A horseman passed us at full speed, whose wild and haggard look arrested the attention of my friend. In the name of all that is singular, said he, who can that be, and whither is he posting with such rapidity? His garb seems of the last century, and his grizzled locks stream on the wind like those of some ancient bard. That man, replied I, is a lover, and is hurrying away to pay his devoirs to his mistress, who married another, and has been dead for many years. Indeed! you surprize me, he rejoined. He has, it is true, the "_lean look_" of Shakspeare's lover; the "_blue eye and sunken_;" the "_unquestionable spirit_," and "every thing about him demonstrates a careless desolation"--yet I should have imagined, that the snows of so many winters had extinguished all the fires of that frosty carcase; but tell me who he is, and what is his story. His name is Wilson; and that of the lady whom he loved, was Sally Singleton. I would that I had the graphic power of Scott to sketch a tale of so much interest. If Sir Walter has immortalized an old man, mounted on his white pony, and going in quest of the tombstomes, how much is it to be regretted that the same master hand cannot be employed to perpetuate the memory of yonder eccentric being, whose love lives on, after the lapse of twenty years, in spite of the marriage and death of his mistress--in spite of the evidence of his own senses, and notwithstanding every human effort to dispel his delusion. Regularly every morning, for the last twenty years, no matter what the state of the weather, (alike to him the hail, the rain, and the sunshine,) has he mounted his horse, and travelled a distance of ten miles, to see his beloved Sally Singleton. His custom is, to ride directly up to the window of her former apartment, and in a courteous manner, to bow to his mistress in token of his continued attachment. Having performed this act of gallantry, he waves with his hand a fond adieu, and immediately gallops back with a triumphant air, as if perfectly satisfied with having set his enemies at defiance. "The course of true love never did run smooth," and in this case, whether "_misgrafted in respect of years_," or "_different in blood_," or "_standing on the choice of friends_," is not exactly known; but the lady was wedded to another, and died soon after. Her lover would never believe in her marriage or her death. His mind unhinged by the severity of his disappointment, seems to have retained nothing but the single image of her he loved, shut up in that apartment; and he resolved to brave every difficulty, to testify his unchanging devotion. Obstacles were purposely built across his path--the bridges were broken down--the idle boys would gather around him, and assail him in their cruel folly--guns even, were fired at him,--all in vain! The elements could not quench the fervor of his love--obstacles were overleaped--he swam the rivers--the boys were disregarded--balls could not harm him. He held a