We talk and write about the tender passion; we give it all the colourings of sentiment and romance, and lay the scene of its influence in high life; but, after all, I doubt whether its sway is not more absolute among females of an humbler sphere.  How often, could we but look into the heart, should we find the sentiment throbbing in all its violence in the bosom of the poor lady’s-maid, rather than in that of the brilliant beauty she is decking out for conquest; whose brain is probably bewildered with beaux, ball-rooms, and wax-light chandeliers.

With these humble beings, love is an honest, engrossing concern.  They have no ideas of settlements, establishments, equipages, and pin-money.  The heart—­the heart, is all-in-all with them, poor things!  There is seldom one of them but has her love cares, and love secrets; her doubts, and hopes, and fears, equal to those of any heroine of romance, and ten times as sincere.  And then, too, there is her secret hoard of love documents;—­the broken sixpence, the gilded brooch, the lock of hair, the unintelligible love scrawl, all treasured up in her box of Sunday finery, for private contemplation.

How many crosses and trials is she exposed to from some lynx-eyed dame, or staid old vestal of a mistress, who keeps a dragon watch over her virtue, and scouts the lover from the door!  But then, how sweet are the little love scenes, snatched at distant intervals of holiday, and fondly dwelt on through many a long day of household labour and confinement!  If in the country, it is the dance at the fair or wake, the interview in the church-yard after service, or the evening stroll in the green lane.  If in town, it is perhaps merely a stolen moment of delicious talk between the bars of the area, fearful every instant of being seen; and then, how lightly will the simple creature carol all day afterwards at her labour!

Poor baggage! after all her crosses and difficulties, when she marries, what is it but to exchange a life of comparative ease and comfort, for one of toil and uncertainty?  Perhaps, too, the lover for whom in the fondness of her nature she has committed herself to fortune’s freaks, turns out a worthless churl, the dissolute, hard-hearted husband of low life; who, taking to the ale-house, leaves her to a cheerless home, to labour, penury, and child-bearing.

When I see poor Phoebe going about with drooping eye, and her head hanging “all o’ one side,” I cannot help calling to mind the pathetic little picture drawn by Desdemona:—­

  My mother had a maid, called Barbara;
  She was in love; and he she loved proved mad,
  And did forsake her; she had a song of willow,
  An old thing ’twas; but it express’d her fortune,
  And she died singing it.

I hope, however, that a better lot is in reserve for Phoebe Wilkins, and that she may yet “rule the roast,” in the ancient empire of the Tibbets!  She is not fit to battle with hard hearts or hard times.  She was, I am told, the pet of her poor mother, who was proud of the beauty of her child, and brought her up more tenderly than a village girl ought to be; and ever since she has been left an orphan, the good ladies at the Hall have completed the softening and spoiling of her.