man in this last matter is wonderful, and the puzzle is, that his standing (and perpendicularity) is not perceptibly affected.  Of course there are times when BOOTSBY’S standing is not so good.  In so slippery a place as Wall Street, it is found to be less certain; while in a crowd on Broadway, waiting for a bus, it cannot be said to maintain a very remarkable firmness.  But as a whole, and as the world goes, BOOTSBY is a man of standing.  In the altitude of six feet ten, he may be called a man of high standing.  He feels proud of the fact.  “Is it not better to be a mountain than a mole?” he often asks in a proudly sneering manner of his neighbor PUGGS, who is about as far up in the world as the top of a yard-stick.  It is very true that size is not quality, and a seven-footer may be no better than a three-footer; but it is observed that a Short Man is rarely any thing else.  His stature is his measure throughout.  My own impression of myself is, that I don’t care to be short; but if the alternative were forced upon me, I should choose that of person rather than of purse.  BOOTSBY does not care much about money, and he carries very little.  Some people are like BOOTSBY, but most people are not.  The ladies, it is true, never, or rarely, want money.  Like newspapers and club-houses, they are self-supporting.  In fact they surround themselves with supporters which stay tightly.  Mrs. TODD is peculiar in her wants pecuniary.  She, good soul, never wants (or keeps) money long, but she doesn’t want it little.  She prefers it like onions, in a large bunch, and strong.  The reason why most women do not want money is because they have no use for it.  They never dress; they never wear jewelry; silks and satins have no charms in their eyes; laces, ribbons, shawls never tempt.  To exist and walk upright in simpleness and quiet is the sum of their desires.  Dear creatures! how is it that they never want?

My neighbor, Mr. DROWSE, desires to know where you get all your funny things for PUNCHINELLO?  He knows they are there, does Mr. DROWSE; for he gets my copy of the penny postman, and he keeps it, too.  It is the only good taste my neighbor has displayed of late years.  I tell Mr. DROWSE that you make your fun.  He further asks, Where?  I tell him in the attic—­up there where they keep the salt.  He desires to know the size of attic.  Of course he has never seen your noble, capacious, alabaster forehead, else he would perceive the source of those scintillations of light and warmth which radiate throughout the universe every Saturday for only ten cents.  He is curious also to know about the salt, and doesn’t comprehend how or where you use it.  He used to use it when a boy in catching birds by putting the briny compound on the tails of the same, and that he used to call “fun alive;” but he don’t see it—­the salt—­about PUNCHINELLO.  I suspect Mr. DROWSE doesn’t see the sellers, (certainly he avoids them when PUNCHINELLO is offered, much to my