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ischments. Then there was a wild shout, in which the groans of the wounded and dying were lost: "Revenge! liberty or death!" Then an explosion, and all was silence again. Both parties were counting their dead. Soon the drums beat and an attempt was made to carry the barricade with the bayonet.

Every circumstance contributed to show that the present insurrection was not a mere riot without importance or consequences, which, like a summer storm, disturbs the serenity of the skies but for a few moments. It was a mighty volcano. The dark and ominous cloud of public opinion had been overlooked or slighted. But now, the incandescent mass was in motion, and its dreadful work should not stop till it had buried under torrents of burning lava the confident and credulous traveller who slept in deceitful security upon the fermenting soil. The insurgents showed by their calmness that they were not blinded by the mad impulse of the moment, but that they had a final work to accomplish, and that, in spite of all opposition. They waited with their loaded pieces for the impetuous charge. Each one kept his fire till he saw the glittering bayonets within a few inches of his breast: then, they pulled the triggers, and now, strike for justice and liberty!

The subsequent incidents of this fight have been erased from my memory. All I recollect is seeing the royal troops driven back, though in good order. The brigade of line retreated as far as the Merchants' bridge, and there halted. But the royal guards abandoned the field and augmented the garrisons of the Louvre and Tuileries.

This was an omen of victory, but all was not done. The insurgents at once determined to join those of their brethren already before the Louvre and attack that palace. Abandoning, therefore, the barricade they had formed, they followed the quay in that direction. The soldiery posted on the Merchants' bridge allowed them to depart unmolested. It was with joy that they saw the popular torrent assailing a position which they deemed impregnable, instead of the police barracks, which were of an easy access and contained a vast supply of arms and ammunition. They kept their position all day and the following night; for it was the principal avenue to the place they wanted to protect.

All was now quiet before us, but we could hear tbe coniinual firing of the attack of the Louvre which was carried on at a distance less than a quarter of a mile from us.

The Louvre is an extensive palace, in the shape of a perfect square, the centre of which is a large yard. It was begun by the Medicis, and continued under their different successors. Napoleon built its principal front, which is turned to the East, The palace is now destined for the reception of works of art from all parts of the world. The Southern side is joined to the palace of the Tuileries

by a long building, which is used as a national Museum. The Northern side ought to be joined in the same way. but the work is still unfinished. There are four double iron gates opening in the middle of each of the faces. A little to the West of the Southern entrance is that window from which Charles the IXth. amused himself by shooting his protestant subjects on the day of St. Barthelemy, whilst they were flying over the bridge of arts; and opposite to it is the bridge itself. From the Eastern front, the view extends on a large square. This front is the most beautiful of all. The windows of the lower story are very simple and furnished with iron gratings. The upper story is a gallery of the noblest Corinthian columns, about 60 feet in height and 5 in diameter. They are placed in couples about 15 or 20 feet distant from each other. The whole is built of the finest stone which the country affords. As will appear by this imperfect description, the palace is of very difficult access to any hostile force. The garrison had been more than doubled and had received, besides the elite of the Swiss guards, a large detachment of the royal guards, amounting in all to about 500 men, well furnished with ammunition and well trained to the use of arms. Besides, every window, every column, offered them a shelter against the musketry of the enemy, on whom they themselves could fire with perfect ease and security.

When the insurgents determined upon attacking the Louvre, they neglected all strategical considerations. The Eastern side of the palace was the strongest, but it opened on a square, the dimensions of which were such as to allow them to extend the front of their forces, and this was enough to overbalance all other circumstances. Before beginning hostilities, they sent summonses to the Governor of the palace; but as it had been foreseen, these summonses were without any effect, and the struggle began. The insurgents fired for some time against their enemies, but they soon discovered the disadvantages of this mode of fighting. The garrison was perfectly secured from their shot, and secondly, from every nook, every window and every column, showers of bullets fell among them with the most dreadful effect; and yet, shall they give up their task? No, never as long as they have blood to shed or life to sacrifice on the altars of their country!

On, on they rush to the assault. They pour impetuously at the main gate. They try to force the windows. But the enemy smile quietly at their efforts. From all apertures they are overwhelmed by the withering volleys of experienced marksmen. The main gate resists all battering. The gratings of the windows are too strong to give way, and the columns of attack are obliged to withdraw, when heaps of dead and dying choke all the avenues. They retreat, beaten but undaunted. Every brow is sterner, every hand grasps more firmly the musket or the sword. They retreat, but only to take breath!

Twice again the assault is repeated with the same result; the slain cover the field; the blood streams in dark torrents through the streets, and yet the enemy's loss is small. The battle grows fiercer and fiercer. See this young man, whose long raven hair is concealed beneath a large straw hat. His years must be few, for his form is as slender as a girl's, and yet, he rushes into the thickest of the fight. A ball pierces his breast. One of the combatants, moved by a feeling of pity, draws aside his shirt. * * * O, Liberty, 'tis a woman! * • •

The assailants were already preparing to renew the attack for the fourth time, when the sound of a distant drum came mingled with the clamor of a large crowd. But we will transport ourselves to another part of the city.

Not far distant from the place where the Seine flows out of Paris, is a large plain situated on the left side of the river. At the Southern extremity of this plain, is the Polytechnic school. The military spirit of the Institution was yet the same as in the days of the Empire, notwithstanding the efforts of the Bourbons to crush it. At the first

news of the tumult, General , who was then

commander of the school, had the doors shut and gave notice to the pupils that they should have to remain in quarters. But when the cause of this order was known, every one girded on his sword, and, in a few minutes, they scaled the wall which confined them and directed their footsteps towards the field of battle. A tri-colored flag was soon found. On their way they passed before the Hdlel of the invalid soldiers, and it is a well-authenticated fact, that several of these old veterans, most of whom were totally disabled, followed once more the standard of liberty to another battle. One of them, whose right leg had been left in the deserts of Russia or the fields of Waterloo, was afterwards killed on the bridge of Arts while fighting for his country's freedom.

The patriotic column of the Polytechnic pupils was every where greeted and joined by the inhabitants of the left side of the Seine. They followed one of the streets parallel to the river, until they got to the height of the bridge of Arts, when, turning to the left, they covered this bridge with their close phalanx. As I said before, the bridge is exactly in front of the Southern entrance of the Louvre, which is far from being as strong as the others. Their first fire killed a few men at the gate, whilst this diversion gave a new vigor to the efforts of the former assailants. About fifty of them seized a long beam, which was lying by some unfinished building, and running it with all their might against the Eastern gate, they at length succeeded in breaking it open. At the same time the insurgents entered the Southern gate. Their numerous cohorts now poured in like a stream, but the Swiss

guards, intrenched in the rooms of the building, disputed the ground inch by inch. Every staircase was strewed with the bodies of their foes, and a battle was necessary to conquer every passage. At length, the noise of the fight diminished, and nothing was now audible but the shouts of the victors mingled with the groans of the dying. The struggle was over. The Louvre was won! • * •

It must be granted that the Swiss guards fought bravely, but they had to pay dearly for it. They neither gave nor received quarter. They were foreigners and mercenaries. They had ruthlessly slaughtered the citizens, and in the hour of retribution, all, except a few who escaped or cried for mercy, were killed. Let it not be thought, however, that there was any inhumanity in the act. Their wounded were treated with the same care as the others, and almost all their prisoners were allowed to escape.

In the mean time, General Lafayette, with several deputies of the liberal party, assembled at Mr. Lafitte's H6tel. They felt it their duty to gire some legal sanction to the insurrection. A proclamation was issued and signed by them, approving of the steps taken by the people. This was a bold measure, for the result of the struggle was dubious; and if the Royal party got the better, as it was possible and even probable, the lives of the subscribers of the proclamation would be forfeited. Nevertheless, General Lafayette's name was carried is a countersign through the popular ranks and kindled a new ardor among them.

There still remained several important positions to attack, but the day was too far advanced. Both parties took measures for the night. The people as well as the troops posted sentinels every where. The wounded were collected at several places,and medical attendance was speedily procured for them. The brigade of line stationed on the Merchants' bridge kindled a bivouac fire and spent the night there.

All this time Charles the Tenth was at Rambouillet hunting deer. A courier brought him the news of the day, viz: that his Royal Guards had been beaten and his Swiss guards partly destroyed: that the palace of the Louvre was in the possession of the rebels, and that the next day would bring forth an attack on his own royal palace of the Ta ileries.

"Pshaw!" cried he, " a few brigades of police will disperse that mob! Gentlemen, let ns spnr on. or we'll be too late to see the slag at bay." This was doubtless a merry way of losing a kingdom. The deluded despot despised a revolution, in which even women took a part against him, and which made the poet exclaim,

Alors, tout se leva: l'homme, l'enfant. 1a femme.
Quiconque avait un bras, quicoaquc avait une ime!

"And thus was the first day."

GROUPED THOUGHTS AND SCATTERED FANCIES. A COLLECTION OF SONNETS.

By the Author of "Atalantis," "Southern Passages and Pictures," &Lc.

LXI.

Days vanish, and still other days arise,
Like these to disappear,—and still we crave,
From time indulgence,—with a yawning grave
Beneath us, that, with ceaseless utterance cries,—
"Ye ripen fast for me—the moment flies

When ye should ripen for eternity;
Be diligent, if ye would take the prize,
Wrought for performance in humility,
In exercise of goodness make ye wise,
Each toiling in his station as is meet;For still, however slow, the hours will fleet
Too fast for the most diligent! Your eyes,
Will close on mightiest projects, still unwrought,
That were the favorite creatures of your thought."

Lxir.

Is it not lovely, while the day flows on
Like some unnoticed water through the vale,
Sun-sprinkled,—and, across the fields, a gale,
Ausonian, murmurs out an idle tale,

Of groves deserted late, but lately won?

How calm the silent mountains, that, around,
Bend their blue summits, as if grouped to hear

Some high ambassador from foreign ground,—

To hearken, and most probably confound!
While, leaping onward, with a voice of cheer,

Glad as some schoolboy ever on the bound,
The lively Swanannoa sparkles near ;—

A flash and murmur mark him as he roves,

Now foaming white o'er rocks, now glimpsing soft through groves.

XLI1I.

Sorners,—if to thy courts the robin comes

Still cheerily chirping,—and the gipsy throng That, in the thorny thicket, hourly hums

In noon-day yellow, with a thoughtless song That stirs with spleen the tnockbird, 'till he pours,

Beneath thy very eaves, such resolute strain, As takes the voice from nature, nor restores,

Till he has pleased to yield her ears again ;— If these surround thy footsteps, nor complain;— "in thy walks, the timorous dove appears,

Timorous no longer, nor inclined to flee;—

If these unharmed ones thus speak with me,— Thou hast an evidence that nobly cheers,

And with no scruple I award it thee.

LXIV.

Thou wilt remark my fate when I am dead,
Let not fools scoff above me, and proclaim,
That I had vainly struggled after fame,

Till the good oil of my young life was shed,

And I became a mockery, and fell

Into the yellow leaf before my time;

A sacrifice, even in my earliest prime, To that which thinn'd the heavens and peopled hell! How few will understand us at the best,

How few, so yield their sympathies, to know, What cares have robb'd us of our nightly rest,

How stern our trial, how complete our wo,— And how much more our doom it wasVthan pride, To toil in devious ways with none who loved beside.

LXV.

My child, my innocent child,—when I am gone,
Strangers and time will have untaught thee all,

Thy father's love, his care for thee alone,
Surviving hope's defeat and fortune's fall;

And I shall leave behind me nought that may
Teach thee thy loss, unless it be my song,
And that, perchance, will scarcely linger long

To keep my memory coupled with my lay!
Sad lay, invoked by sorrow, tuned by wrong;

But, rude and harsh, still coupled with one tone,

To spell the ears of love, and, in the soul,
When days are happiest, to awaken thought,

Which pleasure cannot hush, nor pride control,

Of him, by whom thy lessons first were taught.

LXVI.

There is a mood that sometimes makes us cry

In very weariness of soul, '• 'Twere well, Methinks, if I could lay me down and die;"

There is no terror in the solemn knell, That ushers to the grave, which gently opes

Its peaceful arms, and promises repose From vexing strifes and still deceiving hopes,

Friends failing, and the sleepless herd of foes." And then we find similitude in things,

Beneath us, the poor leaf and flow'r which dread The blight of winter, and the recoiling springs

That shiver as the wind sweeps overhead :— Thus fevering, 'till awakes the manlier mood, When we go forth and conquer in warm blood.

LXVII.

Sterile but proud, beneath her own blue sky.
Sleeps Attica, there bounded by the sea,
There by Eubcea; yet how boundless she,
In sole dominion; with her realms that lie,
Wherever winds can wing, or waters bear
The proofs of her great magic ;—magic wrought,
By genius, on the stern and shapeless thought,
Which thenceforth took a form that cannot fear
Whatever Time may threaten. Overthrow
Her altars, yet how certain that the God,
Still from the eminence sends her breath abroad
Spelling the nations with her soul alone;The soul that makes soil sacred, and from earth,
Triumphant plucks the doom of death that came
with birth.

LXVIII.

We are no more a people of the free:
A change is on our fortunes—we forget

The high design that made our liberty
A thing of hope and wonder, and have set

Our hearts on earthly idols, vanities,

The childish wants of fashion, and a crowd
Of sordid appetites that clamor loud,

The eager ear of emptiness to please.

The nobler toils that only to high thought, Patience, and inward struggle, yield the prize, Are ours no longer;—we no more devise

Conquests of self and fortune ;—all unwrought

That glorious vein our father's struck of yore,

Which, left unwork'd, but makes us doubly poor.

LXIX.

The friends that still would keep thee from thy home, Yet pray that when thou leav'st them, winds may be

Meek and submissive; and the ocean foam
Unroused by tempests; and the obedient sea,

A docile steed that needs no spur to goad,

Nor yet the anxious leash which Terror's hand Grasps, doubting, lest, all reckless of command,

The untamed creature flies the appointed road!

Skies favor thee and fortune—keep from ills,— Make thee to reach thy haven and embrace The pillars of thy ancient dwelling-place,—

Hear all the well-known voices of thy hills,

And those that, prattling up from new-found rills, Grow happier, as they look into thy face.

tomb. Nor did he sink beneath this subject, except as compared with Bossuet. The sermon to which my allusion will be understood, is by many esteemed the finest effort of this preacher: but if read together with that of its prototype, it will be laid aside, as almost feeble and unimpressive."

BOSSUET AND ROBERT HALL.

In glancing over Mr. Hallam's exceedingly interesting work on the literature of Europe, I was struck with the following note in that portion of the work which treats of the celebrated "Oraisons Funebres" of Bossuet.

"An English preacher of conspicuous renown for eloquence was called upon, within no great length of time, to emulate the funeral discourse of Bossuet on the sudden death of Henrietta of Orleans. He had before him a subject incomparably more deep in interest, more fertile in great and touching associations; he had to describe not the false sorrows of courtiers, not the shriek of sudden surprise that echoed by night in the halls of Verseilles, not the apochryphal penitence of one so tainted by the world's intercourse, but the manly grief of an entire nation in the withering of those visions of hope which wait on the untried youth of Royalty, in its sympathy with grandeur annihilated, with beauty and innocence precipitated into the

The allusion is evidently to Robert Hall's sermon on the death of the Princess Charlotte. Having read this, I could hardly credit its inferiority to what Mr. Hallam styles its prototype, which 1 had not then seen. But my former curiosity to read these celebrated funeral discourses was stimulated by this extravagant eulogy of so able a critic. Accordingly, I seized the earliest opportunity which offered/of procuring these most splendid specimens of French eloquence. I cannot say that I wasdis-appointed in them : for they are certainly productions of rare genius, full of noble sentiments, striking thoughts, expressed in glowing and sublime language. So much was I impressed with this, that I was much inclined to translate two or three of the most celebrated "oraisons" for the columns of the Messenger, if the editor would have admitted any thing of that description.

But with all my admiration for Bossuet, I could not discover his vast superiority to Hall. It may be my want of taste, or insufficient knowledge of the French language; but certain it is, that no comparison which I have instituted can make me regard "as feeble and unimpressive" one of the finest productions of a man, who, among the English writers with whom I am acquainted, stands decidedly first, with, perhaps, the single exception of Thomas Babington Macaulay.

Being thus compelled to differ with so eminent a critic as Mr. Hallam, I have thought that a comparison between the two productions in question might not prove entirely uninteresting to your readers.

Funeral discourses may have two objects,either combined or separate, one a tribute to themeritsof the dead, the other the moral improvement of the survivors. The former was the prominent design of those funeral eulogies, which were delivered among the Greeks, Romans and other Pagan nations. The latter ought to be, although unfortunately it is not always the main purpose of Christian funeral sermons. The tribute of admiration which is paid to the memory of those who hate enlightened mankind by genius, relieved their wants by benevolence, or defended the just cause by valor, generous and useful as may be the impulse which leads us to pay that tribute, is certainly a matter of insignificance, when compared with the religious impressions which pious eloquence may make on hearts softened in the furnace of affliction, and which may remain indelible throughout eternity. The difference is as wide as that between the span of the present life, and that life beyond the gr»re which is "unmeasured l>y the flight of years.

The eloquence which is mainly directed to this latter object, acquires a solemn earnestness and moral sublimity, which no eulogy of earthly greatness can ever attain.

In this respect it may be safely asserted, that Bossuet falls below Hall, by directing more attention to an elaborate panegyric on the departed, and less to the eternal interests of the survivors. I, of course, do not mean to affirm that Bossuet has left practical improvement of the occasion entirely out of view. On the contrary, it must be admitted, that he has many just and striking reflections, many sublime ideas on eternity, some of which Hall may have borrowed. But I affirm that a far larger portion of his discourse is devoted to praise of the dead and flattery of the living, than Hall has given to his justly deserved eulogium of the Princess Charlotte, and expressions of condolence with her family. This difference is not only real and apparent, but the reasons for it are obvious.

It has been justly said by Macaulay in one of his unrivalled essays, (I quote not his words, but ideas,) that men of the highest genius, while they leave their impress on the age in which they live, never fail to receive a reciprocal impress from it. They are the mountain-tops which are illuminated some minutes earlier than the vallies by that light which is soon equally diffused over hill and dale. This remark is true only of those who, possessing the highest powers, devote them to great intellectual and moral reforms. But Bossuet, with his confessedly great abilities, had neither the inclination nor power to mark out a new path for himself. Despite his genius and piety, for I mean not to question his possession of the latter, Bossuet was a monarchist, a Catholic and a courtier. He is said to have written the ablest defence of Catholic principles extant, a defence, however, it is asserted, made good if at all by abandoning some of the most untenable positions of Catholicism.

If he did not advise Louis to that most execrable measure, the revocation of the edict of Nantes, he certainly did not dissuade him from a step so atrocious and unwise. By these statements I do not mean to insinuate that the entertainment of Catholic opinions precludes a man from being very eloquent and very pious, but merely to show that Bossuet was not exempt from the frailties and prejudices of his age, growing out of Catholic bigotry and intolerance. As a Catholic, I maintain that he *as more prone to exaggerate the alleged excellencies of human character. Protestants believe 'batman can not do enough to save himself; Catholics that he can do more, and that he can spare from his treasury of good works alms, as it were, for his poorer neighbors. It is natural, therefore, that Catholics, when they mean to eulogize, should claim a higher degree of excellence for the objects °f their praise than Protestants believe attainable. When Protestants exalt any one to perfection, they

depart from their fundamental principles; when Catholics do it, they only come up to their principles. Hence we can perceive, why Bossuet, with his religious opinions, which he knew to be those of the court, in whose presence he was speaking, should have attached far two much religious importance to what Mr. Hallam has termed the " Apocryphal penitence of one so tainted by the world's intercourse." Hall was led into this fault neither by his own opinions, nor by the temptations of his situation. He knew that neither penance, nor alms, nor other good deeds could smooth the path of even royalty to heaven. He neither feared nor hoped any thing from the court. While, therefore, he did ample justice to the virtues of the lamented Princess, he had no motive to exaggerate them, except that which would have influenced every generous and feeling heart under the same circumstances.

Bossuet was a courtier and an advocate of divine right, in an age distinguished for servility and adulation. I do not suspect him of a temper so base as would have made him pander to his master's worst passions. But flattery is an infection, which even the noblest and purestnaturescan not avoid in the atmosphere of a court. No man can read Bossuet's discourse on the death of Henrietta of Orleans, without perceiving that he is deeply tainted. Hall lived in an age and under circumstances widely different. In his time, servility was not the order of the day in England, and even if it had been at court, he was in no situation to make him servile. He was neither tutor of the king's son, nor promoted by the king's bounty. He belonged to a sect which had ever denied the right of government to interfere with religion, and which had the glory of first proclaiming and acting upon those principles of universal toleration which the great Locke set forth so admirably forty years after in his unanswerable letters. It is true that Hall had won the admiration of the younger Pitt, who pronounced a passage in one of his sermons before a body of volunteer soldiers, " equal to any thing either in ancient or modern eloquence." But he owed this high praise to the real splendor of his genius, and the exalted sentiments of patriotism which the passage contained, and not to any effort which he had ever made to conciliate power. It was known that he had advocated liberal sentiment in politics with all his characteristic acuteness, perspicuity and power of language. He had, therefore, nothing to fear or hope from the court, but was left free to make a proper use of the occasion, by paying a spontaneous tribute to the memory of the dead, and fixing the minds and hearts of the living on the frail nature of the brightest hopes of earthly happiness and grandeur. Supposing their genius to have been equal, the circumstances mentioned would have given the Englishman a decided advantage.

There is another point too in which, and it is

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