! They are indeed past finding out.

But the closing scene is at hand. Being in the village, I called at the cottage to inquire for the poor student. It was a beautiful day in spring, and the woods were vocal with the sweet minstrelsy of the birds rejoicing in their new-born gladness. As I entered the little wicket, I was struck with the oppressive stillness which reigned around. I walked up to the flower-beds and observed several favourites just bursting into full bloom, and all seemed trim and neat, as if


some gentle hand had recently been dressing and fondling them. But where was the poor

maniac? A strange presentiment came chillingly over me, and I softly entered the cottage. On the bed lay the poor spent student, apparently dying. Beside him sat his aged mother, gazing wistfully into his sightless eyes; while Mr Grahame of Kincaldrum, devoutly kneeling on the cold clay floor, was fervently supplicating for mercy and peace to the departing spirit. Some of his favourite flowers, I now observed, were strewed on the bed around him ; a fresh, newly-pulled snowdrop he grasped in his thin white hands, while he held them up in the attitude of prayer, pronouncing solemnly and distinctly the blessed words which he had heard read over the lifeless body of his beloved—“Behold I show you a mystery : we shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed,” &c., &c., adding immediately after, but in low, broken accents—“The time is at hand. Farewell. Oh, my Annie! I have found my Annie now !”

A long pause ensued. His hands dropped powerlessly on his scarcely-heaving breast—a long, deep-drawn sigh—then a sudden spiritual expression of inward joy, and Willie had rejoined his Annie in a purer and happier world than ours !

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LOVE? There is no single word in our language which conveys, at the same time, so many joyous anticipations, and so many painful recollections. Woman's love! what is it? An unchangeable, eternal thing, or a flickering fleeting shadow; man's guiding star to happiness and peace, or an ignis fatuus that lures him on to wretchedness and woe; the grand aim of all his hopes, or only the prophetic beginning of his misery?

Ask that impetuous youth, with eager elasticity in his step, and beaming rapture in his eye, coming up yon shady lane where he has just given his heart to another, and received another's in return, what he thinks of woman's love, and he will at once declare, with the utmost sincerity, founded on a thorough conviction of its truth, that it is pure as the love of angels, and eternal as the everlasting hills; that sooner will the sun forget to shine, or the moon to charioteer in the heavens, than woman's love shall grow cold, or change, or ever lose one spark of its intensity or brightness !

But here comes a traveller of another description. His step is slow and hesitating, his cheek is pale, his eye is troubled, and you observe, he is no longer young, as the dry wiry wrinkles and stray grey hairs, provokingly testify. He seems sad. Shall we speak to him? Probably he has been forsaken -jilted!

“What is woman's love, my friend ?” “Woman's love! Tell it not in time; pronounce it not in

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