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dwellings, and into the deserted guard-house named Ranch,* who, it was said, had come to in the war department. These were soon fol-relieve the secretary of war, was seized and lowed by a fierce and noisy mob, armed with hung in the court by his own scarf, but foraxes, pikes, and iron bars, which halted be- tunately cut down by a National Guard before the war office, and began to thunder at fore life was extinct. The mob rushed into its massive doors. the private apartment of the minister, but plundered it merely of the papers, which were conveyed to the university. They came with a sterner purpose. The act of resignation, exhibited to the crowd by the deputy Smol ka, was scornfully received by the people, while the freshness of the writing, the sand adhering still to the ink, betrayed the proximity of the hand which had just traced it. Meanwhile, the crowd had penetrated the corridors of the fourth story, and were not long in discovering the place of Latour's concealment. Hearing their approach, and re

The officer of ordnance in vain attempted to communicate to the crowd the order of the ministry, that all firing should cease. A member of the academic legion, from the window, over the gateway, waved with a white handkerchief to the tumultuous masses, and, exhibiting the order signed by Latour and Wessenberg, read its contents to the crowd.

But a pacification was not to be thought of; the people were too excited, their fury could only be appeased by blood; that delayed measure was not sufficient; they made negativecognizing the voice of Smolka, vice-president gesticulations, and summoned the student to of the assembly, who was doubtless anxious come down and open the portals to their ad- to protect him, Latour came out of his remission. The tumult increased from minute treat. to minute; the closed doors at length gave way under the axes of the mob, and the people streamed in, led by a man "in a light gray coat."

They descended together from the fourth story by a narrow stairway, on the righthand side of the building, and entered the yard by the pump. At each successive landThe secretary of war, having by this time ing place, the tumult and the crowd increas abandoned the idea of defence, on the grounded; but the descent was slow, and rendered either that it was useless or impolitic, no shots were fired or active resistance offered; but the orderlies with their horses retired to the stables, and the grenadiers into an inner court. At first only single individuals en-pressed, was still unhurt; but here the poputered, and their course was not characterized by violence; then groups, proceeding slowly, listening, and searching; and, at last the tumultuous masses thundered in the

rear.

more and more difficult by the numbers which joined the crowd at every turn of the stairs. At length they reached the court below, and Count Latour, although he had been severely

lace, which awaited them, broke in upon the group that still clustered around Latour, and dispersed it. In vain did the deputies, Smolka and Sierakowski, endeavor to protect the minister; in vain did the Count Leopold Gondrecourt attempt to cover him by the exposure of his own body. A workman struck

Ere long the cry rung on the broad staircase, "Where is Latour? he must die!" At this moment the ministers and their follow-the hat from his head; others pulled him by ers in the building, with the exception of Latour himself, found means to escape, or mingled with the throng. The deputies, Smolka, Borrosch, Goldmark, and Sierakowski, who had undertaken to guarantee protection to the threatened ministers, arrived in the hope of restraining the mob. The numerous corridors and cabinets of the war office (formerly a monastery of the Jesuits) were filled with the crowd; the tide of insurrection now rose to an uncontrollable height; and the danger of Latour became every moment more immi

nent.

The generals who were with him, perceiving the peril, entreated him to throw himself upon the Nassau regiment or the Dutch Meister grenadiers, and retreat to their barracks. He scorned the proposal, denied the danger, and even refused, for some time, to change his uniform for a civilian's dress, until the hazard becoming more evident, he put on plain clothes, and went up into a small room in the roof of the building, where he soon after signed a paper declaring that, with his majesty's consent, he was ready to resign the office of minister of war. A Tecnicker,

his gray locks, he defending himself with his hands, which were already bleeding. At length a ruffian, disguised as a Magyar, gave him, from behind, a mortal blow with a ham mer, the man in the gray coat cleft his face with a sabre, and another plunged a bayonet into his heart. A hundred wounds followed, and, with the words, "I die innocent!" he gave up his loyal and manly spirit. A cry of exultation from the assembled crowd rent the air at this event. Every indignity was offered to his body; before he had ceased to breathe even, they hung him by a cord to the grating of a window in the court of the war office. He had been suspended there but a few minutes when, from the outrages committed on it, the body fell.

They then dragged it to the Hof, and suspended it to one of the bronze candelabras that adorn that extensive, and much frequented square, and there treated it with every indignity; it remained for fourteen hours exposed to the gaze of a mocking populace.

*A student of the Polytechnic school, for brevity, usual ly called Tecnickers.

SOME SMALL POEMS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY R. H. STODDARD.

SONG.

HUNG upon your breast in pain, And poured my kisses there like rain; A flood of tears, a cloud of fire, That fed and stifled wild desire, And lay like death upon my heart, To think that we must learn to path; For we must part, and live apart! Had I, that hour of dark unrest, But plunged a dagger in your breast And in mine own, it had been well; For now I had been spared the hell That racks my lone and loving heart, To think that we must learn to part;For we must part, and die apart!

LU LU.

THE shining cloud that broods above the hill,
Casts down its shadows over all the lawns,
The snowy swan is sailing out to sea,
Leaving behind a ruffled surge of light!
Lu Lu is like a cloud in memory,

And shades the ancient brightness of my mind:
A swan upon the ocean of my heart,
Floating along a path of golden thoughts!

The light of evening slants adown the sky,
Poured from the inner folds of western cloud;
But in the cast there is a spot of blue,
And in that heavenly spot the evening star!
The tresses of Lu Lu are like the light,
Gushing from out her turban down her neck;
And like that Eye of Heaven, her mild blue eye,
And in its deeps there hangs a starry tear!

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THOSE WHO LOVE LIKE ME. THOSE who love like me, When their meeting ends Friends can hardly be,

But less or more than friends!

With common words, and smiles,
We cannot meet, and part,
For something will prevent-
Something in the heart!

The thought of other days,

The dream of other years;

With other words, and smiles,

And other sighs and tears!

For all who love like me,
When their parting ends,

Friends must never be,

But more or less than friends!

TO THE WINDS.

BLOW fair to-day, ye changing Winds!
And smooth the stormy sea:
For now ye waft a sacred bark,

And bear a friend from me.

From you he flies, ye Northern Winds,
Your Southern mates to seek;

So urge his keel until he feels
Their kisses on his cheek:
And when their tropic kisses warm,
And tropic skies impart

Their floods of sunshine to his veins,
Their gladness to his heart-
Blow fair again, ye happy Winds!
And smooth again the sea,
For then ye'll waft the blessed bark,
And bear my friend to me!

"WIND OF SUMMER, MURMUR LOW." WIND of summer, murmur low, Where the charméd waters flow, While the songs of day are dying, And the bees are homeward flying, As the breezes come and go. Come and go, hum and blow, Winds of summer, sweet and low. Ere my lover sinks to rest, While he lies upon my breast,

Kiss his forehead, pale and fair,
Kiss the ringlets of his hair,
Kiss his heavy-lidded eyes,
Where the mist of slumber lies;

Kiss his throat, his cheek, his brow,
And his red, red lips, as I do now,
While he sleeps so sound and slow,
On the beart that loves him so,
Dreaming of the sad, and olden,
And the loving, and the golden
Wind of summers long ago!

THE LATE ELIOT WARBURTON.
HE melancholy fate of the author of The

Terment the Cross, Canada, Darien,

&c., has been stated in these pages. In Great Britain, where he was well known and highly esteemed by literary men, there have been many feeling and apparently just tributes to his memory, one of the most interesting of which is a memoir in the Dublin University Magazine, from which we transcribe the following paragraphs:

"It was during an extended tour in the Mediterranean about ten years ago, that Mr. Warburton sent some sheets of manuscript notes to Mr. Lever, at that time Editor of the Dublin University Magazine. These at once caught that gentleman's attention, and he gladly gave them publicity, under the title of "Episodes of Eastern Travel," in successive numbers of the magazine, where they were universally admired for the grace and liveliness of their style. Mr. Lever, however, soon saw that though for the purposes of his periodical these papers were extremely valuable, the author was not consulting his own best interests by continuing to give his travels to the world in that form; and, with generous disinterestedness, advised him to collect what he had already published, and the remainder of his notes, and make a book of the whole. Mr. Warburton followed his advice, entered into terms with Mr. Colburn, and published his travels under the title of The Crescent and the Cross.'

"Of this book it is needless for us to speak. In spite of the formidable rivalry of an 'Eothen,' which appeared about the same time, it sprang at once into public favor, and is one of the very few books of modern travels of which the sale has continued uninterrupted through successive editions to the present time. Were we to pronounce upon the secret of its success, we should lay it to its perfect right-mindedness. A changeful truth, a versatile propriety of feeling initiates the author, as it were, into the heart of each successive subject; and we find him as profoundly impressed with the genius of the Holy Land, as he is steeped, in the proper place, in the slumberous influences of the dreamy Nile, upon whose bosom he rocks his readers into a trance, to be awakened only by the gladsome originality of these melodies which come mirthfully on their ears from either bank. And, we may observe in passing, it is precisely the want of this, which prevents the indisputable power and grace of Eothen' from having their full effect with the public.

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Passages of beauty, almost of sublimity, stand isolated from our sympathies by the interposed cynicism of a few caustic remarks; and scenes of the world's most ancient reverence and worship become needlessly disenchanted under the spell of some skeptical sneer.

"But we must not turn aside to criticise. Since

the publication of the 'Crescent and the Cross,' | Mr. Warburton has written, or edited, a number of works, some historical, others of fiction, of which his last romance, ‘Darien,' only appeared as he was on the eve of departing on the fatal voyage. It has been remarked as a singular circumstance, that in this tale he has prefigured his own fate. A burning ship is described in terms which would have served as a picture of the frightful reality he was himself doomed to witness. The coincidence, casual as it is, has imparted a melancholy interest to that story, which will long be wept over as the parting and presaging legacy of a gifted spirit, prematurely snatched away.

"These lighter effusions most probably grew out of the craving of the publishers for the prestige of his name, already found to be valuable even on title-pages; and the ready market they commanded could not but prove an excitement to continue and multiply them. This might be considered in an ulterior sense unfortunate; for we are inclined to think that the true bent of Mr. Warburton's mind, if not of his talents, was towards graver and less imaginative studies; and we know that this propensity was growing upon him with maturer years and soberer reflections.

"It is not exclusively from the bearing of his researches and the general drift of his correspond ence that we infer this; though both set latterly in that direction. He had for some time been actually at work with definite objects in view. One subject which he took up warmly was a British History of Ireland; that is, a history intended to deal impartial justice between the Irish people on the one side, and the British empire on the other; reviewing the politics of successive periods, neither from the Irish nor the English side of the question, but with reference to the general interests of the whole.

"The task, would have proved an arduous one, under any circumstances-perhaps an invidious one; but, what was worse, even when accomplished, the book might have turned out a dull affair. So, with a view to lightening the reading, he had proposed to embody with it memoirs of the Viceroys, thus keeping the British connection prominent, while enlivening the pages with biographical touches.

"With an upwelling of philanthropy so pure and perennial as this, the preliminary investigations could have been only a delight to him. Other men might be forced to them as a revolting duty; he chose the inquiry, with very dubious hopes of bettering himself by prosecuting it, because his heart was full of compassion, and he thought he might do good. We repeat, what we can state from personal knowledge, that the bent of Mr. Warburton's mind was latterly towards works of general utility; and it is with great satisfaction we learn, what we had not been aware of until the public papers announced it, that his projected visit to the New World was a mission, in which the interests of humanity were to have in him an advocate and champion.

"Into his private life we feel that, under present circumstances, it would be indelicate, as well as out of place, to enter. Surrounded as he was with all the blessings which the domestic relations can bestow, beloved by his intimates, caressed by the gifted and the good, Eliot Warburton lived the centre of a radiating circle of happiness. His personal qualities were of no common order. His society was eagerly sought after. With a fastidious lassitude of air, and an apparent disinclination to exertion, he possessed remarkable force of thought and fluency of diction; and it was no uncommon thing to see him, when he had begun to relate passages from his experience in foreign countries, or adventures in his own, the centre of a gradually increasing audience, amidst which he sat, improvisating a sort of romantic recitation, until he was completely carried away on the current of his own eloquence, and lost every sense of where he was or what he was doing, in the enthusiasm he had fanned up and saw reflected around him. This power was a peculiar gift; and he loved to exercise it. In this form many of his happiest effusions have been given utterance to; and every body who has heard him at such inspired moments has felt regret that the brilliant bursts which so delighted him, should have been stamped upon no more retentive tablets than the ears of ordinary listeners.

"Of this amiable, refined, and gifted individual, we are afraid to speak as warmly as our heart would dictate. Before us lie the few hasty linesActing on these ideas, he had actually begun but not too hurried to be the channel of a parting a History of the Viceroys' in conjunction with a kindness-scrawled to us on the first day of this literary friend, and was only deterred from prose-year-the last day the writer was ever to pass in cuting it by the apathy, or rather discouragement, England. They are, perhaps, amongst the latest of the London publishers, who felt no inclination words he ever wrote. I am off,' they run, 'for to venture upon an Irish historical speculation. the West Indies to-morrow. But I have accom Unfortunately, neither he nor his friend could af-plished your affair. Oh, vanity of human purford to pursue the task gratuitously, and it was accordingly abandoned.

"Still later, he employed himself in collecting materials for a History of the Poor-a vast theme; perhaps too vast for a single intellect to grasp. To him, however, it was a labor of love; and he had succeeded in getting together a considerable mass of curious and valuable material pour servir. His last visit to his native country had researches of this nature for one of its objects; and we are sure many persons connected with the charitable institutions of Dublin, will recollect the persevering zeal with which he visited the haunts of poverty, as well as the asylums for its relief, noting down every thing which might prove afterwards serviceable on that suggestive topic.

pose! Man proposes-God disposes. We were next to hear of him, standing on the deck of the burning vessel in the Atlantic, alone with the captain, after every other soul had disappeared, surveying-we feel convinced, with the courage of a lion-the awful twofold death close before him, and which he had in all probability deliberately preferred to an early relinquishment of his companions to their fate. It is a fine picture-one that shall ever hang framed with his image in our memory; helping us to believe that

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AUTHOR OF "THE FOOL OF QUALITY." story in Brooke's family bears so heavily on the manner of the philosopher, and is so flatter

Of the interesting paperazine, we have reading to the courtesy of the poet that we should

Dublin

none with more satisfaction than the biographical sketch and portrait of one of the most distinguished Irishmen of his own or any age, the gifted and pure minded author of Gustaous Vasa and The Fool of Quality, HENRY BROOKE. Of his literary fate it might be said that the most unfortunate thing he did was to assert the patriotism of Dean Swift; and the most unfortunate thing was to be left out of Doctor Johnson's "Lives of the Poets." Trials had he to undergo, although not absolutely driven to the wall, like many children of "the fatal dowry," and those of Irish complexion, in particular; but he bravely bore up against them. Those who deem that relatives may live more happily apart, and that friendship is best preserved in full dress, may look at the picture of Henry Brooke, the poet and politician, and Robert Brooke, the painter, with their wives and children, not less than twenty, living together in perfect peace and amity at Daisy Park, in the flattest part of Kildare, where, in those dull seats and distant times, a family breeze might now and then have been looked on in the Irish sense as a "convenience and a comfort." "While Henry wrote," says the biographer, "Robert painted, and sold his pictures; and thus these two loving brothers, having lost their property, made a right and manful use of their intellectual gifts, and supported their large families by the sweat of their brows."

"In his politics, Brooke was of the old whig school; and, had he lived in 1829, he would probably have been an emancipator. He was a rightminded, ardent Irishman in his love for fatherland; hated oppression; idolized liberty; wrote most keenly against Poyning's infamous laws; mourned over the misrule and misgovernment of his country, under the tyranny and rapacity of the Stuart dynasty; admired King William, and was an exulting Protestant; yet greatly loved his Roman Catholic neighbors, and would preserve to them their properties, though he disliked their principles, and deprecated their ascendency."

Dr. Johnson's feelings respecting Brooke are accounted for, not improbably, as follows:

"It may be asked why did Dr. Johnson exclude Brooke from his 'Lives of the Poets,' where so many names of little note are to be found? In 1739, Johnson had written in Brooke's praise in his Complete Vindication,' and twenty years afterwards, when the learned Dr. Campbell showed a spirited' Prospectus of a History of Ireland' written by him, to the great moralist, he read it with much pleasure and praise, saying that every line breathed the true fire of genius.' It is recorded that, on this occasion, Johnson lamented that the vanity of Irishmen, even if their patriotism were extinct, did not enable Brooke to carry his design into execution.' In Johnson's letter to Charles O'Connor we have his mind on the subject. To Brooke he appears never to have written; there had been an ancient quarrel between them. They had argued and disagreed; and the traditionary VOL. V.-NO. IV.-30

prefer not to write it down. Brooke was at all times strangely careless of fame; independent to a fault, and more proud than vain; and though much urged by his friends to humble himself, yet he could not be induced to bow down' to the cap of this literary Gesler, much as he regarded his learning and noble intellect. This dislike of the Doctor continued during his life; and Boswell narrates that on the occasion of a play being read to him (it was Brooke's Gustavus Vasa) and a circle of friends, on coming to the line

"Who rules o'er free men should himself be free!'

the company applauded, but Johnson said it might as well be said—

"Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat-'

of his great and good mind; but such was often a stupid and inapt verbal sophism, and unworthy his way. In this fashion one might string endless parodies on the line, and equally inapplicable; for example:

"

"Who keeps a madhouse should himself be mad l'

'Mr. Brooke's elegant and honest mind probably had in view that word of Scripture which saith, he that ruleth his own spirit is better than he who taketh a city'—(Prov. xvi. 32.)

"By this unhappy difference Brooke lost his Johnsonian niche in the temple of biographical fame. Yet we must remember that a better fate was his, his record is on high,'-and his spirit with that Saviour who loved him and made him Faults and inconsistency were in what he was. him, no doubt, but still we know not of any of whom it could be so well and suitably said—

"His life was gentle, and the elements

So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, "This was a man.'

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States, within the last few years, we are inclined to yield the first place to George Bancroft. His great work on the history of the United States has been brought down from the commencement of American colonization to the opening of the Revolutionary War, to which subject it is understood that he intends devoting the three succeeding volumes. His researches in the public offices of England, while he was Minister of the United States at the Court of St. James, have brought to light a great mass of documentary evidence on the antecedents and course of the Revolution, which have not yet been made public. With his critical sagacity in sifting evidence, his hound-like instinct in scenting every particle of testimony that can lead him on the right track, and his plastic skill in moulding the most confused and discordant materials into a compact, symmetrical, and truthful narrative, he cannot fail to present the story of that great historical drama with a freshness, accuracy, and artistic beauty, worthy of the immortal event which it com

History of the American Revolution. By George Bancroft Vol I. Boston, Little & Brown, 1853.

on all occasions he has sustained the principles with the prevalence of which he identifies the progress of humanity.

From the Athenæum.

memorates. Mr. Bancroft is now exclusively | in Worcester, Massachusetts. He was born occupied in the completion of this work. He about the beginning of the present century, pursues it with the drudging fidelity of a me- and is consequently a little more than fifty chanical laborer, combined with the enthusi- years of age. He graduated at Harvard Uniasm of a poet and the comprehensive wisdom versity, with distinguished honors, before he of a statesman. With strong social tastes, he had completed his fifteenth year. Soon after gives little time to society. His favorite post he sailed for Europe, and continued his studis in his library, where he labors the live-long ies at the German Universities, returning to day in the spirit of the ancient artist, Nulla his own country just before the attainment of dies sine linea. His experience in political his majority. Devoting himself for several and diplomatic life, no less than his rare and years to literary and educational pursuits, he generous culture, and his singular union of acquired a brilliant reputation as a poet, critic, the highest mental faculties, enable us to pre- and essayist; and at a subsequent period, endict with confidence that this work will be tering the career of politics, he has signalized reckoned among the genuine masterpieces of himself by his attachment to democratic historical genius. The volumes of the His-ideas, and the eloquence and force with which tory of the United States already published, are well known to intelligent readers both in Great Britain and America. They are distinguished for their compact brevity of statement, their terse and vigorous diction, their brilliant panoramic views, and the boldness THE further this work proceeds, the more and grace of their sketches of personal char- do we feel that it must take its place as acter. A still higher praise may be awarded an essentially satisfactory history of the to this history for the tenacity with which it United States. Mr. Bancroft is thoroughly clings to the dominant and inspiring idea of American in thought and in feeling, without which it records the development. Whoever ceasing to have those larger views and nobler reads it without comprehending the stand- sympathies which result from cosmopolitan point of the author, is liable to disappoint- rather than from local training. His style is ment. For it must be confessed that as a original and national. It breathes of the mere narrative of events, the preference may mountain and the prairie-of the great lakes be given to the productions of far inferior and wild savannahs of his native land. A authors. But it is to be regarded as an epic strain of wild and forest-like music swells up in prose of the triumph of freedom. This in almost every line. The story is told richly noble principle is considered by Mr. Bancroft and vividly. It has hitherto been thought as an essential attribute of the soul, necessa- by Americans themselves, even more than by rily asserting itself in proportion to the spirit- Europeans, that the story of the English ual supremacy which has been achieved. The colonies presented but a dreary and lifeless history, then, is devoted to the illustration of succession of petty squabbles between the the progress of freedom, as an out-birth of settlers and the crown officers of unintellithe spontaneous action of the soul. It is in gible persecutions of each other on the this point of view that the remarkable chap-ground of differences of opinion in religion. ters on the Massachusetts Pilgrims, the Penn-Mr. Bancroft has shown how ill founded has sylvania Quakers, and the North American been this impression. In his hands American Indians, were written; and their full pur-history is full of fine effects. Steeped in the port, their profound significance, can only be colors of his imagination, a thousand inci appreciated by readers whose minds possess dents hitherto thought dull appear animated at least the seeds of sympathy and cognate- and pictorial. Between Hildreth and Banness with this sublime philosophy. The croft the difference is immense. In the chapter on the Quakers is a pregnant psycho-treatment of the former, dates, facts, events logical treatise. Sparkling all over with the are duly stated-the criticism is keen, the electric lights of a rich humanitary philoso- chronology indisputable, but the figures do phy, it invests the theologic visions of Fox not live, the narrative knows no march. and Barclay with a radiance and beauty The latter is all movement. His men glow which have been ill-preserved in the formal with human purposes, his story sweeps on and lifeless organic systems of their success- with the exulting life of a procession.

ors.

The parallel run by the historian between William Penn and John Locke is one of the most characteristic productions of his peculiar genius. Original, subtle, suggestive, crowded with matter and frugal of words, it brings out the distinctive features of the spiritual and mechanical schools in the persons of two of their representative men,' with breadth and reality which is seldom found in philosophical portraitures. Mr. Bancroft was the son of an eminent Unitarian clergyman

a

Yet because Mr. Bancroft contrives to

bring out the more romantic aspects of his theme, it is not to be supposed that he fails in that strict regard to truth-truth of cha racter as well as of incident-which is the historian's first duty, and without which all other qualities are useless. Of all American writers who have written on the history of their own country, we would pronounce him to be the most conscientious. His former volumes were remarkable for the amplitude

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