"Mr. GRABB, pay—pray, why don't it pay?" "Why, Mr. TODD, why, sir—because they don't pay. D'ye see it, Mr.
TODD?" Mr. TODD did see it. "Music hath charms," and all that fine thing; but it can't evidently charm
a landlord, as at present constructed, into the faith that the notes of a
fiddle, a clarionet, a bugle, or a trombone are negotiable at the corner
grocery, or in Wall and State streets. Going from bars to banks is a distance. But when I go anywhere, I like to
have it distant. The enjoyment is invariably greater. It saves my tailors,
hatters, restaurant keepers, and some others, the expense and trouble of
too much correspondence. Such isn't good for the brain—especially where it
is small, and easily overtaxed. "Distance lends enchantment to the view."
May I ask, is or was distance in the brokerage line that it lent
enchantment to the view? and what might possibly have been the conditions
on which the loan was made? The man who leaves his country for its (and
his) good has an especial fondness for the distant. The further off the
nearer he feels like home. Australia is an El Dorado—the antipodes a
celestial region. The intervening sea is one over which the most
penetrating of argus-eyed policemen or sheriffs, can not see. Australia—is
it not the land of gold? Who that has poached a pile does not gravitate
there, as the needle to the pole? Of course, I do not mean the
sewing-machine needle. Some people think California greater. I don't. The greatness of a country
does not in all cases turn on its great rogues. New-York and Washington may
not assent; but, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, isn't it so? These may give it character,
but of the sort nobody is anxious to carry in his pocket as a wedge by
which to enter good, genteel society. "Character," says a leading mind, "is
every thing." Quite true; and if of the right sort, will take a man
speedily to the noose. Biddy can get the most stunning of characters at the
first corner for half a week's wages or—stealings. As a general thing, I
don't believe in characters, and for the reason that a large portion of my
acquaintances—I go into society a great deal—do not appear to have a bit
of the article. They say it is unnecessary; that "society" don't demand it;
and that to have it is like travelling with baggage which is mere rubbish.
My elastic but excellent friend JENKINS says the only sense that can be put
on society market to practical advantage is the uncommon scamp. Common
sense, so-called, is a drug. Old Mr. MATTEROFACT—who heeds him or his?
He's always pushed into the corner, or crowded to the back seat. Sensible
people, the world being judges, are a mistake. They were born and educated
that way. They don't definitely belong anywhere. Trespassers, interlopers,
impertinents-why should they be tolerated? Doesn't CONGRESSMAN SURFACE, of
the Forty-fourth District, rule the roast? Isn't Mrs. SIMPLE the pattern
Woman of the Swell-Front avenue? Who so charming as Widow MILKWATER? Common
sense might have done once, but that was when the world was younger and yet
more old-fashioned. It isn't available now. Rust never shines. Out upon it,
or let it get out. The best place, I would suggest, is out of town—and in
the woods. Strangers always make people feel uncomfortable. Need I hint just now that it is Lent? Lent is suggestive. It suggests some
of my best books. Books are the best of friends. They are honest. They say
what they feel, and feel what they say. Like other blessings, too, they
often take to wings and fly; and it proves to be a fly that never returns.
A good book is a joy forever. The only sad thing about it is, that it keeps
lent all the time—not so much piously as profanely. Am I my brother's
keeper? No. But my brother is quite too often a keeper of mine—of mine own
choice authors. The best of friends are, of course—like the best of
steaks—rather rare. Like honest men they count only one in ten
thousand—an extremely small per cent in a commercial point of view.
Books—what should we do without them? What may we not do with them, if it
were not for the season of Lent? I am something of a politician. My friends do not think I am. But they are
prejudiced—friends always are. I go, on principle, for the greatest good
of the greatest number. You know that humble, initial figure. I confess to
a love of loaves and fishes. A nice French loaf, and a delicious salmon in
the suburbs of green peas—who wouldn't be a politician about that time? I
have run for office—and at least half a dozen times. But, bless you, I
never caught it. Some big, burly, brainless cur of a fellow was always
ahead of me. Very queer in politics—the less the head the more one gets
ahead. A head is little or nothing; but face, cheek, assurance—such is
much; is every thing. What are politics but audacity? what professions of
public good but pretences for private pap? I like politics. Politics,
however, don't seem to like me. I call myself a patriot; but, strangely
enough, or otherwise, I have never been called to fill a patriot's
office—say for $5000 and upward per year. As for a patriot's grave—it's a
fine thing, no doubt, but I have never regarded it as my "mission" to fill
that. It affects one's activity and usefulness, and cuts off going to
FECHTER BOOTH, Frou-Frou, the Twelve Temptations, and opera.
I declined all such honors during the war, and on principle; the principal
thing being that I had no taste for lead and iron. Iron, I know, is good
for the blood; but taken in bullets, it lessens instead of increases the
circulation. These metals are quite too much for a delicate stomach. Shells
as a drink I like; shells as bombs I do not like. They are
unhealthy. As a beverage I can surround it several times a day, and bless
the climate that grows it, and the cask that makes it. But of shells, as of
company, I prefer to make my choice. I, too, have my choice of office. I am
strong and can draw well. My forte is drawing salary. That may not
be the highest form of art, but it is unquestionably artful. Moreover, it
is the one mankind, if it could, would cultivate with the most assiduity.
It is the plaster every man would put to his back. As a politician I believe in myself first, my pocket second, my country
third. This platform is strong and satisfactory—at least to your friend, TIMOTHY TODD.

ALBANY COCK-ROBINS.

Who killed the Charter?
I, says the Herald,
With wit à la JERROLD.
As Assemblymen I ferruled,
And I killed the Charter. Who killed the Charter?
I, says the World,
With my blunders hurled
And black flag unfurled,
And I killed the Charter. Who killed the Charter?
I, says the Sun,
With my sensation fun,
Or my Sol-ferino gun,
And I killed the Charter. Who killed the Charter?
I, says PUNCHINELLO,
With my wit so mellow,
I was the very fellow
Who killed off the Charter.

THE DWARF DEJECTED.

A pathetic recital for the benefit of you, or me, or any other snail who
may want a tortoise-shell. In what year, or under what king Bezoman, lived he, no matter. Suffice it
to know he still survives. Once he was happy! Once, whene'er the eventide flooded the earth with effulgent glory, and
each little star began to wonder who I was, to the loftiest turret of his
quite commodious castle this dwarf would climb, and muse upon sciology and
the cosmic forces.
"Oh! Life is joy—is peace to me!" would he cry, ever and anon. And ever an anonymous owl would scream, "To whoo? To whoo?" Upon one eventful eve he sat upon his turret. Gazing around, he sprang upon his feet. "What, ho!" he cried, as a glimmer of light shot across the surface of the lake, "What, ho! A light in the ship-house! Tis the red light of danger! I forbode." Glancing around and beneath him, he perceived that the stucco was peeling from his favorite turret. "Here is danger, indeed!" he said; and loudly shouted for his ah! too dilatory servant to bring the ladder by which he ascended and descended his lofty pinnacle. At last the servant came, and he was a new and somewhat weighty waiter youth. "Ah! big lad—!" then said the dwarf. "I am glad, good sir," replied the boy. "I would have the big ladder!" cried his master. "I can't be gladder," said the boy. The dwarf looked pityingly down upon the youth for several moments. "Are you a natural-born fool?" said he.
The boy advanced to the edge of the roof, made a bow, placed one arm at
right angles before him, while the other hung by his side, and thus he sang
his song:
"I've never been to public school,
My vaccination did not take.
Perhaps I will grow up a fool;
But that my heart will never break. I would not win in learning's race,
Nor e'er be rich and lose my looks;
I think that a small-pocked face
Is worse than e'en small pocket-books.
Then, didy fol, la, la, la, la!—"