NANCY GALE.

THE Sweetest singer in our village choir, for several years, was Nancy Gale. I will not say the sweetest maiden. There were so many

good and pretty ones there, it would have been difficult to give a preference. There was but one beauty among us,-Emily Ware. She was the most beautiful in her native village, and not the less distinguished when transferred to the great city, where fair ones congregate, and where fashion lends its all potent aid to render ugliness passable, homeliness interesting, and loveliness still lovelier. But she died very early. In the pride of her beauty, and the gladness of her young heart, she went down suddenly to her lonely grave, and broken hearts lament for her still.

But Nancy Gale was no beauty, although in gazing on her face, you would never recollect that she was not perfectly handsome, and you would admire her quite as much as if she were so.

When her countenance was lighted up by feeling, then she was, to all intents, a belle-she fascinated all who saw her.

It is true that persons who have those light gray eyes, dark red locks, and varying complexions, do not look very interesting at all times. Their faces are often pale and inexpressive; but draw them into conversation, awaken their enthusiasm, and you will see the bright glow deepening on their cheeks, and the light of soul beaming from their eyes, and you will feel that it is the irradiating spirit which gives the most captivating beauty. It was so with Nancy Gale. Her loveliness was more to be coveted than the most faultless of unspeaking charms.

She was a perfect sylph in all her movements, although she could not waltz after the modern fashion, and much doubt I, if she could have done herself honor in a cotillon-no matter; in our little dances at noon and eve, upon the school-house green, she had no rival. And it was to the sweet modulations of her voice, that we timed our steps in the rustic country dance. We would not have exchanged it for the best handorgan which was ever ground.

Nancy was a nice girl at home; his very best girl," as her father often affirmed, "whether to do things in the house, or out of the house, or be ready to sing before company, or go to meeting in season, or any thing else." A commendation from a kind father is always gratifying to a good child; particularly was it so to Deacon Gale's favorite, as she had half a score of sisters-smart, dashing, black-eyed girls they were, and each of them good enough, it was thought.

Little Nancy was so unlike them all, that people said she must have dropped among them, from a rose-bush in the moon.

In church, they sung counter or tenor, but her voice was the sweetest "on the air;" and Col. Titcomb, the head-singer, often declared he would rather part with any ten of the female voices than with her's. It was so clear, sweet and bird-like, you might distinguish. it among fifty common ones.

We had plenty of rosy girls in our village, but only five or six beaux among them.

Our town was a small one, and there was nothing for a brisk, stirring lad to busy himself about; therefore they were obliged to "emigrate,"

either to the city or the westward, with the exception of three or four who owned large farms, and employed themselves in the management of them, one who taught the "centre-school," one who kept the store, and one young law student.

Two of our beaux, the best of the young farmers, were the sincere admirers of Nancy Gale.

James Kendall was the most sensible, intelligent and amiable; but he was homely, very homely, almost too homely for such a lovely girl. The contrast was painfully striking. Tom Dunn was exceedingly handsome, otherwise he

"Without some label round his neck
Was like one pea among a peck;"

quite well enough, but altogether common-place.

He attended Nancy with the greatest assiduity, at singing-meetings, parties, sleigh-rides, and on all occasions when the young people were concerned, completely distancing his rival, and bearing away the sweet flower in triumph.

What a proud couple they were! the envy, I dare say, of half the singing-school.

Every thing passed on quite smoothly until Tom's great aunt, Madam Dunn, came down from Vermont, bringing with her a cousin, Miss Angelina Bolton, a great heiress, and indeed a great girl of seventeen. She was certainly the tallest and one of the stoutest women I ever beheld. She was considered very handsome, uncommonly so, but beau

ty, on so large a scale," I find it extremely difficult to admire." In the distance," she might have been perfectly charming. Miss Bolton was an only and indulged child, exceedingly attached to her own way, and no one at any time ventured to contradict her, without afterwards finding occasion for sincere and bitter repentance. However, as aunt Lydia says, it is wrong to censure the absent, as they cannot defend themselves.

Aunt Dunn was in great vexation, and so was Miss Angelina, when they found their handsome cousin in love with the cottage girl. They alternately flattered and teazed him, until they converted him to the belief that "it was the silliest thing in the world that he should marry a little, puny, slender girl, with green eyes and red hair"-" the horridest things in the world," as Miss Angelina herself averred, (her own being jet black)" and most desirable that he should choose a tall, elegant lady, who had a fortune of her own."

Being fully converted to this faith, he consented to relinquish his early friend, and devote himself to his gay cousin, his aunt having convinced his parents that it was best and most expedient always that people should marry early in life.

There was to be a ball on the first of January, a new year's ball. Nancy Gale had never attended a ball without Tom Dunn; and although he did not now invite her to accompany him, she prepared her neatest dress, and declined all invitations, until the day of the ball, when she reluctantly consented to go with her brother, who assured her, though she believed not a word of it, that Tom Dunn would certainly wait on his dashing cousin, whom he was to marry shortly.

Nancy accompanied her sisters to Freedom Hall, on the long anticipated evening.

How lovely she was that a white rose in her hair.

night in her simple muslin frock with only There was a feverish glow on her cheek, and her eyes sparkled with the unnatural brilliancy of excited feeling. "Now keep up your spirits, Nancy," whispered her elder sister, "and when Tom comes in with his great angel, look as if you did n't care." "I wont think so hardly of him yet," said Nancy, with a deep sigh.

The rural belles and beaux were all assembled in the gaily decorated hall. On so great an occasion as this, (we had but one ball every year) our young people usually returned from the city, or whithersoever they were scattered, unless it were beyond the boundaries of our own state, to join in the rustic festival.

Suddenly, the hall doors were thrown open for the entrance of the first manager, who appeared in a new and unusually stylish suit, leading the redoubted Miss Angelina, in a flame-colored crape, her hair ornamented with scarlet flowers, and her magnificently ample person glittering with ill-assorted jewelry, wherever it might be hung.

On the appearance of this splendid pageant, poor Nancy's fortitude entirely deserted her. The light faded from her eyes and the glow forsook her cheeks. "You shall not faint away, Nancy," cried her sister Patty, hastily catching her arm, giving it at the same time, such a pinch as would, under pleasanter circumstances, have extorted a shriek or a groan, but which, at this trying moment, only served to prevent her swooning. "If you faint away now, he 'll think you're dying for him; look up, I say," added she, with another pinch, and Nancy looked up, indeed, but with a colorless cheek, and an eye which saw only vacancy. By and by, however, with the aid of a few pepper-mints, she so far recovered as to be able to join in the dance, although it was with a sick heart.

Many a tall and graceful youth that night bowed down, vainly bowed down, to Nancy Gale. She heeded not their compliments. She felt no gratitude for their courtesies. The deep hectic was again on her cheek, and the unearthly light in her eye.

Tom Dunn was observed to cast many a sorrowful glance at his forsaken love; but his grief could not have lasted long, for he soon after married his stately cousin, and they, perhaps, live as happily as wealth can enable them to.

Nancy Gale never seemed to be quite herself again. She sang in our choir as sweetly as ever and far more plaintively. I have listened to her until I burst into tears and sobbed involuntarily, not audibly, however, for it was in church, and many curious eyes would have been turned upon me if a single ear had caught the report of my sympathy. Nancy still went among the young people as formerly, but she seemed altogether listless and inanimate, rarely entering with spirit into any of our schemes for amusement. She was never so witty and brilliant as before.

After some months, Nancy's good father became dangerously ill. His illness continued a long time, until all his family were quite wearied and exhausted with watching him. James Kendall attended him with the affection of a son; and Nancy, who had forgotten her own trouble in her anxiety for her father, could not but feel deeply grateful for his kindness, and in her thankfulness, she quite forgot how homely 30

VOL. III.

he was. She had now frequent opportunities for observing his noble, generous temper, and plain good sense.

He did not, meanwhile, annoy her with looks of tenderness and words of flattery. James Kendall was politic. He waited until the tide of her affection for another, had ebbed, and until she began to feel a friendly regard for himself, (compounded, it is true, principally of esteem and gratitude,) and then he offered her his hand, and either to please her friends or herself, she accepted him. I really do not think she has ever regretted it. He is a very good man, and highly respected in our village. EVERALLIN.

BLUE-DEVILED RETROSPECTION.

WHAT hath my life been, but a vale of tears,
Where smiles are false, and Sorrow only, true ?
Where every flower, that decks the fleeting years,
Gives but a varying shade to one black hue?
And even now, on my young Life's best bloom,
Are cast the lengthened shadows of the tomb.

The joys of earth! Oh, name them not, for I
Have seen, and tasted every cup of bliss;
Yet every glance of Love beamed but to die,
And each soft voice, was but a serpent's hiss ;
And all, except Despair, that I have known,
Lives in the memory of deceit, alone.

The hours of youthful hope, and youthful love,
Those mocking meteors of life's early day;
Are gone forever, as a swift-winged dove,
Silently passing, vanishing away;

And like the feathered voyager of air,

They left no impress of their being there.

Months press on months, and days encumber days,

Years follow years, the same unmeaning round;

We wander sadly in a gloomy maze,

Whose knowledge all have sought, though none have found;

And as they deeper search its hidden sense,

Still deeper sink they in its ignorance.

We live in darkness, and in darkness die,
The same black cloud still hanging in the air,
Forever shutting out the bright, pure sky,
And veiling all the glories burning there;
Yet all that binds us from that heavenly land,
Is but the deed of our own free right-hand.

It is not strange that I have ceased to love,
The world, that since my birth, has hated me;
Mocked me with promises, it could not prove,
False as the bubbles of its own tossed sea;
Where I have only fled from every shock,
To sit alone, upon a cold, bare rock.

Yes, I am now alone, for in my wrath,
I dashed to Earth, the cup of human bliss;
And though Despair encircles still my path,
I'll drink no pleasure from a fount like this;
Where, for each drop of honey it can show,
A thousand scorpions watch their prey, below.

The past is dark; but is the future bright

With hopes that strengthen, when Wo bows me down?
Comes there not through the storm, some flash of light,
To blast Despair, and break his iron crown?

Ah! no, the clouds that poured on me their wrath,
Darker and darker gather round my path.

I have no eye of faith to look above,
No unseen angel wipes my falling tears,

No opening heaven calls me, with smiles of Love,
To cast aside my weary load of years;
In my own strength alone, I go my way,
-To bear my crushing burdens, as I may.

But now, 't is almost o'er; the long, long day
Of anguish, and the night of bitter tears,
Are passing from me, rapidly, away,

To moulder in the grave of vanished years;
Life's feverish pleasure, and Love's hectic bloom,
With me, shall slumber in the quiet tomb.

1 will lie down rejoicing, and to me
The worm shall be most welcome; I have seen
Earth's beauty fading; and on Life's bright sea,
Where morning broke so lovely, and serene,
The tempests blacken, restless lightnings burn,
The bright sun vanish, never to return.

And in the grave, there is no breaking heart,
No bitter tears in silent sorrow shed;

No weary spirit, longing to depart,
And rest in solitude its aching head;
Repentance, and Remorse are buried there,
With all the writhing serpents of Despair.

Who would not yearn for such a peaceful home?
Who would not die when Life is misery?
Who would not break the chain of dust, to roam
Through heavenly gardens, glorious and free?
There is no comfort in this aching clay,
To recompense a year's, an hour's delay.

I once had friends, but they are lost, and dead,

Or callous with the world's deep selfishness;
Love breathed my name, I turned, and he had fled,
And mocking Grief sat on the throne of bliss;
And she I loved, as I alone can love-

A serpent in the feathers of a dove.

Give me the poison-cup, give me the sword,

Life should not linger when all joy hath fled;
Listen unto my last, my dying word,

This night my soul shall slumber with the dead-
Tom! rake the coals into a glowing heap,
Wheel round the sofa, I will go to sleep.

FRANCIS FREDERICK OGILVIE