When we're writing to our friends or sweethearts, WE don't fill our letters with nasty stoaries, takin away the carricter of our fellow-servants, as this maid of honor's amusin' moral frend does.

But, in coarse, it's not for us to judge of our betters;--these great people are a supeerur race, and we can't comprehend their ways.
Do you recklect--it's twenty years ago now--how a bewtiffle princess died in givin buth to a poar baby, and how the whole nation of Hengland wep, as though it was one man, over that sweet woman and child, in which were sentered the hopes of every one of us, and of which each was as proud as of his own wife or infnt?
Do you recklect how pore fellows spent their last shillin to buy a black crape for their hats, and clergymen cried in the pulpit, and the whole country through was no better than a great dismal funeral?
Do you recklet, Mr.Yorke, who was the person that we all took on so about?
We called her the Princis Sharlot of Wales; and we valyoud a single drop of her blood more than the whole heartless body of her father.

Well, we looked up to her as a kind of saint or angle, and blest God (such foolish loyal English pipple as we ware in those days) who had sent this sweet lady to rule over us.
But heaven bless you! it was only souperstition.

She was no better than she should be, as it turns out--or at least the Dairy-maid says so.

No better ?--if my daughters or yours was 1/2 so bad, we'd as leaf be dead ourselves, and they hanged.