Did you ever hear of my friend BOOTSBY? "No." That's rather queer. I
see--you've been out of town. BOOTSBY is a man of standing--of decided
standing, I may say. He stands, in fact, a great deal. The heavy
standing round he does is enormous when the limited capacity of a single
mortal is taken in view. BOOTSBY stands round among every class of
people, 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
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
mortification, and one dime to my cost,) and so is not likely to discern
the source of the fun. I merely informed Mr. DROWSE that the editor was
very tall, very handsome, with very black skin and rosy hair, (at which
he opened his eyes with astonishment, and asked if I meant so; at which
I said, "Yes, I guess so,") and that he laughed out of his nose, eyes,
head, and hands, as well as his mouth. DROWSE wants to see the editor
very much. He has seen men with black skins and hearts, (for he used to
know lots of politicians;) but wants to put his vision on some "rosy
hair"--and when he does, no doubt his gaze will be fixed. It is healthy
sometimes to have the gaze fixed; and often, like sauce-pans and
sermons, it has to be fixed. When Mr. DROWSE calls at 83, please show
him in Parlor 6 with the Brussels, fresco-work, and lace curtains.
April is a model month. So serene, steady, clear, and balmy. Nothing
but blue sky, gentle zephyrs, kissing breezes, genial suns by day and
sparkling stars by night. PUNCHINELLO no doubt likes sparkling
stars--stars of magnitude--stars that show what they are. PUNCHINELLO
perhaps goes to NIBLO'S, and not only sees plenty stars, but plenty of
them. But of April. It is called "fickle;" but that's a slander. "Every
thing by turns and nothing long"--that is a libel on which a suit could
be hung. The same vile falsehood is cruelly uttered of some women, when
every body knows, or should know, that these same women are nothing of
the sort. Who ever knew a fickle woman?
Where in history is there record of such an Impossibility? Fickle--that
implies a change of mind. What woman ever changed her mind any more than
her hands? Nonsense, avaunt!--banished be slander! April is _not_
fickle--woman is _not_ fickle. As one is evenly beautiful, divinely
serene, bewitchingly winning, so is the other sunny, cerulean, balmy,
paradisiacal. April for ever--after that the rest of the calendar.
Does PUNCHINELLO believe in the Woman Movement? TODD does. He believes
woman should move as much as man; and he regards her movement in such
numbers to the great West as full of hope (and husbands) for the sex.
Mrs. TODD has not as yet been irresistibly seized by the movement; but
if TIMOTHY knows himself, he longs for the day when the seizer may come.
Although TODD--who is the writer of this epistle--says it, who perhaps
shouldn't, lest the shaft of egotism be hurled mercilessly at him, he
does unhesitatingly say that to aid this movement he would make the
greatest of sacrifices. He is willing to sacrifice his wife and other
female relations upon the sacred altar of the movement, and contribute
liberally to the expense thereof. He is quite willing they should
vote--early and often, if need be; but he wishes to see the movement go
westward like the Star of Empire--westward _viâ_ cheerful Chicago. TODD
trusts PUNCHINELLO will espouse this movement; for if it does, it--the
movement, no less than PUNCHINELLO--will go straight onward and upward;
but not by the route known as the Spout.
Mucilage is a good thing. It is now extensively used in Church, State,
and Society. We use it largely at the Veneerfront Avenue Church, of
which Rev. Dr. ALEXANDER PLASTERWELL is pastor. Of course, Mr.
PUNCHINELLO, you know that distinguished church, and have no doubt often
listened to the distinguished Dr. PLASTERWELL. He is a kind man, has a
high forehead, a Roman (Burgundy) nose, and a sweet, soft head--I should
say heart. He has--great and good man--the largest faith in mucilage. He
often makes it a text, and he sticks to it, he does--does Dr.
PLASTERWELL. Nothing like mucilage, PUNCHINELLO. It is the hope of the
human race, and the salvation of woman. It is the Philosopher's Stone in
solution; the essence and link which connects and cements all that is
great, good, and lovely, in the past, present, and future. At least,
such is the humble opinion of