[THE following tale was written by particular request, as will be seen by its preface, for the Ladies' Companion; but the writer has been induced to pass it over to the pages of the Pearl.] "Of objects all inanimate I male. Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, Shook their white aged heads o'er me and said, I have adopted in connexion with the title of this article, words from the loveliest lay of a long admired, though on many accounts, objectionable bard, not so much as a motto to my story as to suit my own feelings; for from my very childhood, I have stood entranced, though at the foot of Pimple and Parnassus, and have wandered about the fount of Hippocrene, till my raptures have increased, so that I have myself poured forth feeble numbers, and my earliest, nay, my latest sympathies have gone and do still go forth and intertwine themselves with minds alone of poetic order. Alas! my infirmity-who reads the poem but the poet? Now, however, in compliment to the gifted lady editor of this work, I attempt a tale, and in compliment to her as well as her numerous readers also, I would with -Poetic trappings grace my prose, Till it outmantle all the pride of verse. But, I want a hero,-ay, and a more essential appendage to the beauty of my undertaking—a heroine. Reader, it is the evening of January 1, 18-. Enter with me, yonder splendid mansion, in the center of a brilliant metropolis; survey its spacious apartments, observe their fashionable decoration. Here the massive marble of Egyptian quarry, reflects in highest polish a lovely landscape, beautiful, even as that spread out over the sacred soil from beneath which it was taken, as if attempting to vie with the brilliancy of the gilded mirror above. Sofas covered with Genoa velvet are nicely arranged around the walls, while on every side are lengthened pictures, embodying the high poetic soul of many an ancient artist, and De Vinci's copy hangs the climax of all ideal. In yonder recess, you see suspended a harp, whose strings have scarcely ceased their vibration since the sweetest note of Mozart's key attuned their melody. Vases of plucked roses and sweet-scented exotics from neighboring greenhouse brought with vegetating, odoriferous plants occupy each otherwise unappropriated niche. Magnificently festooned, around the casement hangs the royal damask, while in the center of all this display of elegance, supported by the ponderous Jamaica wood, stands a sparkling girandole, its transparent pendant rods radiant with its own reflected light. The mantel too is glittering with correspondent brilliancy. But why is all this illumination and splendor? ask you; for as yet no gentle foot lightly imprints the tufted Persian carpet, or carelessly rests upon the mingled shades of the embroidered ottoman. 'Tis silence there as yet, and nought gives indication at least of the peculiarity of the occasion. The hour of destiny has not arrived, and while glowing coals within the grate are sending forth heat diffusive, we will retreat from this scene of preparation, and having ascended the winding staircase, look within the oratory. See you that maiden on bended knee and with tearful eye, in ecstasy of wo, as she presses to her heart an unsealed letter. Hear you her sobs as they involuntarily break forth from the spirit's sanctuary and mingle with hallowed orisons upon her trembling lip. Alas! that is my heroine-a plighted bride—and wait a little and I will show you my hero, the bridegroom to whom she is affianced. But marvel not, though the scene be reversed ere that, for truth is truth, however strange or disagreeable, and even fiction must be consistent with it, or it has no good effect. She has finished her toilet, and loving maidens have twined the rose-wreath in her hair, and clasped the silken girdle around her zone, and now attired for the altar, unattended but by cherubim and seraphim, she is secretly communing with Him who instituted the sacred rite she is just now waiting to perform. How admirably appropriate for when does woman so much need to strengthen herself by prayer, as when she is about to render her very self a free-will offering on the burning altar of affection, when she takes her heart as it were, in her hand, and goes forth to offer it, a gift never to be recalled, whatever change may come over the circumstances or sentiments of him to whom it is given. A gift, not only not to be recalled, but with the offering she transfers also, and forever the power ever of wishing it recalled, be the reality in all its minutiæ ever so bitterly reversed from the dream! Solemn sacrifice and all unworthily performed and wanting its essential grace and loveliness without this holy preparation, the preparation of secret communion with Him who alone enters the inmost recesses of the heart, where sorrow and joy alike commissioned, perform their ministrations. But most especially does she need his sympathy and support who has at this time knelt before him, apart from the joyous scene. For while she is now the center of all attraction, and by the most sacred sympathies of our common nature distributing happiness through many hearts, her own is secretly withering within her bosom. Where, O, where has departed the gladness of the morning and the full bright promise of the dawning year! None, ah, none suspect she has been a mark for the archer, and that her bridal attire is but a very mockery. Three years previous to this time, Mary Emmons left the school of Mrs. W—, in Troy, N. Y., if not complete in education, (since modern phraseology and true philosophy forbid the use of the terms,) at least well educated, one of the most perfect models of a lady. Ingenuous, unpretending, accomplished, and possessed also of that true politeness of heart, whose definition is a deference and nice regard to the feelings of others, whether of low or high degree, which in itself possesses a charm beyond all else, and without which, however accomplished in the world's sense, none are genteel. There was nothing strikingly beautiful either in her face or figure, but she was just one of that kind of persons, who impress our minds at once as something out of the common order, though we are unable to tell why they should, and who momentarily fill our sight though surrounded by a crowd, and who are never to be forgotten or mistaken afterwards. She was the daughter of a worthy private citizen, who had amassed a fortune in early speculation in real estate, and who preferred sitting untitled at his ease in the midst of his wealth, by his beneficence making glad the hearts of many, (and in this he fully believed and practised according to his belief, that the scripture injunction, "let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth," had other meaning than that a man must bestow his gifts in secret, for there was much in the force of example he said,) rather than burden himself with responsibilities and trusts termed honors, which he thought however much they might be coveted, usually prove but weariness, toil, and drudgery. Thus surrounded by abundance, with a tender, loving father of known eccentric character, the direct reverse of a mother who was an ornament to her sex, and who ever felt the responsibilities of her office, wonder not that our heroine had brought up to womanhood, a heart swollen with deep-rooted, yet contending sentiments; that she asked much of the world, yet secretly expected little. But under the pupilage of a ustly celebrated teacher, and in a school, the first at that time in rank, in our Union, characteristic contrarieties had been subdued and properly directed; and conflicting qualities guided so as to exemplify virtue and adorn her heart, and her whole character improved, while her sensibilities were quickened, and her spirit's friendships all renewed. By constant companionship for three years with new and ever-changing associates, not one impression made by early friends had been effaced or dimmed, and the few well chosen intimates of her youth were as warmly cherished now as when the population of her own native city were to her the people of the whole wide world. Scarcely had the first greeting passed in her own dwelling, ere she sought the residence of one of her truest friends, Hope Greyson. She found her friend who was overjoyed to meet her again, busily engaged in stitching a broad piece of mecklin to the neck of a gorgeously variegated satin dress. "O, I am so glad you have returned, Mary," after a few kind congratulations, she exclaimed, "and just at this time too, for to-morrow evening there is to be a brilliant assembly at Mrs. Daily's-I knew you were expected this week, and I was afraid you would not arrive in season to make one of the company. But you are here, and I am so rejoiced, for we shall have a fine time." "At Mrs. D.'s? Indeed, Hope, I shall not," returned Mary, "for I have not much fancy for large parties, there is so little friendship and sociability in them. They are frequently a mere mockery of the kindnesses and civilities of life, by com promising show and ceremony, where twenties are drawn together but as 'stupid stories,' who have no sympathies with each other, and who seldom meet, and more seldom acknowledge an acquaintance elsewhere." "Oh well, never mind that, Mary; it keeps society in good nature with itself; its various members in countenance with one another, and assists one part to approve of the course of the other, besides gratifying individual curiosity, taste, and display, and bribing good opinion now and then. Now don't moralize." "No, my friend, I shall not, for I am not to-day exactly in a moralizing mood, though I shall disagree with you and your arguments in favor of them, as they do actually exist at the present day, which happily I know you do not at least believe are the very reasons why I dislike them. Were they composed of members only who have individual friendships and sympathies for each other, and whose society is deemed by each an invaluable acquisition, an essential minister to the happiness of each, and were the atmosphere the breath of sincerity, rather than the whole scene heartless and artificial, they would be much more in favor with me." "Now don't try to raise a breeze against it, for you must, nay, you shall go—I have special reasons for wishing it." "Your reasons another time, Hope. I have no dress to wear, and no time to prepare one, and if that be not a sufficient reason for staying at home, what is?" "Come, come, no such excuse as that-you do not need a new dress-wear that beautiful white muslin of yours, that you had made for George Anderson's wedding last vacation, with the same elegant white trimmings you then wore, or that splendid black velvet in which you appeared at cousin Sarah's party, and the same simple white scarf-they will either of them admirably become you, for you know all persons of good taste admit that dress, in order to be becoming, must not only be adapted to the complexion and figure, but also adapted to the known character of the wearer.— Sentient, spiritual beings like yourself, Mary, who are so strikingly intellectual, and who have so much decision of character that they never lose their identity anywhere, need but little variety, and the simplest shades of color, and little of show in ornament, to appear well on every occasion, provided the material be not mean. So black and white for you, my friend, and no tinsel or display. But I, who live on the surface of things, love show, love dress, love splendor for its own sake, am sentimental and learned to-day, and to-morrow may not have a single idea in my head-in short, am floated along whichever way the fashionable tide sets in-have no originality of character, but identify myself with whatever meets my eye, may diversify my apparel and wear this gaudy, showy thing composed of all hues, red and green, black and blue, and white and purple, and 'twill be admirably adapted not only to my sandy complexion, red hair and figure en bon point, but also to my character." "Nonsense, dear friend," replied Mary, "you know me too well to attempt to flatter me, and I am also too well acquainted with you, and have too good an opinion of your character to suffer you to defame it without remonstrance. I doubt not but that rich shaded satin will look well when worn by yourself, and be in truth, becoming both to your face and figure, only don't wear a red mantle with it." "Mary, you need not fear I shall, that would look too much like my hair, and I like contrasts as you do." "Hush about your hair again. I know a young lady who is admitted on all sides the greatest beauty in the county of and she has red hair; nevertheless, I should advise you to wear blue-blue is always becoming to persons of your complexion, and indeed you always look well in it. For myself, I suppose were I to make up my mind to go to-morrow evening, (which I am sure I shall not do,) I might not find any thing new that would please my fancy better than the black or the white you mention. I dislike finery and colors about my own person always, and wear a plain dress not because I have the vanity to suppose it adapted to my character as intellectual and ethereal, as you were pleased to term it, but because it has adapted itself to such a style of dress forming my taste for it. Now let us close this chapter on dress, Hope, for I shall not go to Mrs. D.'s, so it is idle to talk thus." "Yes, yes—you will go too," persisted her friend, “and I have kept something in reserve to tempt you. There is to be a very select assembly, and what is more, an elegant young gentleman from the South, a lawyer who has recently taken up his abode in the city, is to make one of the company. He is of accomplished mind and manners, and we, girls, are all in love with him; and I wish much you very become acquainted with him, for I am sure you will like him too." "What! another lawyer, and from the South too? and you wish me to see him, for perhaps I may like him. Now, what if I should? the chance is, he may not like me, and then I shall be less happy for my new acquaintance. And would you wish me less happy than I now am?" should "Oh, no; but I am sure he will like you too, you are so much alike in taste and sentiment, and even in the lineaments of his face, it has often been remarked, he resembles you as much as man can—so you may be made happier. The chance is even on your side, in my opinion." Never tell a young lady she is similar in character to this or that one of the opposite sex, unless you mean her heart shall go out unbidden on an errand of love-for so surely as you do, let the motive be what it may, she will amuse herself with the fancy and endeavor to search out the like, till she eventually loses her own identity in his. Hope Greyson knew well the cords of woman's heart, and what string to touch to produce the effect desired; and without looking at consequences, she heartily wished in the benevolence of her soul, that her friend might admire and even love the stranger, and be beloved in turn. Had she expatiated on his merits alone, it had had no lasting effect on her friend's feelings, and she had quietly and contentedly passed the evening by her own fireside, heedless of the gay crowd at Mrs. D.'s; but when she was told she would there meet her counterpart in the person of the southern lawyer, Horace Baker, an uncontrollable curiosity and anxiety possessed her to meet him, even there; and after a few words more, her friend had obtained her passive consent to be present on the occasion. (To be continued.) Original. THE INDIANS. Suggested by seeing a fragment of the Penobscot tribe making baskets on the banks of the Merrimack. BY REV. L. PORTER. YE feeble remnant of a noble race, Encamp'd for gain within this lonely place, Say, where are those who once with bow and spear, |