During the two years that he remained in college as a student, his attention to his studies was unremitting and his character unsullied. He early manifested that preference for the study of intellectual and moral philosophy which characterized him in after life, but in the higher branches of mathematics he held a distinguished rank, and by universal consent sustained the reputation of a generous, honourable, and pious youth.

His attachment to his immediate relatives still continued very strong. His visits to his family were hailed with delight by his parents, and every young face beamed with joy when William came home. He very often, during his first year in college, would walk the eleven miles between Newark and his father's residence, and surprise them by a Saturday night visit, saying, "I was so home-sick I could not stay away any longer." One of his elder brothers would then rise before day on Monday, and ride with him to college in time for prayers. Independently of the amount of writing necessary for college exercises, Mr. Graham employed his talent for versification upon every subject that came within his reach. His portfolio overflowed with the fruits of his leisure hours. There remains of these, a poem on the Millennium of some seven or eight hundred lines, some odes and pastorals, and a descriptive poem entitled, "The Christian's Death Bed." They evidence poetical ability, correct taste, and much classical knowledge, but want finish and accuracy of style. A short piece, called The Swallow, which will be found among the poetry in this volume, was written upon one of his visits at home, for the amusement of a younger brother, and making no pretensions to merit, is ren

dered charming by its very simplicity. Mr. Graham's pen was always at the service of his friends. The albums of his female acquaintances were ornamented by his beautiful penmanship and ingenious rhymes. Great amusement was afforded to his sisters and cousins by the poetical letters they were constantly receiving from college. Many of these have been preserved. They are generally unsuitable for publication, but I cannot refrain from subjoining one or two extracts from the many I have seen, trusting that they will be read with interest, in connexion with the scenes and events that prompted them.

Dear Sister, what say you to this kind of weather,
Spring, winter and summer all mixed up together?
The seasons are crazy! they're acting so queer,
"Tis a chance if old Winter don't rule round the year.
It is rarely the sun is allowed to look out,

And then just to see what mankind are about;
When his curtains again are drawn round him so tight,
Old Boreas can play his wild pranks out of sight.
But sometimes the winds will get tired of blowing,
And the clouds by long raining at last will grow thin,
And surly old Winter will seem to be going,

And Spring all in smiles will be just coming in.
When Nature refreshed her lost smiles will recover,
And sunshine be sparkling on many a hill;
Then out goes the student, the lady and lover,

To rove on the banks of some soft flowing rill.
But Winter returns from the north in a flurry,
All blustering to see what young Spring has been at,
And shuts up the sun with his clouds in a hurry,

And sends out his winds to lay every thing flat.
And directly, before you know what you're about,
Such a rumpus he'll raise as you never did hear,

And student, and lady, and lover, no doubt,

Will be puffing and coughing the rest of the year.

Ye cousins all of London town, that seat of female merit,
Behold! once more I sit me down, in a poetic spirit:
Out of the depths of mud I cry, where sinners wade together,
And wish you all a sunny sky, good roads and better weather.
Rain seems the order of the day, and Newark feels its power,
The ladies, forced in doors to stay, almost begin to sour;
Their faces, at the windows seen, no rapturous smiles discover,
Gloom shades the brow, where smiles have been, dark as the
clouds that hover.

The streets a mass of miry clay, the gutters pour in thunder,
The crops are drowned, so farmers say, but cut-worms work in

under;

The old man stares, and shuts the door, and swears in language clever,

That such a storm was ne'er before,-nor shall be more-forever.

Alas! of former charms no trace is found the prospect o'er,

And Newark, once a lovely place, is lovely now no more.
Those flowers, which dressed in colours bright, did "here in
beauty bloom,"

Those lips of love and eyes of light, are now all clothed in gloom.
We hear the voice of song no more from beauty swelling high,
Naught but the torrent's sullen roar beneath a frowning sky;
Bright faces robed in smiles of love, no more with pleasure glow,
A furious deluge roars above, a watery waste below.
When thus the elements engage to scatter consternation,
Where can we fly to 'scape their rage, or seek for consolation?
What tho' within an hundred feet, we saw Eve's loveliest
daughters,

What mortal could attempt the street, or cross the stormy waters?
Where'er we turn an ear or eye, the signs of wo are double,
The cattle low, the children cry, the world is filled with trouble;

A solitary grunter moans along the swelling gutter,

And wallowing in the mire he loves, begins at length to mutter: "Alas!" grunts he, "that boasting men should live in such a

border,

I'll get me to my sty again, 'tis in much better order!"

An altar pure on Afric's mount, 'mid scenes of darkness dreary,
'Mid deserts parched a sparkling fount, to cheer the pilgrim weary,
Each formed alone by nature's art, whence all their charms they
borrow,

Like emblems are of woman's heart, amid a world of sorrow.
In that fair spot, whilst all around is wrapt in self-devotion,
An altar of true love is found, based on sincere emotion;
Joyful around the virtues stand, and pour a pure libation,
And singing muses, hand in hand, take up their grateful station.
Now roused by the harmonious strain, all regular advancing,
Emerge the graces in a train, and lead around the dancing;
Concurring virtues lift their heads, and raise their cheerful voices,
Upon the altar incense spread, and friendship loud rejoices.
Now whilst this scene is going on, whilst virtue, muses, graces,
In woman's heart have built their throne, and show their cheerful

faces;

No wonder that they seem so fair, that we could never lose them, Given by these, the charms they wear, and taught by these to use them.

And now I'll strike another string, and grow less sentimental:-
My altar now shall be a spring; her heart, a fountain gentle.
E'en as a stream through thirsty plain, in modest silence, stealing,
Lies woman's heart in a world of pain, a fountain of pure feeling.
In a calm tide the waters roll, whilst all around them flourish,
And streams of kindness thro' the soul, the plants of virtue nourish.
Joy in their murmuring cadence sings, its music never ceasing,
And Pity borne on angel's wings, sighs soft and sadly pleasing.
Not so when storms of sorrow rise, their placid bosom sweeping,
Enforced they mount into the eyes, and overflow in weeping;

Contending with afflictions strong, from Grief new tones they

borrow,

Until what was Joy's grateful song, becomes the voice of Sorrow.
No lovely flower of moral kind, that has with earth connexion,
In this rich soil we cannot find, all blooming in perfection;
Nor hide they in their native place to avoid the tempests chilly,
Grown up, they bloom upon the face, with tints of rose and lily.
Here on a soft and fragrant bed, Love wrapped in dreams, reposes,
And o'er the little vagrant's head, the Graces sprinkle roses;
'Mongst which he often starts, and flies up to his portals narrow,
And peeping out from sparkling eyes, shoots many a fatal arrow.

Mr. Graham's departure for college had been the first break in this hitherto united and happy family. Alas! it was soon to be followed by many and bitter trials. Soon after his leaving home, his father, returning one night from a visit to one of his parishioners, was thrown from his carriage and received a serious injury. After a tedious illness he recovered sufficiently to be able to preach as formerly, but was never again able to walk without a cane. Injudicious medical treatment aggravated his disease, and after lingering nearly a year, he departed, Nov. 5, 1835, to render an account of his stewardship. The warm attachment which existed between the father and his favourite son, had been strengthened rather than diminished by the absence of the latter at college, and his death was a great loss as well as grief to William. He loved to talk of his father, and to describe to me his appearance and character. He was his perfect model of what a father should be. This filial reverence and love was one of the most prominent and beautiful traits in his disposition. In the incidents of his childhood, to which he was fond of recurring, his father's name was often