MR. Isaac Johnson and his accomplished wife, the lady Arabella, daughter of the Earl of Lincoln, emigrated to Salem, from Linconshire, England, in the early settlement of Massachusetts Bay. Soon after the death of his lady, Mr. Johnson removed to Boston, and was one of the first permanent residents. 'At his death he was buried at his own request, in part of the ground

upon Tremontain or Boston, which he had chosen for his lot, the square between School street and Queen street. He may be said to have been the idol of the people, for they ordered their bodies as they died, to be buried round him, and this was the reason of appropriating for a place of burial what is now called the old burying place adjoining to King's Chapel.'

HUCTHINSON.

There is not on record a more touching proof of affection than that disclosed in this short paragraph of New England History. It is generally considered that duty terminates with the close of life. But here, at least, there is proof of a consideration that extends to the dominions of death. The peculiar circumstances of the pilgrim fathers rendered their attachments more lasting and holy than most of the friendships of earth; they had left the cultivated and intellectual circles of England, where every earthly comfort awaited them, and, on the dark new England shore,' expected nothing but privations of bodily comfort, balanced by the magnanimous consideration of religious liberty, 'freedom to worship God;'—and thus separated from the scenes of early association, amidst the wild and comfortless scenes of a new country, what more natural than that, in life and death, these worthy men should cling around the leading stars that had guided their pilgrimage.

Imagination lingers around the death-beds of these founders of a noble nation, and listens to the last mandate of parental authority-let my body repose near the beloved Johnson. What earthly crown has one half

the respect and sincerity in its motto that this dying request inherits. It is a tribute which the proudest statesmen and sages might envy. Through every vicissitude of earth, the waste of flesh and bones, and the final resurrection in which long decayed dust shall be raised again, to be near one in favor with God and man, would be pleasant-and the commitment of our cherished bodies to the same dust which covers a benefactor, is almost as much an act of the other world as of this-it would seem like the last deed of time and the first action of eternity.

WHY SHOULD WE DIE?

Why should we die

Within the dark cold grave to lie?
The world is fair and friends sincere,
And life is sweet and home is dear;
Mild charity is standing by,

And love, like nature's melody
Through grove and brake and bower heard,

Is true to each impassioned word;

A thousand angel voices sigh,

And murmur sweetly-do not die.

Why should we die,

And see no more the deep blue sky,
The earth with all its garniture,
The snow-drop in its whiteness pure,
The red rose in the summer sun,

The autumn foliage ripe and dun,

The blushing morning and calm eve,
The seas that roar, or rills that leave
The rock to wander peacefully-

From these from all-why should we die?

Why should we die?

Hope whispers with her lucid eye!
And brighter far than hope there comes
One brightening all the darksome tombs-
One who has trod the vale of death
And lost amidst its glooms his breath—
He, Angel of the Covenant, now
With crowns of glory on his brow,
With mercy kindling in his eye,
Says sweetly-sinner, do not die.

more.

FRENCH REVOLUTION.

THE wonderful doings of antiquity are wonders no Brutus, who struck at a tyrant's heart; Cato, who embraced the point of his own sword rather than compromit to a tyrant the dignity of the commonwealth; Tell, whose principles of mountain liberty made tyrants turn pale, and other names, long since given to history and song, must now be given to those shadows which time is weaving around them-for they are outdone, not by an individual or a few individuals, but by a whole people. The patriot who rises against existing government single handed, urges the populace to arms by the aids

of a persuasive eloquence, and, perhaps, himself strikes the blow that rids the world of a tyrant, to some extent must sustain the character of executioner as well as patriot, but when an entire people rises without one inflammatory appeal being made to their passions-and when, whatever blood must be shed, is shed by the many handed nation, majesty presides in every omnipotent act; will becomes fate, and monarchs on their despotic thrones must bow like the rush before a power second only to the Almighty's

The French nation rose in one moment. The Sabbath was quiet-and the streets of Paris discovered no unusual indications. No mortal being was dreaming of a storm. The ministry, the tools and panders of an ignorant despot, were, on that sacred day, signing the ordonnances of their own fate. God is higher than the thrones. It was His eye alone that saw a sepulchre open, wide and dreary, in the centre of Paris; it was His hand that wrote rottenness on the throne of Charles the tenth ; God saw prospectively the smoke of conflict hanging like funeral drapery around the spires of the Louvre, of the Tuilleries, and the massive towers of the Notre Dame.

But the king of the French and his five ministers at St. Cloud-how little dreamed they of entering, on that sacred morning unsanctified by them, the last week of their power-the great week of the revolution! Did the wild spirit of Napoleon ride in the winds, and look through the coming storm abroad over the scene of his earthly glory? Was his imaginary form perched on the cannon built pyramid of Place de Vendome, rejoicing