"Buy you another, indeed! Where is the money to come from, pray?" "To come from you, sir!" answered Annie, highly incensed. contented and dejected wife; Sarah, a happy and beloved one. Annie and her husband soon ran through their extensive fortune, and when, upon the decease of his father, he received his portion, it took nearly all of it to pay off his old debts. And here, instead of beginning life anewforming good resolutions, and determining to abide by them-he commenced another career of extravagance, which soon ended in his ruin. His wife now meets him with sullen looks; while hardly a word passes between them that is not spoken in anger. Both Harris and Ashbridge began life with "If you wish a brilliant, my love, you fair prospects. Ashbridge fell by his love of must buy it yourself. I do not possess money dissipation. Harris rose by his avoidance of enough; no, nor half of it," replied Frank, it. Each has met with his reward. stamping his foot on the floor. TOO LATE. BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, ESQ. "It is well," said the venerable man to his wife, as they sat together late one evening in July, 1840, "it is well that we discovered the character and habits of the young man, before he had advanced farther in our esteem; he might else have inveigled our only daughter into marriage, and brought disgrace upon us, as well as misery upon our child." "Which would have been misery to us too, surely," said the wife. son to prevent my child from the disgrace of a connection with a We will now turn to the history of Sarah "It would have been insupportable misery. Harris. In a snug three story brick house, But thank God," continued he, raising his eyes situated on the outskirts of the city, she re-in heartfelt gratitude, "I was informed in seasides. The parlors are not furnished with rich Brussels carpet, stately Venetia nglasses, or magnificent card and pier tables. But all is neat and plain, without ostentation. The centre table is loaded with valuable books not useless gewgaws, merely for show, as is too often the case. In a comfortable dining room sits Sarah, a beautiful boy resting on her lap. Her husband is close by, reading aloud the evening paper. All betokens contentment and happiness, the sure attributes of industry and good actions. What a contrast between the lives of An "With a what?" said a good looking young man, bowing to a venerable pair, "with a what, sir? speak out now! I am your daughter's husband; and it seems not unfit that there should be so much confidence between father and son, as that the latter should know the opinion of the former upon his pursuits, when the former knows the relation in which each stands to the other." "If it is too late to prevent the marriage," said the father "It is too late." "Then, at least, though my rights as a father may have ceased, those of a husband and of a man are unimpaired; and if I cannot rule those in my house, I can, at least, say who shall be its inmates." "Father," said the bride, kneeling, with clasped hands, "do not cast me from you; give my-give him time, at least, to prove that you have not done him justice. Mother, dear mother!" The closing of the door at the other side nie Morton and Sarah Eatly. Annie, a dis-"of the room drew the attention of the sup pliant, and she found that her husband was the only one left with her. It was too late. Hand in hand the newly married pair left what had been to the wife an Eden of quiet happiness. The stern commands of a father were there, at least, to be obeyed; and she was yet to learn whether a serious act of disobedience on her part, would ever be forgiven by one who had seemed wrapped up in her affections-whose life was apparently entwined with her obedience. 'She left that Eden then. Hand in hand the banished pair took their departure; and as the offending daughter, and confiding wife, turned back to look at the closing door of her paternal mansion, it seemed to her, indeed, || as if some angel, severe in awful beauty, guarded the portal against her entrance to the place which she had desecrated by filial disobedience. "Will you now, indeed ?" "Present yourself to me to-morrow free of debt, and I will insure the place." He was not free from debt, but a few hundred dollars would make him so. He felt assured that a few hours at the gaming table, the last time he would ever darken the accursed doors, would supply him with means to pay those debts-more than that he would not receive. 66 He hastened to the place, and paused at the last step of the door. Why should I go in? The few hundred dollars which I owe, I can soon save; and he who, knowing my poverty, would be security for fidelity. would not think worse of my character, if I confess my indebtedness, and my determination never to place myself within the chance of such dangers again." The resolution so excellent relieved his heart, and he turned with new feelings to adopt a course of virtue. It was then "too late." The pride of the new husband was just too much for his situation. He was anxious not only to maintain his wife independently of her family, but to give her many of those comforts to which she had been accustomed. He could easily have attained the former, and have met all her wishes in that respect; but his pride induced him to neglect rational means of acquiring ordinary comforts, and led him to resort to what he deemed chances of sudden wealth. He had, before his marriage, suffered in the estimation of many respectable persons, by his associating with certain dashing young men, who, to their other social qualities, were supposed to add that of fondness for games of hazard. He had amused himself in that way without pecuniary profits, and, by observation, had learned the tricks of the art without prac-sired sum. tising them upon others. Time passed on ward, and the young wife became a mother, and saw, in the birth of her boy, a renewal of the attentions of her husband, which, without apparent lapse of affections, certainly without other evidences of unkindness, had been of late pretermitted. He had absented himself from his home until a late hour at night, and had appeared haggard and care worn. It was also obvious, that the means of support were diminished, and the wife began to feel many, very many, of her comforts curtailed. The descent was rapid, and with it the renewal of absence of her husband at night; but no open unkindness was exhibited, nor was there reproach on her part, unless the pale cheek, the emaciated frame, and the heart-broken sigh could be so construed. Misery, wretchedness, absolute want, beset the family; and the husband tore himself away from the bed of his wife and child early in the evening, with a determination to bring back to them some means of comfort. He He He saw, within a few yards of him, one of the officers of the institution in which he was to have a place of trust. To have turned from the door would be to expose himself, and he could not stand where he was. entered, he played, and at midnight had won a few dollars. His "luck had turned," he said; he "followed up the luck," and daylight saw him possessed of more than the de He left the gambling room a man of better resolves than he had been, though he had always resolved well. He thought of the pleasure in store, of the good he would yet do, and the delights be could yet enjoy. The outer door of the house in which he lived was open. He stole quietly up the stairs, and gently lifted the latch of his room door. It was dark and still. The child at length moved. He felt that his wife had occasion to complain of his long absence, but the joy of his heart was to make her understand the new resolution he had formed, and the means he now possessed of carrying it into effect. He called her by name-she did not answer. He felt that his new intentions deserved more kindness. He called her again, but in vain. He then opened a window shutter, and the light of the morning poured full upon the face of his infant. He went to the bed to awaken his wife. He laid his hand upon her arm and its icy chillness struck to his heart. He threw himself upon the bed, and groaned in anguish. The crying of the child called some of the tenants of the house cottage. With the aid of his glass, he could to the room. The Coroner's aid was demanded over the dead body of the wife. The verdict of the jury was, "Died of the visitation of God." But one or two thought that distress had weakened her frame so much, that the anxiety and cares, the new feeling of suspicion, or the sense of utter abandonment that night, had been too much. Her heart broke with its over freight. The pride of the injured father at length yielded, and with quiet efforts, he traced out the residence of his daughter. Determined to meet her at more than half way towards reconcilation, he came just as her husband had awakened to a sense of his misery. It is "too late," said the latter, and pointed to the bed. The pomp of a funeral did not insult the wretchedness of the living, or the emaciated form of the dead. The grave is on the very verge of the western declivity of Laurel Hill. There is no stone to tell whose heart moulders there. Why should there be? What lesson could it teach? He whose reformation was almost begun before her death, tried the path of virtue afterwards, but it was "too late." He had resolved to reform for the sake of his wife, and not for the sake of virtue.-U. S. Gaz. 66 Nothing more than usual, father," replied the youth, "but I thought I could see something like a sail, far out in the bay. I may have been mistaken, for I should think no man would be so fool-hardy as to attempt a landing here on such a night as this." "Just reach me down my glass, boy," said the father, and I will soon tell you what it is. If it be a ship, we may, perhaps, be able to warn her off in time." The telescope was handed to him; and after putting on his pea-jacket, he left the plainly discern a small vessel at some distance in the bay, apparently bearing full down upon the rocks, against which the waves were dashing with the deafening roar of a cataract, "If she keeps that course a few minutes longer, she will be on the rocks!" exclaimed the fisherman, anxiously. "Ah, there she goes," he continued, with a smile of satisfaction, "she's tacking; the captain knows the coast, and if I mistake not, he will bring too, a few miles out. Again I'm right; but, they surely will not be so mad as to trust their boat on such a sea as this! Yes, they are lowering it, as sure as my name's Granton. Why, what's this?" he exclaimed, as a light figure glided towards him. "It's only me, father," replied his daughter. "You, Emily! and on such a night as this, too! Go back, child, go back; for the beach is not the place for such as you at this time of the year." "But, father," replied the girl, "can I be of no service to those poor fellows if they should be cast ashore?" 66 They are safe, Emily; at least, if they do not risk their lives in yonder little cockleshell of a boat, which they have just lowered." "Father," exclaimed Emily, laying her hand impressively on his shoulder, " Father, is the vessel large or sinall?" "She is small, a coaster I should say, Emily, but why do you want to know?" "Because, father," she replied, in a voice lowered to a whisper, "it surely cannot be George's vessel." "No, Emily, George is a better seaman than to expect a boat like that to live in such a sea.' 66 99 But," urged Emily, "there is no knowing what he would risk to—," and her voice faltered. 66 True," replied her father, smiling, “there is no knowing what he would risk to have a look at you. There, they have shoved off, and are now making way fast towards the beach." Not another word was passed between the father and daughter as the daring adventurers pulled lustily towards the shore. Emily anx→ iously watched the little skiff as it was pitched about; now concealed from her in a deep abyss, and then rising upon the crest of a wave, merely to be dashed down again with increased fury. 66 "He will get a wet skin for his rashness, if it be he," exclaimed the fisherman, who was the first to break silence, but sailors are not apt to care for such trifles as that, so as they gain their end." As he spoke, a large Newfoundland dog, || were rapidly nearing the beach, when a which had swam to shore unobserved, heavy sea struck the boat athwart her bows, sprang upon the beach and bounded towards and before she could recover from its effects, Emily. it was succeeded by another wave and she was capsized. Father," cried the girl, "it must be he, -this dog is poor old Hector. Oh, George! George!" and she burst into tears. "What's the use of crying, silly child?" said her father, kindly, "they may land safely yet." "She was patting the head of the dog, in order to conceal her anguish from her father, when her hand fell upon a piece of paper suspended from the animal's neck. It was saturated with salt water, and the letters were illegible, but the quick eye of the girl recognized, in the almost obliterated characters before her, the hand-writing of her lover. She tore it from of the neck of the dog, and, placing it in her bosom, once more fixed her steadfast gaze on the little boat, which was now laboring heavily on its course. "How much longer, father," she asked, after a long pause, "how much longer do you think they will be before they reach us?" "That depends, Emily," replied her parent, "on the will of God, and their own exertions; but if they land at all, they ought to be here in less than ten minutes." The wind blew in fitful gusts, the moon became obscured by small white clouds, and the general appearance of the firmament indicated a squally night. The boatmen struggled hard against the sea, and contrived, by almost supernatural exertions, to keep their skiff upon her course. Ten minutes of intense anxiety to Emily and her father had flown by, and yet the boat was beating about at least five hundred yards from shore. The strength of the men was now evidently giving way, and notwithstanding the loud cries of their captain to "pull for their lives," they relaxed their exertions, and allowed the boat to drift. 66 They are lost! they are lost!" screamed Emily, rushing to her father's side, "O Heaven, save them! spare their lives!" Her parent shook his head mournfully, and was closing his telescope in despair, when a loud and hearty cheer arose from the beach, and on looking once more in the direction of the bay, he perceived that a large boat had been launched by a party of fishermen, and was being rowed vigorously to the assistance of the skiff. "God be praised!" cried Emily, fervently, as her father pointed it out to her, "they are then safe?" Emily screamed frantically, and then fell to the ground insensible. The fishermen strained every nerve to bring their boat up to the assistance of the drowning mariners, but succeeded only in picking up one alive: two others were taken up, merely to be conveyed on shore and buried. After the lapse of some minutes, Emily was restored to sensibility, and her first inquiries were for her lover. Before her father could reply, the faithful Hector swam once more ashore, bearing the inanimate corpse of his master. She spoke not as the poor animal laid it at her feet, and, looking in her face, whined piteously: not a groan escaped her, not a tear fell from her eyes, but, from that moment, Emily Granton was deprived of the light of reason, and lived and died a maniac! HASTY BURIALS. BY MRS. CHILDS. The yellow fever raged fearfully in Boston, the last part of the seventeenth century. The panic was so universal, that wives forsook their dying husbands, in some cases, and mothers their children, to escape the contagious atmosphere of the city. Funeral rites were generally omitted. The "death-carts," sent into every part of the town, were so arranged as to pass through each street every half hour. At each house known to contain a victim of the fever, they rang a bell, and called, "Bring out your dead." When the lifeless forms were brought out, they were wrapped in tarred sheets, put into the cart and carried to the burial-place, unaccompanied by relatives. In most instances, in fact, relatives had fled before the first approach of this fatal disease. One of my father's brothers, residing in Boston at that time, became a victim to the pestilence. When the first symptoms appeared, his wife sent the children into the country, and herself remained to attend upon him. Her friends warned her against such rashness. They told her it would be death to her, and no benefit to him; for he would soon be too ill to know who attended him. These arguments made no impression on her affectionate heart. She felt that it would be a life-long satisfaction to her to know who attended upon him, if he did not. She ac The men in the skiff finding relief so near|cordingly staid and watched him with unreat hand, had again taken to their oars, and mitting care. This however, did not avail No. 10. A Little Girl and her Sister's Grave. 311 to save him. He grew worse and worse, horn she had been holding was spilled on the and finally died. Those who went round pallid face. Accidentally, the position of the with the death-carts, had visited the chamber, head had become slightly tipped backwards, and seen that the end was near. They now and the powerful liquid flowed into his noscame to take the body. His wife refused to let trils. Instantly there was a short quick gasp it go. She told me that she never knew how a struggle-his eyes opened; and when to account for it, but though he was perfectly the death-men again came, they found him cold and rigid, and to every appearance, sitting up in bed. He is still alive, and has quite dead, there was a powerful impression enjoyed unusually good health. on her mind that life was not extinct. The men were overborne by the strength of her conviction, though their own reason was opposed to it. The half hour again came round, and again was heard the solemn words, "Bring out your dead." I should be sorry to awaken any fears, or excite unpleasant impressions, by the recital of this story; but I have ever thought that funerals were too much hurried in this country; particularly in the newly settled parts of it. It seems to me there ought to be as much delay as possible; especially in cases of sudden death. I believe no nation buries with such haste as the Americans. The ancients took many precautions. They washed and anointed the body many successive times before it was carried to the burial. The Ro sure that life was extinct, before they lighted the funeral pile. Doubtless, it is very unusual for the body to remain apparently lifeless for several hours, unless it be really dead; but the mere possibility of such cases should make friends careful to observe undoubted symptoms of dissolution before interment. The wife again resisted their importunities; but this time the men were more resolute. They said the duty assigned them was a painful one; but the health of the city required punctual obedience to the order they received; if they ever expected the pestilence to abate, it must be by a prompt re-mans cut off a joint of the finger to make moval of the dead, and immediate fumigation of the infected apartments. She pleaded and pleaded, and even knelt to them in an agony of tears; continually saying, "I am sure he is not dead." The men represented the utter absurdity of such an idea; but finally, overcome by her tears, again departed. With trembling haste she renewed her efforts to restore life. She raised his head, rolled his limbs in hot flannel, and placed hot onions A LITTLE GIRL AND HER SISTER'S GRAVE. on his feet. The dreaded half hour again came round, and found him as cold and rigid as ever. She renewed her entreaties so desperately, that the messengers begun to think a little gentle force would be necessary. They accordingly attempted to remove the body against her will; but she threw herself upon it, and clung to it with such frantic strength that they could not easily loosen her grasp. Impressed by the remarkable strength of her will, they relaxed their efforts. To all their remonstrances, she answered, "If you bury him, you shall bury me with him." At last, by dint of reasoning on the necessity of the case, they obtained from her a promise, that if he showed no signs of life before they again came round, she would make no further opposition to the removal. A little child WORDSWORTH. At Smyrna, the burial ground of the Armenian, like that of the Moslem, is removed a short distance from the town, is sprinkled with green trees and is a favorite resort not only with the bereaved, but with those whose feelings are not thus darkly overcast. I met there one morning a little girl with a halfplayful countenance, busy blue eye, and sunny locks, bearing in one hand a small cup of china, and in the other a wreath of fresh flowers. Feeling a very natural curiosity to know what she could do with these bright things in a place that seemed to partake so much of sadness, I watched her motions. Reaching a retired grave, covered with a plain marble slab, she emptied the seed— which it appeared the cup contained-into the slight cavities which had been scooped out in the corners of the level tablet and laid the wreath on its pure face. Having gained this respite, she hung the watch up on the bed-post, and renewed her efforts with redoubled zeal. She placed kegs of hot water about him, forced brandy between his teeth, breathed into his nostrils, held hartshorn to his nose; but still the body lay motionless and cold. She looked anxiously at the watch; in five minutes the promised half hour would expire, and those dreadful there?" voices would be heard passing through the "It is to bring the birds here," she replied, street. Hopelessness came over her; she with a half wondering look, "they will light dropped the head she had beeen sustaining; on this tree," pointing to the cypress above, her hand trembled violently; and the harts-"when they have eaten the seed, and sing." "And why," I enquired, "my sweet girl, do you put the seed in those little bowls |