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But this footman node his manners,

Seem'd a gen’’man born and bred, And from kooks, and ’ouse, and nus-maids

Allvays turned avay his 'ed.

Mister Bunks he 'ad a doorter,

Not pertick’lar 'ansum she, Not pertick'lar hugly neether,

Wich most people did agree.

She wos werry short in stature,

But a plumpish kind o' lass; 'Air as black as


black’moor's, Eyes as bright as shinen brass.

One day Tomas Brown the footman,

W'en old Bunks vos out o' site, As he 'elped her from the karridge,

Felt his arm squedge werry tite.

Vos it, vos it haxidental ?

Vos it 'cos she feared a fall ?
No! the side

look she


him Plainly told him—not at all.

How his buzzum flitter fluttered,

How his ’art went pit-a-pat,
Yes, she luv'd him, and no gammon,

Squedge and look 'ad taught him that.

W'en he carried in the dinner

She vos oppersite the door; And another look she guv him,

Jest as she had dun afore.

That there look it made him tremble

Vith hexitement, and he kood Skarsely 'and for them the plates round,

As they served the preshus food.

W'en the seventh corse vas horderd,

Then agen he cawt her eye,
And he stumbled, and he tumbled,

Sprawlin' vith a damsun pie.

Missus Bunks, she did upbrade him :

Mister Bunks, him warnin' guv; But Miss Bunks, she did regard him

On'y vith a look o' lov.

The next arternoon, while guv'ner

Vos a nappin'—0, so sveteTomas Brown vos in the parlor,

'Neelin' at Miss Bunks's feet!

The next mornin' Miss vos missen,

Tomas Brown vos missen too,
And a letter left by she, sed,

That toogether they 'ad flew.
That T. Brown's most genteel manner

’Ad made her young buzzum smart; And his figger, karves, and viskers,

Kvite kumpletely vun her 'art.

At the noose her mother fainted,

And her father svore a noath, That he'd search ontil he found 'em,

And then ’niherlate 'em both.

But vilst Missus vos in histrikes,

Bein' to her chamber karried, Tomas Brown to her fair doorter

Vos by lysense bein' married. 'Ardly 'ad the moon commenced

Wot's so werry full o' hunney, W'en one mornin' at the brekfust,

“ Brown,” ses she, “ you look so funny."

“Grashus 'evins ! vears your viskers ?
Brown's hand felt


his cheek
Vear, O tell me,



?" Brown, he not a vurd kood speak.

Fatal herror! He 'ad taken

His false viskers orf to die,
And his 'orsehare karves forgotten,

Wich in his bed-room did lie.

'Twas too much—she koodent bare it,

All vos false vitch she'd admired :
But his karves so kut her sole up,

Past all heelin'-she hexpir'd !


Ladies, listen to my moral :

If your footman you hadmires,
'Kos he's got a nobby figger,

And he to your hand haspires.
W'en the day you've fixt for runnin',

Recollect Miss Bunks's fate !
Pinch his karves and pull his viskers,

find 'em false too late.
(By permission of the Author.)



John LOTHROP MOTLEY. [John Lothrop Motley, the author of one of the most important historical works of modern times, “The Rise of the Dutch Republic,” is an American by birth, though of English extraction on both sides, his parents being able to trace their descent from the "Pilgrim Fathers.” He was born in Mas., U.S.A., April 15th, 1814. Having graduated at Harvard University, he was appointed Secretary to the United States Legation at St. Petersburg. Returning to the States, he occupied himself with literary pursuits, contributing largely to the North American Review. In 1851 he visited Europe, and established himself at Dresden, with a view to writing the history of that great struggle by which the Netherlands threw off the Spanish yoke. This task he has accomplished in a manner that places him among the first of modern historians. It appeared in its complete form, in 2 vols., 1860, and has already been translated into the French (by Guizot), Dutch, and German languages.]

Upon the 18th of August, 1566, the great and timehonoured ceremony of the Ommegang occurred. Accordingly, the great procession, the principal object of which was to conduct around the city a colossal image of the Virgin, issued as usual from the door of the cathedral. The image, bedizened and effulgent, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of her adorers, followed by the guilds, the military associations, the rhetoricians, the religious sodalities, all in glittering costume, bearing blazoned banners, and marching triumphantly through the streets with sound of trumpet and beat of drum. The pageant, solemn but noisy, was exactly such a show as was most fitted at that moment to irritate Protestant minds, and to lead to mischief. No violent explosion of ill-feeling, however, took place. The procession was followed by a rabble rout of scoffers, but they confined themselves to words and insulting gestures. The image was incessantly saluted, as she was borne along the streets, with sneers, imprecations, and the rudest ribaldry. “Mayken! Mayken! (little Mary) your hour is come. 'Tis your last promenade. The city is tired of

Such were the greetings which the representative of the Holy Virgin received from men grown weary of antiquated mummery. A few missiles were thrown occasionally at the procession as it passed through the city, but no damage was inflicted. When the image was at last restored to its place, and the pageant brought to a somewhat hurried


conclusion, there seemed cause for congratulation that no tumult bad occurred.

On the following morning there was a large crowd collected in front of the cathedral. The image, instead of standing in the centre of the church, where, upon all former occasions, it had been accustomed during the week succeeding the ceremony to receive congratulatory visits, was now ignominiously placed behind an iron railing within the choir. It had been deemed imprudent to leave it exposed to sacrilegious hands. The precaution excited derision. Many vagabonds of dangerous appearance, many idle apprentices and ragged urchins were hanging for a long time about the imprisoned image, peeping through the railings, and indulging in many a brutal jest. “Mayken! Mayken!” they cried, "art thou terrified so soon ? Hast Hlown to thy nest so early? Dost think thyself beyond the reach of mischief ? ' Beware, Mayken! thine hour is fast approaching !” Others thronged around the balustrade, shouting, “ Vivent les Gueulx !"and hoarsely commanding the image to join in the beggars' cry. Then, leaving the spot, the mob roamed idly about the magnificent church, sneering at the idols, execrating the gorgeous ornaments, scoffing at crucifix and altar.

Presently one of the rabble, a ragged fellow of mechanical aspect, in a tattered black doublet and an old straw hat, ascended the pulpit. Opening a sacred volume which he found there, he began to deliver an extemporaneous and coarse caricature of a monkish

Some of the bystanders applauded, some cried shame, some shouted, “Long live the beggars !” some threw sticks and rubbish at the mountebank, some caught him by the legs, and strove to pull him from his place. He, on the other hand, manfully maintained his ground, hurling back every missile, struggling with his assailants, and continuing the while to pour forth a malignant and obscene discourse. sailor, warm in the Catholic faith, and impulsive as mariners are prone to be, ascended the pulpit from


At last a young

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