From this instructive narrative some important lessons may be learned. We see manifested the two natures of Jesus of Nazareth. He appeared, as he sat weary upon the well, as a man. As such, he was subject to human infirmities. He wearied as a man; he thirsted as a man; he hungered as a man, "for his disciples were gone away into the city to buy meat;" he possessed social sympathies as a man. If we pass beyond the simple record of the narrative, we find the proofs of his humanity scattered all along his history, from his birth to his death. He increased in knowledge and wisdom and stature as a man; he toiled and was tempted and suffered and died as a man. But he was not merely a man. He was "God manifest in the flesh." He knew the character of the woman of Samaria, as God; he knew the thoughts of men, as God ; he cast out devils, he healed the sick, and raised the dead, as a Divine Being. He confidently pointed to his works, and said to his accusers, "These are my witnesses,” and they bore ample proof of the divinity of his mission. And when the woman of Samaria expressed her belief in a coming Messiah, he positively declared, "I that speak unto thee am he." Could he have been mistaken? Did he not know his own nature, offices, and work? He then, who sat on the well and talked thus with the woman, was God-man—“ the Christ, the Saviour of the world." It is not a mere form, We see the nature of true religion. or outward ceremony. It is represented under the figure of water-" a well of water, springing up into everlasting life." It is a purifying principle—it makes men better, holier, cleansing them of the impurities of an unholy life. It is an open and ample fountain, in which all may wash and be clean. It is a satisfying principle—" Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst." Men drink at other fountains-the fountain of sensual pleasure— the fountain of earthly abundance and popular applause— and thirst again. They are not satisfied with temporal good; it does not make them happy. Give them all that their greedy imaginations may have coveted-wealth, fame, and sensual gratification-and they are continually thirsting for more. Nothing short of true religion can meet the deep, strong, earnest desires of the human soul. This too is an active principle; this well of water is continually "springing up into everlasting life." The water never becomes stagnant and still, and consequently impure and unhealthy. It is a living fountain-making verdant and fruitful everything around it. WHAT THOUGH ILL BETIDE US. BY C. D. STUART. O! WHAT though ill betide us, The darkest storm that sadness Our best and brightest treasure, Is in the hearts that love us A linked and golden chain. A charmed and shining mail— O! what though ill betide us, OUR homes-what is their corner-stone but the virtue of women? And on what does social well-being rest, but on our homes? Must we not trace all other blessings of civilized life to the door of our private dwellings? Are not our hearthstones-guarded by the holy forms of conjugal, filial, and parental love, (the corner-stones of church and state)— more sacred than either-more necessary than both? Let our temples crumble, and our academies decay-let every public edifice, our halls of justice, and our capitols of state, be leveled with the dust-but spare our homes. Man did not invent, and he cannot improve or abrogate them. A private shelter to cover in two hearts dearer to each other. than all the world-high walls to seclude the profane eyes of every human being-seclusion enough for children to feel that mother is a peculiar name—this is home, and here is the birthplace of every virtuous impulse, of every sacred thought. Here the church and the state must come for their origin and support. Oh, spare our homes! The love we experience there, gives us our faith in an Infinite Goodness; the purity and disinterested tenderness of home is our foretaste and our earnest of a better world. In the relations there established and fostered, do we find through life the chief solace and joy of existence. What friends deserve the name compared with those whom a birthright gave us? One mother is worth a thousand friends-one sister, dearer and truer than twenty intimate companions. We who have played on the same hearth under the light of smiles-who date back to the same season of innocence and hope-in whose veins runs the same blood-do we not find that years only make more sacred and important the tie that binds us? Coldness may spring up-distance may separate-different spheres may divide; but those who can love anything, who continue to love at all, must find that the friends who God himself gave are wholly unlike any we can choose for ourselves, and that the yearning for these is the strongest spark in our expiring affection. ELIZABETH WILSON. BY L. MARIA CHILD. [The following story is founded upon facts which occurred during the latter part of the eighteenth century. The leading incidents are still in the memory of many of the inhabitants of Chester county, Pennsylvania.] ELIZABETH WILSON was of humble though respectable parentage. From infancy she was remarked for beauty and a delicate nervous organization. Her brother William, two years older, was likewise a handsome child, with a more sturdy and vigorous frame. He had a gentle, loving heart, which expended its affections most lavishly on his mother and little sister. In their early years Lizzy was his constant shadow. If he went to the barn to hunt for eggs, the little one was sure to run prattling along with him, hand in hand. If he pelted walnuts from the tree, she was sure to be there with her little basket, to pick them up. They sat on the same blue bench to eat their bread and milk; and with the first jack-knife he ever owned, the affectionate boy carved on it the letters W. and E. for William and Elizabeth. The sister lavishly returned his love. If a pie was baked for her, she would never break it till Willie came to share; and she would never go to sleep unless her arms were about his neck. Their mother, a woman of tender heart and yielding tem per, took great delight in her handsome children. Often when she went out to gather chips or brush, she stopped to look in upon them, as they sat on the blue bench, feeding each other from their little porringers of bread and milk The cross-lights from a side-window threw on them a reflection of the lilac bushes, so that they seemed seated in a flow ering-grove. It was the only picture the poor woman had; but none of the old masters could have equalled its beauty. The earliest and strongest development of Lizzy's character was love. She was always caressing her kitten, or twining her arms about Willie's neck, or leaning on her mother's lap, begging for a kiss. A dozen times a day she would look earnestly into her mother's eyes, and inquire, most beseechingly, "Does you love your little Lizzy?" And if the fond answer did not come as promptly as usual, her beautiful eyes, always plaintive in their expression, would begin to swim with tears. This "strong necessity of loving," which so pervades the nature of woman, the fair child inherited from her gentle mother; and from her, too, inherited a deficiency of firmness, of which such natures have double need. To be every thing, and do every thing, for those she loved, was the paramount law of her existence. Such a being was of course born for sorrow. Even in infancy, the discerning eye might already see its prophetic shadow resting on her expressive countenance. The first great affliction of her life was the death of her mother, when she was ten years old. Her delicate nerves were shattered by the blow, and were never afterwards fully restored to health. The dead body of her beloved mother, with large coins on the eye-lids, was so awfully impressed on her imagination, that the image followed her everywhere, even into her dreams. As she slept, tears often dropped from her tremulous eye-lashes, and nightmare visions made her start and scream. There was no gentle voice near to soothe her perturbed spirit; none to throw an angel's shining robe over the hideous spectre that lay so cold and stiff in the halls of memory. Her father fed and clothed his children, and caused them to be taught to read and write. It did not occur to him that any thing more was included in parental duty. Of clothing for the mind, or food for the heart, he knew nothing, for his own had never been clothed and fed. He came weary from daily toil, ate his supper, dozed in his chair awhile, and then sent the children to bed. A few times after the death of his wife, he kissed his daughter; but she never ventured |