Do you know John Jones and his wife? (peculiar name that,--“Jones!”) Well, they are _another_ happy couple. It is enough to make bachelor eyes turn green to see them. Mrs. Jones had been four times a widow, when she married John. She knows the value of husbands. She takes precious good care of John. Before he goes to the office in the morning, she pops her head out the window to see if the weathercock indicates a surtout, spencer, cloak, or Tom and Jerry; this point settled, she follows him to the door, and calls him back to close his thorax button “for fear of quinsy.” Does a shower come up in the forenoon? She sends him clogs, India-rubbers, an extra flannel shirt, and an oilcloth overall, and prepares two quarts of boiling ginger tea to administer on his arrival, to prevent the damp from “striking in.” If he helps himself to a second bit of turkey, she immediately removes it from his plate, and applying a pocket handkerchief to her eyes, asks him “if he has the heart to make her for the fifth time a widow?” You can see, with half an eye, that John must be the happiest dog alive. I’d like to see the miscreant who dares to say he is not! Certainly--matrimony is an invention of----. Well, no matter who invented it. I’m going to try it. Where’s my blue coat with the bright, brass buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don’t offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. “Pardiggle!” Phœbus! what a name for such a rose-bud. I’ll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She’ll _have_ me, of course. She wants a husband--I want a wife: there’s one point already in which we perfectly agree. I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose you can skip the rudiments. Say what you’ve got to say in a fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan if they think you are afraid of them. Do _I_ look as if _I_ were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The Bearded Lady couldn’t hold a candle to them, (though I wonder she don’t to her own.) _Afraid?_ h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so: there--that’ll do: that’s quite an inspiration. Brummel himself couldn’t go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I’m immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit claim. I’ll make her as happy as a little robin. Do you think I’d bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I’d sit after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I’d leave her blessed little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I _look_ like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up street? _No._ Mr. and Mrs.