PHCEBE ELLIOT. 387 



ing in his attitude, but difficult to describe, as well 

 as his moving tale. Crabbe alone would have done 

 this, that poet of real life, though not in its most 

 tempting garb. He has indeed been justly stiled 



Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best, 



and will live longest in the hearts of all her true 

 lovers. 



Though I do not possess the poet's power of de- 

 scription, still I delight in the " simple annals of 

 the poor/' and will endeavour to relate the little 

 tale of James Elliot, as I heard it at different 

 times, partly from himself, and partly from others, 

 while I occupied a small fishing cottage in the 

 neighbourhood. 



Elliot had been, for ten years, the happy hus- 

 band of a good and industrious woman, who ma- 

 naged his house and dairy, but who unfortunately 

 died, leaving him an only daughter. Phosbe then 

 became everything to him. She was affectionate, 

 gentle, and obedient; and, as she increased in 

 years, her beauty was very remarkable. She formed 

 the happiness and joy of her father, running to 

 meet him as he returned from his farm in the 

 evening, placing his high-backed oak chair for him 

 by the side of the fire, and arranging the tea cups 

 on the clean round deal table near him. Phoebe 

 was, in truth, a lovely flower, blooming as she did 

 in the rough and uncultivated soil around her. 



