src="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@11177@11177-h@images@011.png" alt="T" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}img"/>hat it is not PUNCHINELLO'S intention to overlook Wall street, may be absolutely taken at par. To look over Wall street is quite another matter, and P. knows how to do it to a T. Many a time at midnight, from his perch on the tip of the spire of Old Trinity, (a tip-top point from which to look over Wall street—you see the point?) has PUNCHINELLO beheld the ghosts of dead speculations floating hopelessly through the murky air. It could not be said of them that there was "no speculation in those eyes." The ghost of a dead speculation was never so utterly damned, the eyes of a ghost of a dead speculation were never so absolutely dimmed, but that speculation of some kind might be discerned fluttering like a mummy-cloth from the shadowy outline of the former, and gleaming feebly from the gloomy goggles of the latter. Gleam on, poor ghosts! Goggle while you may, and gibber. PUNCHINELLO watches you with interest, (25 per cent.,) as you are weighed down to the very dirt of The Street by the night-fog of Despair, flapping your wings on a very small "margin," as if attempting vainly to "operate for a rise." Go down, poor ghosts; repair to your incandescent place below, for there is no hope for you. As we sit here upon our spire, we can not say to you, Dum spiramus speramus. Alas! no. We would like to do so, of course; but our sense of truth revolts against the enunciation of such a taradiddle.

Soon after daylight has been fully turned on, it is the wont of PUNCHINELLO to descend from his perch on the church, (rhyme,) and roam waywardly and invisibly among the denizens who occupy the dens of The Street. He knows all the ins and outs of the place, and has long been disgustingly familiar with its ups and downs. Gently has he dabbled in stocks, and no modern operator is half so conversant an he is with the juggles of the Stock Exchange. PUNCHINELLO, though as fresh and frisky, in mind and body, as a kid on a June morning, is older than he chooses to let every body know. Bless you all, readers dear! he was by when the Tulip Mania was hatched, (mixed figure,) and it was he who punctured the great South Sea Bubble, and sent it on a burst. Ha! ha! he-e-e!--how he laughs when he recurs to those days of the long, long ago, with their miserable little swindles, no better than farthing candles, (allowable rhyme,) and their puny dodges devised for flagellating LUCIFER round a stump.

Just think of a lot of fellows pretending to play at Tulipmaniacs bolting Bubble-and-squeak, and not a jockey among them all had ever heard of "puts" and "calls." Deuce a one of them know a "corner" from a cockatrice's egg, and if you had mentioned a "scoop" to the most intelligent of them, he'd have sworn that you had been and gone and swallowed a Scandinavian dictionary. (N.B. In this application the nave in Scandinavian might properly be spelt with a k.) Ah! yes, yes: What-d'ye-call him was wide-awake when he remarked to Thingumbob that "the world does move."

How strong the contrast to PUNCHINELLO as he glides, invisible, to and fro among the bulls and bears on 'Change, observing the "modern instances" of their improved manner of doing business, and taking all their devices into the corner of his brightest eye! (The only safe "corner" he knows of on The Street.) How he chuckles as he observes the ways of 'em—sees a bear selling that which he hasn't, and a bull buying that which he doesn't want—all "on a margin" and to "settle regular," of course. Bless you! children of the modern Mammon. Go in and win, or lose if you find it more exciting. Learn to control finances, if you would fain grow to be good men and contribute hereafter good men to the taxable population. Proceed with your virtuous transactions on 'Change. Never mind each other's toes; they who have corns must not care for being cornered. (Meant playfully.) Inflate the market with your heavy purchases. Blow the market, and "corner the shorts." Be a "bear," if you will; and when you play at "bull," remember the frog in the fable, who would be an ox, and went on inflating until he burst.

You bloated stockmonger there, with your hands in your pockets and your eye on the mean chance, what care you how much capital is represented by certificates issued? "That's played out," you say? You know it is, you slimy salamander, and so does PUNCHINELLO. You know that by the use of convertible bonds capital can be increased or diminished ad infinitum. Loan your millions to Erie, to save it from destruction or the Sheriff, (synonymous terms,) and you will derive sweet consolation from the consciousness of your power to add or diminish at will.

Look at the "Great Waterer." When he chose to "snake away" Erie from its friends, and make it tributary to New-York Central, the printing-press was at work—a fact which he did not discover until he had paid out ten millions. Then the foreigners purchased ream after ream of certificates to control Erie, and to-day their stock is declared not worth a row of pins, owing to the piles of money swallowed by the afflictive suits on the stamped certificates.

Observe SNIGGER and SNAGGER, too; mark the goings and comings of these partners in business and iniquity. How regularly they have kept swearing that their business never paid, and yet their dividends always increased when they wished to distribute their stock.

And here is one who—more audacious, far, than King CANUTE of old—would control even the ocean. This man starts a Pacific Mail with a capital of ten millions, increases the amount to twenty millions, and swears it is worth thirty. Then he "puts his foot in it" and shows the knave in his deal, (dealings—jocular,) by selling the stock at thirty-five.

This from PUNCHINELLO, as he looks over The Street—and through it—from his lofty pinnacle. Don't strain your precious eyes and necks in fruitless endeavors to discover him there, since he can make himself invisible at will. But listen, ye men of The Street, with all your ears, (Erie,) and you will hear a solemn chant like unto that of the muezzin from the minaret. 'Tis the voice of PUNCHINELLO wafting sonorously from his tower the instructive moral—

A New Conglomerate Pavement.

It was well said by a saucy Frenchman, "that England had fifty religions but only one sauce." Paraphrasing this loosely, we may say of New-York, that she has a dozen different pavements and deuce a good one. There was the "Russ," on which the horses used to be "let slide," but couldn't trot; the "Belgian," of dubious repute; the "Nicholson," which, from its material, must have been invented by "Nick of the Woods;" the "Mouse-trap," set to catch other things than mice; the "Fiske," a pavement pitched in altogether too high a key to be pleasant; The "Stafford," the "Stow," and several others which it would be painful to enumerate here. Why doesn't the daily press look lively, and devise a better pavement than any of these? There's STONE, of the Journal of Commerce; WOOD, of the News; MARBLE, of the World; and BRICK, of the Democrat. Let them put their heads together and give us a good conglomerate.

A Hopeful Anticipation.

Now that the darkeys are about to take part in national legislation, we shall probably be able to negrotiate a postal treaty with France.

On one Drowned.

He left a large circle, etc.!

SYMPATHY WITH CUBA.

Enthusiastic Sympathizer. "What I say is, we must have our cigars; and therefore, Cuba must be ours."