passage, the Lady Arabella displayed the same unshaken confidence in the success of their expedition.

The vivacity of her spirits had, it is true, somewhat abated; but it was only the chastened effect which the deep responsibility of a design so important as that in which she had voluntarily engaged, would have on a mind so pure and devoted as hers. Yet there was nothing in her air like the prim gravity with which our imagination is accustomed to invest the Puritans, especially the men. She was habitually cheerful. But the most rigid among that company would unhesitatingly have pointed her out as their example in Christian patience and charity. She was the sunbeam on their dark path; and not only her husband, but all to whom she was known, regarded her as almost, if not altogether, an angel.

They landed at Salem, June 12th, 1630. The condition in which they found the colony at that place, was most distressing. They had looked on death, and wept over the graves of their friends, till the fountain of their tears seemed dried up; and they had felt, in their despair, that it was better for them to die than to live. They needed sympathy, aid, comforters. And in those who landed they found all these. The Lady Arabella, especially, exerted herself to soothe the mourners, and presented, with her own hands, many of those delicacies, which her husband had carefully provided for her, to the sick and debilitated among the settlers. And many a blessing was invoked on her head, and many a prayer was breathed for her preservation.

But her work was soon done. She was attacked with severe pain in her limbs, the consequence of

a cold, accompanied by a slow fever; yet she still maintained her cheerfulness, and even exhibited increasing interest in the plans then agitating among the company, respecting the place where they should make their permanent settlement.

Her mind, during her sickness, which lasted ten days, appeared wholly intent on promoting the interests of pure religion; and, as connected with that end, she, like all the colonists, thought the settlement of New-England essentially necessary. Much of her time was passed in conversing with her husband and those about her, on the future prospects of the colony. And it afterwards mightily encouraged the hearts of those self-exiled people, that the Lady Arabella had always, even in the midst of her suffering, rejoiced that she had shared in the expedition, and declared her conviction, that God would prosper them even beyond their hopes.

The night before she died, she endured much, and her husband watched beside her; but towards morning, she insisted he should retire, and try to sleep. To gratify her, he lay down; and, contrary to his expectations,-for his mind was tortured with anxiety and pity for his wife, though he still clung to the hope that she would ultimately recover, he fell asleep. He was aroused from a dream, in which he had beheld his Arabella clothed in her bridal array, and resplendent in beauty, just as she looked when he led her to the altarhe was roused, and told that she was dying. He started from the bed, and, trembling in every joint, he hurried to the small, though not uncomfortable apartment, which had been provided for her.

The sun was just rising, and the cool air of the morning came fresh from the waters; but it could not revive her. The "mortal paleness" was on her

cheek, and her husband saw it; and, for a few moments, he was too much overcome to listen to the sweet, comforting words that broke from her lips, as if she would impart to his mind a portion of the peace that pervaded hers.

"My beloved," said she softly, a faint smile hovering on her white lips-and she extended her cold hand to clasp the one he offered. The touch seemed to chill his soul-it was death. His limbs became powerless; and, sinking into a chair, he covered his face, and groaned aloud. She raised her head from the pillow, and gazed on him with eyes in which tenderness and pity seemed struggling through the cloud that was slowly, but surely, separating the world for ever from her view. With a strong effort, she shook off, for a few minutes, the torpor that was, when he entered, stealing over her. She strove, by soothing assurance, to calm his grief.

Fearing he might regret he had allowed her to accompany him in such a perilous undertaking, she assured him, again and again, how blessed a privilege she considered it to be, that she should die and be buried in a land where God might be worshipped in spirit and in truth. "Do not, my husband," said she, "suffer my death to occupy your mind. We shall meet in heaven. But there is a work here for you to do; and I feel as if it were a mercy that I should be taken, so that your usefulness may no longer be clogged by your cares for me. I die so happy!-happy in every thing, but that you will grieve for me. There is no pang in death but leaving you."

And then she blessed him for all his kindness to her, and besought him to take courage and persevere in the course he had begun, and assured

him that she felt a confidence in the Lord, even a strong faith shedding light on the dark path she was treading, that the work would prosper, and that a mighty nation would arise from their feeble beginnings, who would be worshippers of the true God.

LADIES' MAGAZINE.

ON HUMAN GRANDEUR.

AN alehouse-keeper near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French King, upon the commencement of the last war pulled down his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers; he changed her therefore, some time ago, for the King of Prussia, who may probably be changed, in turn, for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration.

In this manner the great are dealt out, one after the other, to the gazing crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered at one of them, he is taken in, and another exhibited in his room, who seldom holds his station long: for the mob are ever pleased with variety.

I must own I have such an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which raises their shout: at least I am certain to find those great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this

day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole.

Ås Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy in the market-place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure which had been designed to represent himself. There were some also knock. ing down a neighbouring statue of one of the Or sini family, with whom he was at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possible a man who knew less of the world would have condemned the adulation of those bare-faced flatterers; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal; and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile, "Vides, mi fili, quam leve discrimen, patibulum inter et statuam." "You see, my son the small difference between a gibbet and a statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory stands: for as popular applause is excited by what seems like merit, it as quickly condemns what has only the appearance of guilt.

Popular glory is a perfect coquette: her lovers must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice; and, perhaps, at last, be jilted for their pains. True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense; her admirers must play no tricks; they feel no great anxiety, for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When Swift used to appear in public, he generally had the mob shouting at his train. "Pox take these fools," he would say, "how much joy might all this bawling give my lordmayor!"

We have seen those virtues which have, while