ople, and especially of politicians and potationers. He stands round
to talk, to hear, and especially to drink. The power of the 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
at