He is just one of those who rough it along, get a crop though there are plenty of weeds in it; have the miller complaining that their wheat is not winnowed very clean, and the butcher that their sheep died but badly; yet, that get along, pay their rent, lay something up, and by mere dint of a hard face, a hard hand, and a hard conscience, do as well and better than scores.

Nancy's father farms his two hundred acres, and yet there's a slovenly look about his premises; and Nancy has grown up pretty much as she pleased. As a girl, she romped and climbed, and played with the lads of the village. She swung on gates, and rode on donkies. When ten or twelve years old, she would ride bareback, and astride, with a horse to water, or to the blacksmith's shop. She thrashed the dogs, fetched in the eggs, suckled the calves, and then mounted on the wall of the garden, with her long chesnut hair hanging wild on her shoulders, and a raw carrot in her hand, which she was ready either to devour or to throw at any urchin that came in sight.

Such was Miss Nancy Farley in those days, but her only appellations then were Nan and Nance. Nance Farley was the true name of the wild and fearless creature. But Nance was sent for by an aunt to a distance; she was away five years; she was at length almost forgotten, and only remembered when it was necessary to call any girl as "wild as Nan Farley:" when lo! she made her appearance again, and great was the wonder. Could this be the gipsyish, unkempt, and graceless Nance Farley? This bright and buxom young lady in the black hat, and blue riding-habit? This fine young creature, with a shape like a queen, and eyes like diamonds? Yes, sure enough it was her-now Miss Nancy Farley indeed.

Miss Nancy's aunt had determined that she should have what is called "a bringing up." She had sent her to a boarding-school; and whatever were Miss Nancy's accomplishments, it was clear enough that she was one of the very handsomest women that ever set foot in the parish. The store of health and vigour that she had laid up in her Tom-boy days, might be seen in her elastic step, and cheek-fresh as the cheek of morning itself. She was something above the middle size, of a beautiful figure, and a liveliness of motion that turned all eyes upon her. Her features were extremely fine; and her face had a mixture of life, archness, freedom, and fun, in it, that was especially attractive, and especially dangerous to look upon. Her eyes were of half-a-dozen different colours, if half-a-dozen different people might be believed; but, in truth, they were of some dark colour that was neither black nor brown, nor grey, nor hazle;

but one thing was certain, they were most speaking, and laughing, and beautiful eyes, and those long flying locks were now, by some gracious metamorphosis, converted into a head of hair that was of the richest auburn, and was full enough of a sunny light to dazzle a troop of beholders.

Miss Nancy had enough of the old leaven in her to distinguish her from the general run of ladies, with their staid and quiet demeanour. She was altogether a dashing woman. She rode a beautiful light chesnut mare, with a switch tail, and her brother Ben, who was now grown up, with the ambition of cutting a figure as a gay blade of a farmer, was generally her cavalier. She hunted, and cleared gates and ditches to universal amazement. Everybody was asking, "Who is that handsome girl, that rides like an Arab?” Miss Nancy danced, and played, and sung; she had a wit as ready as her looks were sweet, and all the hearts of the young farmers round were giddy with surprise and delight. Miss Nancy was not of a temper to hide herself in the shade, or to shun admiration. She was at the race, at the fair, at the ball; and everywhere she had about her a crowd of admirers, that were ready to eat one another with envy and jealousy. The young squire cast his eyes upon her, and lost no time in commencing a warm flirtation; but Nancy knew that she could not catch him for a husband,—he was too much a man of the world for that, and she took care that he should not catch her. Yet she was politic enough to parade his attentions whenever he came in the way, and might be seen at the market-inn window, or occasionally on the road from church, laughing and chatting with him in a fashion that stirred the very gall of her humbler wooers. The gay young gentleman farmer, the rich miller, the smart grazier, the popular lawyer of the county town, were all ready to fight for her; nay, the old steward, who was nearly as rich as the squire himself, and was old enough to be her father, offered to make a settlement upon her, that filled her father with delight. "Take him, Nance lass, take him," he cried, "thy beauty has made thy fortune, that it has. Never a woman of our family were ever worth a hundredth part o' that money."

But Miss Nancy had a younger and handsomer husband in view; and Miss Nancy is Miss Nancy no longer: she has married the colonel of a marching regiment, and is at this moment the most dashing and admired lady of a great military circle, and the garrison town of

THE APOTHECARY.

BY PAUL PRENDERGAST.

STUDENT of character! behold our original!-the connecting link between the professor of physic, and the dealer and chapman-the ambiguous animal, the bat, the duck-billed platypus, the Siren Lacertina, the icthyosaurus-the Apothecary or medical man. Like the last-mentioned creature, he may become, in future times, one of an extinct species; but his resemblance will go down to posterity on the opposite page. Observe the results of a successful practice of pharmacy, and of the knowledge of human nature, in the exuberantly pendent cheeks, the amplitude of the abdominal curve, and the loose, easy suit of sober black, which, combining comfort with respectability, outvies the propriety of costume exhibited by the most affluent undertaker.

The Apothecary is a vendor of medicines, under the pretence of treating disease. Our countrymen are remarkable for an amiable weakness; a certain tenderness of pocket, which makes them endeavour to get everything at as low a rate as possible, not excepting medical attendance. For this reason, the majority of them intrust their health to the guardianship of the Apothecary, without entertaining the illiberal question whether, when he charges nothing for his advice, he does not rate it at its real value. Neither do they suspect that to pay a practitioner by taking his pills, draughts, and boluses, is no great temptation to him to abridge the complaints under which they labour; but with that common sense which, equally with generosity, so greatly marks their dispositions, they estimate the severity of a malady by its duration, and remunerate their attendant accordingly. They have also much faith in the virtues of drugs, and this usually in proportion to the nauseousness of their flavour, so that if the assistance which they derive from the Apothecary may with justice be called "cheap and nasty," the truth of the latter epithet enhances, rather than otherwise, the merit of the former. Such, too, is the discordance, both of opinion and practice, amongst the cultivators of the healing art, that it has probably been

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