THE SOMNAMBULIST. Translated from the French. anthem, by contemplating the symmetry of a statue, or by the survey of a landscape; by the enjoyment of company-not a company of blockheads, chilled by the imposition of a prevailing contemptible formula of etiquette, into stupid automata, but of intelligent Near the lake of Geneva is an antique cottage, which free agents are more refined and agreeable than those the Swiss regard with sentiments of horror and respect. flowing from a gratification of the sensual appetites. Travellers only visit there to seek shelter and protecBut a deprivation of the former causes no positive pain, tion from the storms. In this lonely sanctuary, sacred while an omission to satisfy the clamorous cravings of to sorrow, once dwelt an interesting family, of whom the latter, is productive of sensations at least uncom- nothing now remains save the remembrance of their fortable. Why is this? Plainly because one is a direct virtues and their misfortunes. Grandson was the head disobedience of the mandates of nature; while the of this family. Old and venerable, he was beloved and other is but a refusal to gratify the prepossessions of a revered by his children, and by all who had the happitaste fostered by art and an artificial education. If ness of his acquaintance. His virtues and integrity there were no superior intelligence, it would be irra-acquired him such an honorable reputation, that the tional to imagine that we should pay an indemnity for lords of the most distinguished cantons round about an intrenchment on the principles of existence, and came to him to submit their differences for final adjustescape, scot free, from a violation of commands, a sub-ment. From the moment that he had pronounced his mission to which is productive of more exalted, more intellectual pleasure. decision, the quarrels ceased, and the parties were as freely reconciled as though God himself had spoken. Finally, the laws of sensation are correlative with The old gentleman possessed an honest competency; those of motion. The motive agency in the purely but, above all, he was happy in the bosom of his family. material system, causes the conflict of ethereal sub- His wife and daughter Emma, the only child left of a stances, the concussion of clouds, the intermingling of numerous progeny, were constant and unremitting in vapors, and the effusion of rain to fertilize the earth their kindness and attentions to render agreeable the and gladden creation. So with sensation. Our emo- few remaining days that he might live. He loved his tions sometimes jar, sometimes rush together and recoil | daughter, who had entered her twentieth year, and with pain; yet the crisis thus indicated, is often the wished, before the tomb should enclose him, to assure arbiter of succeeding peace-the renovator of those himself of her happiness, by uniting her in marriage very sensations themselves, and the rectifier of the de- with the young Ernest de Semler. rangement of the nervous structure. As upon the exercise of the principle of motion, depends the purification of the elements, and the preservation of all bodies within their legitimate spheres, so the sensitive constitutiuo maintains the equilibrium of the nervous organization, and that complete, requisite co-operation of the various animal functions which qualify us, from the commencement to the termination of life, to receive and enjoy objects in themselves pleasurable; and from the consciousness of the agreeableness of feeling produced by the exercise of charitable offices, disposes us to our duty towards others and to God. In this admirable harmony of the physical, mental and moral worlds, christianity discovers one of its most efficient auxiliaries. The solitary blade of grass creeping from the crevice of a shattered rock, is an argument in favor of the existence of God. The ferocious delight experienced by the constrictor, in his cruel convolutions around the crushed body of his victim, speaks the presence of nature, and the power of nature's sovereign. The beautiful star, radiating its glories from the realms of space, and sentinelling heaven's arch-way with the undying lustre of a sleepless vigilance, attests the presence and energy of a supreme controller; while man, in the plenitude of matchless reason,-all bathed as he may be with inspiration from the inexhaustible fount of intelligence; dignified and celestialized by the impress of a God-like image; indulging aspirations for a world, to attain which unaided, an angel's pinion is too frail; for a bliss, to fathom which, the ken of uncreated wisdom alone is competent;-man, when he is man, though a worm, is a God; and loudly proclaims in the immunities of his lot and the beatitude of his destiny, that to be a philosopher is to be a christian. Ernest was descended from a great and opulent family in Switzerland; but his rare qualities, and not his vast riches, had gained the heart of Grandson. From earliest youth his benevolent disposition seemed to indicate that he would ever be the friend of suffering humanity. Since the death of his parents his castle had become the asylum of the unfortunate; and never did a poor person supplicate his charity in vain. When the winter, the season of tempests, had arrived to make nature sorrowful, and cover Switzerland with dismal mourning, he employed robust and courageous men to keep watch during the night, in order to relieve unfortunate travellers that the storms had overtaken upon the snow-covered mountains. Often in the middle of the most stormy nights has he been awakened by cries of distress. He would then light the lanterns and torches, and guide his men over the precipices and deep cavities, occasioned by the sinking of the snow, to afford relief to the sufferer. In a word, not a day passed without his performing some benevolent act; but still he was not entirely happy. One thing remained to perfect his felicity-the hand of Emma. Grandson, knowing the intentions of Ernest, took occasion one day to call his daughter to him, and, in the presence of her mother, addressed her in these words: "My dear Emma-Heaven will soon receive me; from thy tenderness and affection I must shortly be separated: thou art the hope of my family; in thee only can it be perpetuated—and I have chosen for thee a husband." "A husband!" replied Emma; "a husband for me! Must I then leave you?" "No, my daughter; we will continue to live together; Ernest has promised me, -99 "Ernest! what, father, Ernest to be my husband!" "Yes, my child; he loves thee much, and anxiously awaits the moment when he shall call me by the endearing name of father." "Without doubt, then,” replied Emma, playfully, her beautiful countenance suffused with blushes, "he will be your son." Grandson, seeing the innocent confusion of his daughter, said to her: "Why blush you for a love so virtuous? I see with pleasure that the heart of my daughter accords with mine, and that her marriage will crown the happiness of my old age." After a moment's silence, "My daughter," he continued, "before I die I wish to light the torch at thy wedding; and this month must not pass without witnessing thy union with Ernest de Semler." At these words, his daughter fell on her knees to thank him for his tender solicitude. He raised her, and embracing her, tears of gratitude flowed unbidden and unrestrained from his aged eyes upon the virgin forehead of Emma. Madam Grandson was much affected: she also pressed her daughter to her bosom, and said: "Emma, I consent to thy marriage-may I witness thy felicity!" The last expression of her mother struck Emma as a presage of evil, and caused her to shed tears of bitter ness. In order to recover herself from the confusion into which the confidence of her father had thrown her, Emma went the same day to indulge herself in one of her reveries upon the borders of the lake. She wished to be alone to commune with her own heart—to reflect upon her destiny-to call to remembrance the past, and to arrange her ideas of the future. In the midst of her promenade, as she was about seating herself upon a green turf bank at the foot of a large tree, Ernest, who had followed her unperceived, suddenly emerged from a neighboring grove upon her astonished vision. He carried under his arm a box, which he precipitately deposited at her feet. It was a casket-a wedding present. He took from the box a miniature portrait of himself, and presenting it to her, whom he had already named his affianced bride, said: "Dear Emma, it is then done; I have learned my happiness from the mouth of the venerable Grandson. You have consented to our marriage-witness the excess of my joy! But why turn your eyes from me, Emma? You love me not! Speak! Do you give me your hand only in obedience to the wishes of your father? Fear not to inform me: I will hear from you, and you alone, an avowal of your true sentiment-either hatred or love!" "Stop, Ernest," replied Emma, "you are in error. In accepting you for my husband, I have followed, be assured, the dictates only of my own heart." celebrated physician; but all was in vain. Grandson, feeling that he must die, and seeing his last hour approaching, called around his bed his wife and daughter, to whom he directed the following remarks: "Weep not at my departure: my career has been marked with honor, and the Eternal has appointed this day to be the last of my life." To Ernest, he said: "Dear Ernest, I confide to you this last lamb of a once numerous flock; take care of her. I leave to you all that I hold most dear in life-my wife and daughter." Becoming exhausted, he was unable then to proceed; but after a few moments of rest, raising his head, already struck by the scythe of death, and extending his hands toward those who surrounded him, gave them his last blessing, and slept the sleep of the just. His death was received with deep sorrow and mourning throughout the cantons; even the plays and festivals were all suspended, in consequence of the general lamentation. Ernest had the remains of his venerable friend interred with all the pomp and magnificence that his great and extraordinary virtues demanded, and erected over them a costly monument, as a last proof of his affection for one he had so much loved and respected. A year elapsed after the death of Grandson without Ernest's speaking of his affection for Emma, whose grief he respected too much to direct her from it. On the contrary, he went every day with her to spread upon the tomb of their father, flowers watered with their tears. Madam Grandson and her daughter continued still at their cottage; and though both occupied the same sleeping apartments, she was ignorant that Emma was a somnambulist. Every night Emma deserted her couch in her sleep, and directed her nocturnal steps towards the lake. Arriving upon its borders, she descended into the waters, and seemed to control the waves which came to caress her, while the zephyrs played in the curls of her flaxen hair. The set time of mourning, according to the custom of the country, being over, Madam Grandson one evening said to Emma: "My daughter, rememberest thou thy father's wishes? The time is arrived to attend to them. To-morrow I will speak to Ernest of thy marriagemay it prove the happiness of you both! Thy father from on high will smile at the consummation of thy felicity." At these words Emma dropped her head, and suffered her tears to flow at the remembrance of the loss she had sustained. Wishing to indulge her grief, she requested permission of her mother to take some repose. The night was already advanced, but still she could not close Ernest stood for a moment as one overburdened with her eyes. At last she fell into a slumber—but what happiness-being, until then, ignorant of the fact that agitation! what frightful dreams troubled her! he was beloved by Emma. In a few days the bouquets, Towards midnight she arose. Her mother was astonthe crowns of flowers, and the wedding dress were pre-ished to see her up at this hour; and though she never pared, and all things in readiness for the consummation doubted her virtue, she also left her bed the better to of the happy and much-desired event, when, unfortunately, Grandson was seized with a fever, which finally conducted him to the tomb. At an early hour, being apprised of his illness, Ernest hastened to his aged friend, whom he already looked upon as his father. He was now with him continually during all his sickness. He sent to Geneva for a very watch her movements. Emma opened the door of the cottage and proceeded to the lake. Her mother followed; but what was her surprise to see her daughter descend into the water! "Emma! my daughter!" she imprudently cried, "what are you about to do!" At the sound of her voice Emma awoke. She was confused and horror-stricken-and immediately disappeared unVOL. III.-20 der the waves! The mother terrified beyond description, was about to precipitate herself into the lake to rescue her, but was withheld by some fishermen whom her cries of distress had called to the place. Pointing to the waves and calling wildly to her daughter, she swooned away. The fishermen plunged at once into their boat, and sought to discover some traces of the unfortunate girl. In the meantime the inhabitants of the Canton, having learned the event, had assembled from all parts. Already was Ernest struggling in the waves in search of his love. At length he succeeded in rescuing her from the water, expiring. In vain did he seek to recall to life her whom he would call his wife! In vain did he press his burning lips to hers-cold and icy, she moved them only to bid him an eternal adieu! Madam Grandson, whom care and attention had restored to consciousness, raising herself, looked upon the pallid features of her child: she called to her in the full agony of her grief, but received no response. At this inauspicious and mournful silence, but too sure a proof of Emma's death, she fell into her arms and rendered her last breath. Such is the sad story of this unfortunate family. The same tomb enclosed the remains of the mother and daughter, near that of the father. Ernest, nearly overwhelmed with distress, each day goes to demand of heaven his bride; and the traveller cannot suppress a melancholy tear at the memory of so much unhappi ness. SIGH NOT. BY MISS E. DRAPER. For woman's love and her enchanting smile, Sigh not They come to cheer life's gloomy scene awhile; For the bold glory of the banner'd host Its gorgeous glitter is forever lost In death's dim shades that steal so darkly on, For might, and conquest, and the tyrant's pride, It comes omnipotent as doth the tide, For the loved dead, and o'er their memory, They never cast a lingering thought on thee; For years gone by, and all the sweets they brought, The merry hours of childhood's sunny sport, For years to come, and bliss they may bestow, To-day thy giddy heart beats high, yet oh, THE DISCUSSION. A LEAF FROM AN UNPUBLISHED WORK. In an opposite part of the room was a group, discussing with much animation and interest, a question apparently of great importance. The ladies were represented by one of their number, whose rapid and eloquent flow of language and vivacity of manner, seemed to give her the pre-eminence among her fair sisters—at least in pleading. The gentlemen had selected as their representative, a young fellow whose words rattled away like a locomotive engine-that is, never stopped. And he appeared to have the pre-eminence for empty noddle; for the gentlemen very generously offered their most light-headed, when challenged to present a champion who should maintain by all fair and honorable means, the superiority of the male sex, mentally and physically, against one commissioned to maintain the converse of the proposition, to wit-the superiority of the female sex, mentally and physically. "Do you not admit, Mr. Spangle," commenced the lady, "if I establish upon the broad and deep basis of inductive accuracy and syllogistic consecutiveness, that, the acuteness of the female intellect is immeasurably superior to that of the male, that I have established premises from which the proposed conclusion follows with the certainty of Aristotle and the conclusiveness of Bacon?" "Certainly, I admit it, Miss Mary Ann.” "Then in the first place, Mr. Spangle, pray define to me and this bright company the generally received idea of intellectual acuteness and mental sagacity, in which I contend for female superiority." "Well then, Miss Mary Ann, I eonceive in my mind that the generally received idea of intellectual acuteness and mental sagacity, as you very beautifully term it, is a certain subtile and inappreciable essential quality of the mental intellect, which is very remarkable for its dilative and expansive capacity, and which is supposed by the most transcendant philosophers of illustrious Greece and Rome, and also by some of modern days, especially of France and Germany, to have its place of residence in the regions of air-that is, Miss Mary Ann Dundy, to be more comprehensible and apprehensi "Oh! don't refine, Mr. Spangle-for we perfectly comprehend and greatly admire the extreme lucidity of your views. You admit then that this mental acuteness, for which the female sex are the acknowledged superiors, is an exalted intellectual quality ?" "Undoubtedly, Miss Mary Ann; but I think--I think that the onus probandi rests upon Miss Mary Dundy, to exhibit by conclusive and irrefragible arguments, that this exalted and etherial quality before mentioned, exists to a super-eminent degree in the intellect of the female mind." 'Well, sir, going as I do upon the immovable principles of inductive reasoning, I shall proceed to demonstrate, that the acuteness and tact which females have from time immemorial exhibited in foiling the desperate and repeated attacks which have been made upon her heart and hand, have developed higher degrees of this etherial acuteness, than all the reasoning and discoveries of philosophers, and all the military skill of commanders!" "Bravo! Bravissimo!" clapped the ladies. The gentlemen could do nothing more than give utterance to an indistinct and discontented murmur-for they perceived that the lady was getting the better of their champion fast. But, Mr. Spangle thought, to be outdone by a lady, in using that sublime and incomprehensible member, the tongue-would be a lasting disgrace to his manship. So he ups with the panoply of Aristotle and plunges into the contest. "But will Miss Mary Ann be so kind as to establish upon a firm basis, the assumption, that ability to guard a female heart from the gross and violent assaults of the other sex, is indicative of greater intellectual acuteness than the power of astronomical compilation and scientific military arrangement?" “Most gladly,” replied the lady, somewhat emboldened by the applause of her companions, "for see, sir, when the great Newton ascended in an astronomical tour to the heavens, he rose by means of an ascending series of mathematical calculations; and so also, when our own Franklin skimmed along upon the lightning's wing, he had something to support him. But what has a lady in that skill and adroitness for which she is so celebrated, but the unassisted sagacity of this etherial mental acuteness, in which I have, as I trust, successfully contended?" "But do you not suppose, Miss Mary Ann Dundy, that the depth and superlative readiness "Oh! sir, I suppose every thing," interrupted the lady-and among the rest, suppose that both gentlemen and ladies would award the palm of victory to me. What say you, Mr. Whayden?" Thus called upon, Whayden proposed to pronounce a very learned decision. "If I had not been highly delighted and edified with the argumentative and logical discussion of Miss Dundy, I should consider myself unable to appreciate what is eloquent and convincing. And if I did not, at the same time, feel the cogency of Mr. Spangle's very acute and metaphysical reasoning, I should attribute it to my want of depth and accuracy of thought, in which the gentleman appears to have made such proficiency." And here Whayden bowed, which Mr. Spangle returned with infinite condescension. "But if I could be allowed to offer my poor judgment in the case, I would sup. pose that Miss Dundy has the preponderance of arguments on her side for acuteness of intellect, which my friend very beautifully defined an etherial and inappreciable essential quality of the mind supposed to reside in the air"-here Mr. Spangle bowed graciously-" and that Mr. Spangle has the preponderance of arguments on his side for the depth and superlative readiness of military commanders"-here Mr. Spangle bowed again. "But since the parties have not touched upon a very important division of the subject, to wit-the physical superiority of the male or female sex, accordingly as it. might be decided, I think that the honors of the discussion should be divided until a more definite conclusion is arrived at." F. M. C. EPIGRAM. Chloris would have you understand To prove I never offered it, THE JEWELLER'S SIGN. They came to a sign which they could not but read; Says Hal to the damsel, "we're lucky indeed: See, Hymen a Jeweller! 'tis just the thing. There is, indeed, such a sign on E, or Main street, (frequently called the Brick Row)--only it happens to be Hyman, instead of "Hymen;" but our playful poet had, of course, a right to change the a into an e to suit his purpose-to amuse. THOUGHTS ON THE MANNER OF WRITING HISTORY. Translated from the French. The most perfect history, when separated from its philosophical accompaniment, is, in reality, but a sequence of anecdotes, more or less developed, and arranged in a methodical and chronological order. What was history in its commencement, when nations did not yet enjoy the happiness of possessing those studious men, who seize upon facts for the purpose of analyzing them, and seek out their causes, consequences and connexions, to extract from the whole some useful lesson? If I am not deceived, the earliest history must have been but a collection of anecdotes. Writers in this age pretend to instruct us: very well. But two classes of persons read history; those who read superficially, and those who reflect. Superficial readers pass over the reasonings to arrive at the facts, as, in reading a novel, they skip over the descriptions, that they may the sooner reach the catastrophe. So far as they are concerned, the philosophical labor of historians is absolutely superfluous. Those who reflect, on the other hand, make a serious study of history: they make it the subject for meditation. Do they require that its facts should be reasoned on for their benefit? That which is principally necessary for the one and the other, is the truth: for the first, because, when they desire to make themselves acquainted with facts, it is better that they should learn true than false ones; for the last, because, to enable them to judge correctly, the foundations on which they reason must be just. The question is then reduced to these simple terms: Will more truth be found in a primitive history, in a collection of anecdotes, to use that term, than in history enveloped in its robes of philosophy? labor spent in ancient history must require, it will be conceded, to be a little revised. But I shall not charge myself with this labor. Modern history is deficient. The truth is under our eyes, and it would seem to be enough to suffer the pen to take its course. But is the truth, historical truth above all, such a palpable and material thing, that it is impossible to make it become a falsehood by the mere force of explanation? I have known, and I now know, many historians: they have all honorable characters, and are generally esteemed. Had they confined themselves to the simple recital of facts, they would nearly all have agreed. But they have written history-they have written philosophical history, and have each attained a diametrically opposite result. With them facts disappear under their philosophical amplifications; the truth escaped with the facts, and yet all conscientiously believe that they have written the truth. They have all been subjected, more or less, to the influence of the times, of their epocha, of their education: positive impartiality is not given to man. To obtain from an individual the truth, the true truth, you must take from him all the passions, both good and evil, of human nature: it is necessary, in a word, that he should not be a man. Take Cromwell as an example: read all that has been successively written on the character of this extraordinary man, under the consulate, the empire, and the restoration: you will have three opinions, based upon facts identically the same, but presented in a different manner: you will have three opinions equally conscientious, perhaps, yet absolutely different from each other. No man can ever have sufficient power over himself to cast off completely all the spirit, all the influence of Here I should distinguish between ancient and mo- party, of caste, of sect, of theory, of a school, or of a dern history. coterie. With a philosophical historian, whether he call himself Bossuet or Chateaubriand, facts do not control the reasoning; but the original opinions, the intimate convictions of the writer, control the facts, and distort them according to his necessities, because, above all things, he desires to be logical, and always believes himself supported by reason. ferred to those authors of another class, who write to defend or support a particular cause, or a political or religious party, I should in that case have found the truth sacrificed, not to a sentiment in a certain degree honorable, but to a sordid and base interest. With them truth does not bend under the weight of logic, but is thrown aside to make room for lies. I value but very cheaply ancient history: it has a sort of conventional truth which lends itself marvellously to all the reasonings that writers have thought fit to found upon it. This conventional truth receives from time to time frequent blows, by the discovery of a monument, of a tomb, of a medal, of a manuscript, of an inscription; but the particular error alone is corrected: if it The reader will remark that I have only spoken of was necessary to renew all the philosophical labor that honest historians; and I have proved that it is vain to has been based on this conventional truth, no Benedic-seek for truth among their writings. But if I had retines could be found equal to the task; besides, it would be the task of Penelope-it would be necessary to undo one day what had been done the preceding; for every day some new discovery comes, and points out a new error. However, ancient history has this advantage, that in modern times it can be written without the least passion. Nobody gets excited about Sesostris, Pharaoh, Alcibiades, Themistocles, Socrates, Aristides, Scipio, Cæsar, or Pompey. They leave to these great men, without the least feeling of envy, the great qualities which have been so abundantly distributed among them: we take as truth what Plutarch and others have been pleased to assert concerning them. It is probable, however, that, in Plutarch's time, men generally, and writers especially, had the same faults and the same virtues that characterize the men and writers of our times. If, then, the Plutarch of that epoch spoke the truth as the Plutarchs of our day do, the philosophical Is this truth, which I would seem unwilling to find any where, to be met with in a collection of anecdotesin history written as it must have originally been? Yes; there are more chances in favor of truth in a collection of anecdotes, than in a philosophical history; not that I pretend that the author of a collection of anecdotes would have less than the philosophical historian his little hatreds and his little likings; not that he may not belong to a party; but that if he be in these respects subject to the same influences, he has in other respects an immense advantage over him. |