MR. PUNCHINELLO: You have not, I believe, informed your readers, one of
whom I have the honor to be, as to whether you have yet united yourself
to any Designing Female. As this is a matter peculiarly interesting to
many of your readers, all of whom, I have not the least doubt, are
interested in your welfare, I would advise some statement on your part,
respecting it.
I trust, my dear sir, that, if you are as yet free, you will take the
well-intended advice of a sufferer, and steer entirely clear of the
shoals and quicksands peculiar to the life of a married man, by never
embarking in the matrimonial ship.
Do not misunderstand me. I lived happily, very happily, with my sainted
BELINDA--it must be confessed that she had a striking partiality for
sardines, which caused considerable of a decrease in the profits of my
wholesale and retail grocery establishment. I cherish no resentment on
that account, but, as you probably well know, one of the discomforts of
matrimonial existence is children.
Sir, I have a daughter, who is considered passably good-looking by
certain appreciative individuals. Since the unfortunate demise of my
lamented wife, the profits of the mercantile establishment of which I am
proprietor have largely increased, and as REBECCA is my only child,
there is a considerable prospect of her bringing to the man who espouses
her, a comfortable dowry, and probably a share in my business.
I keep no man-servant, and after my daughter retires--generally at the
witching hour of two in the morning,--I am obliged to hobble down
stairs, extinguish the lights, cover the fire, lock up the house, and
ascertain whether it is perfectly fire and burglar-proof for the time
being.
Were this, sir, the only annoyance to which I am subjected, my wrath
would probably expend itself in a little growling, but hardly have I
reposed myself upon my couch, ere my ear catches an infernal tooting and
twanging and whispering, and a broken-winded German band, engaged by an
admirer of my REBECCA, strikes up some outrageous _pot pourri_, or
something of that sort, and sleep, disgusted, flees my pillow.
Last night--or rather this morning--they came again. Their discordant
symphonies roused me to desperation. I seized a bucket of slops, and;
opening the window, dashed the contents in the direction of the music;
the full force of the deluge striking a fat, froggy-looking little
Dutchman, who was puffing and blowing at a bassoon infinitely larger
than himself. He was just launching out into a prodigious strain, but it
expired while yet in the bloom of youth. He remained for a short time in
the famous posture of the Colossus of Rhodes, vainly endeavoring to
shake off the cigar-stumps and other little _et ceteras_ which were
clinging to him like cerements, uttering the while unintelligible oaths.
Then he struck for his _domus et placens uxor_ at as rapid a rate as his
little dumpy legs could carry him.
If they come to-night--if they dare to come--I will give them a dose
which they will remember.
My dear sir, what can I do to rid myself of these annoyances? The girl
has been to boarding-school, and so can't be sent there again. She has
no friends or relations whom it would be advisable to put her off upon.
Assist me then, in this, the hour of my tribulation, and you, my dear
Mr. PUNCHINELLO, will merit the lasting gratitude of an