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himself, disappear from the scene, leaving the stage to be occupied by Mr. Carey alone. His volume of appropriated plunder, he entitled "Harmonies Economiques," and he admitted, even in reference to this, that the new theory of the Harmony of Interests (the subject of his book), was indebted to no one more than to Mr. Carey, whom, however, he had not credited with a quotation, or honoured with a reference in his work. His defence was really, in effect, a surrender without laying down his arms-everything but a formal confession of the plagiary, and his scientific friends, and literary executors, have since, in the fullest manner, admitted the priority of Mr. Carey, and along with it, the identity of system, of the two claimants. Mr. Carey's work was published twelve years in advance of M. Bastiat's. Professor Ferrara, of the University of Turin, in his office of editor and reviewer, settles the conflicting claims of Messrs. Carey and Bastiat, în the language which we extract (and translate) from the preface to the twelfth volume of " Biblioteca dell' Economista." It will be remarked that the Professor differs from both writers, on certain points of opinion. He says: "It remains now, only for me to express my opinion, in regard to the question of priority raised between Carey and Bastiat. The documents that follow will speak for themselves. It is quite impossible, notwithstanding the last letters of Sig. Paillottet (the literary executor of Bastiat) not to admit that the right is altogether on the side of the American economist. The theory, the ideas, the order, the reasoning, and even the figures of the 'Principles' of Carey, and the 'Harmonies' of Bastiat, coincide perfectly. It would distress me to sully with the charge of plagiarism, the memory of Bastiat; the reader will do so, if he believes it to be so; but the possibility of such a plagiarism consoles me for the cause of science. I could not have had the courage to attack, so decisively as I have done, the theory of labour value of Carey, or of service value of Bastiat, if I could clearly have seen that at such remote parts of the world, and at twelve years distance of time, two men of such high intelligence, had arrived at conclusions so identical as is here the case. The coincidence would have intimidated me, and I cannot conceal

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the fact, that that which has given me courage to express my views so frankly, has been that I have been able to say to myself, these two books are one." The question of M. Bastiat's literary integrity is of no consequence to Mr. Carey, for the claim of priority is his, without a dissenting voice. Moreover, if the honours of all he has already achieved, were denied to him, a vein of discovery, deeper, and a field of progress, larger, lies open to him, from the position to which he has worked his way, than the grandest style of larceny will venture to attempt. He has, we believe, hit the heart of the mystery, and we look to him to deliver over, for the world's common use, the doctrines of political economy, reduced to certainty, and complete in compass.

With a few words biographical, and very brief, we conclude, without finishing, this very hasty and imperfect notice of our author.

Henry C. Carey was born in Philadelphia, in the month of December, 1793. His father was the distinguished Matthew Carey, himself an irregular but sagacious writer upon the subjects, which his son was destined to treat with a method that must mark a new era in their philosophy. The elder Carey was a successful bookseller, and educated his son to the same business. Henry C. was the third child, and eldest son. At the early age of seven, he entered his father's bookstore, and remained there till his majority, in 1814, when he became a partner in the firm. This association continued till 1821, when the senior Carey retired from business. The subject of this notice then became the leading partner in the firm of Carey & Lea, and subsequently in that of Carey, Lea & Carey; in their time, the largest publishing houses in the country. During this period, he married a sister of Leslie, the celebrated painter; shortly after which, he made a tour in Europe. Since his retirement from business, in 1835, he has resided at Burlington, New Jersey, a village on the Delaware, sixteen miles from Philadelphia, where, without being exclusively devoted to literature, he has occupied himself with the preparation of the works we have named, and with his frequent contributions to the periodicals of the day, on subjects connected with, and kindred to the staple of his mental products.

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BY ELIZA L. SPROAT.

I'd gather my measure of ocean treasure,

And dance myself to thee.

I'd leave the winds aside,
And lead the lagging tide,

Resting never, and dancing ever,
To fling my life on thee.

Oh, were I a lily, a lily,

And thou my charmed bee,

I'd lure thee, and love thee, and close above

7

thee,

And ne'er would set thee free;

The wrathful sun might pale,

The scolding winds might rail,

So, dying together, my leaves should wither O'er thee, my love, o'er theel idwes ar

Oh, were I a willow, a willow,

And thou my breeze should be,

Still closer creeping, each small leaf steeping, Till all were filled with thee;

Or rise in wrathful gale,

And roar through all the vale;

I'd fling, imploring, my arms adoring,

And bow, oh Storm, to thee.

Oh, were I a roselet, a roselet,

And thou my sun should be,

I'd gather the sweetness of June's complete

-ness

In one red kiss for thee.

My heart would stand a-swoon

For pure excess of June,

* Till, flushed with fulness, athirst for coolness, "It burst at last to thee. tekivad v

THE LAST LOVE OF TENIERS.

BY CHARLES G. LELAND.

"Quien quiere amor descifrar
Engaña su fantasia;
Descifrar, amor, seria
Medir las aguas del mar;
Mas si se quiere expresar
De esta pasion el ardor,
Que nadie tenga valor

Para hacerlo, no me espanto
Si yo sabiendo amar tanto

No sé descifrar amor."

DON JUAN RODRIGUEZ CALDERON.

THE love of early youth is like the bright glow-now faded for ever, so did the artist raise from ing morning-aurora-we gaze gladly on it, not only for its beauty, but because it makes us happy in the hope of a brilliant day. But the love of riper years is dear to our soul, for in it as in the heavenly evening-red, we recall the gleam and glory of a time now past and gone.

Half of all that we admire or love in this world, after attaining the age of reflection, owes its charm to association-association, often dim, undefinable, and even forgotten. How many a bright eye, or soul-stirring gleam of expression, puzzles us at the first glance, even more than it charms, because we cannot, at the instant, recall when or where, in the same, or another form, it

first attracted us.

his own heart, those dim and shadowy beauties which were of memory and the dead, to lend a grace and a glory, a lustre and a love, to the living And those who would rightly comprehend the se cret of the attraction which he found in the beauty and amiability of Isabella de Fresne, must seek for them in the ineffable loveliness and gentleness of Anne Breughel.

We are assured, from a thousand little incidents,

recorded, not only by contemporary writers, bat scattered here and there in the works of Teniers themselves, that the period of his first marned life was one of most exquisite and unalloyed happiness. It was during the days of his first love-marriage with Anne Breughel, that be wit And it is precisely this inability to recall the enced all the glow and glory of dawning greatnessed his earliest triumphs in art, and experi first original form-the far, flown, beautiful specness. It was in this happy time that he brought tre-which confers an attraction or lends an indeto full perfection, and made his own, that peculiar finable grace and mystery to that which we now style, first struck out by the elder Breughel, Anne's admire. How many a bar of music-sadly, spi-grandfather; and with which he had become fami ritually sweet, has thus floated to the inner pene- liar in the paintings of his own father and Brawer. tralia of our heart, borne on wings not its own. It was during this period that his soul first comHow many a smile has cast the light of heaven prehended, in all their ineffable and silent greatinto the darkest chamber of thy soul, whose first, ness, the sublimity of the beautiful, of nature and forgotten radiance was enkindled, it may be, by of God; whether developed in the fresh green some young beauty of other lands and times, now prairie with its brooks and flowers, or in the dead or passed away for ever. How many a poem strange, ever-bubbling sea of human life, with its would vanish, unheeded, did not its rhythm and lights and shades, its merry gambols and grotesque melody unconsciously recall the once-loved songs, monsters. It was during these days that he lived which still linger in our memory, not dead indeed, as a lord in The Castle of the Three Towers, en but sleeping. bon compagnon with Don John of Austria, the Archduke Leopold, the Prince of Orange, and many others who were his friends and guests. It was during these days that all which could render life happy, inspire the soul, elevate the imagina tion, and charm the feelings, combined to lend to his first love and wife, Anne Breughel, that inef fable fascination which spoke in after life, from the tomb, in a new form.

It were useless to push the question further, but we may well inquire of those somewhat advanced in life, and more particularly of those who measure time, not by years, but by experiences, if they are not governed in the choice of new loves, new friends, new likings, and new sympathies, far more by unconscious, or even conscious renewals of the Past, than they, themselves, are generally aware? The most strenuous efforts of Youth to recall only bygone feelings, are invariably and unavoidably mingled with hopes or fears for the Future. Every emotion is thus a magnet, from which no exertion can banish the negative pole of anticipation in youth, or the positive anti-period of their marriage, was a wealthy heiress. thesis of memory in age.

In the year of Teniers' life, his last love was thus the Indian Summer of his first-a golden reflection, less warm, but not less beautiful; and loved the more in that it seemed destined to pass so soon away. As the alchymist of the olden time, raised up in his heart-glass, from the ashes of the dead and withered rose, the lovely phantom-the beautiful reflection of the fairer flower,

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By the death of Anne, he was destined, not only to mourn the loss of all those happy associations which her love had drawn around him; but to sink deep into the abyss of mere worldly suffer ing and comparative poverty. Anne, at the

Teniers had naught, save his skill, to depend upon, and consequently all their joint property had prospectively been settled upon the children. Teniers might have evaded this agreement, and in spite of its requisitions almost conscientiously have retained wherewithal to live happily. But this he refused to do. His children, themselves, were in tears, at this stern resolution to do them no injastice, and all his friends and relatives, including

those of Anne, remonstrated. But he had for all, a uniform reply,

"I will not live on the property of orphans!" In a very few months, his entire property, his plate and arms, his richly embroidered hangings, and costly works of art, including, of course, his favourite Castle of the Three Towers, was sold, the price to be paid, with interest, to his children, when they should attain their majority. Of all he had once called his own, Teniers retained only a horse, for he felt that he could never relinquish his singular and favourite custom, of riding forth of a morning to observe life and nature, and gather material for the picture which he intended painting after dinner.

And, having mentioned this habit, the reader will excuse me, if I pause for an instant to record, from one of the artist's most enthusiastic biographers, an anecdote relative to it. Such was the incredible facility of his execution, that a vast number of his pictures are termed "after-dinner pieces," because they were begun and finished in the same evening. One day he had strolled with Don John of Austria, to a gay kermesse or village festival. The Prince, we are told, returned, charmed with all he had witnessed, and talking incessantly, not only of the jovial merriment, but more particularly of a very pretty tavern girl, whose attractions had fascinated his eye. After supper Don John retired, as did Teniers-the former to his couch, the latter to his easel. But what was the surprise of Don John, when he saw, the next morning, on waking, directly before his bed, the entire scene of the kermesse, painted with striking fidelity. Nor had the pretty girl of the cabaret been forgotten-" she smiled upon her admirer with pearly teeth and rosy lips, worthy of smiling elsewhere than in a Flemish tavern."

But now, farewell to all these bygone and beautiful days! He now no longer studied dances and taverns from the window of his carriage, as it was once said of him, in contrast with Brawer, who lived and drank with his models. He could not even occasionally deign to pour out, "with a white and disdainful hand," to some Flemish boor; for what had been a noble condescension in the great lord would, in the reduced artist, become mere boon-companionship. He fled to Brussels, and long lived only for memory of his dead Anne, for Religion, and Art. Reduced to poverty, his pictures also fell in value, we are told, to half price. "With the grand seigneur, men had not dared to drive a bargain; but with the poor artist, they only feared lest they should offer too much."

Yet the shadows of The Three Towers ever fell darkly and solemnly, yet pleasantly, upon his soul. Not even the shades of the grave were so cold and refreshing, though he was alone in the world; for he looked not forward to the tomb as the spot where he should again wed, in death, the loved one passed away. A strange presentiment ever haunted him that he should again hear the music of that voice, again gaze with undying love into those infinite eyes, which were blue seas of soul and beauty, again feel the clasp of that hand, which now pressed his heart only in troubled, tearful dreams, and this not only in the endless Land of Light which lies beyond Death, but here, in the busy world of cities and men.

Reader, I have known one who had but little

fear of midnight spectres and graveyard phantasms, but who nourished at heart an inexpressible horror at the thought lest he should some day meet, in the full glare of sunlight, and amid the bustle of daily, active life, those whom he had once known, but who were now departed. But it was with no sentiment of horror or supernatural awe that this feeling (for it was not as yet matured to a thought or belief) swam dreamily through the soul of Teniers. It was such a sensation as that which steals over us when we insensibly anticipate the approach of Spring, with its warm breezes, the voluptuous odour of violets, and the thousand-fold half audible overtures of dream-operas, whose music is lost in sleep.

His daily rides were often in the direction of Perck; and he seldom returned thence without visiting the grounds of the Castle of The Three Towers. One evening, having approached nearer, than usual to its gate, he gave himself up unreservedly to all the sad yet beautiful recollections of the Past. Never had he loved his Anne so well as now; and never before had the strange presentiment of which we have spoken pressed so strongly or assumed so vivid a form.

"Anne! my own love!" he sighed. "Oh! if thy spirit again visits earth, come to me, and be mine!"

The rustling of the gravel, as if stirred by a light footstep,-the sound of the rose-bush, brushed by a silken dress,-met his ear; and, turning, he beheld in the moonlight a form and features which even in broad day he would have deemed those of Anne. Yet Anne it was not; for, on beholding the stranger, she blushed deeply, trembled, and, without a word, turned abruptly away.

The suddenness of the apparition, and its evident reality, combined with the previous feelings of the artist, had, however, well-nigh overpowered him. Long he fixed his eyes in the direction in which she had vanished, as if gazing into another world, and then, with a long, sad sigh, turned away.

"Oh, Anne, my wife-love!" he mused, "I had well-nigh deemed thee mine own again. But patience!-the dream is not yet out."

As he mused, he heard from afar a sweet, merry voice, trilling this verse of an old Flemish

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same lute-Anne's lute-rested in a corner. But at the extremity of the room he beheld an attraction, which, more powerfully than the decorations or the lute, drew back his soul to the Past, or rather, blended the Past and Present in one. Whether a golden ray of hope from the Future gleamed forth at the sight, we know not.

At an easel, painting, sat Anne's counterpart,— the maiden whom he had so recently met by moonlight in the garden. Yet the resemblance was not that accurate and identical similarity which would induce a careful observer to mis take one for the other. Isabella was younger,

But in her features, in the blonde hair falling in long waves," and in her tender and naif giances, she was all-identical with the one passed away. No look could have been more modest, no greeting more seemly, than that with which she greeted Teniers; but the expression of the one and the tone of the other both conveyed tha singular and indefinable feeling with which we first meet one who has long been familiar to that deepest thought. And in the chime of the voice

The Castle of The Three Towers had been purchased, and was inhabited by the Seigneur Jean de Fresne, Counsellor of the Parliament of Brabant. His daughter Isabella, who shared with him its splendid solitude, was a beautiful, spiritual creature, fresh and fair as one of the rose-buds in her father's park, and remarkable, to those who in after days formed the comparison, for her singular and mysterious likeness to the departed Anne Breughel. The favourable impression which she had, from the report of numerous friends, formed at an earlier period for Teniers, was exalted, after her removal to his once home, into the most enthusiastic and glow-lighter and less grave than Anne in her bearing ing admiration. From the favourite handmaid of Anne, who had passed into her service, she learned a thousand traits of the noble and gentle character of the "lordly artist;"-traits which were confirmed by the memory of every neighbour, and attested more forcibly, we fear, to Isabella by the remarkable personal attractions which his portrait, still hanging in the Castle, presented. Were there, perhaps, deeper and more inex--that mysterious tone, or timbre, which perhaps plicable sympathies at work, which were capable of bringing her soul more nearly in unison with the departed, and the living? We know not. But there was a strange theory current in those days, a theory earnestly insisted on by the great Campanella, and which the reader may find discussed in many works relative to occult "signatures," affinities, and antipathies,-that between those who strongly resembled each other there existed a mysterious harmony of thought and feeling. And it was not strange that the youthful and imaginative Isabella, dwelling in the Castle of The Three Towers, and reminded at every step, by the portraits of its former mistress, by her mirror, and by the words and actions of her maid, who seemed scarcely aware that she sérved a stranger, of her wonderful resemblance to Anne, should, in some strange wise, have lived under the feeling that another life and another soul breathed by night and day into her its inspiration.

But, by every portrait of Anne, and in the memory of all who had known her, there was another form, the form of a noble cavalier, with curling locks and stately bearing, and where was he now? "He would still have been lord of this castle," said her father, " had he not been by far too noble, too honourable, too just. In fearing to wrong his children, he has greatly wronged himself."

We need hardly say that the first sunny morning found Teniers again loitering among the gardens of the Castle. At the base of a fountain, he was surprised by the old Counsellor de Fresne, who, with great earnestness' and kindness, besought him to enter, and consider himself as once more at home. Why should you deprive yourself," said he, " of all the inspiration which your genius requires, and which you have a right to demand? Come,-be at least my guest."

66

With these words, he led Teniers into his former home, and ushered him into that which had once been the favourite room of Anne. No change had been made in its furniture or decorations; the same silver chandelier hung from the gilded and frescoed ceiling, the same silken curtains trembled in the morning breeze, and the

indicates to the careful observer, more accurate.y than any other personal peculiarity, the true ch racter of an individual-Teniers recognised a likeness, intimating a more than physical resem blance.

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"My daughter would also fain be enrolled among the artist-guild," said the old Counsel, smiling. "In faith, she lacks not talent, though I fear she needs a master sadly. Therefore, I pray you, Mijn Heer Teniers, to give her the advantage of your artist's advice, that the pour child may boast with me of having had the best teachers in all things."

"And that I can well say, father," replied Is bella; "for it is to your counsel and instruction that I owe all which I possess, worth knowing."

Sure,

"Niet te veel, met te veel,—not so much, either," answered the good Counsellor, laughing. I never taught thee flattery. Well, I leave you to your scholar, Heer Teniers. I must depart. Tot wedersiens,-I shall meet you anon."

Waving his broad Spanish beaver, the stately Counsellor lifted the embroidered hangings f’oam, a door, and disappeared, leaving the artist alone with one who had long cherished for him in ber soul a deep love, heightened by all the inspiration. of indefinable mystery and reverence.

And the days passed by like a dream at the Castle of The Three Towers. But who can analyze the secrets of the human heart! Teniers fascinated, bewildered by the charms of Isabella, we are told, still feared to abandon his heart fully to Love. Whether it was that, with the noble shame characteristic of such a nature, he would not offer his poverty against her wealth, or that he hesitated to take advantage of a love which was only too ready to respond to his own, we know not. But the fascination was terrible; it weighed upon his soul. The cameriste, or waiting-maid, of Isabella ever bore herself toward him as if no change of mistresses had taken place, and increased the illusion by inducing Isabella to array herself as Aune bad done,-in the same plumes, with the same coiffure, and in the same colours. With the same unmoved air as of old, she announced to him that “My lady

awaits you, sir;" and the same honours were ever rendered him as if he were still lord of the castle. Wishing to break the spell, and fearing to involve his feelings too deeply in a love which might possibly be opposed by the Counsellor, he bade a sad farewell,-tore himself abruptly from this scene of mysterious fascination, and departed for France.

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He had intended to travel in Italy, but at Lyons he retraced his footsteps. Love-burning, overpowering love-love for the dear one passed away, yet who seemed to live and breathe for him alone, in a new form, led him back to his own land. "All is lost, now," thought he, "if I win thee not, my own darling-my undying bride. It is she! it is Anne! it is Isabella, who calls! I come, dearest-I come!"

On his return, a letter from the old Counsellor awaited him. It was brief, but seemed to give a ray of comfort. "Come, sir!" it said, 66 come again to us! Even our peasants are anxious to see, once more, their true lord, and my daughter Isabella finds that a single lesson in painting is not enough to bestow perfection, even from such a master as yourself."*

It was again a fair summer's night when Teniers re-entered the grounds of the Castle of the Three Towers. The odour of the roses was still fresh and inspiring, and a full moon cast its light, as before, on the scenery-and the soul. As he lingered for an instant by the borders of the little lake, he saw a boat, containing two female figures, approaching the shore. The one was the maid, the other Isabella. But never had the illusion seemed more perfect-never had Teniers realized before, so perfectly, the presence of her whom he bad lost. The boat touched the border-the maid vanished with a light step and a smile, and Teniers, forgetting all in the illusion, sunk to his knee, and grasping her small white hand, pressed it to his lips.

"Anne! oh, my own Anne!-Isabella! pardon me!"

"Anne, if thou wilt," replied Isabel, with a sweet smile, "Anne Breughel, since you deem me worthy of the name.

Teniers pressed again her hand, and arm in arm, the lovers sought the castle.

"In three weeks," says his biographer, "they were wedded. The old Counsellor vainly opposed a few scruples, but soon yielded. Teniers again took up his abode in the castle, and lived as he had done of old. Isabella de Fresne, dazzled by his original genius and his noble manner, was devoted to him to the last. She knew that she ever recalled to him his first wife, and that she was loved for the sake of another; far from regretting it, she even sought to resemble, more and

Arsène Houssaye.

more, in all her habits, the departed Anne, so that in one, her husband loved both."

It may be objected that, in chronicling the legends of Teniers as a lover, we have forgotten his characteristics as an artist. Those who regard him as a mere, though excellent, painter of village scenes, of popular life, or of grotesque monsters and diablerie, have not looked beneath the surface, or into the depths of his genius. It is an excellent, axiom of the present day, that literal imitation is not the great problem of art. But Teniers was not a literal imitator, as were Mieris, Dow, and Terburg. With him all was life,-infinitely varied, active life, with its sunshine and storms, and infinite omnipresent spirit. To the true cri; tic, even the works of Leonardo da Vinci are not more infinitely animated, or, in a word, more Pantheistic, than those of Teniers.

In the heart of the meanest boor. as in the angel, there glows a spark of endless life. Each is manifested in its sphere, and the greatest artist is he, who, in portraying man, makes him so truly human, that we never forget a single attribute of his nature. "To reproduce man, as God has made him," says a writer, "is a mission full of dignity."

For those wild grotesques, so frequently met with, of Teniers, generally representing the temptation of St. Anthony, and which appear to be a less delirious form of the feverish and diabolical insanities of his connexion, HELL BREUGHEL, we have an admirable defence, by the poet, JULES LE FEVRE. "All is serious," says he, "for the man who scrutinizes and sounds; and even in the extravagances of Teniers, I find as great a profundity of abstraction, as in the transcendental, allegories of Plato, This panorama of fearful caricatures, called into being, and around the saint, by his feverish abstinence from all pleasure, may be regarded as a series of emblems. Did not the breaking away from the flesh, and declaring a war to the death against all earthly feelings, bring into existence those inexhaustible monstrosities, which the satiric Fleming has revived? This Rabelais of painting thus shows us distinctly, of what impure elements those idols are formed, which we are so often tempted to adore. These. carcasses of reptiles are only the true forms of those passions which twine themselves around us, reduce us to crawl in the marshes of vice, and there wallow until we die, There is not one among the hideous marionettes of this burlesque drama, which cannot teach the thinker as stern a lesson as the most solemn parable. And the moral which we should draw, is this, that if we are not to yield to our passions, neither should we seek to destroy them. Let us be their king-but not their executioner,”

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