Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied page. The mind, that mysterious, unfathomable, undying, immortal part of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions--and all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct, the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.

Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which nature is decked. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty, till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature, to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.

Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an unclouded sky--the mirror of a spotless mind.