Beautiful were the orphan minstrels of whom we are now to speak; beautiful in mind and heart. The party was composed of three individuals, two sisters and a little brother, the eldest of whom had not yet seen her thirteenth summer. Remarkable singers they were not, but yet there was something wild and plaintive in their voices which cannot easily be forgotten. The instruments they used, however—the harp, the tamborin, and flute—were uncommonly musical, and played upon with facility and taste. We became acquainted with these minstrels in this wise. They had stopped for a few moments, about nine o’clock in the evening, in the hall of Rathbun’s hotel. After delighting a crowd of listeners, and receiving a few pennies, they courtesied and bowed, and then continued on their way. We had an hour’s leisure at the time, and resolved as a matter of curiosity, that we would follow the children. We did so, and saw them enter two or three hotels, where they performed a number of pieces. The night was now far advanced, and they turned Barclay Street on their way home. Onward did they trip, with gladness in their hearts, talking together in the French tongue; and, in a few moments after, we saw them turn down Washington street into an emigrant boarding house. We were now in a predicament, and afraid to lose our game. But resolving to defend our conduct by inquiring after some imaginary person, we bolted into the house and followed the children up two flights of stairs. They entered a room where were seated a very old man and an equally old woman. The meeting between this aged pair and the little children was quite touching, for, when the money was counted and laid away, the latter were rewarded by a loving embrace. Soon as this scene was ended we made our appearance, and introduced ourselves by asking the intended question. This having been promptly and politely answered, we proceeded a little further in our queries, and obtained the following information: The senior members of this family were the grandparents of the children, and their only relatives in the world. The old man said they were all natives of France; that they had been in this country four months; and that their only support was derived from the _unwearied labors of the minstrel children_. As the old man told his story his eyes were filled with tears; he was mourning over his own helplessness, and yet rejoicing over the _living blessings_ of his old age. Having apologized for my rudeness, and uttered what I thought would be a word of comfort, we bade each member of the family a kind good night, and left them to obtain the repose they needed, and to dream perchance of church bells ringing in one of the beautiful valleys of their native land.