An unvaried monotony of existence is the reign of desolation. Age, infirmity, sickness, or adversity, may detach the affections from the love of society; but never, in the bloom of youth, in the spring of our days; never, where the natural inclination for sociability is strong, can the will become so resigned to its destiny, as to be happy under a privation so severe. Every better feeling of our nature rises up to oppose it—warmth of temperament, benevolence, tenderness, and affection.
In this state of mind week after week passed over Rosilia at the Bower.
The usual season had commenced when Dr. Lovesworth visited his Hermitage. Fond of country diversions and exercise, Rosilia was happy to avail herself of the occasion; and often when her parents were indisposed to leave home, she accompanied him in his rambles. It was in one of these excursions he informed her that the health of Philimore was in a dangerous state, so much so, that his medical attendant conceived his life precarious. Rosilia heard the news with alarm and dismay, for should such fears be verified how would her sister support the shock?
"For this amiable young man," continued the Doctor, "I have felt nearly the affections of a father; and should it please Providence to call him from us, I shall grieve for him as a parent would for a favourite son. Nevertheless, though it it is with pain I see his dissolution approaching, I would not pro-
