one word of atonement. But no; there she stood-immovable. Neither would yield. I would have given the world could I have whispered in the wife's ear, For the love of Heaven-for the love of him--for the peace of your whole life, be the first to say, forgive me right or wrong, never mind. Whichever have erred, it is your place-as weak est and most loving to yield first. Oh, did you but know the joy, the blessedness of creeping close to your husband's wounded, perchance angry heart, and saying.-Take me in there again; let us not be divided more! And he would take you, ay, at once, and love you the more for the forbearance which never even asked of his pride the concession that he was also wrong!' Perhaps this long speech was partly written in his eyes; for when, by chance, they met the young wife's, she turned away, coloring crimson; and at that moment up came the enemy once more, in the shape of the intrusive elderly gentleman; but the husband's lecture, whatever it was, had its effect in the girl's demeanor. She drew back with a quiet womanly reserve, strongly con. trasted with her former coquettish forwardness, and left 'Mr. Goodriche' in possesion of the field. And I liked the husband ten times better for the gentlemanly dignity with which he shook off all trace of ill-humor, and conversed with the intruder. The boyish lover seemed changed into the firm, self-dependent man. And when the wife timidly crept up, and put her arm through his, he turned round and smiled upon her. Oh, how gladly, yet how shyly, she answered the slight token of peace! And I said to myself, "that man will have a just, and firm, yet tender sway: he will make a first-rate head of a family!' away. The girl no longer laughed and jested with her young husband; but she drew close to his side, her head bending toward his shoulder, as though, but for the presence of a stranger, it would fain droop there, heavy with its weight of penitence and love.-Yet, as I watched the restless look in her eyes, and the faint shadow that still lingered on the young man's face, I thought how much had been periled, and how happy-ay, ten times happier-would both have felt had the first quarrel never been! In the confusion of departure, I lost my young friends, as I thought, for ever; but on penetrating the mysteri ous depths of an omnibus, I heard a pleasant voice addressing me-'so you are again our fellow-passenger to ?' But I will not say where, lest the young couple should 'speer' for me, and demand why I dared to put them in print.' And yet they would scarce be wroth did they know the many chords they touched; and the warm interest they awakened in a poor withered heart which has so few. It was the dreariest of wet nights in London. Heaven knows how dreary that is!-but they did not seem to feel it at all. They were quite happyquite gay. I wondered whether for them was prepared the deepest bliss of earth first 'coming home; and I felt almost sure of it when the husband called out to the conductor, 'set us down at —;' naming a quiet, unobtrusive, newbuilt square. He said it with the halfconscious importance of one who gives a new address, thinking the world must notice what is of so much interest to himself; and then the young people looked at one another and smiled. I said to the wife-drawing the bow at a venture 'what a miserable night! Is it not pleasant coming home?' She looked first at her husband, and then turned to me, her whole face beaming and glowing with happiness, I saw little more of them until near the journey's end. They were then sitting in the half empty cabin alone together; for, to my delight, and perhaps theirs, the obnoxious individual of mid-'Oh, it is-it is!' dle age had landed at Blackwall. Very quiet they seemed; all the exuberant happiness which at first had found vent in almost childish frolic was passed They bade me good night, and dis appeared.-I leaned back in my dark corner, my heart very full; it had just strength to give them a silent blessing and no more. I remembered only that I had been young once, and that I was now an old maid of forty years. Chambers' Journal. is finished by a deep expiration, and immediately followed by a deep inspi ration. by those who have not wept when the mind has been greatly agitated. Hence arise the baneful effects, and the sensation of fullness, "the fullness of heart," and even of pain in the carCRYING, WEEPING, AND SIGHING.-diac region, so frequently experienced Dr. James Wardrop, an English medical author of eminence, in a recent treatise on Diseases of the Heart, says Sighing appears also to be a movethat among the means to influence the ment employed by nature to relieve circulation and relieve the heart, not the heart from congestion. The full in a poetical though proper enough sense inspirations which are made in sighing, of "the spirits," are laughing, crying, by withdrawing the venous blood from weeping, sobbing, sighing, coughing, the head, will assist in restoring the sneezing, hiccupping and vomiting; that which we suppose to be a mental, being in part a mechanical, or at least a physiological action. Crying, which consists in a succession of violent and long-protracted expirations, will have the effect, by diminishing the circulation in the pulmonary arteries, of unloading the left heart and large arteries, of any surplus quantity of blood, caused by the action of the heart having been disturbed, whether by mental causes or from bodily pain; hence, the relief which those who suffer mental affliction or bodily pain, derive from crying-an act which is resorted to throughout the whole animal kingdom, to relieve the heart from the hurtful effects of pain. From the same cause arise the great languor in the circulation, and even the pernicious effects which have so often been known to follow the endurance of severe bodily pain without crying. A man who made no signs of great suffering during a military flogging, dropped down lifeless. balance of the circulation, both within the head and chest, when it has been destroyed by some violent mental emotion or bodily pain. Says Shakspeare: "He sighed a sigh so portentous and profound as it Did seem to shatter all his bulk and end his being." Jean Paul Richter says, he "would rather dwell in the dim fog of superstition than in an atmosphere rarified to nothing by the air pump of disbelief." How many fine hats serve as a cover for worthless heads, and how many plaited shirt bosoms cover a hollow cavern where a heart should be lodged. Who is there that must not be convinced, he is but a useless person, and never of such an extraordinary merit. when he considers that at his death he leaves a world which will not miss him, and where such numbers are ready to supply his place? Bruyere. ROSE INSECTS.-If our lady readers are desirous of keeping their rose bush We see many examples in crying in hysterical women; and the screams which are made from fear or from mental agony, must have a powerful influence in unloading a congested heart. Weeping, also, which consists in ir-es free from the small green vermin regular respiration, either with or with that so frequently infest them, the folout crying, is an effort or voluntary lowing reinedy will be found a most act made to facilitate the pulmonary effectual one: To three gallons of wa circulation, and relieve that congestion ter add one peck of soot and one quart in the heart which is caused by grief. of unslaked lime. Stir it well-set it Weeping, observes Haller, begins with stand for twenty-four hours, and when a full inspiration, after which follow the soot rises to the surface skim it off. short expirations and inspirations. It Use a syringe for applying it. many hours of the day seated on the THE PAINTER DUHOBRET. turf, with his portfolio on his lap. It Among the pupils of Albert Durer; was then that he produced those happy in Nuremberg, was one whom he had touches which gave him self confidence received out of charity, discerning in to undertake labors of more importance him traces of talent, which he consid- and energy to shrink from no toil or ered worth cultivation. This cultiva privation. When he returned to the tion was not hopeless, under the eye of city, he carefully put aside the unfinthe master, even in one who had pass-ished piece, not daring even to show ed the age of forty; who was poor, even his best sketches; for he knew they to indigence, and who had hitherto con would bring upon him a double portion trived to gain a scanty subsistence by of scorn and derision. He applied painting signs, on the coarsest of tapes himself quietly to his daily tasks in try, at that time much used in Ger- the studio; and while he in the memany. The name of this man on chanical part of his art, nourished conwhom fortune seemed to have wreaked ceptions that gave him a world of his her utmost spite, was Samuel Duhobret. own creation. He was short in stature, crooked and Every day, as a general rule, Samuel ugly, and withal had an imperfection in came early to the studio of Durer, and his speech that rendered his enunciation remained until evening. Then he redifficult; and at times unintelligible. tired to the comfortless cell in which He was in consequence the butt of his he lodged, and worked in the silent fellow pupils, and they were continu- hours of the night, to transfer to his ally breaking jokes upon him, which canvass the dreams of beauty he had he bore in patient silence. Still harder brought from the country. He subto endure were the unfeeling taunts of mitted to incredible privations to obtain Madame Durer, who occasionally vis- the means of procuring pencils, colited the studio, and always had some- ors, etc., nay so ardent was his longthing harsh to say about the pupil ing for progress without obstacle, who brought her husband no recom- that he is said, by the historian of his pense for his trouble. In short poor Du- life, to have been only withheld by hobret's existence was joyless enough; stern principle, from stealing those inand it would have been a burthen indispensible articles from his compantolerable, with his crust of brown bread, when he had it, at home and his life abroad, but that he sometimes found himself able to escape from the toil and humiliation into the country. There under the free sky, with the smiling landscape around him, with the sound of streams and the song of birds in his ears, the heart of the desolate artist would expand. He amused himself with sketching some of the beautiful country seats in the neighborhood of Nuremberg. In this pleasing occupation, and with no one near to laugh and jeer at him, Samuel was no longer the same man. The abject and melancholy expression had disappeared from his face, which lighted and glowed with the strange happiness he felt, as drooping plants revive; and brighten in color under the influence of sunshine. Choosing some quiet and sheltered spot, Duhobret was accustomed to pass ions. Thus passed three years; and during that time neither Albert Durer, nor any of his pupils, knew of the nocturnal labors of Duhobret. How the powers of his physical nature were sustained under the incessant task. ing of his energies, its impossible to imagine. But nature at last gave way. The painter was seized with a fever, which rapidly reduced the little strength that remained to him. No one had the humanity to supply his wants, though he had not in many days tasted food, merely moistening his lips with water that stood in a stone pitcher by the bedside. As the fever abated, the wild dreams of delirium vanished, and Samuel thought himself, near to death. For the first time, a bitterness entered his soul. He felt a desire to preserve the life which seemed so worthless to all the world. He must procure food, | raised himself on his feet to see whose and adopted a desperate resolution. lips had uttered the blessed words. It Having risen from his miserable was the picture-vender to whom he couch, he took under his arm the last had first thought of offering his work. picture he had finished, and went out, "Fifty thalers!" cried another sonotaking his way towards the shop of a rous voice. vender of pictures. The piece was one on which he had bestowed great pains but he resolved to sell it for whatever price was offered, if only enough to purchase a single meal. The speaker was a large man dressed in black, "A hundred," responded the picturedealer, evidently in a considerable vexation. His adversary was equally prompt. "Two hundred thalers!" "Three hundred!" "Four hundred!" "A thousand!" As he dragged himself with difficulty along the streets, he passed a house in front of which a crowd was assembled. On enquiring the cause, Duhobret learned that a great sale was to take place. Various works of art, There was silence among the speccollected during thirty yaars, by an tators, and the crowd pressed eagerly amateur, whose gallery was the admi- around the opposing bidders, who, ration of all Nuremberg, was to be like two combatants, stood in the sold at public anction, the death of centre. the owner having occurred. The countenance of the picture dea Struck with the hope of finding here ler, showed his agitation, in spite of a market for his painting. Samuel his forced calmness. After a moment's pressed through the crowd to the sales- hesitation, he cried "two thousand man, and by dint of entreaties, and thalers." the feelings of compassion awakened by his wretched aspect prevailed on him to allow the piece to be offered at auction. The price at which he estimated its worth three thalers. "Let it go, said the artist to himself; "the money will procure me bread for a week-if a purchaser can be found." The picture was examined and criticised by many persons. The exhaust ed and anxious artist stood apart. At last it was set up for sale. The monotonous voice of the auctioneer repeated "At three thalers.' There was no response. The striken Samuel groaned, and buried his face in his hands. It was his best work! The salesman called attention to its beauties. "Does it not seem," said he, 'that the wind is really stirring the foliage of those trees; and that the leaves bend as they glitter in the sun! How pure and chrystalline in the water; what life breathes in animals come to drink at that stream; and the Abbey of Nuremberg, with fine buildings and in the distance, etc." "Twenty-five thalers," said a dry weak voice, and the sound startled Samuel from the stupor of despair. He "Ten thousand!" responded the tall man quickly, while his face glowed with anger. "Twenty thousand!" The picture dealer grew pale as death and clenched his hands violently. The tall man in increased excitement, bid forty thousand. The look of triumph he cast upon his adversary, was too much for the picture-dealer: and his eyes flashing with rage, he bid fifty thousand. How was it meanwhile with poor Samuel. He thought all that passed a dream, and strove to awaken himself, rubbing his eyes, and pressing his hand to his forehead, while the contest for his picture went on. "One hundred thousand!" sounded a voice in accents of desperation. "One hundred and twenty thousand! and the d-1 take the dog of a picture dealer!" The discomfited bidder disappeared in the crowd; and the tall man who had proved victorious, was bearing away the prize, when a lean, crooked, emaciated, squalid being presented himself before him. Taking him for a beggar, the purchaser offered him a small piece of money. "If it please you," faltered Samuel, "I am the painter of that picture." The tall man was the Count Dunkalsback, one of the richest noblemen in Germany. He tore out a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote on it a few lines, and handed it to the artist. "Here friend," he said, "is the order for the amount which thou mayest receive at once: Adieu." And he passed on. am exposed to many temptations, how can I be perfectly honest? I therefore give it to the priest." The priest pleaded the same as to his conduct in receiving the sacrifices. At length the thief exclaimed, "I know not why we should not all four be hanged, since not one of us is honest." The king was so pleased at the ingenuity of the thief that he granted him a pardon. THE FOREST. Samuel finally persuaded himself Come to the forest shade; our hearts will leap, HINDOO FABLE.-There is a fable among the Hindoos, that a thief having been detected and condemned to die, thought upon an expedient by which he might be rescued from death. He sent for the jailor, and told him he had an important secret to disclose to the king, and when he had done so he would be ready to die. The king sent for him to know what this secret was. He told him he knew the art of producing trees that should bear gold. The King, accompanied by his prime minister, courtiers, and priest, came with the thief to a certain spot, where they began their incantations. The thief then produced a piece of gold; de. claring, that if sown it would produce a tree, every branch of which should bear gold; "but," added he, "this must be put into the ground by a person perfectly honest. I am not so, and therefore pass it to your majesty." The King replied, "When I was a boy, I remember taking something from my father, which, although a trifle, prevents my being the proper person. I pass it, therefore, to my prime min ister." The latter said, "I receive the taxes from the people, and, as I] To muse at eve beneath the beechen tree. There, gloomy woods, unlit by summer beams, Fling their dark hues across the pensive breast, Our country's kindred, our ancestral trees. Now sleeps the wind-and now his mighty voice Tossing his giant limbs without control: No ivied hall is here-the oaks uptorn, Tell us where Time on stormy wings went by; The verdant arches springing to the sky; Oh! 'tis a glorious sight! our hearts expand In these old forest realms; and ev'ry thought With rich magnificence her temple wrought: Oh! let those thoughts which grateful bosoms swell, |