VOL. I.] GRACE GREENWOOD & LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT, Editors, Publishers, and Proprietors. TERMS.-Fifty Cents a year; or Ten Copies for Four Dollars. Payment invariably in advance. All subscriptions and communications to be addressed to LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT, Philadelphia. A wreath for the lov'd one! what fitly composes Not the evergreen band, intertwin'd with fresh roses, Nor diamonds inwreath'd with the braids of her hair. But an Amaranth garland, where Myrtles are blending, As emblems the purest of Love undefiled; The Box and blue Hyacinth vie in revealing Heart's purity beams in the white Water-Lily, Becalms, the more surely the night to illume. No Bachelor's Buttons are fixtures befitting The wreath twined for crowning loved woman's fair form; No Nightshade should lower, that calm brow ever Into gloom that precedes or that follows a storm. True Ladies' Delight should be found in communion With Nature, untricked by the gew-gaws of art: In the fellowship rare of the spirit's pure unionThe reciprocal blending of duplicate hearts. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. TO MY LITTLE BROTHER IN BY ADELAIDE D. CLARKE, (aged eleven years.) PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1854. [No. 3 "I am sure I give away all my money; is not that being generous ?" "You give away the thing, of all others, you I want least, and which it gives you the least trouble to part with. All your wants and wishes are supplied to you, without money." "I give away my books and my toys." "They are constantly replaced by others-not at your own cost, but by the liberality of those whose love is, perhaps, injudicious." "I even give away my pets." "When you are tired of them." Geraldine burst into tears. "I am sure," she said, sobbing, "I am sure people seem to think they have done their duty when they give money; and I -gave-all-mine-yesterday-and uncle Richard-said-I was-sogood-I should-haveplenty-more-to-day." "However necessary money is to us all," ob AUNT JANE'S LITTLE LECTURE. served aunt Jane, gravely, "I often consider Geraldine pulled at the fingers of her gloves, one by one, and then tossed them on the table, while her cheeks flushed and her eyes grew bright, but not with pleasure. giving it as but a small evidence of generosity, particularly when certain of having it replaced. Let us look at this matter steadily, and with a gentle yet inquiring spirit. "You gave a shilling to Dame Godfrey, the other morning; you did not want the shilling. Do you remember what she said?" "She said, thank you, my dear young lady; but, oh, how grateful I should be if you would read to me just one chapter in the New Testament.'" "I don't like reading to old women," pouted out Geraldine. "Your generosity did not extend to the sacrifice of doing what you disliked, but Mary Collier's did." "Mary Collier," repeated the little girl, disdainfully; "poor little Mary Collier! how can she be generous?" "Mary Collier's chest is weak, and heaves and pants when she reads aloud, and yet I often find her sitting beside Dame Godfrey's bed, and doingwhat you refused to do—though you can read and sing, without panting. Your shilling gift robbed you neither of ease nor comfort; Mary Collier sacrificed both-that was generosity. And there is that poor, aged woman, Alice Grey; Alice is one of the most truly generous women I ever knew." “Alice!” exclaimed Geraldine; "Why Alice would not have had a dinner at Christmas, but for your kindness-how can she be generous?" prayer, and had very seldom-proved how a prayer is answered, when it is laid before the footstool of the Almighty in a pure and humble spirit. "Aunt Jane" loved her dearly, and the more dearly she loved her, the more anxious she became that Geraldine should conquer the evil and cultivate the good of her disposition; but that is a thing the young are slow to understand. They think-silly things-that those who love them most, will indulge them most. read at three. Half his time was spent in contradiction. He was absurd enough to suppose that he knew better than his teachers; he would not, of course, say he did, but he would act as if he did. He knew nothing of the generosity which yields a will to the will of others he had not learned the duty of obedience, and did not see its advantages." "I will tell you," continued, aunt Jane, after a pause-for she was so wise, that she paused to let one thing sink into Geraldine's mind, before she spoke of another—“I will tell you of a boy, who had a very aggravating temper-it was not so very violent, but it was wilful, obstinate, unyielding; if "There is one great gift, amongst many which he was told to read at one o'clock, write at two, GOD gives us at our birth, Geraldine, and which and do his Latin exercise at three, he would argue remains with us from the cradle to the grave-that it would be better to do his Latin at one, and OUR TIME. We work it or waste it-we sell it and exchange it; but still it is our own-it is the only treasure the working man, or the working woman possesses; we have no right to squander or abuse it, or to lead others to do so. Now, Alice lives by her TIME-mind you, she lives by it—so she understands and appreciates its value. If she leaves her daily labor, even for an hour, she knows that she is depriving herself of a certain quantity of food, or light, or fire, or abridg. ing the size or quality of her poor dress, miserably scanty as it is; and yet, Alice Grey gives that hour-aye, and many hours-to comfort the fatherless and the widow; she works for othersshe thinks for others-she deprives herself of what to her is necessary, to serve others. That is generosity. "I saw a little boy, the other day, go into a baker's shop; he was really hungry, and he was very fond of buns-all little boys are-but the great matter was, he was hungry; he bought a large two-penny bun; he was so hungry that he turned all the marbles and bits of string, and odds and ends of queer boy-like things, out of his pockets, hoping to find another penny, to add a small bun to the large one, but he had not even another farthing; so he took a great, hungry bite out of his bun, and looked with pleasure at the piece in his hand, spotted over with little black currants. What a nice bun,' said the little boy, and I am so hungry!" When he looked up from the bun, he saw a pair of large, blue eyes, staring from amid a shock of wild hair. Alas! the nose and lips, the very cheeks, of the child who gazed so eagerly at his bun, were pinched and yellow from starvation. My little friend saw it in a moment, and not a moment did he hesitate, but, without a word, he walked up to the starving child, and placed the remainder of his bun in his thin hand. That was generosity. The boy who had the bun was hungry and poor, yet he remained hungry, rather than suffer one poorer and more hungry than himself to starve. Now, it is not enough for you to say, 'well done, fine fellow!' but I want you to go and do likewise.' It is not enough for the heart to beat and the eyes to swim in tears, when a generous action is recorded; if it makes a proper impression, you will not be happy until you have done likewise.'" Geraldine looked straight on. She hardened her heart sometimes, and when she did, you saw it in the expression of eyes turned almost to stoneeyes hard and tearless. She had a long time believed that she was very generous in giving her money; her aunt's observations had nearly convinced her that generosity was something more than giving what she did not care for or want, and it made her very uncomfortable; but she was too stubborn to confess she was wrong. God had not yet softened her heart. She knew but little of 'Its advantages ?" questioned Geraldine. "Yes, its advantages. Is it not an advantage to have every thing provided, every thing thought of, every thing prepared, every thing that the experience and knowledge of age can suggest, done for youth-the thorns removed from their path, the whole business of life arranged, so as to prepare them for the future with the least possible outlay of trouble to themselves-and all required in return being attention and obedience?" Geraldine's eyes were growing less stony, and she half muttered, in a low tone, "that is true." "This boy, like many girls, wanted to learn only what he liked; and it would have been diffi cult to teach him even on these terms, for what he liked this week he did not like next; and such was his spirit of opposition, that if it were wished he should like this, he would be sure to rush at the belief that he liked that. "If you are so contradictory,' said his father, no one will love you.' "I don't care for being loved,' said the boy. "Oh, very well,' said his father. "The next morning, when he came down stairs, he looked round, and then offered his mother his morning kiss. She turned from him, and he saw she had been weeping. "You do not care for being loved,' said his father, and so, as you do not care about being loved, you must try to live without love. Love has hitherto toiled for you; love has clothed you, love has fed you, love has educated you, love has had patience with you, love has rewarded you, love has watched over you, love has cherished you, love has found fault with you, love has wept for you, love has prayed for you-from your cradle you have been ministered to by love; but you do not care for being loved-so, now live without love.' "The boy's heart was hard, and so he thought he could live without his father's work and his mother's blessing; he thought he could live without love. He had no GENEROSITY in his natureif he had, he would have curbed his temper; he would have yielded all he had to yield—his will to the will of those who loved him. He had nothing but that to give, in return for the years of love, of labor, of thought, of prayer, he had cost his parents. It never entered into his head to think, or into his heart to feel, that his obedience, his docility, his curbing himself, would have been generous." Aunt Jane!" exclaimed Geraldine, bursting into a flood of honest tears, "though not a boy, I am that boy. Oh, pray with me—pray for me— this New Year's day; pray that I may feel, and practice, and believe, that giving up what we most cherish, is the only true generosity." Firfield, England. COUNTRIES I HAVE SEEN. Travels, Descriptions, Tales and Historical Sketches. BY GRACE GREENWOOD. LINCOLN CATHEDRAL AND YORK MINSTER. Lincoln is an old, old town in the interior of England, and was one of the strongholds of the ancient Britons, and, after them, of the Romans, under Julius Cæsar. Roman walls, pavements and coins are found in the city to this day. The greatest curiosities of the place are the ruins of a fine old castle, prettily overgrown with moss, ivy and wall-flowers, and a magnificent cathedralbuilt, or rather founded, by a Bishop Remegeus, somewhere about the year 1090, but not completed till the year 1380. So, you see, it is rather slow work building these immense and splendid churches. This cathedral stands on a high hill, and can be seen from a great distance every way. I will not try to give you an idea of its beauty and grandeur-of its height and length and breadthof its splendid carved arches and enormous pillars-its statues and gorgeous windows of stained glass. Until you go abroad, you will never see such buildings. They cost countless sums of money, which the kings and priests of Catholic countries persuade or compel the people to raise. Many and many a poor man has given his last hard-earned penny for the building of some grand church or monastery, when his family were suffering for the want of food and clothing. We Protestants do not believe that God, our kind Father, requires or is pleased with such sacrifices from his poor children. We believe what He tells us, in the Scripture, that He dwells not in splendid temples, made by human hands, but in the pure hearts of all who believe in Him and love Him. We went up to the summit of the highest cathedral tower, and had a wide view over a beautiful country. While up there, we heard a great bell strike the hours in a belfry a little way beneath us. It gave out such a thunderous sound, that the old stone tower trembled frightfully. But we did not hear the big bell of all. "The great Tom," as he is called, must be a very grand, aristocratic old bell, as he never rings but on great occasionssuch as Christmas, or a sovereign's coronation. I believe he condescended to peal out on the birth of the Prince of Wales, making the old belfry rock again; but I don't suppose he has made any account of the many princes and princesses that have followed. After we descended from the tower, we saw service performed. There was a grand organ, that sent its solemn music.rolling and swelling up through the arches and down that vast cathedral, like great billows of delicious sound. Then followed the sweetest singing you can imagine, from a band of boys, who are carefully trained for choristers. Afterwards we went out, and walked quite round the cathedral, viewing it on all sides— no trifle of a walk, I assure you. The outside is ornamented with a host of statues, and figures of all sorts-some very queer and funny, though they are on a holy building. York Minster is a vast and magnificent building-far more beautiful than the cathedral at Lincoln, or than any other that I saw in England. I wandered through it for hours, wondering and ad miring-never satisfied with gazing up at its grand arches of finely carved stone, rising one above another, supported by immense columns-and at the great windows of stained glass, which seemed to turn all the light of the day into glorious rainbows. Nor could I ever tire of listening to the music of the noble organ-now solemn, now joyful-and the sweet chanting of the young choristers, which made me dream of the great music of heaven and the singing of the saints in blessedness. York Minster was founded as long ago as the year six hundred and twenty-seven, by Edwyn, an Anglo-Saxon king of the Northumbrians. This monarch was converted from Paganism, in a rather romantic way, but he proved a very true and faithful Christian, for all that. He wished to marry Edilburga, the daughter of Ethelbert, king of Kent; but that young princess was a Christian, and would not consent to be his wife, though she liked him very well, unless he would promise not only to allow her to enjoy her religious faith, but to renounce Paganism. Edwyn agreed to let Edilburga keep her belief; but, though very much in love, he was too wise and honest to promise to give up his own, without knowing what he was going to have in the place of it. So he told her that he would examine her religion, and if it should appear to him better and purer than his own, he would adopt it and support it with all his power. So Edilburga, who relied on his word, came to York, to be his queen-accompanied by a learned and eloquent minister, named Paulinus, who talked and argued with the king till he acknowledged himself entirely convinced. Then he called a council of his great men and frankly acknowledged his change of sentiments, and called upon them to examine and adopt the new religion. This was a very brave and manly deed for a young king to do. It is always a dangerous thing to meddle with a people's religion, if it is ever so false and bad. It is sacred to those who believe in it—and those who don't believe in it, either fear it, or live by it—so nobody likes to see it touched. Now the armed nobles looked at one another in silent astonishment—the priests looked frightened, or angry, or drew down their faces and rolled up their eyes as though shocked at the king's profanity. Edwyn was pale and his voice shook a little, but not with fear, for God strengthened his heart that it did not fail. A holy light shone in his eye, and he spoke such wise and earnest words that every honest man present felt ready to adopt the religion of Jesus Christ. soldiers attacked the great temple at Godmunding- Philippa. But that gentle queen, when beside her On the spot where King Edwyn was baptized he erected a magnificent stone church. But after his death the Pagans got the upper hand and leveled it to the ground. In the reigns of the warlike kings that followed-some pious, some wicked, it was rebuilt and destroyed so often, that it seemed all the time to be either going up very slowly, or coming down very rapidly. At last, in the year 1216, the present beautiful building was commenced, and in about two hundred years it was finished. So it is now nearly seven hundred years old. THE STORY OF QUEEN PHILIPPA. The young king Edward the Third, was married to the Lady Philippa of Hainault, at York, in the year 1328. Edward was a brave and handsome man, and a very good prince, as princes go-but as for Philippa, she was one of the most beautiful, and amiable, wise and noble of princesses. Even now, men speak her name reverently, and women are proud and happy that such a woman has lived. That was a splendid wedding! Such a magnificent procession followed the royal pair into the Minster-all the highest nobility of England and Scotland-the parliament and conncil-Edward's beautiful mother, Queen Isabella, with her train of fair ladies-foreign princes with their suitessoldiers and musicians and richly robed priests! The Minster was hung with rich draperies, and strewn with flowers-under the arches stood ban was wards the heroic "Black Prince." A temporary scaffolding fell to the ground, with the queen and all her ladies. Nobody was killed and very few were hurt-but there was a prodigious shrieking and confusion-those who were quite unharmed screaming the loudest, of course. King Edward seeing what danger his beloved wife had been in, flew into a terrible rage, and vowed that the carpenter who built the scaffold should instantly be put to death. But queen Philippa, though still pale and trembling from the fright of her fall, threw herself at the feet of her husband and begged him to spare the poor man's life; and Edward yielded to her prayer. Queen Philippa was seldom separated from her husband, but faithfully accompanied him in his journeys, wars and cruises-bravely choosing to share in all his toils and dangers. At length however, the king left her in charge of the kingdom, while he went to make war upon France. He took with him Prince Edward-who was but sixteen years of age-but who won much glory at the great battle of Cressy. King David of Scotland took this opportunity to come down upon England with a mighty army. But Queen Philippa collected her forces and met him at New-Castle-upon-Tyne. After her men were drawn up in order of battle, she rode among them, mounted on her white charger, and entreated them to do their duty to her and their absent king, and to fight manfully for their country. She then commended them to the protection of God, and retired from the battle-field, to pray for their suc-for, brave as she was, Queen Philippa was no fighter, and shrank from the sight of blood and carnage. cess like King David prisoner. After Philippa had got The English were victorious and took the war him lodged safely in the Tower of London, she set before the town of Calais, which he had been besail for France, to join her husband at his camp sieging for several months. And now comes the most beautiful incident in the life of Queen Philippa. The defenders of Calais became at last so re duced by famine, that they were obliged to capitulate. At first Edward declared he would put ners so thick, that they shook and rustled against each other, and all down the aisles there was a great clang of swords and armor. But when Edward and Philippa stood before the altar, no one noticed the splendor of the scene, for gazing on their youthful beauty-and every sound hushed, that their voices might be heard, repeating the solemn words of the priest. As Queen Philippa was passing out of the Min-them all to death; but his counsellor, Sir Walter Wonderful to tell, the first to address the counster, conducted by her husband, she noticed a Mauny, pleaded with him till he softened somewhat cil after the king, was Coifi, the heathen high- plainly dressed youth, leaning against one of the and said: priest, who boldly acknowledged that the deities pillars, whose pale, gentle face some how struck he had been serving were worthless and power- to her heart. It was not the admiration she read less-and declared his willingness to be taught a in his gaze, which made her look at him so earnbetter doctrine. Then a noble spoke, saying-estly; but the great thoughts burning in his eyes. "Oh, mighty king, of what good is our religion? Does it not leave us in thick darkness of ignorance about the great future beyond this life? Like birds that flit about us for a season, then fly away out of our view, we know not whither-so we for a little while on this earth, pass away and no eye can follow us! If the stranger can tell what that life is that begins when our hearts stop their beating-what our souls behold when our eyes have ceased from seeing-where they dwell when the grave has shut over our bodies-then let us receive his teachings!"? Several other speeches like this were made, and all the council professed to be of King Edwyn's opinion. Coifi, the high-priest, became so excited that he proposed at once to set about destroying the heathen temples. So he armed himself, and mounted one of the king's horses, and heading a troop of This was Chaucer, the poet, whose works we Philippa continued always to be as good and Edward, brave and generous as he was, had a quick and stormy temper, and sometimes did cruel things in the heat of passion, when away from "Tell the Governor of Calais that the garrison and inhabitants shall be pardoned, excepting six of the principal citizens, who must surrender themselves to death, with ropes round their necks, bareheaded and bare-footed, bringing the keys of the town and castle in their hands." When Sir Walter bore this message to the Governor of Calais, he caused the bell to be rung, which called all the inhabitants together in the town-hall. He then related to them with many tears the hard sentence of the King of England. It was received with groans and cries of grief and despair. But after a short pause, the most wealthy citizen of Calais, named Eustace St. Pierre, rose and said "Gentlemen, both high and low-it would be a pity to let so many of our countrymen die of famine; it would be highly meritorious in the eyes of our Saviour if such misery could be prevented. If I die to serve my dear townsmen, I trust I shall find grace before the tribunal of God. I name myself first of the six." When Eustace had done speaking, his fellowcitizens threw themselves at his feet, weeping and The Little Pilgrim. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1854. DIED, at New Brighton, Pennsylvania, on the 15th of February, DR. THADDEUS CLARKE, aged 84. Our father was called upon to endure much affliction here-but he always led a useful and a blameless life, and bore a pure and honorable name. He lived to be burdened with years and infirmi blessing him. Then another rich citizen rose and The postage on The Little Pilgrim should be prepaid, by the quarter or year, at the post office of the town in which the subscriber resides. If this is done, the postage will be only six cents a year. Remember this! OUR CONTRIBUTORS. and most popular of living authors-English and Do our friends realize that The Little Pilgrim As King Edward looked down into her tearful presents a list of contributors such as no other publiface, his own face grew soft and tender, for he re- cation of any kind, or size, in this country can membered how she had looked when in her beau-equal; and that this list contains some of the best tiful girlhood she had stood by his side at the altar, in York Minster-so he lifted her up and kissed her, and said—“Ah, lady, I wish you had been anywhere else than here, but you have so entreated that I cannot refuse you. I give the men to you-do as you please with them." Then the Queen conducted the six citizens to her apartments-had the halters taken from their necks, had them clad in handsome clothes, and served with a plentiful dinner. Then she made each of them a present and sent them home with an honorable escort.. I do not believe that these men ever went to bed after that day, without praying for the good Queen Philippa, or blessing her memory. There were many other beautiful acts and incidents in the history of Philippa of Hainault, which I should like to tell you if I had time and spacebut I have not. We publish in this number an original article from the pen of MRS. S. C. HALL, Mr. Devereux is making us a splendid picture for next month. CHANGES. Subscribers who wish to have the postal addresses of papers changed, must state the name of the Post Office to which they have been going and the one to which they are to go. BE CAREFUL. Our friends when sending subscriptions must be careful to write names and addresses plainly, and give the names of town, county and state in full; otherwise there will be delay and trouble. We have now on our table a letter, ordering two copies of The Little Pilgrim, for which, doubtless, there are, somewhere, two pairs of little eyes anxiously looking. But, as the letter is headed simply "Evansville," and the post-stamp is too faint to be read, we cannot tell whether that "Evansville" is in Arkansas, or Virginia; so we are compelled to wait until those little eyes shall grow tired of looking (we are sorry!) and their owners shall beg father, or mother to write again. L. A SPEECH. Boys and girls: I (The Little Pilgrim) am going to make a speech. Now, don't turn your backs of whom we give a biographical and personal sketch and pucker up your rosy lips, and say to yourin another column. selves, grumblingly, "It's going to be a begging We have on hand also, ORIGINAL articles-prose one, I'll bet !" for I'll say it for you, in a minute. and poetic-from -It is going to be "a begging one;" you have guessed it the first time. I want some more Author of "PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY;". "THE money—a good deal more-and some more names CROCK OF GOLD," &c. M. F. TUPPER; CHARLES MACKAY, of the day. TICKNOR & Co., of Boston, have recent- MISS PARDOE, Author of "THE CITY OF THE SULTAN;" "Ro- -lots more; and I want you to please-to be-50 kind as-as to-to help me more. Will you. Now don't turn away again, and put your hands in your pockets and go to whistling, boys; and, girls, don't you pick at your apron strings, in that way, and drive back into your hearts all the sweet smiles of which your beautiful eyes were so full when I first came in; but listen to me, wont you? I love you, Through all her life she was amiable, virtuous XIV," &c.; all of which stand in the front rank of all of you, from the tiniest toddling lisper up to you, and useful-tenderly beloved by her husband and modern English literature. MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND, who are beginning to think of long dresses, and tails to your coats; and I do all I can to please you and children, and revered by her grateful people; so, Author of "LYDIA: A WOMAN'S BOOK," and "EN- make you happy and wise: I have got some of when God sent his angel, Death, to gently lead her away from an earthly kingdom, and lift from her head its earthly crown, it was that she might enter upon His kingdom of rest, and wear the crown of His immortality. TO LULY, IN GEORGIA-WHO SENT ME SOME By Grace Greenwood. Thy violets, sweet Luly, Plucked fresh from southern bowers, Came pale and formless to me here- The very ghosts of flowers. A breath of faintest perfume, But with an essence rarer, These violets are fraught— A summer-breathing from thy soul- A pure, love-fragrant thought. I will not ask another To tell me what thou art I will accept thy token-flowers, As speaking for thy heart. Though airs of balm breathe round thee, I know in some sweet fancy And I bless the flowers that blossomed GLISH TALES And Sketches;" both of which have Of each of the above a personal sketch by Grace pear. We have the promise of articles from MARY HOWITT, ANNIE MARY HOWITT, Among American authors, we are at liberty to an- J. G. WHITTIER, ELIZA L. SPROAT, In addition to all these, CLARA MORETON, GRACE GREENWOOD the best writers in the world to furnish me with stories and poems and sketches; I have sat to Mr. Darley for my portrait, and got Mr. Devereux to make me beautiful pictures; and every month I trudge all over the Union, from Maine to Califor nia and now I am to go regularly to England and Ireland (wonder if I shall be sea-sick?); one friend writes that she even wants me to "visit the children of the missionaries at Oroomah, Persia," (only think what a journey! I wonder if it's a cannibal country ?); all this I do for you, willingly and cheerfully, and all I ask in return is, that you will do as I have asked you to, three or four times already-speak of me (say the best things you can) to your friends and neighbors, and, if you can persuade them to subscribe, collect their money and send it to my father. Some of you have gone to work in good earnest and have accomplished wonders: the Syracuse club has reached a hundred; Utica, I forget, but it's big; Nantucket nearly sixty; N. Bloomfield, Ohio, nearly thirty; Annie Jane Euen, (don't blush Annie, I'm not going to speak of that kiss,) of Chester county, Pa., has increased her list to thirty-three, and promises still more; Miss Ten Brook, of Paris, Illinois, has made up a club of nearly thirty; Kate Covey, of McConnellsville, Ohio, one of nearly twenty, and a day or two since, some unknown friend sent a list of twenty-three names, from the Female Seminary at Huntsville, Alabama; and many others have, in a quiet way, done me good service. Among them I have to thank D. S., of Forsyth, Georgia; C. L. S., of Anna Maria Fielding, was born in the county of Wexford, Ireland. She lost her father at an early age, and was taken by her mother to England, where she afterwards resided, and where she was married to Mr. S. C. Hall, the son of an officer in the British Army. Though removed so early from her native land, and bound by such tender ties of love and friendship to her adopted country, Mrs. Hall has never forgotten old Ireland. She has always been a true and loving daughter of that beautiful but desolated island. The friends and scenes of her childhood yet live, and ever will live, in her warm and faithful heart. Mr. Hall is a writer of a great deal of spirit and cleverness. At the time of his marriage, he was publishing a journal, or magazine, and as he was not then wealthy, he was obliged to labor for it very hard. One day, his young wife, who then had never written a line for publication, seeing him at his work, said, sadly “Oh, how I wish I could help you!!" Mr. Hall, having great confidence in her talent, replied—“I am sure that you could, my love, if you would try." "I am willing to try," she answered-" but what shall I do ?" "Oh, write a story-a little sketch of some kind." flies all too quickly. Then out doors there are the gardens, and lawns, and trees, and ponds, and pets, in every variety. Ah, my dear little readers, could you see this pleasant home, I am sure that you would say it reminded you of places you had read of in fairy stories. Mr. and Mrs. Hall have no children of their own-but they several years ago adopted a little girl whose father, an English officer, died in India, and whose mother is also dead. Fannie, who is now about fifteen, is a sweet and lovely girl, delicate in appearance, and very gentle in all her ways. Mr. Hall has also with him a young nephew, lately adopted—a frank, merry-hearted boy, who was born in America, and is proud of his birth-right. Mr. Hall is fond of extending to his friends, the hospitalities of his beautiful home, and does all in his power-and that is a great deal, to interest them and make them happy. To complete and to add the dearest charm to this family-circle, there is the venerable mother of Mrs. Hall. Mrs. Fielding is a true christian gentlewoman-sweet and gracious in her words and manner, while her face seems to grow calmer and brighter, the older and more infirm she grows as though the light of heaven were already breaking on it. Mrs. Hall is truly charitable and benevolent. She constantly devotes a large part of her time to working for the suffering and the poor. Want, and illness, and sorrow, never appeal to her generous heart in vain. All the world sees that wealth and luxury are hers, but does not see that her greatest happiness lies in the consciousness of living a blameless and beneficent life. All the world sees that her genius has crowned her with fame-and hears how she is lauded by the great; but only the angels may see that better chaplet which her own good deeds have woven for her brow-only God may hear the grateful prayers of Mrs. Hall was very diffident, and had no idea the poor going up for her, to be returned in blessof her own genius-but love gave her courage-ings upon her heart and her home. she went at once to her room, thought out a sketch, sat down and wrote it, and in a few hours returned with it to her husband. He read it carefully then looking up into the timid, waiting face before him, said earnestly: "My dear Anna Maria, our fortune is made!" He meant that he saw in that sketch, the genins that would make a great and popular writer. I do not believe that Mrs. Hall's most brilliant successes, ever brought her a happier moment than this. So began the charming tales for which she has since become so famous-her "Sketches of Irish Character," "Stories of the Irish Peasantry," "Chronicles of a School-room," &c. Among her latest writings, are“ Midsummer Eve," a delightful fairy tale, and several elegant and valuable works on Ireland—these last were written in conjunction with her husband. Mr. Hall is the Editor of "The London Art Journal," for which Mrs. Hall writes many beautiful things. The two have always worked together, in perfect sympathy. Their residence was for several years, a lovely place, called "The Rosery," at Old Brompton, near London-but they have now a charming country seat, called Firfield, about twenty miles from town. It was here that I had the pleasure of visiting them. Of all the places which I saw in England, this is the prettiest, and most poetical. The house is not crowded with grand furniture, or hung with velvet and damask, but filled with pictures, books, marbles, bronzes, vases, flowers, and all sorts of beautiful and graceful things. There is always music and pleasant talk, and light, and laughter, to make it cheerful and sunny, so that the time Such, dear children, is Mrs. Hall-whom I am sure you will love unseen, for the sweet sketch on our first page. The picture preceding it is copied with wonderful accuracy by Mr. Devereux, from the frontispiece of "Midsummer Eve." GRACE GREENWOOD. JUST PRAISE NO FLATTERY. Under the feeling that our Little Pilgrim bore his merits on his face, and that our young friends were clear-sighted, clear-headed and clear-hearted enough to see, understand and accept them without having them pointed out, we have refrained (though sorely tempted sometimes through our parental pride) from quoting any of the scores of beautiful notices that have come to us, from all parts of the land; but, in looking over a recent number of The Illustrated London News, edited by Charles Mackay, the poet, our eyes lighted upon one that was so cordial and beautiful, and made us feel so pleasantly, that we thought you would like L. it too; so here is an extract from it :— have been so charmed with the elegance and sim"We seldom notice works of this class; but we plicity of the Little Pilgrim-its high aim and generous sentiments-that we cannot for bear introducing it to our readers with a hearty recommendation of its pages to all who may be able to obtain a perusal of them. The talented editor has just returned to America after a lengthened visit to Europe; and it would be well for both countries were exchange visits to either country so full of pleasant memories as those stored up by Grace Greenwood-not hoarded for selfish ends; but preserved for general dispersion among the young intellects of America. cordially, and wishing our Transatlantic sister an "Commending the work highly, welcoming it abundant measure of success, we take our leave of the Little Pilgrim.” TO CORRESPONDENTS. We accept with thanks the following articles, A Rhyming Letter to Alice. A Voice from Home. My Dolly. Where does the Snow Live? I wish I were Ulysses. We have several other articles on hand which we have not yet had time to examine. If accepted, the writers shall hear from us. G. (6 THE FRIEND OF YOUTH." We have received from Dr. Bailey a list of the names of those subscribers to whom The Friend of Youth was indebted when its publication was discontinued, with pay for the same; and we shall furnish The Little Pilgrim to all of them to the full extent of their respective payments. To some only a part of a volume was due; the names of such will be stricken off our list as soon as they shall have received the number of copies due them from Mrs. Bailey, unless their subscriptions are L. renewed. Anecdote.—A pleasant correspondent writes :— A little girl I know, about four years old, had a present of a large wax doll, with long curls of flax. The child's hair was black, and she never could endure the sight of her doll's bright ringlets. One day, after being absent for some time from the sitting room, she came in looking flushed and excited. Her mother asked her what she had been doing. "Oh," she exclaimed, "it was such hard work! -but I pulled it every bit out. Don't you think, mamma, it wasn't hair at all! I have put some of your hair oil on, though, and I hope it will grow out black now!" NEW BOOKS. The Young Voyageurs; or the Boy Hunters in the North. By Captain Mayne Reid. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. This is a handsomely printed and illustrated book, filled with accounts of strange scenes and adventures and stirring incidents, and containing much valuable information concerning the scenery, people, animals and vegetable productions of regions but litthe known to the traveler or sportsman. We should think it a book to captivate especially lads of a bold and adventure loving spirit, Little Mary; or, Talks and Tales for Children. By H. Thursta, Author of "The Sunny Side," "Peep at No. 5," &c. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. For Sale by T. B. Peterson, 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. This is a beautiful little book, for little girls-with charming talk and more charming stories, to instruct and delight them. It is elegantly printed and the illustrations are unusually fine. Home Scenes; a Family Story. By Amanda Weston. Syracuse: Published by L. C. Matlock. This is a sweet, natural and touching story of home joys and sorrows, suited alike to the youthful and the mature. There is something in it to touch every heart, not wholly hardened by the petrifying influences of the world. Father Brighthopes; or, An Old Clergyman's Vacation, by Paul Creyton. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co For Sale by T. B. Peterson, Philadelphia. is written throughout in a pleasing style and contains This is an admirable book, in many respects. It presents country life, scenes and characters with some passages of real eloquence and poetic beauty. It singular truth and vividness-nothing is glossed over, and nothing, we think, exaggerated. Father Bright |