he has been pitied more than he deserved, I think-chiefly because he was an elegant, accomplished prince-dignified, melancholy, handsome, and wore his hair in long, glossy curls over his shoulders. It is very hard to lose one's head, even if it has never been anointed and worn a crown-but Charles put his to no good use, and by his foolish acts seemed bent upon getting rid of it. He was rash, obstinate, unreliable and despotic. One of his most foolish and fatal undertakings was to carry out his father's plan of making the Scotch conform to Episcopacy. He ordered his English Bishops to prepare a Liturgy, or Book of Common Prayer, for the Scottish Church, and sent down his most royal commands that it should be universally adopted by the clergy and people.

tended great devotion to his country, but in his close, dark heart, was selfish, scheming, and revengeful.

The families of Argyle and Montrose had been at enmity for centuries. The present Duke was the personal foe of the Marquis, so Montrose was doubly angered and mortified at his being preferred to him. He grew sullen and dissatisfied. He had never really liked Presbyterianism-it was too strict and solemn for him, a gay young nobleman, who loved pomp and pleasure and magnificent dress, and now he felt only contempt and aversion for both Covenant and Covenanters. In this state of mind, the King had little trouble in winning him over to the royal cause, to which he ever

When Charles the First was put to death, the Parliament of Scotland resolved to support his son Charles the Second, provided he would sign the Covenant. This he did, though he hated Presbyterianism even more than his father and grandfather had done. He said it was not "the religion for a gentleman”— a singular objection for a prince to make, who it seemed did not think any folly or vice ungentlemanly.

Charles signed the Covenant for nothing; his Scottish army was not strong enough to contend with the English forces, and he was obliged to retire to the Continent, and there remain till after the death of the great Protector, Cromwell. That old lion out of the way, he came back to England, and ascended the throne-and the people rejoiced, as though this had been a happy event, and not what it proved, a heavy misfortune.

One of the most marked men of the time of which I have written was the Marquis of Montrose, of whose eventful history I will give you a brief sketch.

THE STORY OF MONtrose.

Sunday, July 23rd, 1637, was the day appointed for the introduction of the new service-book into the churches of Edinburgh. A multitude of people, including all the great lords and magistrates of the city, assembled at the High Church of St. Giles. The Dean of Edinburgh was to officiate,. and at the time set for the service, he came out of the vestry, dressed in his surplice, and trying to look solemn and priest-like, but evidently feeling not a little nervous and awkward. He passed to the reading desk, and began reading the service, in a loud, but rather unsteady voice, while the people looked on silently-some curious and wondering, as though at a show, but the greater part sullen and indignant. Among those who showed most horror and anger was an old woman by the name of Jenny Geddes. She was not learned nor great-she was only the keeper of a green-grocer's stall in High street-but she was a dame of spirit, and a staunch Presbyterian, who hated Episcopacy next to Romanism, and Romanism next to the Evil one himself. This morning she sat on a little stool, near the desk-but sat very uneasily from the first-boiling over with indignation. When the Dean came out in his robes, she tossed her nose in the air, with disgust, and muttered something about " Popish rags." Then she drummed impatiently with her foot, fidgeted and frowned, and took snuff, and In the more prosperous part of the reign of the glowered at him with her twinkling, black eyes. first Charles, there appeared at his court a young At length, when he came to announce the "Col-nobleman who eclipsed all the courtiers in gracelect" for the day, it seemed she could contain ful accomplishments, all the wits in genius, all herself no longer, but springing to her feet, she the scholars in learning, and the king himself in caught up her stool and flung it at the poor Dean's beauty and dignity. This was the Marquis of head, calling out at the top of her shrill voice-Montrose, a brave soldier, and what is better, a "Deil colick the wame o' thee, thou fause thief! dost thou say the mass at my lug?" which, translated into plain English, means, I am sorry to say, something very like this: "The Evil one give thee the colic, thou false thief!—dost thou dare to say the mass in my ears ?" A very unkind and impolitic wish, certainly, but those were rude times you know, and Dame Janet was very much excited. The throwing of her stool was the signal for a general uproar. All the women of the congregation rushed towards the desk, threatening to tear the surplice from the Dean's shoulders; but he very prudently slipped it off, and while they were ripping and rending it to pieces made his escape, and ran like a frightened hare till he reached his covert, the Deanery. Then the Bishop of Edinburgh mounted the pulpit to call the people to order, but he soon dismounted, for he was not only saluted by cries of "a Pope! a Pope!" and other hard names, but by a regular storm of stools and even stones, for the men grown as courageous and excited as the women, were all up in arms, and chose rather to fight than to pray in the new way.

This riot was the beginning of a stout and universal resistance to the introduction of the service book. The king was as obstinate as his subjects,

noble poet. He not only wrote poetry himself, but has been the innocent cause of a great deal of poetry in others, for there was much that was splendid in his character and romantic in his career. He had a rash, fiery spirit; he was too ambitious, and sometimes too unscrupulous and unforgiving; but he was never mean or cruel, and never sought to advance himself by false, underhanded means.

The young Marquis was not favored or distinguished by King Charles as he felt that he deserved to be, and in his proud resentment retired to Scotland and declared for the Covenant. It was a great pity that he was not actuated by principle instead of pique in taking this step. However, the Covenanters received him with open arms, and the King soon had cause to repent having turned the cold shoulder to him. The Lords of the Covenant employed him in several important undertakings. At the battle of Newburn he performed a very gallant exploit. He forded the Tyne alone, under a hot fire of the English, to ascertain the depth of the water, before leading over his regiment.

But for all his brave deeds and valuable services, the Lords of the Covenant were envious or stupid enough to slight him, and advance above him the Duke of Argyle, a cunning, crafty man, who pre

the Scottish cavaliers, the most popular, gallant, and splendid of them all. He suffered some severe defeats at first, but he kept up his great heart and persevered, till finally the praise and the fear of him filled the kingdom. He took town after town, and won battle after battle. The King sent him a commission, naming him Captain General and Lieutenant Governor of Scotland; then, just as he was flushed with the generous hope of being able to march into England and put down all King Charles's enemies there, his reverses came upon him. He lost the battle of Philiphaugh, upon the borders, and was obliged to retreat to the Highlands, when so many of his followers basely deserted him, that the king commanded him to save himself by leaving the kingdom He reluct antly obeyed, and in disguise escaped to Norway. He remained abroad until after the beheading of the King, when he transferred his allegiance to Charles the Second, and with a small army of Germans and Scotch exiles landed in Scotland, to strike for the rights of the Prince. It was a rash enterprise, and speedily failed. In their first engagement with their powerful enemies the Royalists were defeated, and Montrose himself was obliged to assume a mean disguise to make his escape. He wandered about till he was exhausted by hunger and fatigue, when he allowed himself to be taken prisoner by a Scotch Laird, one Mac Leod-feeling sure in his noble, unsuspecting heart, of protection, as Mac Leod had once been a follower of his. If any of that man's blood ran in my veins I should blush to own the truth-that he delivered up his old friend and chief for a miserable reward.

The Covenanter leaders were mean enough to treat their unfortunate captive with cruelty and insult. They took him from town to town, exhibiting him in his humble disguise-mocking him and railing at him. The people of the town of Dundee alone, though they had once suffered severely from the excesses of his troops, showed themselves forgiving and magnanimous. They supplied him with money and clothing suited to his rank, and refused to treat him like a common criminal.

Before Montrose reached Edinburgh, he had been condemned to death, as a traitor, by the Parliament, without a trial. He was sentenced to be hanged by the common hangman, on a gibbet thirty feet high-his head to be placed on the Tolbooth (the prison)- his body to be quartered, and placed on the gates of the principal towns of Scotland. By the order of that same vindictive Parliament, he was met at the gates by the hangman, dressed for the time in the Montrose livery, and conducted to jail on a cart, bound and bareheaded. It was expected that he would be overcome by this humiliation and the insults of the populace; but he bore himself so grandly, and looked about him with such noble dignity and calmness, that the rude rabble, instead of jeering, were awed into silence or moved to tears. When he appeared before Parliament to hear his sentence, he con

ducted himself in the same calm, heroic way, and defended himself with great eloquence.

In reply to the Chancellor's charge of breaking the Covenants, he said he had indeed taken the National Covenant, and stood by it, until it was used more in assailing the royal rights of the King than in defending the religious rights of the people; but as for The Solemn League and Covenant, he had never signed it, and was not bound by it.

When his hard sentence was read to him, he did not flinch, but remarked that he would be more honored by having his head placed on the Tolbooth a than his portrait in the King's bed-chamber; and as for his body being quartered, he wished he had flesh enough to send some to every city of Europe, to testify of the cause for which he died.

That night he wrote a poem, expressing these same heroic sentiments. O, the pity of it, that

the King and the King's father were so utterly undeserving of the devoted loyalty, the noble blood of such a man as Montrose! But never a Stuart of them all was worthy of such a sacrifice. The Presbyterian clergy labored with the Marquis to obtain from him a confession of political crimes. He meekly acknowledged that, as a man, he had many sins to repent of; but he declared that towards his country and his King he had "a conscience void of offence."

One Johnstone, a famous Covenanter preacher, intruded upon him as he was dressing, the day before his execution. Seeing the prisoner combing and curling his long, beautiful hair, Johnstone gruffly remarked that he might be more profitably engaged at so solemn a time.

"May it please you," replied the Marquis, with a haughty smile, "I will arrange my head as I fancy to day, for it is still my own; to-morrow it will be yours, and you can do with it as you please."

Montrose walked from the prison to the place of execution in the Grassmarket, where the terrible gibbet stood black and high. Here the Presbyterian preachers came about him again, like a flock of ravens, prophesying misery and wrath, if he died without acknowledging his guilt, He answered them gently, but turned from them to the hangman as though he had been a friend. As a last insult, a book containing a history of his life was hung about his neck by the executioner; but again Montrose defeated the spite of his enemies, by saying that he felt as much honored by such a record of brave deeds and loyal services as he had been by the badge of the garter, which the King had bestowed upon him. At last, he submitted himself to the hangman so calmly, and died so courageously, that a great shudder ran through the crowd, and sobs and groans arose on the air, and when some of his bitter enemies looked up, and saw his noble form slowly swinging above them, they felt that it would always be between them and heaven, and must bar them away from God forever.

This sad execution happened on the 21st of May, 1650. Some writers say that Argyle exulted over the death of his rival-and others that he was shocked by it, even to tears. Now, though I do not admire the character of the Duke, I prefer to believe that the latter account is the true one.

The mother in her office holds the key
Of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin
Of character, and makes the being who would be a
savage,

But for her gentle cares, a Christian man :
Then crown her queen of the world!

OLD PLAY.

Children wish parents looked but with their eyes; Fathers that children with their judgment looked; And either may be wrong. SHAKSPEARE.

"Dear Grace GREENWOOD-I am a very little girl, but I have been taking the dear Pilgrim for year, and I thought, rather foolishly, I fear, that I might write something worthy to be printed in it. I have written (my elder brother helped me) the piece of very poor poetry which we send you, and if you think it fit for your sweet Little Pilgrim, please print it.

"I saw a very little girl, littler than I am, and very, ragged, walking past our house one cold morning, and I called her in, and gave her as much money as I had, without letting any body know about it, till now. I am hoping and waiting for the Little Pilgrim, and shall always remain your loving subscriber,

"NATILIE."

THE BEGGAR GIRL.

There's a poor beggar going by,
I see her looking in;
She's just about as big as I,

But, oh, so very thin!.

She has no shoes upon her feet,
She is so very poor;

And hardly any thing to eat:
I pity her, I'm sure.

But I have got nice clothes you know-
And meat, and bread, and fire;
And dear mamma, who loves me so,
And all that I desire.

If I were forced to stroll so far Alone, what should I do!

I wish she had a kind mamma, Just such a one as you.

Come little girl, come back again—
And hold that ragged hat,
And I will put some pennies in-

There, buy some bread with that!

And here is another little poem by a poetess in pantalettes, which we are sure our readers will like :—

THE OLD ROBIN'S MORNING CALL TO HER YOUNG ONES. BY E. G. B.

Wake up little birds! for the morning is waking,

See how she smiles from her couch upon you! Dusky old night now his farewell is taking, As he sees her sweet face in the drops of the dew.

Wake up little birds! our kindred are waking
From valley and hill-top, from moss-bank and

eaves

Hark, how their sweet songs gay music are making, And the breath of the morning is stirring the leaves.

Wake up little birds! for the flowers are awaking, How they open their bright eyes, and look up at you,

Night, as he pass'd o'er them, his mantle was shaking,

And sprinkles them all with the drops of the dew.

Wake up little birds! for the ant is awaking,

And the bee from her hive is out on the wing, And soon from the flowers her food will be making, And the butterfly raises his gay, colored wings.

Wake up little birds! for the daylight is coming, And surely to-day you must try your own wings,

I hear even now some insects a humming, And methinks they are calling you lazy young things.

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

THE WALK.

This little sketch was composed by a little girl of Virginia, aged eight, who is a subscriber to "The Little Pilgrim.''

three little girls asked permission of their moOn a beautiful morning in the month of May, thers to take a walk in the country. One of the m, I am sorry to say, was so vain and affected that she would not go unless she was dressed in her best. Her nicest dress was a beautiful checked silk, her shoes were embroidered, and her bonnet had just come from the milliner's. Her mother did not wish her to wear it, but she was not as obedient as many little girls I know. The other little girls had on pretty cambric dresses, hats that had been worn for many months; and yet they looked better than the one who was dressed so fine, because they were dressed suitably for the occasion.

They saw many beautiful things during their walk-flowers, birds, butterflies, &c. The two little girls who had on the cambric dresses saw many nice strawberries. They ate of them to their heart's content, but the other one would not stoop to gather them for fear of spoiling her beautiful silk dress and shoes. I dare say the little girl never put on her fine clothes on such an occasion again. I must do her the justice to say, that the other little girls dressed just as fine as she did when they went out visiting with their dear mammas. I think my young readers would like to hear more of these little girls. Should there be room for me in The Little Pilgrim, I will write about them again some of these times.

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

THE HERO OF THE ARCTIC.

BY J. B. PLIMPTON.

"STUART HOLLINS-for this was his name-could not be induced to leave the ship; his post was at the gun, from first to last, firing signals; he kept firing at intervals, till the ship went down. We saw him in the very act of firing as the vessel disappeared below the waters."'Tobias' statement of the wreck of the Arctic.

I.

On the quarter-deck of the Arctic, stood
The hero boy, undaunted,

Like Hope, with her calm heart unsubdued,
And her Angel face enchanted;
While stout hearts quailed, and wildly rose
The tempest of commotion,
The brave boy gave the signal guns
To the misty waste of ocean.

II.

Despair and the phantom terrors round
The masts and spars seemed flying,
And wildly swept o'er the surging waves
The wail of the lost and dying.
And still, though the death pall hung above,
And the deep was yawning under,
The signal gun, through the misty gloom,
Pealed forth in tones of thunder.
III.

The craven fled, the timid wept,

And prayers were shrieked to heaven;
Heart throbbed to heart in last farewell,
And kisses wild were given;
But lo! again the dun clouds glowed,
The masts seemed bent and reeling,
The signal-blaze, the calm, pale form
Of the hero-boy revealing.

IV.

Slow sunk the gallant ship, the sea

In green waves o'er her meetingAnd the hearts that thrilled with love and fear Forgot their woful beating.

Brave boy! thy signal guns are dumb,

Yet the world hath heard their story, And the blaze that fit thee down to death Was thy halo-robe of glory.

after lingering less than two days, his suffering

WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

and odor, the bearing Orange of the tropics. The

These few but long and anxious hours were all that were given to prepare for the parting with a bright, beloved boy, and to the household they brought a change which none can understand without having shared in something of the same experience. After his death, the copy of The Little Pilgrim, which he had received from the post-office the evening before the accident, was found in his pocket, reminding us of the pleasure which it brought him in its monthly visits, and prompting this little notice for its pages.

But it is not of his death only that I wish to speak, but of his life-that life begun among us on the earth as that of a fearless, light hearted, affectionate boy. Thirteen years he spent here, and now we must believe that the kind heart which shone out in so many little ways will be given new opportunities in another world to develop in greater beauty. With the free and fearless spirit of a true boy, he united none of that insolent bravado boys so often mistake for it. The ready respect he showed for his elders will make his greetings in the streets and elsewhere, remembered among the pleasant little things of life; while his genial, friendly manner toward those less favored than he in earthly position and friends, will never be forgotten. It has been a beautiful thing to his parents that since his death many have come to speak of this: foreigners, and domestics in different families, treated with little consideration by so many, have come to tell of Frank's kindness to them, which they cannot forget, and which will keep his memory green in many hearts. E.

May God comfort the parents of this noble boy! our heart yearns to them in tender sym

pathy.-EDS.

FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM.

A RIDDLE. Translated from Frederic Schiller.

BY MELISSA.

Many sheep are straying,

Silver white,

On a spacious meadow,
In our sight.

As we now behold them,
So have done

Quite the oldest grandsires,
Years agone.

They can grow old never-
From the brink
Of a deathless fountain,
Life they drink.

A shepherd to them given
Night and morn,
Bears his brightly bending
Silver horn.

Out through golden gateways,
Clear and bright,
Leads he them, and counts them,
Every night.

And however often

This is done,

He of all the lambkins
Loses none.

One true dog helps guide them
Every day,

And a ram of spirit

Leads the way.

What this flock is, tell me
You that know;
And the shepherd also,
Must you show.

A SERIES OF STORIES FOR CHILdren.

BY KATE STIRLING.

No. 2. THE MAY QUEEN.
"God is Love."

On the first day of this delicious month-in which the woods of our beloved Carolina are radiant with as well as redolent of flowers, the May-day of my happy childhood---little children used to assemble in some shady nook, and celebrate the coronation of their chosen Queen of May.

Though to me the summer is past, and the grave autumn of life has crowned my brow with the "sere and yellow leaf;" yet, when I recall the innocent and joyous spring-time of my being, amid delicious shades, and blooming flowers, and singing birds, and murmuring rills, and gentle zephyrs' soothing whispers, my buoyant spirit is young again, and laughs and gambols through the maze of flowers, mid bees and butterflies, in despite of the gravity of age. In this story then, my dear little readers, I shall tell you of our May parties, and of three of our most beautiful native wild flowers-the Virgin's Bower, the Yellow Jessamine, and the Wild Orange.

The Virgin's Bower is one of the most royallooking of all Dame Flora's sylvan favorites being a vine of most luxuriant growth, of massy rich green foliage, over whose whole outer surface are dense clusters of purple flowers, glowing and brightening in the sunbeams--appearing like a canopy of purple velvet above the throne of royalty..

It is supposed by some that when Sir Walter Raleigh first visited Carolina, being enchanted with the splendor of these native vines, he gave them the very appropriate name of "Virgin's Bower," in honor of his royal mistress, Elizabeth, the virgin queen of England. Doubtless, my dear little readers, you know something of this celebrated Queen; but if it chance that you do not, you will speedily learn all about her from the columns of your industrious and instructive little friend, The Pilgrim, as "Countries I have Seen." Proceed. This much, however, I will tell you now: Sir Walter Raleigh was a brave Knight and accomplished courtier in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He was also commander of a fleet of ships sent by that noble sovereign across the wide Atlantic ocean, with directions to explore this continent, and see if it would be a good and comfortable home for her subjects.

Historians say he landed on the coast of North Carolina, and from thence advanced sufficiently into the country to enable him to report satisfactorily to his royal mistress on his return to England. His account being favorable, the Queen forthwith dispatched other ships laden with emigrants to occupy our beautiful land, and establish her dominion over it.

The Yellow Jessamine, or Golden Climber of Carolina, equally beautiful and luxuriant, often extends to the topmost boughs of the stately Pine; and there, as if jealous of the sunbeams, expands her massy, golden beauties to the skies, crowning the head of her proud supporter, and thus heightening its grandeur.

It is not unusual for these magnificent vines to twine themselves amid the luscious white blossoms of the wild Orange tree, whose bridal wreaths are often laden too with the splendor of the Virgin's Bower, thus uniting the appropriate emblems of royalty-wealth, splendor and purity, or integrity.

slender branch, which I have seen as long as my arm, studded from one end to the other with flowers, waving in the breeze and shedding their exquisite perfume.

In one of these natural bowers, we children held the court of our May Queen. We reared a mound of earth within the bower, and covered it with moss, which became in time like a carpet of rich green velvet. It seemed a real pity to tread upon it, though it was prepared expressly for the feet of our chosen Queen; and from thence she pronounced her coronation address, after having received a chaplet of flowers on her fair and beautiful brow.

It was our custom, a few days before the first of May, to assemble in the woods near our sylvan throne, and choose our Queen. What a sweet delight it is, at this distant hour, to reflect how lovingly, how innocently, and how joyously we performed our several parts. And here let me counsel you, dear little children, if you would wish in maturer years to look back with unalloyed pleasure on the spring-time of your life, to love one another; for love will protect your tender minds from all unamiable feelings towards your little playmates, and infinitely enhance your own happiness. Remember, it was love which brought your gentle Saviour from the bosom of his Father in Heaven, in order to gather such precious little lambs as you into his Heavenly fold.

There were always two candidates for the throne of May, and we conducted the election in this wise: One little girl sat on the grass, and suggested the flower to represent each candidate ; usually yellow and purple. Each voter then threw the flower which represented her favorite into the lap of the little girl on the grass, who proceeded to count them, while the rest stood around her in a circle, holding hands, with faces beaming with delight, and ready to dance round the chosen Queen as soon as her election was announced

"The Queen is Purple!"-or, "The Queen is Yellow!" soon greeted their anxious ears, and instantly a shout of joyful approbation arose from their innocent voices; the Queen was placed in the centre of the ring, the little girl on the grass took her place, and all danced round her, singing and laughing-every now and then kissing her pretty lips with guileless love, such as the angels know.

After this, our kind mammas went to work making cakes, and other nice things, besides loading us with fruits, nuts, and sugar-plums uncountable; and when the happy day arrived, helped us to arrange our table in the woods.

Our Queen had her maids of honor, her pages and high officers of state, among whom figured most conspicuously the almoner, who bore on her arm a basket wreathed with flowers, from under whose cunning beauties she from time to time drew forth a liberal handful of sugar-plums, and, tossing them high in the air, was the first to scramble for their possession. In this she was followed by the whole assemblage, not excepting the Queen. This, perhaps you will say, was rather unqueenly; yet I can see no reason why she should have been excluded by such useless etiquette from the participation in every enjoyment of our jubilee. Indeed the scramble was regarded as the choice pleasure of the occasion, and was accompanied with merry peals of laughter, while every face glowed with innocent delight and good nature. These joyous occasions were never marred by the presence of the deformed visages of discontent, ill humor, or fret