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forces on the 25th of November, the citizens gladly returned from their seven years' exile to their "altars and their homes."
The Middle Church was repaired and reopened July 4, 1790. The pastor, Dr. Livingston, thus alluded to the recent history of the edifice:
When destruction is caused by the hand of Heaven, by earthquakes, storms, or fire, we are silent before God, and dare not reply. But when men have been the instruments it is different, although proper to forget the interposition of the means. I dare not speak of the wanton cruelty of those who destroyed this temple, nor repeat the various indignities which have been perpetrated. It would be easy to mention facts which would chill your blood! A recollection of the groans of dying prisoners, which pierced the ceiling, or the sacrilegious sports, and rough feats of horsemanship exhibited within these walls, might raise sentiments in your mind that would, perhaps, not harmonize with those religious affections which I wish at present to promote, and always to cherish. The Lord has sufficiently vindicated our cause, and avenged us of those who rose up against us. He guided our Joshua for the field, and led him, with his train of heroes, to victory.
But as New York increased in size the tide of population turned to the upper part of the city. The audiences which had formerly assembled in the Middle Church withdrew to the more convenient places of worship up town, and it became evident that this time-honored edifice would have to be relinquished. The North Church, on the corner of Fulton and William-streets, erected in 1769, and closely identified with the present revival, sufficiently accommodated the members in the lower part of the city, and an opportunity having occurred to lease the Middle Church to the United States government for a post-office, the edifice was abandoned. The last sermon was preached by Dr. Knox, the senior pastor, recently deceased, on Sabbath evening, August 11, 1844. That good man said:
We now bid adieu to this place, endeared by more than a century's fond associations. It is a moment and an occasion of melancholy sadness. But our God is not a God of the hills or of the valleys, of this place or that place alone, no mere local Deity. We bow to his will, indicated by his providence, and cherish the hope that his gracious presence, here vouchsafed so long with us and our fathers, will also, elsewhere, be with us and our children. The vaults around, wherein repose the precious dust of the honored dead, are secured from invasion,
and are at the control of those who feel the deepest interest in their sacred contents.
After the discourse a brief address was made by Dr. De Witt, and the service closed by him with pronouncing the apostolic benediction in the Dutch language.
LITTLE BENNY AND SANTA CLAUS.
Stuff'd as full as full could be,
With a face demure and mild,
"But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"
And from off my lap he slid, Digging deep among the goodies In his crimson stocking hid; While I turned me to the table,
Where a tempting goblet stood, Brimming high with dainty egg-nog, Sent me by a neighbor good.
But the kitten, there before me,
Lapping off the shining froth;
Thrust him out into the street.
Then how Benny's blue eyes kindled!
With a generous look that shamed me,
"Come back, Harney!" called he loudly, As he held his apron white; "You shall have my candy wabbit!" But the door was fast and tight! So he stood, abash'd and silent,
In the center of the floor, With defeated look alternate
Bent on me and on the door.
In a brave, clear key he shouted,
"Santa Caus, come down the chimney, Make my moder 'have herself!”
"I will be a good girl, Benny,"
Said I, feeling the reproof;
Laughter chased away the frown,
The habitual affection which holds this family lovingly together is strikingly exemplified by the artist in the sick child's clinging as he does so closely to the father, thereby telling a tale of many a romp and rough game between the poor ailing infant and its robust parent. See the care with which he holds the little one, half afraid that now in sickness it could not sustain the rough contact with his coarse though loving and tender grasp? Look at the homely grace of the mother as with pious regard, wholly absorbed in the maternal task, she bends forward to catch some share of the reply to the man's inquiry of the progress toward health of the
THE SICK CHILD.
ERE is one of the few pictures little patient! Her face is far from beau
In my dim, fire-lighted chamber,
God bless sister"-then a pause:
Lie the lashes, long and meek,
Thankful tears- undefiled!
For the blessing of a child.
tance from size, or interest from high associations connected with the subject, has not only made a sensation in the world of English art, but, as the necessary consequence thereof, brought its painter at once into reputation as a man who has that in him which may develop a new phase of painting, much such another as Wilkie introduced with the "Blind Fiddler." Mr. Clark, however, resembling Wilkie in choosing domestic subjects for the exercise of his genius, differs from him immensely in choice of incident. The two pictures which have come under our notice by Mr. Clark, "The Dead Rabbit," at the British Institution, and "The Sick Child," now before us, which was exhibited at the Royal Academy, are both somewhat distrait in feeling, although the dash of humor pervading them is of the genuine kind which moves our hearty sympathies; for who could refuse a smile of recognition to the intensity of the interesting of an infant's expression under such manifested by the boys over their dead peculiar circumstances; for the reader pet in the former picture, or not be feel- will do well to consider how much study ingly amused at the piteous dolor of the must have been gone through before so face of the "Sick Child?" remarkable a success was attained by a young man, indeed a very young man, for such we understand Mr. Clark to be, how few opportunities (and what intense appreciation of those few) must have fallen to his lot; yet the result is one of those great triumphs which seldom befall even artists of twenty years' practice and success.
beautiful by love, and this is where the art of the painter has come into play in such a manner that we cannot fail to be interested even in the sordid details of the household, so many signs of which are scattered about, as the cracked lookingglass on the mantel-shelf, the basket, the dead hare, the cupboard, etc. By the dead hare, apparently just brought in by the father, we surmise that he is a gamekeeper or watcher on some gentleman's land.
While we smile at this, however, we shall enter deeply into the maternal tenderness of the action of the mother, who, although only stirring a basin of soup, has that dignity in our eyes which gathers around and ennobles one in the performance of a loving deed. In fact, homefeeling sanctifies the place; in that rough cottage interior, with all the coarse incidents of a laborer's life that have sprung up about this poor family, there is something holy and good that may well elevate it above many a loftier home.
But the crowning interest of the picture is that most extraordinary rendering of emotion which the face of the child presents to us. This really is in itself one of the very remarkable works of the year in the way of art. The success which has rewarded Mr. Clark in this is highly merited by the thoroughly simple, honest, and conscientious manner in which he has set about so difficult a task as the render
The action and attitude of the child also should not escape our observing admiration; notice the shuddering repugnance of its manner in looking at the basin, hardly able even to cast its eyes upon
it, and the huddle-together of its little feet. The other child's calm indifference, being thoroughly wrapped up in delight with his father's pipe, is curiously and characteristically in contrast with the dolor of the little invalid, and its introduction a capital thought of the artist.
ANAIK TIMOR, THE SORCERESS. [AVING occasion while staying at Pontrieux to visit Tréguier, I took a cross-road which I had traversed before, and which I calculated would bring me to my destination before evening. In this I found my memory had deceived me, for night overtook me before I had accomplished a third of my journey, and I became fearful of losing myself among the various by-paths, which in the darkness it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. To add to my embarrassment, the wind rose and the snow began to fall.
I had just reached a sort of moor, covered with heath, over which the wind swept with a sullen roar, and which offered no shelter from its relentless fury. Enveloped in my fur-cloak, I bent my head to the storm, and continued to struggle along the uneven path. Turn what way I would, I could see nothing but a white moving cloud, which seemed to confound both heaven and earth. Momentarily, however, the storm would abate, and the wind sink so as to enable me to distinguish the murmur of a distant waterfall, or the plaintive howls of famished wolves: then, again, the blast would overtake me, groaning and moaning until all was lost in one great roar.
I had at first a sort of proud enjoyment in battling with the whirlwinds, which tossed like the waves of the sea around me; but insensibly cold and fatigue lessened my ardor, and I began to look out anxiously for some shelter. By good fortune the path I had continued to follow now began to dip into a narrow gorge, where I was soon able to distinguish the outlines of several leafless trees; and as I proceeded, I seemed to leave the storm behind me. At last I arrived at the entrance of a narrow valley, where the noise of the storm, deadened by the surrounding mountains, reached me only as an echo; the snow also fell less heavily. I raised my head, glad to breathe freely once more.
I knew by experience that the valley
must contain habitations. A washingshed and a solitary oven soon confirmed me in this belief; and a few steps further I perceived a hamlet, composed of about a dozen cabins. The first which I approached was dark and empty; but, guided by the murmur of voices, I reached one standing by itself, and pushing open the door, found myself in the midst of a Breton filerie, (spinning party.) A dozen women, crouched upon their heels around a blazing fire of furze, were turning their spindles, chatting and singing the while. Several children lay at their feet asleep; and a young mother, seated in the most distant corner of the hearth, was suckling a newborn infant, murmuring in a low voice a cradle-song. On my entrance they all turned round; I had stopped at the threshold to shake off the snow with which I was covered, and now placed my stick near the door, in accordance with the custom of the country. The mistress of the house understood by this that I demanded shelter.
"The blessing of God be upon all here,” said I, advancing to meet her.
"And on you," she replied, with Armorican brevity.
"A shroud covers the moor, and wolves themselves could not find their way."
"Houses were made for Christians."
Uttering these words the peasant-woman motioned me to the hearth. All the spinners made way for me; and I took my seat by the young mother, while the mistress of the hut threw upon the fire an armfull of dry brambles. A long silence ensued, the laws of Breton hospitality forbidding the host to question a guest until he has himself spoken. At last I asked how far I was from Tréguier.
"Three leagues and two thirds of another," answered the peasant-woman; "but the waters are out, and the road is dangerous without a guide."
"Will one of your men serve me as such?"
"The men of this place have gone to Newfoundland in the St. Pierre." "What, all ?"
"All. The master perhaps knows that those of the same parish embark together when they can."
"And you are expecting their return?" Every day."
"Ah! yes," exclaimed one of the spinners, with a sigh; "may God protect
The other vessels have returned to Bréhat, to Saint Brieuc--everywhere. The Saint Pierre is the only one that delays."
"And yet," continued a second woman, with emphasis, "it is quite time the men returned."
"Indeed! Why?" I asked.
She pointed to the peasant-girl who sat beside me on the hearth. "Ask Dinah, there, how many bushels of barley she has left in her bin," said she.
The young peasant blushed.
"Not to mention that she owes me as many measures of milk as her child numbers days," added the mistress of the house.
I was struck with the sad and profoundly passionate tone in which these words were uttered, and I turned and looked at Dinah. She was a beautiful woman, not more than four-and-twenty; and notwithstanding the rather masculine style of her beauty, there was something extremely gentle about her. Her carriage was upright, her forehead high, and her feet were firmly planted on the hearth with one arm she held her sleeping infant on her bosom, the other being motionless by her side. There was in the proud, yet flexible lines of her countenance, in her half-parted lips, and black eyes, ever ready to vail themselves with their long lashes, an expression of wild, untamable pride, tempered, however, with an intensity of caressing tenderAfter a second, she perceived that I was observing her, and turned away in some embarrassment. But while I was thus engaged, the conversation had continued among the spinners, each of whom was talking of what she would do when the Saint Pierre had returned.
"I shall pay a visit to the town, and for once eat my fill of wheaten bread," said
"Or that her landlord has threatened to men. sell her furniture," added a third.
"So that," continued the first speaker, "I have advised her to pray that the sailors of the Saint Pierre may be successful in their fishing, and get a double share!"
"I only pray God to bring Jean back," said the girl, pressing her infant to her breast.
My brother has promised me a silver ring, worth thirty blancs," said another. "I shall buy a mass for my mother's soul."
"I shall go to St. Ann's absolution." "And you, Dinah," I asked, "what will you do when Jean returns?"
“I shall put his child into his arms, and we shall be united again," she answered, with a blush.
At this moment the black cow at the end of the hut put her head over the low partition which kept her out of the room, and lowed.
"There is some one approaching," said the mistress of the house.
"Anaïk!" repeated Dinah, involuntarily pressing her infant closer.
"But who is she?" I asked.
"A beggar, who reads the future and tells fortunes," replied the mistress of the hut.
"Is there room for the poor in this house?" repeated the voice, impatiently.
"Let her in, or she will make mischief among us," remarked Dinah.
A spinner rose and opened the door, and Anaïk Timor appeared. She was a little old woman, whose tattered garments revealed in various parts her withered limbs. She carried at her back a coarse canvas wallet, from which peeped the neck of a bottle, and held in her other hand a prickly stick, hardened in the fire. The snow, which had drifted into the folds of her dirty and ragged clothes, gave a speckly appearance to their dull color, and several locks of gray hair, stiff with frost, hung like icicles around her wrinkled cheeks. Her gray eyes had the sharp, yet vacillating expression, peculiar either to insanity or intoxication.
She stopped short in the middle of the room, and shook herself, uttering at the same time a low growl. "Much trouble you give yourself to receive old Timor," said she, throwing a discontented glance around. "You let her knock, and do not answer."
"We were not expecting you," replied the woman of the house, a little embarrassed.
"No-no one ever expects me!" growled Anaïk. "What does it matter to those who sit by the warm hearth that others are freezing outside? But take care; every one has their turn!"