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.

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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 feet of the ladies and gentlemen,” mildly put in PUNCHINELLO.

“Bedad,” says PAT, “don’t I see that for meself; but phatis he doin’ it for?”

“It is a ceremony of the Catholic Church,” PUNCHINELLO explained, “typical of the washing of the feet of the Twelve Apostles.”

PAT eyed PUNCHINELLO askance with an expression which plainly enough said that he did not believe we had been reared to tell the truth strictly upon all occasions, and then added: 

“Bad cess to your manners, then, don’t I know betther nor that; for haven’t I been in the church these forty years, and sorrow a sowl ever washed me feet!”

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