beyond measure; his château, so cheerful before, became sombre and comfortless; Nature, his ordinary teacher, spoke to him now of nothing but Anne Breughel. His marriage-contract compelling him to give up everything on the death of his wife, the painter found himself, by this calamity, suddenly reduced to poverty. His children would not have allowed the clauses of the contract to be executed in their favor; but Teniers, in spite of the entreaties of his friends, resolved to strip himself of everything in the very year of her death; saying that "he would never consent to live upon the property of orphans." The château changed owners, and he retired to Brussels. Here he lived a solitary life, turning his thoughts unceasingly to the remembrance of his dear Anne, and devoting himself to the practices of religion, and to watching over the progress of his children at college.

Though living now in the most humble style, he had been compelled to retain one of his horses-all his pictures being the result of short journeys into the country. On these excursions, he had several times revisited Perck, wandering in the neighborhood of the château, and lingering over its associations of love and fame. One evening he noticed, through the railing of the grounds of the château, a young lady walking in the garden, whose face bore several points of resemblance to that of Anne Breughel. In his surprise, he let fall the reins upon the neck of his horse, which began to bite at the hanging branches of a willow. His eyes followed involuntarily the apparition, which seemed to him to be a dream of the past. In a moment, the young lady disappeared by a retired pathway leading to the château. Teniers continued musing, looking now toward the lake, and now toward the spot where she had vanished. "My poor Anne, you are dead to me," he exclaimed. "No, you are not dead. I see you everywhere-under these trees, at yonder window, beside that lake where we have walked so often."

While musing thus, the poor painter did not perceive that his horse, which had also his reminiscences, had begun to take the road to the stables. Upon the bridge, he drew up the reins again, and said, sighing: "No, no, my trusty friend; we have no longer any right to be here." That day, Teniers returned to his solitary home more sad than usual.

"Why did I sell the château ?" said he with bitterness. "There I should have been, in some sort, nearer to my dear Anne. In those old favorite haunts I might still, in imagination, have seen and heard her."

The next day he could not refrain from returning to Perck. The château was then in the possession of a wealthy retired counsellor, named De Fresne. The latter, meeting Teniers in the neighborhood, and recognizing him, begged him to accompany him to his old home, and consider himself still its master. The counsellor presented him to his daughter, Isabelle de Fresne. She was young and fair, and had the same tender and simple look as Anne Breughel. Teniers was delighted with her. She painted a little; Teniers offered to give her a lesson. A shower of rain began to fall, and the advocate gladly took advantage of the circumstance to detain his guest. The poor painter almost believed himself living again in his ancient splendor. The sweet face of Anne Breughel was missing; but Isabelle de Fresne was not wanting in charms.

"What a pity," said his host, over the dessert, " that you should have taken into your head to leave the château! It was to increase the patrimony of your children, I am aware; but that appears to me to be carrying paternal affection too far. Such a genius as yours should have a palace for an abode."

"Nature is my palace," replied the artist, casting at the same time a wistful look at the gilded panels of the Château des Trois Tours.

'My greatest pleasure, Monsieur Teniers," said the counsellor, "would be to see you here all the fine season."

"Ah," said Teniers, "I should be too happy to live in such good and fair society, but my fête-days are past. Once I was not only a painter, but a fine gentleman; now I am only a painter. All my pleasures now are associated with my pallet. I shall continue to depict scenes of happiness, but it will be the happiness of others." So saying, Teniers regarded Isabelle tenderly. The young lady blushed, and turned the conversation into another channel.

The next morning, Teniers rose at daybreak to return to Brussels. While his horse was feeding, he took a stroll through one of his favorite haunts upon the borders of the lake. It was a clear, fresh morn

ing; a light wind was slowly moving the mists along the fields of Vilvorde; the country, refreshed with the rain of the night before, filled the air with sweet odors; and the sun, just risen, touched the glittering tree-tops and the towers of the château. Arnold Houbraken relates this story. Teniers was leaning against the trunk of a tree, surveying the lake and the château, lost in thought, when suddenly raising his eyes toward the window where he had often seen Anne Breughel looking out on fine evenings, her image appeared there as if by enchantment. "It is she, with her light hair falling in curls," he exclaimed. 'It is the same sweet face, so full of beauty and innocence." But in another moment he recognized Isabelle de Fresne. "Alas!" he exclaimed, "it is not she; and yet"

He returned to the château, mounted his horse, and rode away slowly. All that week he did nothing well. He attempted to paint from memory a portrait of Isabelle de Fresne, and failed; and yet, when it was but half-finished, the face had seemed to remind him at the same time both of Anne Breughel and Isabelle de Fresne. These two delightful images were forever present to his mind; he sought to divert his thoughts from them, afraid of falling in love again. He made a journey into France, and even set out for Italy; but he had scarcely arrived at Lyons, when his new passion compelled him to retrace his steps. On his return, he found a letter from the counsellor, complaining of his neglect.

"Come, my dear Teniers," he wrote; "the very peasants are anxious to see their old master again; and my daughter Isabelle finds that, even from such a skillful master as you, a single lesson in painting is not enough."

Teniers started immediately for Perck. The counsellor pressed him to pass the remainder of the season at the château. The painter accepted his invitation, and boldly installed himself there, hardly sure that it was not more dangerous to fly from the presence of Isabelle, than to see her continually.

It happened-accidentally, no doubtthat the young lady had for an attendant one of the femmes-de-chambre of Anne Breughel. This was another illusion for the painter, who, when he met her, found himself often about to ask her whether his

wife was abroad in the garden, or in the walks in the neighborhood. The woman

by force of habit, no doubt-dressed her new mistress exactly like her previous one there was the same arrangement of the hair, the same cap, the same lace, the identical colors. Teniers, meeting this living reminiscence sometimes upon the stairs, or in the dusky passages of the old château, would imagine himself in a dream. More than once, on kissing the hand of Isabelle de Fresne, the old time seemed to him to have come back again. Every day he discovered some new point of resemblance. Last night, it was her hand; today, it is her foot; to-morrow, she will sing, and her voice will be the very counterpart of Anne Breughel's. Never was illusion more perfect at all points.

"What ails you, my friend ?" asked his host one day, surprised at his absent and anxious look. "Does not our way of life please you?"

"Yes," said Teniers; "it is nothinga passing recollection-a momentary regret. It is gone now."

One evening, after sunset, he was sitting again upon the ground beside the little lake, idly brushing the tall water-grasses with his feet. Isabelle and her servant passed him in the pleasure-boat. The light vail of evening falling upon land and water confirmed the painter's misty reverie; he was no longer master of himself, as in the broad daylight. The head of the skiff grazed lightly on the bank, and he rushed forward.

66

"Anne! Anne!" he exclaimed, when they found themselves alone. Pardon me-Isabelle, I meant," continued he, falling at her feet, in the chivalrous fashion of the times.

"Well," said she, carried away by his manner," Anne Breughel, if you will." It may be easily imagined that the young Isabelle, perhaps a little romantic, had secretly loved Teniers; that, touched by his sorrow for Anne Breughel, she had undertaken the task of consoling him, coming by degrees, by means of these illusions, to take the place of his adored wife.

Three weeks afterward, Teniers married the daughter of the counsellor. He returned to the château, and took again to his old way of life. Isabelle de Fresne, charmed by the simplicity of his genius, and his noble manners, remained devoted

She

to him till the time of her death. knew that her greatest charm for him was, that she reminded him of his first wife. Far from complaining, or feeling vexed on that account, she took pains to acquire the habits of Anne Breughel, with the generous intention of pleasing her husband. Teniers, in his turn, delighted with having found so sweet a companion, loved her for her own, and for Anne Breughel's sake.

The painter survived his second wife, and died at the age of upward of eighty. After her death, he returned to Brussels again, and lived in strict retirement, devoted to his art. One of his sons, a Franciscan monk at Malines, held him in his arms as he breathed his last. For the convent at Malines, he painted his "Nineteen Martyrs of Gorcum." The son has left a biography of his father, interspersed with orisons and litanies; the only interesting portion is the end, in which he describes the death of the great painter.

Already in a state of unconsciousness, David Teniers only spoke at long intervals. In the middle of the night, after a painful sigh, he took the hand of his son with agitation: "See you, yonder ?-yonder!" he exclaimed. He saw, no doubt, passing in his mind, all the curious creations of his pencil. The Franciscan looked in the direction which he indicated.

“I see nothing, father.”

"Do you see," continued the painter, without heeding his reply," the alchemist in that laboratory, meditating? He turns toward me to bid me farewell. Farewell, then! What did I say? It is a drinkerthere are two-three-four-the odor of their ale rises to my head. O the deep politicians! these are the men who transport our Flanders into Spain. The drunkards! it is merely that they may drink from glasses overflowing with Malaga. My son, stop that boor from smoking, who has nothing to say apropos. I hear his pipe snap. No; it is the violin of poor old Nicholas Söest. There is a fair, then, in Perck to-day. Open the window, and let me hear their cries better. Take care, Margaret! Look at that sly chemist. The old dotard! It is a good thing, indeed, to have gray hairs. I like your violin, Master Söest; but what are you playing there? O my son-my son! look there! this is fearful indeed!"

to foot, and passed his hands over his eyes. "Do you see that doleful dance?— all their mirth is gone now. Old Nicholas Söest is nothing but a skeleton. Look how he whirls, and whirls, and whirls in the dusk-all hastening to the churchyard. They are gone! Farewell, farewell, my friends. Call my servant-it is time to go!"

These were, as nearly as possible, the last words of the laborious painter of nature. In obedience to his wish, the son had his remains deposited in the choir of the church of Perck, under that tower which, in his pictures, stands forth against so many horizons.

HUMANITY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KINKEL.

UPON the hoary earth already
Have countless nations been enroll'd,
And holocausts to gods been offer'd,
Enthroned on altars manifold.

Again the pious will hereafter

To God still fairer altars build,
And sorrows yet unknown be suffer'd,

And with new joys the heart be fill'd.
It blinds me not! With love's affection
The strife of time I gaze upon,
'Mid changing destinies and nations
Humanity rolls smoothly on.

I know that ne'er a day hath broken

Which gladden'd not one single breast; That ne'er a spring hath follow'd winter But with a song the world it bless'd.

I know that from the goblet's torrent
Conceptions vast, creative, rise;

I know that in a woman's kisses
A gentle fount of vigor lies.

I know that everywhere the heavens
Now darkly frown, now smile so bright,
That everywhere an eye believing

Beholds the starry host by night.

Thus 't is the same, the same forever,
That thrills through every human breast;
I see but brothers wheresoever
Mine eyes upon the earthball rest.

A link of that great chain which bindeth
The future to the past am I;

I snatch from out the struggling surges
The jewel of humanity.

CHANGE of time, like change of place, introduces men to new associates, and gives many persons an opportunity to become respected by outliving those who knew them when they were not respect

THE

HE phenomena of a brilliant sun and a cloudless sky tempted us forth upon an expedition to the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. We catch a distant view of the building almost as soon as we glide out of the Brighton railway station, and know it immediately, though it appears but an undefined gray spot upon the summit of a hill six or seven miles off, by the flashing reflection of the sun's rays from its coating of glass. A ride of some halfhour brings us to the Annerley station, whence we have to climb the hill for another mile ere arriving at our destination. As we advance, the proportions of the building come gradually into view, and, long before reaching the level upon which it stands, we are struck with the immense superiority of such a site for such a structure compared with that occupied by the building of 1851 in Hyde-park.

We enter, with other visitors, in the rear of the edifice; and desirous, before an examination of its contents, of contemplating its appearance and effect as viewed from its own grounds, we cross to the VOL. V.-34

garden front, and descending a flight or two of stairs, emerge upon the upper terrace, along which runs a gravel walk fifty feet in width, and exceeding in length that of the entire building. From this upper terrace three broad flights of steps lead down to a lower and larger one, whose area is not much less than thirteen acres, which is about equal to that occupied by the palace itself. It is laid out in walks and flower-beds, after the manner of an Italian garden, and ornamented with six fountains of novel design, symmetrically arranged. On either side of the central flight of steps leading from the upper to the lower terrace, and in front of the grand central transept, two pairs of colossal sphinxes, reposing upon ponderous basements of granite, look out with stony eyes upon a glorious English landscape, stretched far away before them, and fading out gradually in the misty atmosphere of distance. These sphinxes are close and faithful copies of the Egyptian original now at Paris, and are placed with admirable effect on their present site. De

scending the slope yet further, and verging to the right among natural mounds and declivities, planted with flowering shrubs and evergreens, with here and there a noble tree whose spreading branches yield a welcome shade in summer, we arrive at a point of view favorable for a glance at the entire structure of the palace. We feel at the first impression the justice of the universal praise which has been awarded to the improved design. The reduction of two hundred and forty feet in the length enables the spectator to embrace the whole building within the compass of his vision, without withdrawing to a distance too great for observation of its details. It is true that much of the idea of vastness is lost; but if that be a loss,-though we are inclined to think it is not,―ample amends are made by the imposing spectacle of just, elegant, and grand proportions-elements to which, notwithstanding its superlative merits of adaptation to a specific purpose, the building in Hyde-park had but little pretension. The erection of three transepts in place of one, the noble elevation of the central transept, and the substitution of an arched roof for a flat one along the entire length of the nave, altogether have, by replacing parallel lines and sharp angles by flowing lines and graceful curves, entirely altered the character of the general outline. The result is a structure upon which the eye loves to rest, and toward which it instinctively turns so long as the object is in sight. From either end of the building, wings bearing the appearance of conservatories, and terminating in square towers, project forward sufficiently far to embrace the whole of the terraces, which are thus partially inclosed from the rest of the grounds. Into one of these wings the railway from London runs, and thus discharges its passengers beneath the roof of the palace.

The grand avenue, which may be said to terminate between the sphinxes in front of the central transept, extends in a straight line down the entire slope of the park to a distance of two thousand feet,-something more than a third of a mile.

We follow mechanically a party of visitors who are making their way toward a long, low building in the lower grounds, and, being courteously admitted, find ourselves in the presence of a portentous group of monsters terrific to behold. Here is what seems a common toad amplified to

dile.

the size of a hippopotamus, and by his side the frog of the fable has actually swollen to the dimensions of the ox. Here are creatures with the body of a duck, the fins or flappers of a phoca, the neck of a boa-constrictor, and the head of a crocoHere is the ichthyosaurus, clothed with his invulnerable armor, and furnished with his screw-propeller tail. Here is the lordly elk standing erect among a congregation of prostrate lizards of colossal longitude. Here are ravenous-looking leviathans of the alligator family, with jaws above a yard in length, bristling with countless fangs as large as fingers-together with monsters which we cannot pretend to name, and which Adam never named at all, (belonging as they did to an antecedent period,) of shapeless form and hideous aspect. Here, too, is the stupendous iguanodon, in whose body a score of gentlemen met to dinner. Professor Owen, it is reported, did the honors of the table, and seasoned the substantial fare with a colloquial lecture on the subject of antediluvian remains. He dwelt briefly on the discoveries of Cuvier and John Hunter, and of Buckland, who, from a single tooth, constructed the megalosaurus; and at the close of his remarks proposed as an appropriate toast the memory of Mantell, the discoverer of the iguanodon-a toast which was received in mournful silence. These strange monsters, suggestive as they are of the history of the earth ere its inhabitants were subjected to the mastery of mankind, will form one of the most striking and significant of the numberless attractions of the new palace, and will render valuable assistance to the study of geology.

Water, whether in motion or at rest, forms a principal feature as well in the palace itself as in the delightful gardens mapped out before it. The ornamental fountains spout water to a great height, and, in order to effect this, water is pumped into tanks placed on the summit of the lofty towers at either end of the building. The outer casing of the towers being formed of hollow cast-iron columns, the water descending through them supplies the jets of the fountains. These towers also serve the purpose of chimneys to the furnaces used for heating the water required for warming the building in cold weather; and further, being fitted with a spiral stair rising to the height of nearly two hundred