my moustache will
stay jet-black, although I sometimes wax the ends of it with soap, and
walk on the sunny side of Broadway; my teeth are perfect, and I never
need a dentist; and my hands are shameful for a man,--so all my
old-maid-aunts and bachelor-uncles say.

My affections have been trifled with several times, "because," as they
said, "when they had drawn me to the proposing point, I was too handsome
to be good for anything as a husband--I did very well for a beau."
Goodness! is it only ugly men that can marry? I want to marry and settle
down; for I am so slighted in society that I look with envy upon homely
or mis-shapen men.

But who will have me? I put it to you, my friend, if it isn't a hard
case. I want an intelligent and agreeable wife, and one that comes of a
respectable family. I don't think I am asking too much, but it seems
fate has determined such a one I can never have! I have either to remain
single, or take one that is "ignorant and vulgar." That, of course,
would be as much remarked upon as my appearance, so it cannot be thought
of.

I want to escape observation and criticism. I think strongly of
emigrating to the Rocky Mountains, donning a rough garb, and digging for
gold, in the hope of getting round-shouldered; or hiring myself out as a
wood-chopper, in anticipation of a chip flying up and taking off part of
my obnoxious nose.

If there were no women around, I might escape notice out there. But if
one happened to come along, I should be obliged to leave, for her eyes
would ferret out my unfortunate peculiarities, and all my wounds would
be opened afresh. Sometimes I think there is no spot on the globe where
I would be welcomed; and I feel inclined to commit some desperate deed,
that I may be arrested and confined out of the sight of man and
woman-kind, until I am aged and bent enough to be presentable.

* * * * *

OUR PORTFOLIO.

Passing down Chatham street the other day, PUNCHINELLO stopped in front
of a window where hung a highly-colored engraving of an Austrian
sovereign engaged in the Easter ceremony of washing the feet of twelve
old men and women.

An Irishman at our side, who had been puzzling some time to comprehend
the problem thus submitted to him, finally broke out:

"An' may I ax ye, misther, to be koind enough to exshplain phat in the
wurruld that owld roosther's doin'?" pointing to the figure of the
kneeling monarch.

"He is washing the fee