DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I am not mad, but to you, alone, I confide the secret
of my sanity. Nevertheless I thirst for blood.

Feelings over which I have no control, render it imperative that I
should shoot somebody. Precisely who may be the victim of this
insatiable desire, fate alone can decide. I propose some day next week
to commence a general fusilade from the windows of my office upon the
passers-by. My sole security in this affair, is a maiden aunt now in the
Lunatic Asylum. I look with confidence to her malady as my triumphant
vindication. My object in writing to you is to ask whether, in your
opinion, the fact is sufficient to _guarantee_ a verdict of "Not
Guilty," in case I am prosecuted for murder, or whether an unscrupulous
jury could sacrifice me to the unsettled condition of the popular mind
on the subject of justifiable insanity. Yours sanguinarily,

--RABIES.

PUNCHINELLO expresses his opinion in reference to the above letter with
great reluctance. He fears that if he gives his advice according to his
real convictions, he may be overrun with similar applications, and if he
gives advice that he doesn't feel, he will condemn "RABIES" to the
mortification of the gallows. He therefore takes a middle course, and
observes that the possession of an aunt in the Lunatic Asylum is
certainly strong presumptive evidence that her nephew is no better than
she is. Here in New-York, it would be difficult to upset such evidence,
but elsewhere the result might be different. "RABIES" gives no clue to
his whereabouts. PUNCHINELLO, therefore, presumes that he does not
contemplate murder here. Very well, then, it would be unadvisable to
kill any one, until at least two respectable physicians could testify
that either before or after the act they had called upon "RABIES," fully