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In the same path is often found that ugly yellow flower, called Jealousy, which I wish you never to look at. Turn from it as fast as possible; for it has the strange quality of tinging the eye that beholds it with a stain which it seldom gets rid of. As you go in, you will meet with many little crooked paths; but do not go into them. I advise you, as a friend, never to attempt it; for though, at the entrance of each, is written in large letters, “In the right way,” when you get in, in nine cases out of ten, you will find the true name to be Perverseness, and that you are in the wrong, and will not acknowledge it. This often occasions endless disputes here; is a source of perpetual difference, and sometimes of a final separation in the garden. Near this spot, you will meet with a sturdy, knotty plant, called Obstimacy, bearing a hard, bitter fruit, which becomes fatal when taken in large quantities. Turn from it; avoid it as you would the plague. Just opposite to this, grows that lowly, lovely shrub Compliance; which, though not pleasant to the palate, is salutary and sweet, and produces the most delicious fruit in the gar. den. Never be without a sprig of it in your hands; it will often be wanted as you go along; if you do not, you will surely repent the want of it. All over the garden you may find a useful plant, called Economy. It is a thriving quality; take a good stock of it as you goin. It adorns and enriches at the same time. Many entirely overlook it, some despise it, and others think they do not want it. It is generally forgotten in the hurry and gayety with which people enter this place, but the total want of it is commonly paid for with bitter repentance. I must tell you, unless both partake of it, it will answer little end to either. You may, if you please, carry some with you into the garden: but it is a hundred to one, if you do not lose it going in. This is more useful than you will find there—for it is of another sort. Provide yourself and partner with a proper quantity of it, as soon as you can, when in the place. You observe, as you pass, two or three paths, which run much into one another—I mean those of Regularity, Exactness, and Neatness. Do not think, as many do, that when once you are in, you may be careless of your person and dress. Remember, your companion will see some that are not so —this difference will strike his eye, if not of. fend it. Enter those paths almost as soon as you enter the garden; and, take my word for it, if you do, you will never get out of them; once fairly in, you are in for life—and the worst of it is, that if you do not find them Soon, you will never find them afterwards. Near this...walk, is found that invaluable shrub, Humility. This, though of no worth *.

in tself, yet joined to other good qualities, is worth them all put together. It is never seen without being admired; and is most amiable when not visible. They say “virtue is its own reward”—I am certain pride is its own punishment. Flee from it as from contagion, which it strongly resembles. It infects and corrupts. Cultivate, with all your care, the humble plant now mentioned, as the best antidote against this poisonous weed. Allow me here to drop a hint on the subject of cultivation, as that most probably will be your employment. Should you be entrusted with the rearing of a flower, remember two things: first, that it is but a flower, however fair—frail in its nature, and fading at every blast; and, secondly, that it is a flower in trust, for the cultivation of which you are accountable to the owner of the garden. Should you be a witness to a blast on its dawning beauties, O how your fluttering heart will bleed with tenderness. Let affection sympathize. Your feelings may be conceived, but they cannot be described. The young shoot will naturally and insensibly twine around the fibres of your frame. Should it live and thrive, spare no pains to teach the young production how to rise. Weed it, water it, prune it—it will noed them all. Without this, many weeds will spring up and poison the very soil on which it grows. Remember this is a trust for which you are accountable to Him who gave it. That you may be blest with the sweetest production of this garden—that they may be the delight of your eyes, and that you and they, when the summer of this life is over, may be transplanted to some happier soil, and flourish in immortal vigor, in perfect and permanent felicity, is the sincere wish of your affectionate friend.

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Though the chill winds of the lake at times, sharpened by traversing hundreds of miles without feeling the warm breath of mother earth, are like agues to the nerves, for many a day in this region,-yet there are mingled even here with the moods of autumn, many of the warmest beauties of more fervent climes. An autumn upon lake Erie, though not one of constant, benevolent temperament, like one in the more favored climes of the more southerly states, has nevertheless, in its very inconsistency, a transition and contrast of beauties and pleasures, which makes it to us, a more desirable abiding place than any under which we have ever lived.

If the chill air of the evenings is more prevalent than in any other longitudes upon the same parallel of latitude, there are, notwithstanding, nights when the moon seems to shed a warmth with her light, and the

o *

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very lake breezes seem to come loaded with a warmth like summer. Such have we seen during the present week. And even when the sharp frosty wind from the north, or the chill damp breeze from the southwest, forbid the contemplative to walk abroad in the evening, they give a new and active buoyancy to the hilarity within doors, and make the fireside the focus of a thousand charms. The beauty of autumn scenery, in our country, is upon the page of every foreign traveler;-and now, when

Her breath hath tinged the grove with red
And strew'd the vale with yellow,
And every leaf reclines its head
Beside its withering fellow,
And Nature, looking round her,
Rends the green robe that bound her;-

Now when the green, the yellow, the crimson, and the russet, are struggling for supremacy, in the foliage of the whole wilderness, —with all its chills—with all its damps, we would almost pray that autumn might last forever.

But the bounty of the God of the year, whose chosen era of ripe rewards for all the toils and privations of other seasons, is fixed among the fading but brilliant beauties of autumn, is most worthy the aspirations of a grateful and sympathetic heart. And in no autumn more than the present has that bounty been so infinitely above the desert of the human family. On every side we see the smiles of plenty, and on every hand we hear the sounds of joy, at the goodness of that hand that has met us in our complaints, and silenced our ingratitude, by the fruits of a most ample and abundant harvest.

From this wilderness of bounty, the little that man really wants, is easily gathered. With a prudent hand, and a strong guard against those artificial wants which constitute the misery of our existence, the season of autumn always opens the door to competence, through which the most needy of our race may arrive at the summit of rational happiness.


In 1823, several of the original members of the Philadelphia Literary Association, formed themselves into a club, with the following declaration of their objects.

The cultivation of the social affections tends not only to give a charm to life, but to dignify our nature, for in proportion as we become interested in each other, our selfish feelings abate, and we approach more nearly the attributes of that Being whose love is universal.

Influenced by this consideration, as well as a desire of improving our mental faculties, by a liberal discussion of subjects of general usefulness, the undersigned have agreed to hold

frequent meetings, under the title of “The Literary and Social Fraternity.” Soon after the formation of the club, one of the members took a journey to the west. Returning, after an absence of two years, he met his brethren of the Fraternity. The greeting was enthusiastic, and the following lines were one of the spontaneous offerings on the joyous occasion.

Thrice welcome the friend whose long absence we
Our breasts glow with rapture to find him return'd;
The Fraternity claim'd him as one of the few,
Whose hearts are to Friendship unchangeably true;
For though wandering afar we remember'd him still,
And a chair was reserved for the exile to fill;
Yes, with honor to fill, for in days that are fled,
His genius on us a refulgence has shed."
And tho' care may have left a slight trace on his brow,
As on that of the bard who addresses you now ;
The bright smile of friendship around him shall play,
And light up his heart with its soul-touching roy,

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“Flowers, of all created things, the most innocently simple, and most superbly complex—playthings for childhood, ornaments of the grave, and companions of the cold corpse in the coffin Flowers, beloved by the wandering idiot, and studied by the deep thinking man of science: Flowers that, of perishing things, are the most heavenly. Flowers that unceasingly expand to Heaven their grateful, and to man their cheerful looks—partners of human joy; soothers of human sorrow; fit emblems of the victor's triumphs, of the young bride's blushes;–welcome to the crowded halls, and graceful upon solitary graves! Flowers are in the volume of nature, what the expression “God is love,' is in the volume of revelation. What a desolate place would be a world without a flower! It would be a face without a smile—a feast without a welcome. Are not flowers the stars of the earth, and are not our stars the flowers of Heaven? One cannot look closely at the structure of a flower without loving it. They are emblems and manifestations of God's love to the creation, and they are the means and ministrations of man's love to his fellow-creatures; for they first awaken in his mind a sense of the beautiful and good. The very inutility of flowers is their excellence and great beauty; for they lead us to thoughts of generosity and moral beauty, detached from and superior to all selfishness; so that they are pretty lessons in nature's book of instruction, teaching man that he liveth not by bread or from bread alone, but that he hath another than an animal life.”

* He was an able writer for the Philadelphia Literary Associaticn


Vol. II.


No. 5.

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“Oh, what a change will not a few hours effect "sighed out an almost broken hearted female, as she paced, with hurried steps and agonized feelings, little short of maniacal, her lonely chamber. “This last wrench has climaxed my sufferings, and given the final stab to my already shattered peace.” She pressed one hand to her throbbing forehead, and, with the other, drew forth her hankerchief, and wiped away the tears of agony which rolled down her pale cheek, and then, sinking into a chair, unable longer to restrain the almost choaking grief under which she labored, exclaimed in sorrow's deepest tone, “O my own, my dear, dear Eustace, are we indeed torn from each other forever?” Nature sunk beneath its own violent emotions, and the delicate frame of the devoted Laura fainted under it.

Laura was the youngest daughter of agentleman of family in the north of Scotland, whose residence was at the foot of a lofty ridge of mountains, called the Pentland Hills, which rise about four miles west of Edinburgh, and extend a considerable distance towards the western boundary of Mid-Lothian. Here the gentle Laura resided with her widowed father, and, by her assiduities and sprightly intelligence, formed the principal source of the enjoyment which he knew.— The house which they occupied stood in a retired situation. A small green plat, with

two or three waving poplars, filled the front GAR.—Vol. II.—No. 5. 105

premises, which were the extreme prospect, except a very limited view of distant scenery on the right, and a still less extent of a public road leading to the town, on the left. Yet more than this, Laura wished not. She had, at a period when most females possess the greatest measure of hilarity of spirit, sunk into a degree of pensiveness, except on some extraordinary and brief occasions, which produced a species of distaste to society. She had experienced no ordinary shock at the loss of her mother, and such a mother as few, comparatively, have known; she was such a one, as few, possessing almost an infinitely less degree of sensibility than Laura did— who, in fact, was all sensibility—could have lost, without deeply deploring her.

The wound which her mind from this circumstance had received, was yet unhealed, when another, laceratingly painful, was inflicted on it; and inflicted, too, by the hand of a dastard, who ought to have shielded her from another pang, even at the hazard of his own existence. But he had not soul enough to know her worth, or the craven spirit which he displayed would have been exchanged for the noble and unbending conduct of a man of truth and honor. Such conduct, because of its frequency and consequences, deserves all the reprehension which the strongest language can express. The miscreants are pests to society, and should be scouted from it. Freezing pity, and burning execration, are sooner or later their wretched possession.

From these repeated attacks, acting powerfully on a delicate constitution, and a class of feelings so finely strung, that, like the Æolian harp, which sends forth plaintive music at the softest breeze, trembled at every touch; she writhed beneath mental throes of the most

violent character, and hence too it was, that a

106 The Separation.

VoI. II.

melancholy tinge—foreign to her natural temperament—had infected her, making the quiet seclusion of the family dwelling to possess more charms for her, than all the gay scenes of London, Venice, or Paris could have afforded. Here, day after day, and week after week, the mourning Laura brooded over her sorrows and her wrongs. Her wrongs! Yes, her wrongs!—but she conceived not so of them; her kind and noble nature thought of them by another, by a milder name—for, she was used to say, “I cannot disesteem that which I once ...}} The chief and almost only pleasure she now enjoyed arose from the interest which she took in affording instruction to some few children of the poor around her, and occasionally visiting the chamber of sickness, or the abodes of want and wretchedness. That gracious Being, however, whose “tender mercies are over all his works,” and who delights not in the unhappiness of any of his creatures, marked with compassion her “lifesapping” sorrow; and, at the moment when the bereavement and disappointment which she had met with, were pressing upon the very vitals of her existence, and threatening speedy death, He, in the order of His providence, brought her acquainted with one, whose union of spirit with her own, and similarity of circumstances in some of their darkest shades, through which she had passed, not only tended greatly to rouse her languid powers, but threw around her path once more, some of the fascinations of life, bringing gradually and by degrees, into full play, those vivid sensibilities of her nature, which she had hastily imagined were destroyed for ever. A variety of circumstances, perfectly matural, and yet equally unforseen and unexpected, brought them frequently together. A nameless something, in the habits and spirits of Eustace, led the sympathizing Laura to conceive that some blighting affliction had produced a reservation, bordering on gloominess, in her friend, which elicited from her, numberless acts of kindness, the result of friendship in its purest character. What, indeed, may have been the circumstances of Eustace, even conjecture has not developed. Whatever they might have been, it was fully evident to the searching eye and sensitive solicitude of Laura, they had been of a rough and destructive character, and that was sufficient with her to produce a strong desire in her mind to serve him. Retiring as Eustace was in his general habits, and cold and distant as were even his civilities, if he possessed any, still he was far from being indifferent to the kind sympathies of the attentive Laura; and as he became gradually acquainted with her history, he felt no less a measure of symoathy for her, and a desire to alleviate her

sorrows, than she had experienced towards himself. Time rolled on, and every passing period rendered the interviews of Eustace and Laura more pleasurable to each. Eustace became a favorite with her father, and a frequent visitor at their retired dwelling. Friendship of the purest, most disinterested and lofty kind, possessed each of them, and in the exercise of that sacred feeling, they strove to advance each other's best interests. Kind solicitudes for the mutual welfare of

each other, and their endeavors to promote it,

were not uselessly employed. The advice and exhortations of Eustace were rendered salutary to the mind of Laura, while the counsel and kindness of Laura did not become less beneficial to Eustace. In their experience, the imaginings of the poet found the substance it had airily conceived of, while the cold and insincere formalities of professing friends, might have been fired by its contemplation, or have been made to blush at its comparison. Time rolled on, and still their friendship grew, without either knowing, or even conceiving, that a softer passion might possibly succeed. His the thought might at any time occur to them, Laura believed it impossible on her own part, while Eustace even dreaded its existence. Each possessed, in the company of the other, all they wished to enjoy, and all, they knew, they could possess. Laura had lately, in company with a young lady of her acquaintance, visited an interesting invalid, a few miles from home. For two years she had been gradually, but perceptibly, sinking; and now, was fast hastening to that home “where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.” A request had been made by her parents, through Laura's friend, that Eustace would likewise visit her: to this request he cheerfully consented; and, in company with the ladies, he walked to the house of affliction. It was a fine evening, towards the latter end of May, when the party set forth on their errand of Christian love; and, as they walked onwards, the beauty of the scenery, the charms of nature, and the goodness of Him from whom cometh every good and every perfect gift, intermingled with remarks relative to piety, of an individual and practical character, occupied their thoughts, and furnished them with abundance of the most interesting matter for conversation, until they reached the house. The situation of the place was most romantic. The house stood on a level spot, more than half way down a deep glen, and was surrounded by some ninety or hundred acres of rich pasture and meadow land, every part of which was now in a high state of cultivation. No. 5.

The Separation.


The visitors had already reached the brow of the lofty hill which rose above the dwelling, and were gently proceeding when Eustace, who was an enthusiastic admirer of nature, in all her varied forms, stood still, to gaze awhile on the wide and fascinating prospect which was spread before him. On their right, and partly before them, lay a rich and extensive valley, in the bed of which, winding in serpentine forms, flowed a beautiful river. Occasionally its waters were hid behind jutting plots of land, and then, again, broke forth to the sight, looking like a rich mirror embossed in a frame of emerald, as the sun rested upon its surface, and the sloping pastures hemmed it in on either side. Here and there, as if to relieve the eye, and give a picturesque effect to the scenery, a rustic bridge was discovered, spanning the stream, and forming a medium of communication to the several inhabitants of the country. o, the front distance, a vast extent of hilly country stretched as far as the eye could extend its power of vision, while some rude and precipitous chasms, and abrupt and lofty acclivities, diversified the view. On the left, a portion of unequal land was terminated by a dark copse of fir, birch, and oak trees, growing on the side and summit of another hill, even loftier than that on which Eustace and his companions stood. A humble dwelling or two graced different parts of the scene, and lower down the valley, in the extreme prospective, a few scattered houses, with a glittering village kirk spire, might be discovered. Not a cloud stood in the heavens. The sun gave a gorgeous brilliancy to every object, while a cooling breeze played round the tops of the mountains, giving a cheering freshness to the atmosphere. Eustace was enraptured. Again and again, he pointed out the objects as they rose before him to Laura; and then, with emotions which could not be expressed, feeling the sublime language of Thomson, mentally exclaimed,

* + * God is ever present, ever felt,
In the wide waste, as in the city full

:k sk * * * I cannot go
Where universal love nor smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns;
From seeming evil still educing good,
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I loose
Myself in Him, in Light ineffable;
Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise.

The party moved on, and soon reached the habitation of the invalid. The ladies entered, and Eustace followed. There sat a form, wasted by slow consumption, which had once been lovely, and which even now retained some relics of former

beauty. A deep hectic flush played upon her cheeks, her lips were of an ashy paleness, and her dim eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. Occasionally, a distressing cough seemed to tear her shattered system, while her faint and tremulous voice was scarcely audible. Immediately opposite the place where she sat, stood a rude sort of sofa, which she had occasionally used as such, on which to rest her weak frame. There, Laura took her seat with her companion; while Eustace drew a chair close to the youthful sufferer, and strove to instruct and comfort her. The sinfulness of human nature, the atonement of the Saviour, and the way to God through faith in that blood, were the things upon which by turns he dwelt. Tears flowed plentifully from the sinking penitent's eyes, as he spoke to her, and exhibited the cheering evidences of the Saviour's mercy, and expatiated on the peace and happiness of a better world. He then took the Holy Scriptures, and read from its sacred contents, and afterwards in solemn prayer commended her to God. During the period that Eustace was hanging over the invalid, and pointing out to her the way of salvation, the eye of Laura was fixed upon him with unmoving attention; she listened with an interest beyond what she had ever before experienced. At times a silent tear stole down her cheek, and told the powerful feelings of her mind. At length, unable longer to contain her emotions, she rose, and walked out by herself into a small paddock, which lay through a little garden adjoining the house, and there gave uncontrolled vent to her feelings. Eustace had marked her grief, and now observed her departure. Af. ter waiting with anxiety for her return, he felt alarmed at her absence, and walked out to seek her. It was some time, however, before he could ascertain the way she had taken. At length he discovered her at a distance, evidently almost overcome by the feelings under which she labored. He instantly passed hastily through the garden towards her. She turned, and, seeing him approaching, motioned with her hand for him to go back. With reluctance he obeyed, and, entering again the house, made such an apology for her as seemed necessary, and, shortly afterwards, with Laura's female friend, bade its inhabitants farewell, and hasted to join her. The road by which they returned was in another direction from that by which they came. A lofty hill lay before them. Laura leaned on Eustace's arm, as they ascended, while her female companion, like a bounding roe, skipped on before them. They gained the summit, and again gazed with admiration on the gorgeous scenery. But, while they gazed

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