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.
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