[We give the above as a paper on the food of the arctic regions, and can only hope that our correspondent’s cheering views as to the fate of the missing expedition may prove to be correct.—­ED.]

THE ARTIST’S SACRIFICE.

On a cold evening in January—­one of those dark and gloomy evenings which fill one with sadness—­there sat watching by the bed of a sick man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and two pretty children—­a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight.  The exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness:  everything announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty.  A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the entire furniture of the room.  And yet the man who lay on that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature.  His historical works had won for him a European celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labour.

An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to be intended for the use of this poor family, shewed that his wife and daughter—­this gentle child whose large dark eyes were so full of sadness—­endeavoured by the work of their hands to make up for the unproductiveness of his efforts.  The sick man slept, and the mother, taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her children into the adjoining room, which served both as antechamber and dining-room:  she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously colouring some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and raising her tearful eyes towards heaven, she seemed to be thanking the Almighty, and in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children.

Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the invalid.  ‘Just the same, doctor,’ said Mme G——.

The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments attentively on the sleeper, whilst the poor wife fixed her eyes on the doctor’s countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.

‘Is there no hope, doctor?’ she asked in a choking voice, as she conducted him to the other room.  The doctor was silent, and the afflicted mother embraced her children and wept.  After a pause she said:  ’There is one idea which haunts me continually:  I should wish so much to have my husband’s likeness.  Do you know of any generous and clever artist, doctor?  Oh, how much this would add to the many obligations you have already laid me under!’