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I'fgruhi nf tljr Tvfb Jtlrii. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE OS AG E DAMSEL. by CHARLES LANMAN. There once lived in the Osage coun try an Indian whose name was Koo zhe-oe-ne-cah, or The Distant Man. He had been a famous warrior and hunter, but time had weakened his arm and lifted a mist before his eye. His wives were all dead, and the only one ot his kindred left upon earth to minister to his wants was a little damsel, his grand child, and the joy of his old age. The twain were much beloved by all their i ribe, and when journeying across the broad prairies, they were always sup plied with the gentlest of horses, and they never had to ask the second time for their favourite food. W henever the tribe came to a halt on the bank ot a river, in a country abounding in game, i he first tent-poles planted in the ground were those belonging to the Distant Man and his child, and their tent al ways stood next to that of the Chief. It was midsummer, and the entire Osage nation was encamped upon a plain at the foot of a mountain, covered to the very summit with rich grass and brilliant flowers. The last hunts had I teen successful, and in every lodge was to be found an abundance of buf falo and deer meat. Feasting and merrymaking,dancing and playing ball, were the chief employments of the hour,throughout the entire village,while in every direction upon the prairies the horses, with their feet hobbed, were > ropping their sweet food. The children and the dogs sported upon the green together, and many a laugh resounded long and loud. The sun was near his etting, when suddenly an unusual still ness pervaded the air. The people gathered together in haste and wonder ed what it could all mean. The strange silence caused them to listen with in creased attention, when a distant whoop came stealing along the air. It seemed to come from the neighbouring moun tain, and as the multitude cast their eyes in that direction, they saw a single horseman coming towards their en campment with the speed of the wind. They waited in breathless expectation, and were astonished at the boldness of the stranger in riding with such fury directly into their midst. He was mounted upon a black horse t gigantic size, with splendidly flowing nane and tail, and an eye of intense brilliancy, and was caparisoned in a most gorgeous manner. The stranger was clad from head to foot with a dress <>f many colours, and from his hair hung a great variety of the most curi ous plumes. He carried a lance, and ;o his side were fastened a bow and a ■ juiver of arrows. He was in the prime of life, and his bearing was that of a warrior-chief. lie avowed himself the on ot the Master ot Life, and his home ■Obe in the Spirit Land. He said that : here was a woman in that land who had told him that the most beautiful maiden in the Osage nation was her • laughter. I rom other lips also had he iieard that she was good as well as beautiful, and that her only protector and friend was an old man named Koo-zhe-ge-ne-cah . He had asked for a dream that he might see this being of ihe earth. Having seen her, and being iti want ot a wife, he was now come to demand her ot her venerable parent, and forthwith rode to the door of his >ent to make a bargain. The stranger dismounted not from his horse, but lalked with the old man leaning upon :he neck ot his noble animal, the maiden meanwhile sitting in pensive quietness v ithin her tent door, working a pair of moccasins. The old man doubted the Grangers words, and desired him to prove that he was the son of the Master of Life. “\\ hat sign of my nature and power would you witness?” in quired the stranger. “ That you would cover the heavens with thick darkness, picture it with lightning, and fill the air with loud thunder,” replied the old man. 1)o this and my daughter shall >e } our biide. Suddenly a storm arose, and the sign was fulfilled to the utmost extent, so that the entire nation were stricken with fear. Night came on, the sliy was without a cloud, but spangled with stars, and the air was peifet tl\ serene, and when the stranger and his steed were sought for, it was found that they had disappeared.— I eace rested upon the Osage village, and the oldest men ot that tribe never enjo} ed a more refreshing sleep than on that memorable night. On the following day, everything about the < )sage encampment wore its ordinary aspect, and the events of the previous day were talked over, as peo ple taik ot their dreams. The old man and the maiden made an offering to the Master of Life, and while the former, before the assembled nation, promised t> gi\e up his child, she, in her turn, expressed her entire willingness to be come the bride of the stranger, should he ever retu >n. Not only was she piompted to do this by the honour conferred upon her, and also by the nobleness of the stranger, but she thought it would make her so happy to rejoin In t long-departed mother in the > pnit Land. She was only troubled about the feeble old man, whom she dearly loved, but when the whole na tion promised, as with one voice, to make him the object of their peculiar care, she was satisfied. Again was the sun in the western horizon. Again did the stranger ap pear, mounted as before. But as he entered the village, there trotted by his side a white horse of exceeding beauty, decked from forelock to tail with the richest and rarest of ornaments. He had come for his bride, and was impa tient to be gone. lie led the white horse to the tent of the girl he loved, and throwing at her feet a dress of scarlet feathers, he motioned her to prepare for a long journey. When she was ready, he motioned to the white horse to tall upon his knees, and the maiden leaped upon his back. The twain then walked their horses to the outskirts of the village,and as they pass ed along the stranger took from his quiver and tossed into the hands of the Osage chief and each of his warriors and hunters, a charmed arrow', which he said would enabled them, not only to subdue their enemies, but also sup ply them with an abundance of game, as long as they roamed the prairies. The stranger now gave a whoop and the horses started upon the run. Their path lay over the mountain, where the stranger had been first seen. They flew more swiftly than the evening breeze, and just as the sun disappeared, they reached the summit of the mountain and also disappeared, as if received into the bosom of a golden cloud. (brigimil (fssnijs. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE READER. A Series of Letters. No. 2. MISS BRONTE’S NOVELS. Mr. Editor: In my first epistle to you, I referred to Shirley, and spoke of my intention of giving you, in a future letter, my opinion of this popular book and its gifted writer. The curiosity of the reading world was fully aroused by the mystery which for some time en shrouded Miss Bronte, and the little information which has been obtained concerning her, has not at all satisfied it. That the writer was a woman was evident in Jane Eyre, and no’ one, in his senses, could fancy otherwise after reading Shirley. We learn also, that she is the daughter of a Rector of the Established Church of England, and that her father’s parish corresponds to the Briarsfield of “ Shirley.” Farther than this, we know nothing, except, as she reveals in her stories the power of her mind, the bias of her opinions and the independence of her soul. Something more than two years ago, I picked up a copy of the Home Journal and saw among the notices of new books: “We have read Jane Eyre, an original story, brimful of talent.” We were having a cold rain-storm, and I had grown weary of sullen skies and piti less torrents. I was attracted by Wil lis’ endorsement of Jane Eyre, for, in spite of his faults, no one has a truer ear for the tones of real genius than Mr. Willis. I procured the book, which promised me entertainment, and shut ting out the sense of desolation the cold wind carried to my spirit, a blazing lire warmed me physically, and “Jane Eyre” supplied a mental excitement, which was very grateful. I believe 1 read the book for two or three days. I have a fashion of reading novels somewhat peculiar—itis after this wise. 1 first look at the denoument , for I have no idea of troubling myself in this sufficiently sorrowful world with imagi nary woes—if the end is as it should be, and all the parties “ are married and live happily,” or justice generally is meted out, lam contented. Then I read the first few chapters, or till the principal characters are introduced, and having ascertained who they are, what they are, and what relation they bear to each other, 1 again glance over the last chapter. Now if lam interested — if the book is worth the time it would take to read it, 1 can read it at my lei sure, with a great deal more satisfac tion and benefit, if any is to be de rived from it, than 1 could if I were tormented all the time to know how things w ere going to turn out. I care almost nothing for the plot, so it be not absurd. I mark attentively the por traiture of character, in which 1 espe cially delight, and a little philosophy and prose-poetry, and a bit of moraliz ing, all please me, provided it is not the insipid sing-song of Mr. Janies, the insidious sophism of the wiley Bulwer, or the mawkish sentiment of the Porter school of writers. Miss Bronte excells in character. Someone has said of her, that its por. trayal was to her what the art of colour was to Titian. But she does not ela borate—her characters are brought out by bold strokes, and each stands out from the canvass in bold relief. There are few feeble touches ; every mark of the brush tells, and if sometimes she departs from nature and general truth, she is still and ever true to herself and her own ideal. When she paints her women, she looks into her ow n heart and catches a trait, or her own peculiar imagination supplies it. When she paints a child, and here some say she tails, but if so, the failure is not her own fault, for when she paints a child, I think the mirror of the past, bringing back her own childhood, reflects the figure she draws. But I am rambling. I wished to speak first of the impression produced upon me by Jane Eyre. llow vividly she pictures forth the desolate child hood, and how my spirit glow r ed as she turns at last upon the heel which had trodden her to the dust, and pours out SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE. a torrent of concentrated and indignant passion on the unnatural woman, who should have been her best friend.— With absorbed attention, 1 followed her through her career at Lowood, and in her new situation as governess, un til Edward Rochester appears. Now I grant that I do not like the “spice of wickedness” which makes his a ‘rich’ character. I think the same flavouring and quite as agreeable might have been given to less loathsome vices, and to a more noble and consistent man. I was almost angry that Jane should love him, and the remembrance of the in justice w hich had gone far to make him what he had been, his remorse for his past life, his love for Jane, and the really fine qualities which were seen amid his eccentricities and his faults, did not w holly redeem him or make him worthy of the pure girl he sought to make his w ife. Then the sophism by which he tried to make wrong right, and the injury he would have inflicted on Jane, in making her the wife of a man w ho was already married, disgust ed me. Neither was I pleased with the character of St. John Rivers, Jane’s cousin. In all Miss Bronte has written, there is too much contempt cast on the benevolent movements of the day, and on all dissenting from her own church. But in spite of the fault 1 found, 1 was interested and delighted with the tresh and vigorous mind of the w riter, with the originality of her conception and style, with her power over laughter and tears. Bye and bye, one and another read Jane Eyre, and it began to be talked about, written about, and I was told it was a “very bad book, “worse in its influences than the Mysteries of Paris,” Aic. I had never read the Mysteries of Paris—l never affected the French school of Fiction—and could not feel the force of the comparison, but 1 had read Jane Eyre, and did not find my self any more favourably affected to wards vice, or more pityingly and lovingly lenient towards beings of Ro chester’s stamp. I must confess 1 never felt the power of this argument against the book. ” W ildfell Hall and “Wuthering Heights, ’ I scarcely read, but saw enough to discern the low standard of refinement and morality which appear ed to have influenced their writer. 1 here seemed to be an over dressing of the disagreeable and horrible which awakened no feeling but disgust. If Miss Bronte wrote them, she must have followed the fashion of some ro * maneers who have supped upon raw meat, that in the dreams which suc ceeded such orgies, might come inspi ration for their tales of horror. “Agnes Grey professed to emanate from the author of Jane Eyre. I would not undertake to pronounce upon its 1 1 ity, but if it is a forgery, parts of it arc surprisingly well done. It has not the power, the intensity, of anything else she has written, but it has many of her peculiarities of man ner stamped upon it. The characters are well limned and many scenes are very graphic. The tone of the book is more quiet and subdued than is us usal with Miss Bronte—there is no sparkle about it. “Shirley ’ was a god-send to me, early in the winter, when 1 was some what of an invalid. It is the fashion to say that it is inferior to Jane Eyre, but Ido not hold it so. It is true, it has less intensity, and probably there is less powerful writing in it. But it is superior in the purity of its tone; it is a more healthy book, and a much more agreeable one. The dear Caroline is so sweet and womanly, and Shirley herself is so bright and fascinating. Miss Bronte does not appear to think, as is usual with writers, that her heroes and heroines must be perfect. She gives them usually a liberal allowance of faults and even weaknesses, but she keeps up our interest in them. Caro line Welstone is nearer perfection than most of her characters, but she is not insipid as perfection is apt to be: she is a true and exquisite type of her sex. J ust such a woman as Wordsworth described in his much quoted verses. Shirly is rather my favourite of the two: the sparkling, spirited, gay, gifted, capricious, courageous, indignant, de voted, and finally love-subdued Shirley, is a most fascinating conception. 1 al most wonder Robert Moore did not love her, and he would have done so had not Caroline W elstone a 1 readv fill ed his heart. Robert was a sad traitor to his own soul, but his penitence was unfeigned and Caroline’s love forgave him much. 1 he Rectors, the Curates, the govern ess, Mr. York and his wife, Hortense Moore, and her brothers are all dis tinct, individualized persons. They never do or say anything that is not in keeping with their characters. The children of the book are not natural children 1 will allow: they are too old, too pragmatical, too philosophical, but after all they may be worthy scions of the odd stock of \ork. Perhaps Miss Bronte was herself a Rose York, if not, she drew wholly on her own imagina tion for the character; she never saw a Rose York. Miss Bronte has no commonplaces. She is eminently peculiar and original. She never gives you an old story ; she never reminds you of any one else; she does not make you say, at the end of the book, “I could have said the same thing just as well, or in the same manner.” She often displays a vigor of style and power of thought singular in a young woman, and evincing real genius. She makes very tolerable verses, and I should think was proficient with her pencil, though 1 do not fancy her to be a musician. She is witty, and sarcastic as witty people are apt to be; she is not always amiable, though I think she can eontroul herself very well. In fine, I imagine her a “clever,” rather than an elegant woman. I wish she would write another book. If I write much more, I am afraid you will hardly give me a niche in your paper. You will find that I am much given to gossiping with my pen, but it is the only kind of gossiping in which I indulge, 1 crave a little for bearance. 1 must tell you of the delight with w hich I have read Dana’s magnificent essay on the “Fast and the Present.” There is a touch of something that is not republican entirely, in it, but that does not hurt it. Some of its passages are as fine poetry as anything he has w ritten to rhyme a measure. I wish you would give your readers the bene fit of some choice extracts from it. I read the only volume of Dana’s Prose which had ever been made before the present collection, about nine years ago, and was not much pleased. I opened these volumes very reluctantly, but 1 was disappointed, very agreeabl y so. 1 believe I shall read the “ Bucca neer’ again, and see if I cannot admire it as most do. When I write you again, I shall have something more to say of our lady writers. I see Miss Bremer is in your city. I should be so happy to see this lady. I envy you the pleasure of such a guest. Yours periodically, C. H. B. FOR THE SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE. EG E R I A : Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside. NEW SERIES. XXIII. Woman's Favour. To win the fa vour of a woman, it is not so neces sary that you should make her pleased with you as with herself. The one conviction follows the other. The mir ror that shows Beauty her own image, is one that she will seldom break. Men of the world soon learn this lesson: vanity never. XXIV. Flattery. Flattery, to be successful, must be always indirect, unless when you are dealing with a fool. Flattery, prima facie, is an offence to the under standing, which persons of any delicacy always resent. It assumes that the shallowness of your mind is quite as great as the depth of your vanity, and proposes to deal with you as Narcissus dealt with himself. In such cases, while the dish is grateful, one curses the awkward waiter who serves it up. XXV- Feminine Delicacy. The woman who has sense enough to detect the purpose of the flatterer, will have spirit enough to show resentment. If not, any solicitude in regard to her favours may be dispensed with. The virtue of such a person will prove as worth less as her delicacy. XXVI. The Soul's Vision. In astronomy, as the body rises it becomes luminous, until passing out of the sphere of vi sion, it sinks into darkness as before. But the darkness is our own, and not that of the object whose darkness we deplore. That has only passed into a yet profounder light, becoming, though lost to us, a yet more truly “illumin ated body.” We have seen it veiled in darkness, but the veil was upon our own eyes; and to share in the illumina tion, or to pierce that veil, it is neces sary that we should rise also. Hope and Fear will provide the wings for this purpose, and Faith and Labour are the sources of our illumination. XXVII. Penalties of Eminence. The price of immortality is death; the penalty of superiority is pain. We must wrestle for every victory, without always being sure that we shall have fair play.- There are thousands in the world who would pluck the plumage from another without ever dreaming of wearing it themselves. To rise into command or triumph is equally beyond their imagi nation and their hope; but there is a pleasure unspeakable which they enjoy in pulling down their neighbours to their own level. XXVIII. Men of the World. The best books are those which are written by men of the world, who are yet no worldlings. They have gathered the fruits of all human experience, without having lost the blossoms of their own humanity. XXIX. Books. The only two classes of books which are really useful beyond all others, are those which are written for the head, and those which are writ ten from the heart. Yet, to write either well, requires a just knowledge of both head and heart; —requires, in deed, that while each shall be reco<*- nized as absorbing always its own province, they shall both be considered under a common sway. XXX. Teachers. The teacher who loathes his vocation is totally unfit for it. We must love the labour in which we would thoroughly succeed. We must honour the pupil if we would hope to train him him to honour. (Drigitinl For the Southern Literary Gazette. COLLEGE LYRIC. No more of your Ethics and morals, They but pucker the sweetest of faces, Your Muses may gather the laurels, If they leave me to gather the graces; Yet, if logic and law I must con over, I'm willing, if you’re the Professor ; And if to religion I’m won over, ’Twill be, when you’re father Confessor. Your eye has the right inspiration, To guide the young student to knowledge: Your lip, with its ripe recitation, Makes it easy to pass through the College ; And with counsel so pleasing ’twould hap ill. If it tutor with smile so angelic, Should fail to persuade, in a chapel, Each heart to the shrine and the relic. Such wisdom now shines in each feature, That we drink in each proper emotion ; Oh ! w’ith so much divine in the creature, How easy is proper devotion : “Pis enough for my faith that you tell us, That we ought to look grave and be dutiful, And though really most wicked young fellows, We grow good through our love of the Beau tiful. ELEPHAS. Columbia, S. C. For tiie Southern Literary Gazette. GENEROUS RIVALS. FRAGMENT FROM A DRAMA. “ Let us start fairly on this quest of love, Rivals, not enemies. Do thou thy best, Assert thy natural parts of skill and courage, Thy wit thy wisdom ; —all in thee that holds Encouragement to thy hope ; —and I the same ; \ et both w'ith such an eye to the fair planet That moves us to this strife—lter fame her beauty,— As not to forfeit the well-stored affection That once we found in friendship.” (Pliiiifiiifii nf Jhtn Simla [From ‘‘ Woman in France,” by Miss Julia Kavanagli. Jnst published by Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia.] M ADEMOISELLE AISSE. The history of this unhappy and in teresting girl, is one of those romantic episodes which never appear to such advantage as when standing forth on the obscurity of a background like the regency. The truth and earnestness of the affection which united the beautiful Circassian and her devoted lover, the Chevalier d’Aydie, contrast so deeply with the heartlessness of the world around them, that posterity, disarmed ot its severity, has almost learned to look upon their errors as virtues. The origin of the connection between Ma demoiselle Aisse and her protectress was singular and romantic. M. de Ferriol had an elder brother, who travelled a great deal in the East, and was sent on various diplomatic mis sions to furkey, where he led a life of oriental despotism and licentiousness. He was in the habit of purchasing beau titul female slaves, two of whom lie once brought to France: lie kept one for himself, the other he gave to his triend, the Comte of Nogent, who was so deeply enamoured of her that he did not hesitate to make her his wife. Al. de b erriol’s slave probably died young, for there is no other record of her fate save that she came to France with her master. In the year 101)8, M. de Fer riol was passing through the slave-mar ket at Constantinople, when he was struck with the surpassing loveliness of a young female child exposed for sale. He questioned her owner, and learned that the child had been carried off by the Turks from the palace of a Circas sian prince, whom they had massacred with all his people: she was supposed to lie his daughter, for her ravishers had found her surrounded by atten dants. Moved with compassion at her unhappy fate, and also actuated by a less pure and disinterested motive, the h rench nobleman purchased the young IlaidOe or Aisse—the two names ap pear to be identical—for the sum of fifteen hundred livres. On returning to I 1 ranee, he confided the child to his sis ter-in-law, Madame de Ferriol, and then went back oneemoreto Constantinople, where he resided as ambassador until the year 1711. Aisse, as she still continued to be called, although she had been baptized under the name of Charlotte, was kindly treated by Madame de Ferriol, by whom she was brought up on a footing of equality with her two sons. D’Ar gental and Pont-de-Veyle always loved their adopted sister very tenderly.— The beauty of Mademoiselle Aisse was remarkable, even in that age of beauti ful women : it blended the passion and fire of the East with the classical out line of Grecian loveliness and the ani mated grace of France. She was about the middle height, of an elegant figure and a graceful carriage ; her complex ion had, in youth, that dazzling bloom and transparent purity which is still the boast of the fine Circassian races; her eyes, dark, soft, and lustrous, shone with truly eastern splendour; her oval and delicate countenance expressed the goodness, candour, and finesse of her character. Ais so attracted considerable atten tion in the circle of Madame de Ferriol: her extreme loveliness was not her on ly charm. If she was neither brilliant nor witty, she possessed, however, all the tact and delicacy of a fine nature : she spoke well, but little, for her dis position was naturally retiring. It is easy to judge of what her conversation al powers may have been, by the let ters she lias left. The style in which they are written, though natural and elegant, is frequently careless and in correct : it has not that precision and purity of idiom which characterize Ma dame de Staal’s language, nor the strength and wit of Madame du Def fand's. The merits of Mademoiselle Aisse’s writings are by no means lite rary ; they spring from the truth and tenderness of her heart, from the natu ral humility and delicacy of her mind, and from the sincere and honest abhor rence she ever displays against the pro fligacy and vices of the age. It was this union of rare personal attractions, and of the most noble and amiable qual ities of the heart, whic h led a contem porary poet to exclaim : “ Aisse de la Grece epuisa la beaute ; Elle a de la F ‘ranee emprunte Les charities de I’esprit, de Pair, et du langage, Pour le cceur je n’y coinprends lien ; Dans quel lieu s’est-elle adressce ? II n’en est plus comme le sien Depuis Page d’or ou l’Astrce.” Aisse was in all the bloom and fresh ness of her beauty when M. de Ferriol returned to France. lie was on the verge of seventy; his protegee was barely seventeen. lie endeavored, nevertheless, to inspire her with a more tender feeling than gratitude ; and when he failed entirely, he asserted his right over her in a tone ot oriental despo tism. lie reminded her that she was his: that he had bought her; and he ended by pleading his love, and offer ing her a share in all his possessions.— In order to escape this persecution, Ai's se appealed to her adopted brother, D’Argental; whose interference and remonstrances at length convinced her ancient admirer of the uselessness of his suit. M. de Ferriol consented to be reasonable, and to receive from Aisse— all she could give—the affection and de votedness of a daughter. It was in this character that she remained with him until his death. If M. de Ferriol, not withstanding his years, could not re main insensible to the grace and beauty of the young Circassian, others found the task equally difficult. Bolingbroke did not fall in love with her, probably because he knew that love would be unavailing; but in his letters he al ludes, with evident affection and ten derness, to “the dear Circassian,” and “the charming Aissedeclaring “that lie would sooner have found the secret of pleasing her than the quadrature of the circle.” The regent, who met Mademoiselle Aisse at the house of his mistress, Ma dame de Parabere—such was the pro fligacy of the age, that none of the young girl's protectors objected to her intimacy with this abandoned woman —expressed his admiration in more ex plicit language. Stung and astonished with her coldness, which only heighten ed his passion, he endeavored to se duce her by the most brilliant offers. Aisse firmly and indignantly refused ; and from that time carefully shunned his presence. Madame de Ferriol learn ed, with much vexation, the scruples of the young girl; who had certainly not been reared in a very virtuous atmos phere. That she should have refused to become the mistress of her old bro ther-in-law was perfectly right and jus tifiable; but that the same reluctance should extend to the first prince of the blood and regent of the kingdom, was not to be conceived. Madame de Fer riol was ambitious ; the Mareehal d’Ux elles was deserting her: might not Aisse prove the stepping-stone to anew and more dazzling fortune than the first? She urged her to yield ; she combated her arguments; she called her moral scruples folly ; and exhorted her to do as all around herdid. Aisse was voung, inexperienced, and pliable by nature. The world in which she had spent her youth was so corrupt that her sense of moral right or wrong was never fully developed. She gradually confessed the truth of Madame de Ferriol’s rea soning; but, when her unworthy pro tectress thought herself assured of the wished-for triumph, another obstacle arose —the young girl declined to be come the mistress of the regent: no longer on moral grounds, but on the plea that she did not, and could never love him. Cnlike the noble and free born ladies of France, the Circassian slave, bought in the market of Constan tinople, inexorably refused to sell her self for gold or power. This time, all the reasoning of Madame de Ferriol could not vanquish the resistance of Aisse. When the persecution she en dured at length became intolerable, the young girl threw herself at the feet of her protectress, conjuring her, in the name of Heaven, to cease mentioning this hateful subject; and declaring, with unexpected vehemence, that if it were urged again she would retire to a convent. Madame de Ferriol, alarmed at a threat which would have deprived her society of its greatest attraction, sullenly desisted from her project, but never forgave Mademoiselle Aisse this mortifying disappointment. At the house of Madame du Deffand, already known for her wit, beauty, and equivocal conduct, Aisse met a Knight of Malta, without either rank or wealth; but whose love she knew not how to resist, like that of the licentious Prince Regent. The Chevalier d’Ay die was young, brave, and handsome: a true hero of romance; with a disposition so loyal and so noble, that even the scep tical Voltaire called him, “ le ohevalier sanspeur et sans reproche .” The young knight no sooner beheld Mademoiselle Aisse than he became deeply enamour ed. She returned his love: there existed only one obstacle to this deep and mu tual passion. The parents of the (’hev alier d’Aydie, who were as poor as they were noble, had early compelled him to enter the military order of the Knights of Saint J ohn. He had, seve ral years before their first meeting, ta ken the vows which bound him to lead a life of celibacy. It was then, in the struggle which conscience awhile main tained against passion, that all the fatal arguments of Madame de Ferriol re curred to the mind of Aisse. Shoyield ed to their force ; and her protectress, satisfied at the humiliation of a virtue which had been a silent reproach to her own misconduct, openly sanctioned, be tween her ward and the Chevalier d’Aydie, a connexion which was only treated as a matter-of-course by the so ciety in which they moved. Repentance and shame entered the soul of Aisse too late. With the connivance of Madame de Yiilette, who feigned to take her to England, while she left her in a retired quarter of Paris, she gave birth to a daughter, unsuspected. Her child was afterwards placed in a provincial con vent, where she passed under the name ot Miss Black, niece of Lord Boling broke. But though appearances, which were still of paramount importance in that corrupt world, were thus saved, the sense of shame and degradation never left Mademoiselle Aisse’s mind ; nat urally too pure and delicate for the er rors into which her unhappy education had led her. The birth of their child only increas ed the passionofthe Chevalier d’Aydie. lie had already offered his mistress to procure a dispensation from the Pope, and marry her; but she had steadily refused: her unknown origin, the pov erty of her lover, and the prejudices of the age, which would have rendered such an alliance degrading for him, made her persist in her refusal, even when she became a mother, in the ex cess of his passion, the chevalier vainly entreated Aisse to fly with him to the solitude of some remote land, where they might live in peace and happi ness : she firmly declined. At this dis tance of time it is difficult to understand and appreciate her scruples: they were probably strengthened by the destiny of the Count ofNogent; who, having imprudently married the beautiful slave brought, like her, from Constantinople by M. de Ferriol, had, in consequence, been subjected to the most bitter in sults. The dread of entailing a similar fate on her lover made Mademoiselle Aisse disinterestedly sacrifice her own hopes of felicity to his honour. “How ever much happiness it might be for me to become his wife,” she mournful ly wrote to her friend Madame Calan drini, “ 1 must love the chevalier for himself. What would the world say, if he married an unknown dependant on the family of Ferriol? I value his honour too highly, and I am too proud to let him commit this folly. Would the chevalier always think as he does now ! lie might repent; and then, in deed, I should die of grief at the thought ot having caused his unhappiness—at the thought, more bitter still, of being no longer loved.” Madame Calandrini, whom she thus addressed, was a lady of much piety and virtue, residing in Geneva, and who had endeavoured to awaken Aiss6 to a sense of her error. She succeeded ; for the young girl’ssoul was naturally pure and good. But the affection she had conceived for the chevalier was no tran sient love; the struggle between passion and duty was long and full of bitter ness. The ill-temper of Madame de Ferriol, to whose house she returned after the death of the old ambassador, added to Aisse’s sorrow. No duty, no obedience, however entire, could please the woman whom, notwithstanding all her faults, Aisse considered as the ben efactress of her youth. Stolen visits to the convent where her child was brought up, and the affection of the chevalier, would have consoled her, if she could have indulged in that affection without the sense of sin. Though oppressed with remorse, she strove against her feelings in vain. “Alas!” as she again wrote to Madame Calandrini, “ l have not the courage of being courageous.— Reason, your counsel, and Divine grace itself, are not so strong as my passion.” And she ingeniously strove to justify that passion to her friend and to her own heart. “The chevalier loved her so tenderly, that it would be ingrati tude not to return his love. Was she not bound to do so for the sake of their child?” Madame Calandrini pitied her friend, consoled her, but continued her exhor tations. Aisse admitted their truth, but delayed the dreaded period which should place an eternal bar between her and the man she loved. “Perhaps,” she sadly and humbly observed—hop ing, when hope there was none—“ God will, jitter all, have mercy on us. Alas! I have hard struggles to go through. 1 have had them all my life. 1 reproach mysell—Ah ! why were you not Ma dame de Ferriol? You would have taught me to love virtue. . . 1 knew you much too late. You alone developed my soul: it was destined to be virtuous.” “ I am always remembering,"’ she observed, on another occasion, “ the conversation we had in your room. I make efforts which kill me Happy are those whose virtue enables them to triumph over a similar weak ness ! To break through the bonds of a most violent passion, of a most ten der and justifiable friendship—such is my fate, it is terrible. Can death be worse ? and yet you wish me to do it. I will; but 1 doubt that I can survive it. 1 fear to return to Paris: I fear whatever brings me nearer to the chev alier, and 1 am unhappy to be far from him. 1 know not what I wish. Oh, why,’’she despairingly adds—“why may not my passion be permitted ] why is it not innocent ?” A\ hen Mademoiselle Aisse wrote this, she had already been attached to the Chevalier d’Aydie for several years; but time, instead of weakening, had strengthened their affection. Its depth and sincerity rendered her struggle very bitter. Her health soon sank under the weight of her sorrow, which was in creased by the despair the chevalier felt when he thought himself on the point of losing her. “ Every one,” she wrote, when she had partly recovered, “pitied him. Indeed, Madame, you would have wept as 1 did. 11 is grief and sad ness were so great that I had to console him, and to conceal my sufferings from him as much as I could, i lis eyes were always filled with tears. 1 did not dare to look at him, Madame de Ferriol asked me one day if 1 had bewitched him l I answered, the charm which I used was to love against my own will, and to render his life as happy as i could.” It was the bond of an affection so true, so tender and so constant, which Aisse had now to sever. She accom plised her task mournfully, but without weakness. Ihe Chevalier d’Aydie had been well aware of Madame ( alandri ni’s efforts to reclaim his mistress. He never sought to oppose that lady’s in fluence, but in the most touching terms lie besought Aisse not to deprive him of her love. He renewed his offer of marriage, which she again declined.— ihe dread of alieniating him tin- ever made her long delay her resolve ; but that fear at length yielded to conscience, and she accordingly announced to the Chevalier and Aydie, that friendship must henceforth be the only feeling between them: Her sorrow was too evident, and he loved her too well to indulge in useless remonstrances or reproaches.— 1 le submitted to her decision, not with out grief, but resignedly ; protesting that her affection, whatever name she might give it, would ever be his only source ol happiness, and promising nev er to seek to influence her against the dictates of her conscience. Ile religi ously kept his word ; and, though yeiu s of mingled sorrow and remorse had fa ded the numberless charms which had tirst enchanted him, bis love for his Circassian mistress ever remained fer vent and true. In the sincerity of that affection he made her the whimsical pro posal that, when their years were such as to justify such a course, without giv ing rise to scandal, they should both re side under the same roof, and spend the end ot their life together; thus reali zing, in their old age, the unavailing dream and longing of their youth. Ma demoiselle Aisse smiled and wept as she heard him ; for she knew she would never live to see even that second dream fulfilled. She ardently desired to consecrate her penitence, by confessing her sins to a priest; but Madame de Ferriol would not probably have sanctioned such a step, and Aisse was now too weak to go even to the neighbouring church. A plot to enable her to carry her desire into effect, was accordingly concerted between the chevalier, Madame du Def fand, and Madame de Parabere. The latter lady called on her friend, and took her in her carriage to the house of Madame du Defland, where a clergv man had been brought by the Cheva-* lier dAy die. This -oleum reconcilia tion of her soul to God, gave Aisse a peace of mind she had never known till then. The weary strife was over the bitter cup was quaffed, and she felt spi ritually strengthened and purified by its wholesome bitterness. Her con science was at rest; the chevalier loved her still; she might love him without feeling burdened by the sense of sin or shame. But this happiness—for hap piness it would have been —came too late. Hie strength of life and youth had been spent in the long struggle against passion. Signs she could not mistake soon told Aisse that her life was draw ing to a close. She had suffered too much not to feel resigned; but she scarcely dared to contemplate the chevalier’s grief As though he could by his gifts have hoped to win back the life of a being so beloved, he was constantly heaping presents on every one around her. But love availed not against death, and each day brought Aisse nearer to the term of her existence. A few days be fore her end, she thus addressed Ma dame Calandrini, for the last time.— “ 1 lie life I have led has been very wretched. Have I ever hadan instant's joy ? I could never be with myself. I dreaded to think. Remorse never abandoned me from the time that I opened my eyes to the extent of my errors. Why, then, should 1 dread the separation ol my soul, since I fed con vinced that God is all goodness, and that my real happiness shall date from the moment when I leave this misera ble body ?” After a long and painful illness, Ma demoiselle Aisse died, on the 13th of March 1733. She was buried in the \ault which the family ot Ferriol pos sessed. in the church of Saint Roch.— W ithin the narrow circle where she had shed the charm of her gentle pre sence, her death was deeply felt; for, if others were admired, she was loved. Madame de Parabere, who had attend ed on her during her sickness with the devotedness ot a sister, long mourned her loss; which was lamented even hy the selfish Madame du Defland. So phie,her maid, inconsolable’at the death ot her gentle mistress, entered a con vent. The sorrow of the Chevalier d’Ay die was the most bitter and last ing. Though he survived the woman lie had loved, for many years, he never ceased to cherish her memory. lle re tired to the country, and devoted him self to the education of his daughter; whose dazzling beauty vividly recalled her mother, such as she was when he beheld her first at Madame du Def fand's—young, beautiful, and happy. j (T'ljr larreb llfar. Lesson for Sunday May 19tli. PARDON OF SIN. l s even I, am he that blottetli out thy transgressions *<>r.m*ne own sake, and will not remember thy sins.”—lsa. xlin. 2a. How wonderfully is the patience of God displayed towards man. The his tory ot the world presents us with a black picture of man’s crimes, and a glowing representation of God’s mer cies. In the context we see how his forbearance was exercised towards Is rael. They were a stiff-necked people, but he had a tender heart: they made him to serve with their sins, but he loaded them with his mercy, they ob literated his testimonies, but lie* pro mised to blot out their transgressions. Here we have An affecting truth implied. God takes notice of the sins we commit. They ure recorded. Thus he promises to blot them out. “The sin of Judah is written with a pen of iron, and with the point of a diamond.” This is true ot ail our sins; the} are written with the finger of God, in the book of his omniscience. They are remembered. We may soon forget the particular scenes and cir cumstances under which they were com mitted, but it is not so with God.— They are remembered against us as debts. An encouraging declaration made. The act. It is the blotting out of sin. The record is made in such dura ble characters that nothing but the blood of Christ can erase it. The agent. The Almighty claims this prerogative. As if lie had said, it is I, even I, whom you have offended, —let this therefore excite your wonder. It is I, even I, who have power to do it, therefore let this inspire your confi dence. It is 1, even I, who am willing to do it, therefore let this encourage your hope. The ground. What is the principle on which it is bestowed? “For mine own sake.” For the sake of his great name, his amazing love, his beloved Son. How delightful are the feelings with which this blessing is associated! The troubled soul, when its pardon is sealed, enjoys a swee t serenity within, like the mighty ocean in a calm,reflect ing without a rippled wave the bright and azure sky. LO()K AT TIIESE WITNESS FS. Bacon, the father of modern philos oph v, who has been represented as “the wisest and brightest of mankind,” was a Christian. Newton, the most distin guised of philosophers, whose fame spreads through an admiring world, wrote in defense of Christianity. Locke, the deepest of thinkers, whose office was to detect the errors of thinking, by going up to the fountain of thought, and to direct into the proper track of rea soning the devious mind of man, — Locke, thus qualified to judge of evi dence, in his latter years studied little but the Bible. Milton, who, for exal ted genius, stands unequalled, who pos sessed a mind “rich with all that man ever knew,” sung, in those poems that will hand down his name to the last pe riod of time, the hallowed themes of Christianity. Howard, the benevolent friend of the prisoner, of whom a poet, that was no Christian, writes : The spirits of the just, When first arrayed in virtue’s purest robe, They saw .her Howard traversing the globe. Mistook a mortal for an angel guest, And asked what seraph foot the earth imprest. Onward he moves ; disease and death retire, And murmuring demons hate bim and admire. Howard was a Christian, and Christian ity made him what ho was. W ashing ton, the patriot whom all admire, avow ed himself a Christian. But the time would fail, to tell of Johnson, and Ad-