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A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.

JOHN GEORGE WATTS.

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(Mr. Watts is the author of two small volumes of poetry, Clare, the Good Seeker,” and “Fun, Feeling, and Fancy." As an entirely self-taught man, his productions may be characterized as remarkable ; and he adds another instance to those of Gerald Massey and Edward Capern, that the present race of really working-men are as capable of advancing into the ranks of the literati as, in a past generation, were the Bloomfields and Clare's. Mr. Watts has studied Thackeray's comic vein, in his Punch poetry, to some purpose, as our extract, which is worthy of the great humourist himself, will prove.]

ONCE at Hygate lived a fam'ly,

But for this unknown to fame,
Most respecterbullest people,

Notwithstandin' Bunks by name.

Mr. Wilyam Bunks, Ersquier,

Kep' a footman, Tomas Brown,
Wich the 'ousemaids did admier,

All the way to London town.

Tomas Brown 'ad bushee viskers,

And a kurly ’ed o’ 'air,
And a kipple o' karves hoose eakvals

Coodent be found any vare.

W'en he got behind the karridge,

And he riz upon their vews,
Five feet ten he stood afore 'em,

Five feet nine without his shoes.

blender ousemaids' eyes would glissen

As the karridge took its flight,
And fat kooks wot scarce cood voddle,

Arter it wood take a site,

But this footman node his manners,

Seem'd a gen'l'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 any 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

vay
look she

guv

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' with 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

upon

his cheek-
“Vear, O tell me, vear's your karves run ?"

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'di

MORAL.

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,
Lest
you

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

THE IMAGE-BREAKERS OF THE NETHERLANDS.

1566.

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 à 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 you." 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

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