sempstresses (no small accomplishment, let me | but energetic language, that the fate which had tell you, my fair reader!)—and to crown all, destined him to a peaceful obscurity had deLucy was one of the most systematic of house- prived philosophy of a noble votary. Henri's keepers. There was no noise, no bustle in the excitable and enthusiastic temper afforded a house; everything seemed to be done as if by striking contrast to the calm and grave tone of magic. Rooms were "put to rights"-the the old man's mind, and, as it frequently hapsemi-weekly baking was accomplished-the pens in such cases, they were mutually pleased daily churning was done; even the weekly with each other. Mr. Weston liked Henri's washing-that most dreaded of all days to frankness and warm-heartedness, while Henri slovenly housewives-was quietly finished, with- was delighted with the cordial kindness, the out anybody being made acquainted with the strong good sense, and the deep insight into precise time when all these tasks were in pro- human nature which he found in the father of gress; and when Lucy took her seat at the mid- his friend. day dinner, attired in a neatly fitting dress, with her beautiful fitting hair smoothly folded over her placid brow, no one would have dreamed that she had been the principal actor in the busy scenes of their rustic life, and that the profusion of healthful viands which loaded the well arranged table owed their rich gusto to her culinary skill.

Are you shocked, friend reader, that a heroine should know how to cook a dinner? I know it is contrary to all established rules, for the suffering damosels of the Minerva press never even condescended to eat or drink, through three thick volumes of distressful adventure. They may sometimes "snatch a morsel of refreshment," or sip some wine from a richly chased antique goblet," but to eat a vulgar dinner would be destructive of all heroic and sentimental ideas. The heroines of those times were superior to the common wants of humanity; their immaculate white dresses never became soiled, even if they were plunged in the most loathsome of dungeons; their tresses never hung in other than rich ringlets, even if they were just snatched from a watery grave; and their appetites never led them to commit such an outrage upon delicate sensibilitity as to eat a really good dinner. To those who are disposed to be pained by the unrefined habits of my friend Lucy, I can only say in the words of Boccaccio—“If you do not like my story, turn to another page." I am painting life as it is, and, believe me, actual life, with all its chances and changes, presents many a picture more deserving of the artist's pencil than anything which exists only in the dream-land of fancy.

Henri de Valance was charmed with both father and daughter. Mr. Weston was a man of remarkably prepossessing appearance; upwards of six feet high, finely proportioned, and of almost Herculean strength. He presented a fine study for a painter, as he sat in the porch at eventide, his vest open to the breeze, and his long gray locks floating upon his shoulders. His broad full brow, his deep blue eyes, his embrowned but ruddy complexion, seemed to form the very perfection of healthful and vigorous age. Mr. Weston had rarely quitted his native village; but he was a diligent reader of good books, a close observer of men and manners, and above all, a profound and accurate thinker. His remarks were distinguished for their originality and acuteness; and one could not help believing, while listening to his simple |

In the meantime, Frank Weston seemed to enjoy everything. He was very glad to be once more at home; he was pleased at the respect with which his father had inspired Henri, because he had arranged a little plot against his friend's prejudices, which he hoped to bring to a successful issue; and he liked the respectful courtesy, which characterised Henri's manners to his sweet sister Lucy. But Frank was not as clearsighted as he imagined: he did not read all the feelings which were concealed beneath the polite demeanour of his friend. Henri was fast becoming a captive, not of "bow and spear," but of rustic beauty and gentleness. He had mingled much in gay society, and he had seen much of its hollowness; he had been courted by manoeuvring mammas, and flattered by mercenary daughters, but he distrusted them, and shrunk from all their advances. It was not until he saw Lucy, and understood her simple and feminine character, that he felt himself enthralled by love of woman. Yet there were some points, on which he was not yet satisfied. He had not discovered Mr. Weston's occupation, for he went out daily before Henri had finished his morning slumbers, and only returned at evening; while it happened, somehow or other, that Henri never met him in his village walks, nor never heard him allude to his business. It was not until more than a month had elapsed, that Frank thought proper to enlighten him.

"I am going to take you a new route to-day, Henri," said Frank, as they proceeded to walk, one morning.

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Have you any new beauty to show me?" asked Henri.

"No; but I have an old prejudice to batter down, and I am seeking the proper field for its destruction. Tell me, Henri-what do you think of my father?"

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In truth, Frank, you have just reason to be proud of him; he is worthy to have been a Roman, in the palmy days of the republic, when the name was a prouder title than that of king."

"And you would be proud of such a father, even if he were of ignoble birth, Henri?" asked Frank, with a smile.

Henri laughed as he replied-" I think I may venture to say Yes; but why do you always argue from impossibilities?"

"Will you forgive me the harmless plot which I have contrived to show you the fallacy of your opinion?" said Frank. "Look there," he continued, as a sudden turn in the lane brought

them in full view of the blazing fires of a blacksmith's forge.

"What will your friends-what will the world say, Henri, if you return to your native land with the daughter of a village mechanic as your wife? Will they not accuse me of a mercenary design thus introducing you into my family?" "Give yourself no concern on that score, Frank: I am an orphan, rich and unconnected; surely I have a right to choose for myself.” "Does Lucy love you, Henri?"

As Henri turned his eyes in the direction to which his friend pointed, he was thunderstruck. Towering by a full head above his swart work-in men, and wielding an immense piece of iron which would have foiled a man of ordinary strength, stood Mr. Weston. His face was blackened with smoke, his muscular arms, bared to the shoulder, were grimed with the dust of his forge, and his leathern apron, shrivelled and scorched by long use, left no doubt as to the nature of his employment.

"No, no, Frank, you were right-the man would ennoble any station," exclaimed Henri, as he ran forward to grasp the hand of Mr.

Weston.

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"Softly, softly, my boy," said Mr. Weston, as Henri sprang to his side, or you may chance to scorch your broad-cloth." And the old man, who had early become a participator in Frank's scheme, made the welkin ring with his merry laugh.

I

"I wish I dared answer in the affirmative.

have never spoken to her on the subject, but my looks and manners must have informed her of my feelings; in truth she has become so strange and cold, within the last few weeks, that I scarcely can flatter myself with hope.”

'She understands it all. She is a noble girl! Tell your tale of love, Henri, if you will, and she will answer—”

What?"

"As I have done. I know her character, my friend; she may love, but she will not become

your wife."

"Nous verrons-the love which could overcome my prejudices, ought to conquer her scruples."

"The knowledge of those prejudices, Henri, has aroused her scruples; she is as proud as yourself, and the fact of there being a single distinction between you, which could lead you to think you were stooping to an alliance with her, would be sufficient to make her reject your suit. Try, if you wish; I dare say she could love you with all the warmth of her affectionate nature; but she will not yield her consent to your proposals."

Henri returned home a little disappointed, and not very well pleased at this attack upon his strongest prejudices. He could not but acknowledge that, had he known Frank's parentage, he never would have become his guest; and yet he felt no disposition to depart from the hospitable roof. As he took his seat at the evening meal, and contemplated the sweet face of Lucy Weston, he could not help regretting that she should be so misplaced in life. "I have seen many a lady of fortune and fashion, who would give all her wealth for such a face and form," thought he; "what a pity that she should be only a blacksmith's daughter!" Frank was right, though Henri's lurking vaLucy, who had also been a party to Frank's nity, as well as his love, made him hope a better innocent design upon what he considered his result. Lucy honestly confessed that in other friend's only weakness, narrowly scrutinized circumstances he would have been the object of his conduct, in order to discover if there were her choice; but that from the moment when not some change in demeanour consequent upon she discovered the noble qualities of his chathe recent discovery of their humble origin.racter, she had carefully guarded herself from But Henri possessed too noble a nature to be the weakness of loving him. guilty of such meanness, and whatever he thought, he allowed no trace of his feelings to be perceived in his conduct.

Months passed away, and the time drew near for Frank's return to New Orleans.

"Do you mean to accompany me, Henri?" said he, one day, to his friend, "or shall you spend the winter amid the gaieties of New York?" "That does not depend on my will," answered Henri, quickly; "I mean to be decided by circumstances."

"What do you mean, Henri ?"

"Is it possible you do not guess my meaning, Frank? Have you not seen that I love your sister, and that her decision must govern my future actions?"

"My sister!" exclaimed Frank. "I trust you are only jesting, Henri; and yet it is a subject on which I can scarce bear a jest."

"I am serious, as I hope for heaven.” "Then I can only say, I shall deeply regret your having entered this humble abode." "Frank, is this your friendship?"

"I am no believer in blind fatality regarding the affections, Mr. De Valance," said she; " I saw that you possessed all the attributes which are most attractive to women; but I knew you be longed to a different sphere of life;-mind, I do not say higher one, though the world thinks I might have loved you dearly, but I would not, and, even now my heart rebels; but my decision is made."

it so.

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Lucy, dearest Lucy, with such feelings pleading for me in your bosom, why will you reject my suit? I have wealth unbounded; your life shall pass like a fairy tale.”

"When you offered me a true heart, Mr. De Valance, you offered me a stronger temptation than all the wealth of your Indian Isles. Nohad you been one of us, an heir to republican feelings, and perhaps republican poverty, I could have freely given you the heart and hand which you seek. But you have prejudices which are a part of your heritage, and you would blush to have it known to the world that the father of your bride was an humble artisan. I am too

proud, lowly as I seem, to be looked down
upon."
Suppose those prejudices were overcome,

Lucy.'

as Frank discreetly led his father from the room.

"A hurricane has ruined the value of my West Indian possessions, Lucy, and a general revolt of the slaves on the island has driven me from my native land. I have returned to your peaceful country to earn my bread by the sweat of my brow. I offered myself to your brother as a clerk, but he would not listen to my proposal, and I am now a partner in his commercial house."

"I cannot suppose an impossibility; they exist in all their early vigour; but in this instance you are willing to waive them. If I were to become your wife, you would be constantly on the watch, lest the secret of my birth should escape. You would be perpetually mortified by my ignorance of fashionable etiquette; every Do you still love me, Henri?" said Lucy, question respecting my early life would be tor- while the blood still mantled her cheek and ture to you to bear a smutch from the black-brow with crimson. smith's fingers. No, sir; for your sake, more than my own, I dare not reciprocate your affection."

In vain Henri pleaded with all the eloquence of an impassioned lover. Lucy was resolute, even though her heart strongly asserted its claim to be heard. And thus they parted, Henri to lament over his unrequited love, and Lucy to cherish in the secret recesses of her heart a tender recollection of one whose proffered affection she had rejected.

Five years had passed away-five years, with all its chances and changes, ere Frank once more revisited his father and sister. He was rapidly winning his way to fortune; but his father, like the man in La Fontaine's pretty fable, had found her sitting at his door. One of these speculative schemes, which make the few rich and the many poor, had brought into great demand the land lying on the borders of the river which divided the village where he resided. Taking advantage of a mania which he did not share, Mr. Weston sold his farm at a price far beyond his wildest ideas of its value, and aban

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God knows how fervently," responded Henri; "for your sake I have become blind to the beauty of woman, and deaf to the accents of tenderness; but not now would I sue for the love which you once denied; you refused to share my wealth, and there must now be none to suffer my poverty."

"Am I not rich enough for both, Henri?" murmured Lucy, as she laid her hands in his. "The love which has survived so long a probation, is beyond all price: will you accept as a free-will offering the hand you once sought in vain, or will you cease to value that which in so unmaidenly a manner is bestowed unsought?"

Lucy became the wife of her early lover; and when in her latter life his renovated fortune enabled him to display his beautiful wife in the salons of European elegance, the admiration which her graceful manners and self-possessed dignity obtained left him no cause to regret that he had found true nobility in the Blacksmith's Daughter.

doning his forge, sought an abode in the popu- OH! WHAT A WORLD IT MIGHT BE!

lous city, where extensive libraries and the society of cultivated men afforded him the advantages he had so long sighed to enjoy. Frank found the old man occupying a neat and comfortable mansion, while Lucy was now quite a city belle, and really looked prettier than ever. Lucy was now three-and-twenty, and every one predicted that she would be an old maid, for she seemed to have formed some ideal scheme of happiness which could scarcely be realized in this cold world. But Frank had not returned alone; Henri de Valance was again his companion.

"I had great difficulty in persuading him to come," said Frank, as Lucy, blushing and trembling, endeavoured to welcome with calmness her brother's friend.

"Lucy," whispered Henri, "I came to you when all the luxuries of wealth were mine, and I determined never to appear before you again until I could convince you that those fatal prejudices, which had been the barrier to my happiness, were entirely overcome, But fate has ordered it otherwise. I come not now as a lover, Lucy; no-my heart is still full of your image, but I am now a beggar; labour and sorrow are henceforth my portion."

"What do you mean, Henri?" asked Lucy,

BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ.,

Author of "The Mind," &c.

Oh! what a world it might be,

If hearts were always kind;

If, Friendship, none would slight thee,
And Fortune prove less blind!
With Love's own voice to guide us-
Unchangingly and fond-

With all we wish beside us,

And not a care beyond.
Oh! what a world it might be ;
More blest than that of yore:
Come, learn, and 'twill requite ye,
To love each other more.

Oh! what a world of beauty
A loving heart might plan—
If man but did his duty,

And helped his brother man!
Then angel-guests would brighten
The threshold with their wings,
And Love divine enlighten

The old, forgotten springs.
Oh! what a world of beauty
A loving heart might plan,
If man but did his duty
And helped his brother man!

Flashed bright on his vision to stay his career; Amid the garden's tranquil shades what memories With the soft flowing river, the green waving wild

She must quit this earthly Eden when the morrow's And he thought of himself—when his young heart

INTEGRITY.

(A Story of the Reign of Elizabeth.)

BY CAMILLA TOULMIN.

PART II.

(Concluded from Page 96.)

to crown her affliction, she discovered that his suit was favoured by royalty that Queen Elizabeth herself had deigned to intercede with the Duke of Norfolk in Sir Ralph's favour. The subject, who knew that he had secretly forfeited his word of honour, was little likely, in the presence of the sovereign he had wronged, to have the moral courage to defend the rights of a friendless girl; for guilt is the prolific parent of cowardice. Entangled himself in a web of wiles, he looked, like a despairing man, for any clue to aid his extrication, not dreaming that it might be turned to thicken the woof. Consequently, his one thought being to please the Queen, he concealed the fact of his ward's engagement to Walter Wrangham, and lost the little portion of respect she retained for him, by urging her to wed Sir Ralph! Even Elizabeth herself deigned to address the refractory Agnes.

"Come hither, maiden," said the Queen, on one of those days when Agnes was carried to court, much against her will; "come hither, and tell us your objections to the noble knight we have thought proper to propose to you for a husband."

Weeks had passed away since Walter Wrangham left England; but only one letter had been received from him by Agnes Howard. Indeed, in those days, when a post-office establishment was a future reality probably undreamed of by the most visionary of schemers, the difficulty and rareness of communication between absent friends must have been much greater than we can easily imagine. Certain it is that Walter had found but one opportunity of writing; and though that was by a special messenger, either from want of confidence in his faith, or some other cause, he had refrained from mentioning any political events, but had contented himself with apprising her of his health and safety. Agnes, however, was well satisfied with such intelligence, for every line seemed to her a token of constancy and affection, and as such seemed to strengthen her against the trials of absence. Meanwhile she had fulfilled her intention of warning the Duke of Norfolk of Hickford's treachery; but, after all, she had only suspicions to offer no proof. Either her cousin was wilfully blind, or really infatuated with his favourite, for he listened to his ward with impatience, declaring one moment that he would stake his own honour on Hickford's veracity, and averring the next, that it was of trifling importance whether the paper were destroyed or not. Now that she had no Walter to consult, what could she do but grieve? And the grief which arises in an affectionate heart, when at the command of reason and principle it ceases to honour the being to whom it is bound by ties of gratitude and duty, is among the saddest emotions of which human nature is susceptible. In addition to this cause of unhappiness, another circumstance weighed down her spirits. Not only was the insolent familiarity of the secretary" But I have heard," exclaimed the Queen, a severe trial to her feelings, but the attentions interrupting her, "that your stubbornness arises of Sir Ralph Morton, who was now a frequent from some girlish fancy-some foolish betrothal visitor, were becoming daily more unendurable. to a churlish knave I wot of, who deigned not Of that poor vanity which is for ever on the once to pay his respects at court during his look out for conquests Agnes Howard had none; recent stay in London." but it would have been affectation to have appeared insensible to behaviour which was as marked as it was to her distasteful. The most chilling and repulsive manner on her part seemed wilfully unheeded by the knight; and,

"If your Majesty demands the truth," replied Agnes, "I must answer that I cannot love him!"

"For ourself," returned Elizabeth, "we profess not to understand this weakness, which your players and ballad-mongers call love. If we have ever listened to a suitor, it has been one whose alliance seemed likely to benefit the state; and in like manner we would have each maiden, according to her station, consider the prudence of her choice-consult the wishes of her parent or guardian."

"Gracious Queen!

"I grieve that Walter Wrangham should have fallen under your Majesty's displeasure, for it would be affectation to deny that he is meant; but, gracious Queen, I am affianced to him, and know not how to do him the foul wrong of

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