ground he lost when he fell asleep during the
captain's story. Indeed, Master Simon thinks his case is completely
desperate, her ladyship having determined that he is quite destitute of
sentiment.

The season has been equally unpropitious to the love-lorn Phoebe
Wilkins. I fear the reader will be impatient at having this humble amour
so often alluded to; but I confess I am apt to take a great interest in
the love troubles of simple girls of this class. Few people have an idea
of the world of care and perplexity that these poor damsels have in
managing the affairs of the heart.

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 a 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.

[Illustration: Love Documents]

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, 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 churchyard 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