other people? What has made them so sour, so bitter? Is it
disappointment or regret? Poor old souls! In spite of their money,
they never seem happy. They are to be pitied, I think, though they do
try to make themselves as disagreeable as possible. They are so
independent, too, they will not be interfered with. They know
everything better than any one else. One old lady I used to know
declined altogether to have a lawyer, insisting on making her will
herself. It was found afterwards, fortunately not too late, that she
had appointed herself her own executor!

Then there is the maternal grandmother; to whom, of course, the host
is openly rude. This wears you out more than anything, for you have
always to be ready to smooth over and soften every sentence that is
said. And she never helps you at all, either. If she can possibly put
her foot in it, and unconsciously irritate her son-in-law more than
ever, she does it.

Then the uncle who spends his life in making the most villainous puns
you ever heard. Not a remark, not a word in any assembly, which this
witty specimen of humanity does not at once garnish with a pun of the
poorest description. It generally has to be repeated twice, too, for
it is never noticed the first time. The poor pun, indeed, has a most
melancholy existence, for it is greeted with no other applause than
that emanating from the author of its being, and stirs up a torrent of
abuse from the maiden aunt, who thinks the laughter is directed at
her.

Why were punsters ever invented, or family parties either? They are
our thorns in the flesh, I suppose, and so must be endured.