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.
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