your shoe, dear sister, it is right that I should bear the pain, and let us go on again, hand-in-hand, as at first." Patienza wept also some quiet tears -then she kissed her sister, and comforted her as well as she could. She even took her shoe again—for she saw it would be a real pain to Violenza to keep it—and taking her sister's hand, held it fast in her own. "Now," she said, with a look full of courage and joy, "we will hold each other up; or if we fall, we shall fall together. See! it is but a little way; the sun has not yet set; and you know the Angel said he would meet us again at the top of this hill, and then it will all be well."

Then I thought the two children went on, handin-hand. When the way was rough, they comforted and sustained each other, and bore the pain bravely, and did not complain. So, with courage and patience, they came at last to the top of the steep hill, where the same Angel waited for them, with his white wings shining in the last rays of the setting sun. "Welcome! my children," he said, as he came forward to meet them. He laid his hand softly on Violenza's head-but he took Patienza in his arms and kissed her. "Has the way been hard, my children?" he said, "and have you overcome what was painful in it, by pa

tience and obedience."

“Patienza has," said Violenza, eagerly, "but I," and she bowed her head in shame-"Oh! I have not been good, and have made the way more difficult for myself and her!"

"Look back!" said the Angel, "over the way that you have come, and tell me what you see?"

Then the children looked back-and there was such a light over the way, that they could see it quite plainly. They saw how all along the side where Patienza walked, beautiful flowers had sprung up; bright climbing roses, and purple violets, and pure white lilies, and sweet-scented mignionette, with a thousand more, whose names I cannot tell. But upon the other side, where Violenza had gone, the path was choked with thorns and briars; and on the hill where she had fallen, and spoken so unkindly to her sister, were not only briars, but poisonous weeds, deadly nightshade and others;-only at the place where Patienza had given her sister her shoe, and where Violenza had confessed her fault, there were no thorns, but fresh green grass, with white daisies and golden dandelions;-and on the last part of the path, where the children had walked together, and which seemed to them so rough and difficult, the whole way was soft with grass and bright with flowers, and all the stones and sharp rocks had vanished.

The children looked a few moments in silence at this strange picture of the path they had gone over, and then turned again to the Angel.

"My children," he said, "behind Patienza's footsteps the flowers of love and obedience, of gentleness and heroism, have sprung up. But you, Violenza, have planted the thorns of impatience, disobedience, and cruelty, and the poisonous flowers of envy and selfishness."

vanished, and in their place lay the quiet grass, dotted all over with purple asters, the emblem of penitence.

Then Violenza bowed her head, and said, "My Father in Heaven, I thank Thee, that Thou hast forgiven me-from henceforth, I will be a better child, and will patiently follow where Thy Angel leads me."

Then I saw how the children were no longer children, but Angels with shining wings-and how the larger Angel took them in his arms, and bore them up softly through the calm air and entered in with them at the golden gates of the Celestial City.

time, but never from eternity. On her she felt depended its good or evil, its happiness or misery, in that endless hereafter. And the mother trembled as she thought of the magnitude of her trust; all, ALL was in her hands.

As she sat there looking at the little face with eyes of mournful tenderness, two voices assailed her hearing.

"1 am Fame; dedicate your child to me; I alone can satisfy the cravings of her immortal spirit!

"I am Love," whispered the other, and the voice added nothing more.

The mother paused, then cried passionately, "Oh, what is Fame to woman? God created her to love and be beloved again. Take her, Love, for she is yours by birthright!"

And over the features of the child crept a soft and lingering smile, as though she were dreaming of angels.

The story is finished, and I hope it has not seemed too long. The path on which the children walked is the path of life, on which you, and I, and all of us are walking. Oh! I hope that neither you nor I shall plant behind us the thorns of impatience, disobedience, and unkindness, as Violenza did; but that all along the way we are going, the flowers of love, and patience, and obe- A COLUMN FOR THE LITTLE ONES. dience, shall spring up. I hope, too, that none of us know the bitterness of yielding often to little temptations of life, nor need to suffer the pain of repentance, when the backward glance shows the picture so dark and unlovely, both to ourselves and those who come after; but that our way, though it may not be a bright or shining one, may be a sweet and pleasant scene to all. A. S.

The following musical poem is remarkable we think as the production of a girl of thirteen. G. G.

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

BY COLLETTE.

Oh! I remember long ago—

When the woods were growing red,
When the pine alone in its glory shone,

With the glaring birch o'erhead-
How I climbed to the top of its ragged trunk,
And laughed with the woodland breeze,
And laughed and swung, and rocked and sung-
Oh I loved the old pine trees.

How the clouds flew by in the summer sky,
Or hung like wreaths of gold-
Till legends dear to my charmed ear,

By the fairy host seemed told.
How they rolled o'erhead till the sky was spread
With ripples of gold and brown,
Then with wings unfurled o'er the kindling world
They floated softly down!

And I watched as they fleeced the uncolored East,
And seemed like a castle bright,

That was moving slow in the paling glow
Of the fading sunset light.

Ah, there will I live, where the bright clouds weave
A palace in heaven's blue floods :

In my castle of air-my cloud-stratum fair,
That at sunset floats over the woods!
WEST SPRINGFIELD, MASS., July, 1854.

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

LOVE AND FAME.

BY HARRIOTT PRINCE.

Then the Angel smiled, and stooping, kissed Violenza, and wiped away her tears. "The Lord of Heaven wills not that any shall go back," he said, "but in this, thy suffering and repentance, shall avail. Look back again over the way!" And when the children looked, lo! the thorns had

soul an overwhelming consciousness of her responsibility. That little, puny, helpless thing was to live forever!

She had not thought seriously of the startling fact before, and realized, for the first time, that the soul of the feeble creature to which she had given being, was as deathless as the God who made the heavens and earth. Nothing could destroy its everlasting life; it might be blotted from

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

THE GARDEN OF ADAM AND EVE.

BY JULIA GILL.

A very, O very long time ago,

When first God made the flowers,

There was only one man and one woman you know,
In this wide, large world of ours.
They lived in a garden full of trees,

And the boughs were bright with bloom,
And laden with fruit, and alive with bees,

Yet the birds had plenty of room.

There were birds of orange, and red, and brown,
And green, and gold, and blue;

They ate the seeds that the breeze blew down,
And drank from the drops of dew.

And little white lambs lay down and dreamed
Where the clover started out;

And the purple and golden butterflies seemed
Like flowers that floated about.

And the rich rare roses grew there tall,
And sweeter than you can think;
And a beautiful river ran through all,
Where the red deer came to drink.
And everything was happy and gay,

With nothing to harm or grieve;
And the Lord God came in the cool of the day,
And talked with the man and Eve.

PROVIDENCE, R. I.

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

TO WILLIAM STEDMAN.

BY WILLIAM GREY, M. D.

Thy face is sad, my gentle boy,

Thy voice is low and faint;
Why hast thou lain aside each toy,
And ceased thy map to paint?

Thy merry laugh, which once so wild,
Rang joyous through the hall,

I hear no more, my darling child,
I list in vain thy call.

When day is past, and sun is set,
And flowers are moist with dew,
Why is thy little pillow wet?

What dims thine eyes of blue?

When night's dark shades are chased away
Before the rising morn,

And songsters usher in the day.
Why art thou still forlorn?
Why move thy nimble feet so slow,
When mirth is in the street?
Why is thy voice so hushed and low
When kindly voices greet?

I ask no more, I know too well
The cause of all thy pain;
For her we jointly loved so well,

We ne'er shall meet again.
BILLERICA, MASS., July 28th, 1854.

VOL. I.]

In the reign of Henry the First of England, called Beauclerc, or Fine Scholar, for he was actually so learned that he could write his own name a great attainment for a king in those days-there lived in London a rich young merchant named Gilbert à Becket.

In that simple old time the wonders of science and art, among which we walk and live just as if they had always been-like the trees, the flowers, the sky and the stars-were never thought of or dreamed of, except by the great poets, who may be, with their prophet-eyes, looked away into the far future, and saw them looming up above the coming ages like mountain peaks in the distance of a landscape. Then the great oceans could heave, and swell, and roar, and rage, and toss their mad frothing waves up at the sky, as if to defy the great God-and then, obedient to His will, grow quiet and smooth again, year after year, without one single ship venturing over their vast expanse-to be made afraid by their violence, or flattered by their calm—and all the commerce of all the world was scarcely equal to that of the smallest and poorest kingdoms of our times. Then, going to sea was considered more perilous than going into battle; voyagers never failed to make their wills and set their worldly affairs in order, before they weighed anchor and set sail for foreign parts.

To be sure, it has lately seemed very much as though we were fast going back to those old doubtful, dangerous times-those dark ages of navigation, and that after all our wonderful improvements and discoveries, we can count very little upon safe and prosperous voyages.

But to return to Gilbert à Becket. He was

[No. 11.

his comfortable English home, and sailed for the Holy Land, to trade with the rich Syrians for satins, velvet and gems, which he meant to bring to England and sell at a great profit. He probably calculated by this speculation to double his fortune, and perhaps be able to buy a title and so become one of the nobles of the land, and live in a brave castle, where he would receive the king and court, and entertain them in princely style. But alas! titles and royal guests were not for him, and all the castle he was ever to lay claim to was such "a castle in the air" as any one of us may build. He was taken prisoner by the Turks, robbed of his ship, sold as a slave, fettered and set at work in the palace gardens of Mahmoud, a terrible fierce-eyed, black-bearded, big-turbaned Saracen chief.

It was a very hard fortune, that of poor Gilbert. He was obliged to toil from morning till night, digging and spading, planting and weeding, and all the while with the disadvantage of not knowing much about the gardening business, and of having a heavy chain dragging and clanking at his ankles. You may depend that he felt if he could get safe back to England he would never more aspire to castles and titles, nor trouble himself if the king and the court never should eat a good dinner or shake their heels at a ball again.

But often out of our greatest misfortune comes our best good and happiness-and hope and joy often follow times of fear and sorrow, as beautiful rainbows are made out of storms that have just darkened the sky and beaten down the flowers, One evening, just as the muezzin from the minarets was calling all pious Mussulmen to prayers, Gilbert à Becket stood leaning against a palm tree, resting a little from his daily toil, and thinking longingly of his country and home. Just then, a noble young Saracen lady of marvelous beauty, called Zarina, chanced that way on her evening walk, and was very much struck by the appearance of the stranger. In truth, as Gilbert stood there leaning so gracefully against the palm, with his pale face cast down, and his soft auburn hair half veiling his sad eyes-to say nothing of his long golden eyelashes, and his curling, silken moustache, he was a very handsome and interesting young man, and in spite of that coarse gardener's dress and that slavish chain, looked as proud and noble as a prince.

COUNTRIES I HAVE SEEN.

Travels, Descriptions, Tales and Historical Sketches.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.

Within the dome is "The Whispering Gallery." This is surely very curious,-the least whisper breathed against the wall at a certain point, being distinctly heard on the opposite side of the gallery -or making the entire inner circle of the great dome. After a long, weary ascent of very dirty and dark staircases, we reached the cupofa, and The Cathedral Church of St. Paul's is the largest great London and its environs lay beneath us! religious edifice in London, and one of the largest in Oh, what a wide and wonderful view was that! It the world. It stands on high ground in the centre was almost overwhelming-and so bewildered me of the city, and can be seen for a long distance in at first, that I could not clearly make out anyseveral directions, though it is too closely sur-thing. But soon that dizziness of astonishment rounded by other large buildings to show to the best advantage. It is less beautiful than some of the old English minsters-but in size grander than any. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and covers more than two acres of ground. The dome is nearly as large as that of St. Peter's at Rome, and from every part of the vast city of London you can see it looming up toward the sky-a dark, stupendous object-sometimes gilded by the setting sun, sometimes wreathed by the mists of morning. The dome is surmounted by a cupola, called "the lantern"-over which is placed an immense ball of gilt copper, weighing five thousand six hundred pounds, and bearing above it a gilt cross, weighing three thousand six hundred pounds.

The interior of the Cathedral is very grand, but rather dark and gloomy, even under the great central light of the dome-except when viewed by a very clear sunshine-the rarest thing in the world in "great London town"-for what with the smoke, the fog, and the rain, the poor old sun has few opportunities of making himself agreeable to the Londoners. But when he does get a chance to shine, he seems to make the most of it-for surely nothing can be more pleasant than a right sunny morning in London. On such a morning we visited St. Paul's Cathedral.

Before ascending to the dome, we wandered about for some time in the nave and transept, examining with much interest the monuments, statues, and tablets, erected in honor of celebrated English poets, artists, soldiers, naval heroes, and statesmen-and seeking out the famous epitaph of the noble architect, and the great and good man, Sir Christopher Wren. This is in Latin, but translated, reads thus :

"Beneath lies Christopher Wren, the architect of this church and city, who lived more than ninety years, not for himself alone, but for the public. Reader, do you seek his monument? look around!"

About the interior of the dome are a series of pictures, illustrating the life of St. Paul. An incident occurred during the painting of these which I will relate, as a remarkable instance of presence of mind. The artist, Sir James Thornhill, painted standing on a scaffold, erected of course at a great height from the ground. This scaffold was securely built, but not protected by any railing. One day, while fortunately a friend was with him watching him at his work-having just finished the head of one of the apostles, he forgot where he was, and with his hand over his eyes, stepped hastily backward, to see how the picture would look from a distance. In a moment he stood on the very edge of the platform-another step-another inch backward were certain death! His friend dared not speak, for fear of startling him but catching up a large brush, he dashed it over the face of the apostle, smearing the picture shockingly. Sir James sprang forward instantly, crying out "Bless my soul! what have you done?" " I have saved your life,” replied his friend calmly. For the next moment the two stood face to face, very pale and still, but thanking God fervently in their full, loud-beating hearts.

passed away, and I began to recognize, one after another, places and buildings that had grown familiar to me. There was Hyde Park, looking at that distance like a plantation of young trees; there was Buckingham Palace, the new palace of Westminster, and the grand old Abbey. I could see the flash of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, and trace the silver winding of the Thames, through miles on miles of docks and warehouses, under dark bridges, past darker prisons-far up into the green and smiling country-and far down toward the blue and shining sea. There was the Tower, which, though not a dark or dilapidated building, always has a guilty, gloomy look, after you know what it is. There was the Monument, towering toward the sky, in memory of the great conflagration in London, when, where those magnificent buildings now stand, were piles and masses of fire-and great flames going up in red columns to heaven.

Brightly shone the sun on hundreds of spires and domes-cheerily lighting up all that vast scene beneath us the wide, elegant streets, open squares and parks of the town, and the busy crowded streets and narrow lanes of the city. The kindly rays fell just as warmly and clearly into the dark and damp courts of the miserable parish of St. Giles, as on to the noble terraces and into the palace gardens of fashionable West End. Oh, the beautiful sunshine! God's manna of light-falling for the poor as well as for the rich.

While standing on that lofty balcony, I could but faintly hear that great noise of business and travel, which roars along London streets, without ceasing, day or night. It was like being at the summit of a high rock, on the sea-shore, where the hoarse sound of the great waves comes up to your ear, softened to a low, deep murmur.

"Old St. Paul's," upon the site of which this noble Cathedral now stands, was burned in the fire of 1660. Among the great men buried in "Old St. Paul's," was Sir Philip Sidney, the most brilliant, and the best man of Queen Elizabeth's court. Let me tell you more about him.

STORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

Philip Sidney was born in November, 1554. He was the son of Sir Henry Sidney, the dear friend of the amiable young King Edward the Sixth, who died in his arms-and of the Lady Mary, only daughter of the ambitious and unfortunate Duke of Northumberland.

From his early childhood, Philip was remarkable for his genius, his beauty, his sweet and generous disposition, and the modesty and grace of his manners. Sir Fulke Greville, who was one of his schoolmates, knew him all his life, and so dearly loved and highly honored him, that he directed it should be put on his tombstone, that he was the friend of Sir Philip Sidney"-said of him, that while yet a child, he seemed a man in gravity and wisdom, in steadiness of purpose, and love of knowledge, and that even his teachers found in him something to wonder at and learn, above what they could find in books, or were able to teach.

At the age of twelve, Philip corresponded with his father in French and Latin, with correctness and elegance; at thirteen he entered the University at Oxford, where he distinguished himself by his scholarship, by his noble character, and blameless life. At the age of seventeen, having left College, he went to Paris in the suite of the Earl of Lincoln, the Ambassador Extraordinary of Queen Elizabeth to the court of France. Because of his high connections and reputation, and the letters which he carried from his uncle, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, he was received with much distinction. Charles the Ninth, a courteous, though treacherous prince, and his wily mother, Catharine de Medicis, were extremely gracious to him. The king gave him an office of honor in his palace, and strove in various ways to win his regard and confidence. But Philip neither liked nor trusted him, but gave the respect and friendship of his noble heart to a more truly royal object-the brave and good King Henry of Navarre. It was soon evident what secret object King Charles had in trying to conciliate the English at his court. It was to blind their eyes that they should not foresee and help to arrest one of the

most fearful and cruel crimes to be found in the

dark history of Catholic persecution, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Charles, his wicked mother, and the priests their advisers, chose this time, when a large number of Protestants were assembled at Paris on the occasion of the marriage of the young Prince of Navarre to the sister of the King of France, for a general massacre of the Huguenots, and throughout the city and kingdom. On St. Bartholomew s day the slaughter began and lasted until many thousand Protestants-men, women and children, were murdered, shot down and cut down in their houses, their churches, and in the open street. King Charles himself, though scarcely more than a boy, was the most brutal and blood-thirsty of all the persecutors. He stood at one of the windows of his palace, and fired at the poor shrieking, struggling people, as fast as his carbine could be loaded. Many a brave Christian father and noble youth were laid low by his cruel shot, in those dreadful streets and courts, where the hard stones streamed with warm blood-as meadows in May mornings smoke with ascending dews-and where down the very gutters, instead of swift currents of summer rain, ran sluggish red rivulets, slowly flowing from the bodies of the dead and dying, piled on either side. But though that bad and mad young King cruelly meant every shot-and though every drop of blood he shed was a guilt-stain on his soul, and every dying groan he caused was to ring on his ear and pierce his wicked heart till he died—yet after all, he harmed only the poor, perishing bodies of his victims, their deathless souls he but early set free from mortal bondage, and hastened home to God.

But to return to Philip Sidney. During the massacre he took refuge with the English resident Minister, Sir Francis Walsingham-one of the most distinguished men of the age and Court of Elizabeth.

Sir Francis had a young daughter-a beautiful, sweet-tempered little girl, in whom Philip Sidney became much interested. This child felt very deeply for the poor Huguenot martyrs. She prayed for them constantly, and wept for them tears of bitter anguish, that seemed to quench the glad sparkle of her tender blue eyes and to wash all the rosy bloom from her soft, round cheeks.

Philip, who saw her sadness, often tried to comfort her-but her grief and her sweet sorrowful words always so touched his own tender heart, that his manly voice trembled, and sometimes he bowed his beautiful face on her head, as it lay on his breast, and wept with her,-silently. And so he