GENTLE reader, (I own to conservatism sufficient to admire, yea, even love, that old-fashioned appellation,) hast thou a love for the many beautiful things our great Father has so lavishly scattered around us? Comes the sound of birdmusic to thine ear, like the sweet voices of familiar friends; and to thine eye, do the sun and stars bring a lustre as of heaven? Yearnest thou ever, for the merry laughter of some hill-side stream; or the more mournful melody of the evening wind? Goest thou to heavy wood or shaded vale, to hold more intimate communion with the beautiful spirits of the universe? And more than all-learnest thou of the strength and beauty, the weakness and imperfection of God's children-dwell they in the straw-thatched cabin, by the peasant's hearth, or at the palaceboard? The tempted, struggling-sometimes enduring, sometimes failing human heart--lovest thou this? has it a beauty for thee, in its loves and hopes, its high purposes and holy aims; a beauty brighter than tree, or stream, or flower, even in its frailties and imperfections-a beauty of holiness in the first and in the last, a holiness born of the thought, that out of that which to man seemeth evil, God is ever bringing good; and that all-the lowest as well as the highest of his children, are necessary to complete that chain-the first and last link of which is held by the hand of our eternal Father. If these have a charm for thee, then perchance, we who have met but seldom, and then only for a little season, may meet again of a pleasant morn or even, and together hold sweet converse. I shall bring thee but little that is truly sorrowful; for with God and good angels all about us, how can life have any thing to weep for-one grief over which to mourn! Ah, no-to me, as to all of his children, has our heavenly parent given more of joy than wo-more to make the eye bright with happiness and the lip laughing with mirth, than the one dim with tears, and the other pale with grief. And this I will tell thee of my friend; and thou-if thou canst go on in thy

path of life, and about thy daily duties, with one shadow less upon thy brow, and one hope more within thy heart-then blest indeed will have been our meeting.

And now, gentle friend and reader, were it a creation of my own, I were to bring thee, I would never have premised with the questionart thou a lover of the beautiful? For in this instance, (if ever) my pen will not prove a beautifier; and I only wish it were a diamond instead of the grey-feathered thing that it is; then perhaps the thousand beautiful rays falling from its point, might give you a tithe of the loveliness of the charming character I would portray.

Lizzie Brown was a poor little girl-a very poor little girl. Her home was not among the favored, as to the good or even the comfortable things of this world. It had not even the shadow of a roof-tree, or the rustling of a vine-leaf, or the perfume of bud or blossom. And worse and more missed than all-within it, was not the light of cheerful and conscientious parent faces.

The house in which Lizzie first opened her eyes upon the things of the lower world, was a miserable little log-cabin; consisting of one large, and of course, airy room below, and the same above, save that the latter was not quite as high as the former. In front of the house, the ground sloped gradually to the road, and was almost as barren and stony as the highway. In one end of the building was a door, and in the other were two small windows, containing four lights of glass in each. And here, to one of these low windows, Lizzie would come, when but a little child, as near the window as possible, place her bare feet upon the leather bottom, and lean her round, red cheek against the frame; or if the window was pushed aside, hang her little form partially across the logs, and with her elbow resting on the outer verge of the sill, and her chubby hands supporting each cheek, look up into the blue sky, or out upon the green fields and heavy forests, or watch the little children playing round the neat white cottages and low, brown dwellings, that were scattered all along the opposite side of Oneida Creek, and wonder, child that she was-why other homes were so much happier and pleasanter than hers; and why, about the low shelter that covered her, there was no green grass, such as she saw in the fields; and no trees like those in the woods. And one day, after she had been for a long time in her old place, and her little heart was brim full of happiness, that had come into it from out

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of door beauty, she turned her sparkling, animated face toward her mother, and asked, Why don't we have posies and trees, too, mother?" And the reply was, "Posies and trees-poor folks can't spend their time planting trees, nor taking care of posies!" And thus the love of nature, innate in the fair child, had no nourishing nor care, but was shut down in her own heart, to be nursed and fed by every beautiful thing around her.

Lizzie's father was a man of talent, as many people have it. He was shrewd, hard to be beat at a joke or a story; had gathered up considerable information upon many subjects; was quite energetic-a zealous politician—and had a manner of doing things very much in earnest; but his health was feeble, not allowing him to do one day's work out of ten upon his rather poor farm, which required a great deal of cultivation to render it profitable; and he had acquired a habit of gambling, which of itself were enough to ruin a man, and all who depend upon him for support; and with his miserable health and had habits, and the neglect and indolence of Mrs. Brown, it was almost impossible for them to keep their land, and the hovel that sheltered them. But Mr. Brown was remarkably patient and good humored, and trials sat not so heavily upon him as upon his wife. She, poor woman, was always unhappy-always fretting, fuming and scolding; she had more trouble than any other man, woman, or child in all the world. Poverty troubled her-her husband troubled her -her children troubled her-every thing, any thing troubled Mrs. Brown, except disorder and filth-this never troubled her. She would sit for hours, with her table in the middle of the floor, containing its weight of unwashed dishes; with her torn, dirty cap upon one side of her head, puff, puffing away, at her old, greasy pipe, with the corner of her apron turned up across her lap, and her feet resting upon the round of a chair; and as often as her husband came in her way, she gave him her accustomed greeting,"Little did I know you was so poor, or I'd never married you, not I. Think I'd leave a good father's house, (the father's house was somewhat better than the husband's; but her good father, as she called him, did not allow his children to gather long under its roof; it was a part of his philosophy, that they must earn their own bread or starve,) to come here and be your slave, and freeze and starve at that? No indeed, Mr. Brown-it's well for you that you made me think you were rich." From this very wife-like expres

sion of feeling, Mr. Brown would turn away with a whistle or a laugh, wishing, meanwhile, the day had never been born, on which she thought him rich.

The children, if possible, were more trouble than the father. Giving one a thump and the other a shake, she would cry out-"Out the way, you good-for-nothing brats, or I'll clear out! I'll not stay here, and spend my time drudging for you!” And off they ran, like frightened young gipsies, to avoid a second cuff.

And these, gentle reader, these were Lizzie Brown's home teachers. This mother, coarse, ignorant, and unaffectionate; loving her children, perhaps, as much as she could love any thing, this father, with his love of card-playing, rendering his home desolate and uncomfortable; thinking but little of the effect poverty and filth and disorder, might have upon the young minds entrusted to his care-of the complicated nature of a child-the thought to be nourished, and the impulse to be crushed-the angel struggling to spread its white wings, and bear its beautiful message to the world; the lower nature, satisfied with the things of earth, -of this, alas! the mother knew nothing; and the father, if he had ever felt it, had laid it aside, or buried it amid the rubbish he had taken to his heart, as he journeyed on through life. What wonder, then, that poor little lonely Lizzie, should run away of a spring or autumn day, and roam about the meadows and the woods; or skip stones across the wild, "deep stream of the hills;" or listen to the wild dashing of the water, as it was thrown high in the air, by the great wheel of the factory, that flew round and round, as though some evil spirit was chasing it? Ah! many a day did the little creature spend in this manner; not a flower unfolded its delicate leaves by the dusty road-side, or nestled amid the green grass of the fields, or pressed out from the mossy knolls of the forest, but she knew its name and its hour of blossoming. She was out in the first spring days, when other children feared the air was yet too cold, and she ceased not her rambling until late in Autumn. She explored all the fields and valleys, and the little willow-basket that hung on her arm, was filled with curiosities from the great store-house of nature. Every curious stone she saw, every petrifaction she found among rocks on the hills, or by the creek-side-every new bud, or grass, or blossom, was put into her basket, and taken to some one that could tell her the name, and then put away as precious treasures. Not a cluster of stars

shone in the sky, but she knew their form and their hour of coming; (save those that are seen late at night) and she would stand upon the stony ground in front of the house, hour after hour, in the evening, and with her dimpled hands pointing to the sky, exclaim, in a clear, laughing voice, "O, there 'tis-there 'tis !" Not a cloud floated above her, but she watched its silvery grace, and remembered it as a thing of beauty ever after. She could distinguish the voices of the winds through the different trees of the wood; and the little birds that built their nests in the meadows or on the low bushes, were her especial care; she carried crumbs and scattered about their nests, and fed them as they flew about the house. And these were Lizzie's early, silent, voiceless, but effective teacherswere they not spiritual guardians-these beautiful children of nature? Hung they not around the heart of the fair child, fadeless, unwithering garlands-fresh with the dew of love and truth, upon which rested a charm, that should keep her forever free from the touch of sin?

When James was old enough to run with her, Lizzie led him through the old places where she had been, and with their brown, tow frocks, torn and greasy; their feet chafed by the wind, and worn by stones; and their yellow hair blown by the wind or kissed by the sun; with old tiger close to their heels, they roamed through dingle and dell, over the hills and along the creek, happy, loving, sympathizing children; laughing at each other's pleasures, and mourning over each other's sorrows. Ah! many a child has been driven, like Lizzie Brown, from the hearth of home, to find companionship among the beautiful things of the outer world; or more weak and frail, perhaps, than she, gave no heed to these, but rushed recklessly into the cold, unpitying, unforgiving world; struggling and toiling and striving, until weary and broken-hearted, the tempter tempted all too winningly; or the white wings of the angel within, shrank from the touch of sin-twining closer and closer round the spirit; and finally, the grave, with its dusty pillow and grassy covering, became the only quiet resting place of one, who found not rest where mortals should ever meet it, in a mother's love and a father's care.

When Lizzie was about five years old, her father concluded that she must go to school; and her mother, little caring where she was, provided she was not in her way, said, "It would be as well for her to go to school, as to run in the woods, she s'posed;" and accordingly the child

was sent away, one bright spring morning, with her brown tow-frock rather cleaner than usual, and her dinner of buckwheat cakes, and a peeled onion, in a basket hanging on her arm. The scholars, most of them more fortunate in many things, than Lizzie, stared at her with a look of mirth and wonder upon their faces, during the morning; and when at noon she drew out her cold cakes, and onion, a roar of laughter went round the room. Lizzie, poor, ignorant child, did not know that she was the cause of their merriment, till she heard "buckwheat cakes" from one, and "yes, and cold, too," from another, and "an onion for sauce," from a third; and one little, happy-faced fellow, cried in her ear, "Mamina 'ouldn't doo me told takes and onions for dinner-she 'ouldn't." And then she saw the sneer, and heard the remark, "Look at her dress, too, aint it? I guess they're poor enough, don't you?" After the first day, Lizzie went into the corner to eat her dinner, and with her large blue eyes cast down upon her dirty tow dress, munched her cold cakes as fast as possible, keeping her face toward the wall, to avoid the gaze of the scholars. One morning, a few weeks after she had entered school, as she came to the teacher to read, he put his hand tenderly upon her head, and asked, "What makes my little scholar so late this morning?" Lizzie hung her head still lower, but did not reply, and the teacher put his hand under her chin, and raised her face, repeating the question; but she did not reply; and then he said, "Look up, you must tell me why you played so long by the way?" Lizzie looked up, with her beautiful eyes filled with tears, and her little form all of a tremor, and answered, "Cause, sir, I don't like to come here."

"Don't like to come here! Don't you like to learn, when you can learn so easy? Would you not like to know how to read, so that you can have books and papers of your own?"

"O yes, sir, I like to read, and I like books and papers; but I don't like to come here. I'd rather stay out with the little birds and flowers." "Why don't you like to come here? Don't you like me, nor the scholars?"

"I like you, but the scholars laugh at me; they call me poor, dirty, ragged Lizzie, and say I had better stay at home till I can have better dinners and new frocks. And I don't want to stay here."

As Lizzie ceased, her lip quivered, and she looked up to her master with a pleading expresVOL. XX.

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sion upon her face, as though asking, Will y let me go, sir? The good teacher was himself poor, as far as the want of yellow dust makes one poor; he had known something of toil and privation, and was then teaching, as a means by which to procure a more liberal education. As he looked around upon the scholars, his dark eye flashed with indignation, and he spoke more severely than he had done before-" Let me hear no more of this-this little girl has the same right here that you have, and it matters not what she eats, or what she wears. See, all of you, that you behave as well as she does; and remember, let me hear no more of your laughs or scorn." Then he drew Lizzie upon his knee, and encircling her with his arm, laid his cheek upon her hair, and soothed and fondled her, 'till she forgot her griefs; and after she had read, she replied to his question, if she would come again? "O yes, sir, every day.”

Lizzie had no more trouble of the same nature, for when the scholars ceased "plaguing" her, (as she said) she began to exhibit the beauty of her heart, and they soon learned to love her. From her obedience and studiousness, she became the "master's" peculiar favorite; he would meet her at the school-house door, as she came in good season in the morning, and lifting her in his arms, throw her into the air, and catch her as she came down. He called her his best scholar, and he called her so truly. Combined with her quick perception, was an uncommon degree of eventuality; her concentrativeness was large, her reflective organs full; and she had also an intense desire for study, which, young and frail as she was, seemed prophetic of an early sleep in the church-yard. She learned to spell in a short time, and her teacher, to encourage her, purchased a silver medal, and putting a pink ribbon through it, hung it around her neck, as he asked-" There, Lizzie, does that pay you for being a good girl?" This token of favoritism pleased Mr. Brown, and the next week his little daughter went to school with a new calico dress, and a pair of morocco laced boots the first she had ever worn.

Lizzie learned orthography and geography easily; next she mastered grammar and arithmetic; and then came natural and mental philosophy, and chemistry; and at the age of sixteen, Lizzie Brown was teacher in the same old yellow school-house, where years before she declared to her kind hearted teacher, that she did not like to stay.

After Lizzie left school, she was no more a

scholar; her father was not able to give her any thing more than what he called a good English education; and it was only that she might support herself by teaching, that he had tried to do so much. Poor, careless, and indifferent as he was, he thought it too hard for Lizzie to be kitchen-maid, if there was any other way she could assist herself. But this degree of knowledge did not satisfy Lizzie; she was continually asking for more. A mind like hers, could not rest, and she said, "I must, I can, I will continue to improve." But to accomplish this, required the best use of every moment of her time. She wished to do enough with her needle to purchase her simple, plain clothing, that her school money might go to assist her father (whose health had somewhat improved, and who had given up his habit of card-playing) in repairing his fences, and making his house more comfortable. Every hour in the morning, every moment at evening, was employed in sewing; and after school, there was a plenty of household cares devolving upon her; but she studied far into the night, and added one after another, to the list of her completed studies; toiling on, toiling ever, feeling that for every effort, came a rich reward. To many, so slow a progression would have seemed mere trifling; and yet, this slow, tiresome way of study, was Lizzie Brown's greatest blessing. The time she was compelled to devote to manual labor-the lessons she learned of human nature, in the school-room— the filth and disorder that surrounded her own hearth-stone-the harsh words of her motherand the frail health, and seeming carelessness of her father, these all gave her an opportunityin truth they absolutely compelled her to bring her knowledge to bear upon the things of life; they rendered her not a theorist, but a practicalist. Where she would (independent of something to arouse every principle of her nature) have idealized life with golden fancies, seen only in a poet's dreaming-she had learned to look upon it as a sure and stern reality; scattered around with beauties--but still, and stern, and real; with its rugged mountain-passes not to be avoided; and only to be traversed in fear, by the hero-spirit, that faints not in its journey up the toilsome ascent; but presses on and on, and still on gathering the flowers that grow on each grassy slope; plunging again into the rocky defile; never faltering, never doubting, till he stands on the high, immovable rock of faith and hope and love-" against which the floods may beat, and the rain descend, and the winds blow,

ST. JOHN, in speaking of the Pool of Bethesda, within whose porches a crowd of people were gathered to take advantage of the sudden moving of the waters for the healing of the multitudes, says, "And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity thirty and eight years." That "pool" was probably an intermitting fountain possessing mineral virtues, and at the time of the sudden rising or "troubling" of the waters, they were impregnated with certain healing properties, as in the mineral springs of our own times so resorted to by invalids. The mov