PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1854. [No. 8. Then up jumps the sun, and puts out the moon, and drives in the stars, and over the world he pours out the beautiful day. Then up jumps father, and up jumps brother, and out of my crib I call to mother-and mother will smile on her own little boy, and wash him, and dress him, and kiss him, and bless him-and so hurry on with the day. Apple tree, down in the meadow, hurry along! Heap up your blossoms, drifting and drifting, heaped like the cushions of enow in the winter. Rosier, creamier! heap up your sweetness! And yet, after all, I want them to fall; the blossoms to fall and the apples to come; sour little knobs on the end of the stems. Then comes the sun, and loves them, and loves them; loves them to fulness, loves them to redness; hanging like coals among the green shadows. Then out run I, and climb up and shake them, and out runs sister, and out runs brother, and off hurry I with mine to mother-pour them all in her lap together-and mother will smile on her own liltle boy, and hug him, and love him, and kiss him, and bless him-and so hurry on with the day. Little colt, off in the meadow, hurry along! You ought to be larger, you ought to be stronger. Your tail must be longer, your feet must be harder; I want you to grow till you fit my saddle, and then we'll ride away! Over the fences-over the ditches-walking, and running, and racing, and flying! Flying-flying! the mowers are frightened! We flashed by so quick, they thought it lightened. Flying-flying-woa; I see a place where the water-flags used to be. Royal flag-lilies! purple flag-flowers! Why I am getting them no one shall know; but my mother thinks the purple-flags are the finest flowers that grow. Homeward, little colt, homeward! We've raced down the sun, we've called up the moon, we've brought out the stars, we stand in the dark of the door. Then up jumps father, and out runs brother, and "OUR YOUNGEST'S" MORNING TALK. down jump I and run in to mother, both hands full of the purple-flags, the finest flowers that grow. Sun, you lazy old fellow, hurry along! The world is dark, the world is waiting, the moon is tired, the stars are winking, the birds are waking, the lambs are calling-soon it will be day. And mother will smile on her own little boy, and hug him, and love him, and kiss him, and bless him, and so good night to the day. This noble cathedral, one of the most famous religious edifices in the world, is said to have been founded in the second century, upon the site of a Roman temple dedicated to Apollo. But there is no very authentic record of it before the time of Edward the Confessor. He rebuilt it in what was then considered a splendid style of architecture, and expended immense sums upon it. He appointed a great many monks to live there, and gave them a great deal of money, that they might be easy and comfortable; and in return, they flattered and fawned upon him-put him in the conceit that he could work miracles by touching people for the "King's evil," and made a saint of him after he was dead. From his time down to a recent reign, the Abbey has been growing in beauty and importance, though it has suffered sadly in various revolutions, and is far less splendid in some respects than it was before the old Catholic worship was done away. It looks somewhat too dark and dreary without the rich altars-the golden chalices and candlesticks, the burning tapers and incense, the pictures and images of saints, angels, the Blessed Virgin and the Child Jesus, which once made it so brilliant and beautiful a show. But the English people, although they love beauty and splendor, thank God for this change. It is better to give freedom and the Bible to the poor than to decorate altars-and darkened churches are better than darkened souls. Westminster Abbey is not so magnificent as York Minster, nor so imposing as St. Paul's Cathe dral, but it is more interesting than either, because In the old church-yard without, are a multitude Westminster Abbey is a vast edifice, built like all ancient cathedrals, in the form of a cross-with so many aisles and chapels that it seems like a congregation of small churches with one grand roof over all. Dear children, I truly wish that I could give you such a description of Westminster Abbey as would make it stand and shine out before you in all its immensity and solemn beauty. But as this cannot be, I must content myself with speaking of some of the most interesting objects which it contains, and leave the grand building itself to your imaginations, till that happy hour when you may behold it with your own wondering, delighted eyes. Garrick, the great actor, and Sheridan, the brilliant wit. In this corner is the tomb of one Thomas Parr, who actually lived in the reigns of ten different sovereigns, and died at the prodigious age of an hundred and fifty-two years! Poor old man-he must have feared that God had forgotten him. The most beautiful of all the chapels is that of Henry the Seventh. One can hardly imagine that this could ever have been more magnificent than now-yet it has doubtless been much injured and defaced since the time of its royal founder. In the nave of this chapel the Knights of the Bath have always been installed. In old times the candidates for this honor were obliged to take a cold bath, and afterwards watch all night-but in modern times both the bath and the vigil have been omitted by special order, as a disagreeable and dangerous duty-that is, when the young knight happened to be a prince of the blood. The principal tombs in this chapel are those of Henry the Seventh, his Queen, and his mother, Margaret, Countess of Richmond; Queen Mary; Mary, Queen of Scots; Queen Elizabeth; King James the First, his Queen and children, and the Lady Arabella Stuart; Queen Anne, and her husband, Prince George of Denmark; William the Third and his Queen; the famous Duke of Buckingham; the poet Addison, and that noble Lord Ossory, of whom his father, the Duke of Ormond, said in the midst of his grief-"I would not exchange my dead son for any living son in Christ endom." In this chapel there is a white marble sarcophagus which contains some bones found in an oaken chest in the Tower, during the reign of Charles the Second, and supposed to be the re his brother, Richard of York, who were murdered by order of their uncle, Richard the Third. In the south transept is what is called "The Poet's Corner"-because here are the tombs or tablets of many of the most famous poets of England. To this spot all who love poetry first turn their steps. The oldest tomb here is that of Chaucer, who you will remember, lived in the time of Edward the Third and Queen Philippa.mains of the young King Edward the Fifth, and The next is that of Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Elizabeth, and was one of the most wonderful poets that ever was known. His soul was as full of beauty and melody as an English wood in summer is of flowers and bird-songs. He had a pure spirit, a gentle heart, and the world has been brighter and happier for his having lived and written. But alas! his own life was one of trial and suffering, though he was much courted and flattered in the first days of his fame. His friend, Ben Jonson, states that he actually died of want in London-and that, just at the last, he refused twenty pieces of gold sent him by the Earl of Essex, saying "he was sorry he had no time to spend them." But when he was dead, his great friends rallied about him and made a grand funeral for him in the Abbey. When his body, once admired for its symmetry and beauty, but now worn with care and wasted with famine, was let down into the grave, his brother poets threw in upon it elegies and epitaphs. Alas, so it too often is in this world! People are more ready to go to great funerals than to seek out the suffering, and find it cheaper to write elegies for the dead than to furnish bread for the starving. Yet there was one among that group of poets, who, you may rely on it, would have shared his last crust with his friend, had he known of his need. This was a play-actor and writer, whom he called "gentle Willy," but whom the world will know forever as William Shakspeare. The next poet buried here was Francis Beaumont. He had a dear friend whose name was Fletcher. They two always lived and worked together, and wrote so much alike that nobody could tell their writings apart. They loved each other so well in life, that it was almost cruel to separate them in death-but Fletcher was not buried in the Abbey. As I stood beside this, I shuddered, and the tears started to my eyes, as I thought of those two poor innocent boys, smothered to death by brutal wretches, as they lay locked in each other's arms, dreaming pleasant dreams, perhaps, of happy days gone by forever, or of the heart-broken mother they were never more to behold. The story of a murder like this is a blood-stain on the page of history that nothing can erase, and the horror of men at such a murderer grows deeper and deeper, age after age. Since Richard of Gloucester fell on Bosworth Field, the world has made its great journey around the sun more than three hundred and fifty times, yet it has never rolled out of the shadow of his crimes. In the chapel of St. Paul, in among the grand monuments of Lords and Ladies, stands a colossal statue of James Watt, the great engineer, who, among other noble works, improved the steamengine and brought it to its present perfect state. I was glad to see this statue in Westminster Abbey, for, after the best of the poets, none of the great people here buried have done so much good for the world as James Watt. In the Chapel of the Kings, there is a beautiful figure of Eleanor, Queen of Edward the First, which lies on her tomb. Old as it is, there is nothing so graceful and lovely in all the Abbey. The tombs of Edward the Third and the noble Queen Philippa are also in this chapel. Here are kept the old coronation-chairs of the kings and queens of England, and the famous stone of Scone, on which the early Scottish kings were crowned. The Scots held it in the highest veneration, and had many wonderful traditions concerning it; the most absurd of which were that it was the pillow on which Jacob rested his head on the night when he had the beautiful dream of a Next in interest, are the tombs of Dr. Johnson, ladder full of angels-and that it was once owned by the warlike Sythians, and that when a native prince seated himself on it to be crowned, it gave out sounds like thunder, and cried "God save the king!" in good Sythian. heart strangely touched and drawn toward Godand many a thoughtless court dame went out from that death-chamber with her eyes cast down, and penitent tears glistening on the long lashes. The poor Scots were greatly grieved when Ed- The young King, Henry the Eighth, came striward the First took this rare stone from them. ding in, jingling his spurs and clanging his sword, They would rather he had taken its weight in sil-in his rough bluff way, and with him came his ver-provided so much of that precious metal could have been raised in all Scotland. The great drawback to one's pleasure in visiting Westminster Abbey is the fact that you cannot go about by yourself, and see things at your leisure, but must be conducted by a stupid looking personage, called a verger, who after making you pay a shilling, hurries you through the chapels, giving you a lesson about the tombs, which he has by heart, and repeats in a pompous, sing-song tone, and in very bad grammer. This is very trying indeed-but we must bear it, for it seems to be one of the fixed institutions --some say impositions of the country. THE TWO WILLS. In the cloudy month of April, in the year fifteen hundred and nine, in his royal chamber in his new palace of Richmond, the mighty monarch, King Henry the Seventh, lay dying with the gout. He was in great distress both in body and mind, for, whenever there was a little lull in that terrible gout-torture, his conscience set in to lash and sting him, till his very soul writhed in agony. He had been a guileful, perfidious, cruel mannot bold in wickedness, like his predecessor, Richard the Third, but hiding his evil deeds from the world-and now his secret crimes looked out at him from the dark corners of his memory, like threatening demon-faces. His dear friends, the priests, tried to comfort him. They told him that he had been a very good king, and a most exemplary son of the church. Still, they admitted that he had committed a few trifling errors-and for his human weaknesses and little sins, perhaps it would be as well for him to give something more to the Church, and make some provision for masses to be said for his royal soul after it should have parted from his royal body. King Henry, who knew his own sins best, thought so too, and left in his will directions for a costly tomb to be erected in his chapel before the high altar. He made many rich bequests to this altar, and left a large sum of money to pay for wax tapers which should be perpetually kept burning, and masses, to be perpetually said for the repose of his soul. Then he besought his son Henry to right some of the wrongs he had done, and restore some of the property he had unjustly confiscated;-think of his asking Henry the Eighth to do that! And then he bowed his crowned head and yielded to a monarch greater than he—a tyrant yet more inexorable-grim King Death. In the smiling month of June, in the same year, there sat, propped up in a chair of state, before an open window that looked out upon a pleasant lawn, a noble lady-Margaret, Countess of Richmond-mother of King Henry the Seventh. She, too, was dying; but tranquil and almost painless was her passing away, for her heart was at peace with the world, and her soul already reposed in God. All day long great people, princes and princesses, lords and ladies, had been coming to pay their respects for the last time before she should depart from the world and the court forever-and though she each time lifted her head and extended her hand in her old proud and stately way, for every guest she had wise and serious, yet kind and gentle words of admonition and farewell. Many a gay courtier in her presence felt his good queen, Katherine of Arragon. When the noble Countess solemnly enjoined upon her grandson to take counsel of God, and rule justly and mercifully—he promised—but in his base heart he knew that he lied. There was no lack of priests about the dying Countess. She had always been considered a remarkably devout woman, and it was thought that she would leave the greater part of her immense property to the Church. So the holy men stood by her to the last. They gave her the sacrament they chanted and burned incense, and said a multitude of prayers in her chamber. But when Death, who came to the good Countess Margaret as an angel of blessed release, swung open the invisible gates and led her into her heavenly home, the pious fathers suffered a little disappointment. For she, too, had made a will. She had left some bequests to the Church-she had endowed two colleges--but she had also left a large sum for the perpetual benefit of the poor of Westminster. In the reign of Henry the Eighth began the Reformation in England. After awhile the King favored it-not from conscientious motives, but because he had quarreled with the Pope, and because being avaricious and rapacious, he was glad of an opportunity of getting possession of the trea sures of the abbeys and churches. One of the first things he did was to rob his dead father of his silver candlesticks, his incense and his masses. He even destroyed the altar itself, after stripping it of every thing valuable. So the lights were put out, the chanting was hushed, the sweet incense ceased to ascend before the tomb of Henry the Seventh. So his royal will was set at naught. FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A SCHOOLBOY'S EARTHQUAKE. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH. BY ANNA H. PHILLIPS. One day little Henri, a beautiful, rosy-cheeked eleven years old boy, came running all out of breath into the study of his tutor. "Good!" said he, "Mons. Gaston has not yet come !" So he searched among his books, where he found hidden a bunch of little cords, and then approached the table, all covered with papers, manuscripts and old dusty books, and half encircled by a huge, green arm chair. The little fellow examined the premises, like an engineer making a survey. "Positively," he said to himself, "poor Mons. Gaston's head has been turned, since that earthquake of Gaudaloupe; he talks of it incessantly, telling the least particular as if he had been a witness. I verily think he would be a little glad if the earth of Paris would quake. I will make him think it does! I will tie these cords round the feet of this old arm chair, and round the feet of the table, and then, when my good lord is snugly enclosed in his domain, and begins to doze, questioning me about the Romans-crack! I will pull the lines, crying out in affright that the earth quakes! Oh! it is capital! What a pity that Edmond and Frederic will not be here! How we would laugh together-Ha! ha!. ha! And the little conspirator, in fault of company and accomplices, laughed all alone most heartily. "Good!" said he, "the carpet hides all my preparations! now I will wait! Dear me! how long he is in coming! Let me see, I will take a seat in this old arm chair, and read a little. Here is a journal open at the article on the subscription for Gaudaloupe, and here is a pamphlet about the colony. I declare this old father Gaston is astonishing!" Henry read at first with inattention, but very soon his face lit up with interest. But the nobler will of this truly pious mother has remained in force, and continued its blessed "Oh! how terrible!" he sighed,-" all these work through generation after generation down to families smitten! all these poor children buried this very day. Around her tomb the blessings of under the ruins! Ah! here is a description of the poor arise in a pure, perpetual incense-there the volcanoes, the subterranean fires that cause the memory of her good deeds sheds inextinguish- these frightful disasters! What a subject for able light, and more than golden chalice or candle-study! And the governor of the colony exposing stick, sacred relic or royal emblem, commend her name to the reverence and loyal love of the world. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. TO MY MOTHER. My Mother, many years have cast Thou'rt drawing near and nearer now. Thy glossy hair, once black as jet, With grey is thickly silvered o'er, Thy step has lost its firm proud tread, Thy brow is fair and smooth no more. Thy form, beneath the weight of time, My Mother, thoughts of home and thee, Come o'er me in the silent night, Of friends and kindred far away, Dear to my heart, though lost to sight. "LIZZIE." From a little friend, who wishes the Little Pilgrim the best success, and hails its monthly coming with delight. himself to all the dangers; it is admirable to display a fine character in such circumstances! And the good priest who consoles those who die and those who live! Let us see if the journalist tells things in the same way. Oh, no, he speaks only of the subscription"-he reads "The young students of B-institution have made a collection; all the colleges should follow this noble example." "It is right," said Henri, "it is a little thing for each to give the money that he has for spending. I have twenty-five francs that my good Aunt gave me in a purse of her own making, a year ago to-day. I will go and find them and put them on Mons. Gaston's table, with this inscription, For Gaudaloupe!' will he not be pleased!” As Henry sprang up quickly to go to seek his money, he entangled his feet in the snare he had spread for his master, and trying to save himself, by catching at the mantelpeice, he slipped and struck his forehead sharply against the marble. "Ah, me!" said he a little confused, "I am taken in the net 1 had destined for father Gaston; I merit my fate; I am a victim to my own earthquake. It is just. I renounce my little piece of malice, and I will run to find my little fortune, and send it all to the poor suffering colony." WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE TWO KINGS. A PAINTING AT HAMPTON COURT. some anxiety for the arrival of the "Little Pilgrim," which was always warmly welcomed by the juvenile group of her father's household. She read its contents with avidity, though again The years had passed on, while Henry's dear child, suffering from relapse-and in less than twenty- "Now bring me brave Hans!" quoth Henry again, 'My painter, so wondrous and true; The king who still lives, and him who shall reign, Shall be painted together, anew. "Let him, my brave prince, on my right hand enthrone, My queen, on my left hand shall be; My two royal girls, in corners alone, Shall enter this canvas of three. "Will Somers, gay dressed, from the side shall come in, His monkey, the dwarf, shall perch there; "Go, tell him to picture us all in our gems, "Why wait ye, slow Hans?" quoth the king, in & rage, As the artist before him stood still; "By my life and my throne, what thoughts now engage, Understandest thou not our stern will?" four hours, most unexpectedly to all around her, passed from an earthly to a Heavenly father's arms. May the bereaved family be comforted by an unfaltering trust, in the protecting care of an omniscient, omnipresent Being, "who doeth all things well." We miss thee, dear, at early dawn, We miss thee from thy vacant chair, We miss thee, darling, every where. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. BY MARY FRANCES T. And must I leave my childhood's happy home, Far from the spot I cherish most on earth? Far, far from here, henceforward I shall dwell; O who can count the sighs that rend my heart In this a last, I fear, a last farewell! Stay-will a flower remind me of the past? I'll pluck this rose-bud, beautiful and pale, For while its faded leaves alone shall last, They'll whisper softly of my native vale. One parting look to all I hold so dear, And when my home forever fades from view, "Six queens," said the painter, "have sat by thy This flower upon my breast alone can hear side; There live twain on this canvas to sit; Shall I paint thy Queen Kate, or some earlier bride? 'Tis but to know this I await." The lonely exile's last, yes, last adieu! ALBURY, ENG. The following communication is so charmingly "Od zounds! by my soul, thou brush-soiling knave! written that we cannot resist the desire to give My Kates and my Anns would enstain! My noble boy's mother, alone will I have! By my side shall sit none but Queen Jane!" The Little Pilgrim. PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1854. our readers a sight of it, though it is simply a private letter from a friend. G. G. BOSTON, May 10, 1854. DEAR GRACE GREENWOOD :Your letter, and the stranger it introduced, popped in upon me last Saturday morning, and both of them received such a welcome as is only All subscriptions must begin with the first given when the heart is in the hand extended. I happen never to have heard of the wanderer until the paper door of the house you sent him in, with my name on it, opened to let him show his dear little face. He looked up as confidently trusting as if he were an old friend, and the interpretation of his looks was : number of the volume. Specimen numbers furnished free of charge. 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! 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. FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. Died, in Peru, Clinton Co., N. Y., on the evening of 6th mo. 9th, of relapse after Scarlet Fever, MARGARET JANE, second daughter of JOHN H. BARKER, aged eleven years. The death of this lovely child, which occurred suddenly, after all danger was thought to be passed, has cast a solemnity over a large circle of associates, who have been roused by this event to realize the instability of earth's dearest treasures. She had recovered sufficiently from the first attack of disease to feel a lively interest in all that was passing around her, and had waited with "Good morning, sir! I am very happy to meet you, on an errand from my mother, whom I think you know. You understand, sir? I'll take what you have to send her-for she would quite as gladly let me have it, as to take it herself. I'm her youngest, sir—I think not a spoiled child, though-and she loves me dearly! Indeed she does, sir-and though I'm a wanderer in my nature, I always nestle close in her earnest heart!" With that, he gave me a knowing, oblique nod, as much as to say "I see you take!"-slipped his right hand up to the pommel of his staff, and the wee bit of a boy bounced straight up in my lap! I could not help smiling, and he seeing it, placed one arm around my neck, with his cheek resting on mine, and began with his other hand deliberately to run his mercurial fingers through my pockets after dimes, and as often as he found one, his full eyes glowed like the first new star in spring time. My flock around me at first looked on quite mutely amazed; but as they saw the tricks of the pretty boy, and heard his mother's name, they instantly began to feel some curious movements of sympathy, and as if magnetically, they also ran their fingers into pockets for a similar result. There was no little impatience among them to see who should be first to slyly slip their four dimes a piece into my keeping, for the sake of the enjoyment in seeing little Pil pull them out again—and more than one Miss was caught clandestinely kissing the little fellow's fingers. Nor did they blush a bit at the detection, but ardently ejaculated—“ how like he is to his mother!"-as if that could justify them! As I went home I invited the lad along with me, to stay just as long as he pleased, and on his arrival there, my own little Ella-the only lamb of my home fold, danced up and down at the sight of him. I can assure you they were friends in a minute, and began to talk together right merrily. Pil had the best of it, for he was so full of chatter concerning his mother's goings and doings that it seemed as if he knew about as much as she. Still the little eight year old took her turn, and Pil was per force made acquainted with all her knowledge and delights and sympathetic tears, over the "greyhound," the "hawk," the "pony," and all the other "pets" that were his elders by birth.* Thus they enjoyed themselves till one, something of a rogue in her way, found an opportunity to put “a stitch in his back” that will be sure to keep him with her for a while-and really, I don't believe he will find better company! Excuse me, but you "sought the market" for your son, and if he has "been taken in" you know whom to thank. I make up a little bundle for his necessities and forward, for though we like his present dress and ornaments, we are quite fond of change, (you seem to be in a solid sense,) and we must, in future, have monthly returns of your fashions in clothing him. Forward us thirty-seven numbers, for which we wait impatiently. Yours, very truly, I. F. S. P. S.-I just overheard a little voice talking to Little "Pil" quite boastingly, thus :—" You know, Little Pil, my father writes poetry. Well, once 1 learned that sweet prayer, beginning "Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me, Bless thy little lamb.' This is to say at night, you see, and so my father wrote me one for morning, to go with it, and if you are a good boy, Sunday, I'll teach it to you." Thus saying, she repeated three stanzas to him, and for awhile both were silent; and with a tender aspiration for God's blessing upon them and you, I left them. I have collected the echoes, and send them with this: A MORNING PRAYER. BY ISAAC F. SHEPARD. Father in thy love awaking, Help me breathe my thankful prayer! Fill my heart with grateful feeling, A froward heart, by sin defiled:- Freely all my blessings sharing With my fellows who have less, For each heart that I can bless :- "History of my Pets," by Grace Green wood. HISTORY OF ANCIENT ROME. decision. Juno promised him all the grandeur and BY JAMES W. WALL. From the Building of Rome to the Expulsion of Tarquin the Seventh, last King. CHAPTER I. I intend, when you are a little older, that you shall read the Iliad of Homer, as translated by one of the first English poets, Pope. It is quite an interesting story, and mingling some truth with a great deal of fiction, tells in verse the history of the siege and downfall of Troy. The Iliad, which records this interesting story, was originally written in Greek, by the earliest Greek poet we have any mention of, Homer, whose genius was so greatly admired, that seven cities are reported to have disputed about the honor of his birth. Troy, the interesting story of whose siege and capture is there told, was situated in Asia Minor, upon the straits of the Hellespont, now the Dardanelles, of which you have lately read so much in the newspapers, in the account of the war now raging between Turkey and Russia. If you will turn to your map of Asia, you will there find the locality, almost directly opposite the isle of Tenedos. All this neighborhood is classic ground, famous in the old heathen mythology, of which you have read somewhat. Here was Mount Olympus, celebrated by the ancient poets as the abode of their fabled gods. Here too was Mount Ida, on which the shepherd Paris, adjudged to Venus the prize of beauty, which I will presently relate. Here too were the straits of Sestos and Abydos, famous for the loves of Leander and Hero. power of the world; Pallas, that he should become Menelaus, very justly outraged at this shameful They constructed a wooden horse, which they filled full of armed men and left upon the plainThe history of the cause which led to the siege the Trojans sallied out in the night, being struck and capture of this ancient city, is mixed up with a with admiration for it as a work of art, and never great deal of fable; but when I have told you the dreaming that it contained anything injurious, fable, then I will endeavor to separate the grains dragged it into their city. In the middle of the of truth from the chaff of fiction. In heathen night the armed Grecians sallied out from their mythology you remember that the ancients hiding place, and opened the gates to the Grecian represented Jupiter to be the God who presided army, who set fire to the city and killed or captured over all things, and King of Heaven, while Juno most of the inhabitants. This is the fabled his wife was represented as the Queen of Heaven. story of this war. It really originated no doubt Venus was described as a most beautiful woman, with Paris and the Trojans, in order to have and worshipped as the Goddess of Love-Pallas celestial authority for the shameful outrage done or Minerva as the Goddess of Wisdom. Now, to Menelaus. The true history of this famous the fabled story of the origin of the siege of Troy struggle was no doubt in this way: Paris, the son relates, that these three goddesses got into a of Priam, king of Troy, had a sister named Hesione, terrible quarrel in this way:-Heaven and earth who was married to Telamon, king of a small were at peace, when the Goddess of Discord (for island in the Grecian sea. Telamon was a bad the ancients had every passion represented by husband, and abused his wife most shamefully. some Deity) fearing for her influence, determined The young prince, smarting under the insult, and to excite dissension among these divine ladies. being of a fiery disposition, insisted upon Telamon In order to accomplish this she threw among them sending his sister back to Troy. Telamon a golden apple, on which was inscribed, "To the consulted with the neighboring princes, and Fairest." Her celestial ingenuity told her that | principally through the advice of Menelaus, one nothing was so likely to excite a quarrel as jealousy-one of the most baneful passions of the human heart, and one which no good child will ever allow to enter her breast-for it will cause a great deal of misery and make her disagreeable to every one. The Goddess of Discord knew very well that these divine ladies prided themselves upon their great beauty-thus she hit upon the very way to create strife. As soon as the goddesses found the beautiful golden apple, there was immediately a great quarrel among them as to whom it should belong-and not being able to come to any decision, they determined to leave it to some mortal upon the earth. Paris, who was feeding his flocks upon Mount Ida,and was moreover the son of old king Priam, who reigned over Troy, was selected as the judge. These goddesses descended upon Mount Ida, where Paris was quietly tending his flocks, and having informed him of his appointment, which he was too gallant not to accept, they immediately began the attempt by upon his shoulders, he made his way through the crashing noise of falling buildings, the blaze of familiar dwellings, and the blood of his slaughtered people, which made the gutters of old Troy smoke, and escaped to the sea-side; and there securing a vessel, he started upon a most perilous voyage, a voyage beset with many hardships and calamities, which at some day you may take pleasure in reading, either in the translation or the original. A Latin poet, whose name you have often heard, Virgil, has written a splendid poem called the Eneid, which is a very full and interesting account of this curious journey. In admiration of the filial piety of the hero of his story, who so nobly assisted his good old father in escaping from Troy, he calls him throughout the poem, "the pious Æneas." He did no more than every good son ought to do; but in that age, so rude and barbarous, the softer feelings of the heart were hardly known, and of course seldom practiced. Sons did not often treat their fathers with filial reverence and affection. You will therefore understand why Æneas was so highly praised for doing simply his duty, which every good son would now most freely render. (TO BE CONTINUED.) WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. ON LOOKING AT LITTLE PILGRIM'S PICTURE. BY M. Ah, yes; here's the Little Pilgrim, Ere this precious flower she had, On the highways foot-prints leave, And for him accept my prayer Homeward speed, thy love to share. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. LIZZIE. BY MISS LOUISE E. VICKROY. Oh, Lizzie was sweet, as a rose-bud half-blown, of the most powerful, refused to send her back. But once, when the sunbeams caine glowingly down, And wove for the Summer a radiant crown When the earth seemed to dream in the beautiful light, And just when the sunset was brightening the heaven, |