There are Drs. Chapin and Bethune, whose well-to-do appearance in this world quite neutralizes their Sunday exhortations to “set one’s affections on a better.” There’s Greeley--but why describe the town pump? he has been handle-d enough to keep _him_ from Rust-ing. There’s that Epicurean Rip-lie, critic of the “New York Tribune;” if I have spelt his name wrong, it was because I was thinking of the unmitigated fibs he has told in his book reviews! There’s Colonel Fuller, editor of the “New York Evening Mirror,” handsome, witty, and saucy. There’s Mr. Young, editor of “The Albion,” who looks too much like a gentlemen to have abused, in so wholesale a manner, the lady writers of America. There’s Blank-Blank, Esq., editor of the “New York Blank,” who always reminds me of what the Scotch parson said to his wife, whom he noticed asleep in church: “Jennie! Jennie! you have no beauty, as all the congregation may see, and if you have no grace, I have made but a poor bargain of it!” There’s Richard Storrs Willis, or, Storrs Richard Willis, or, Willis Richard Storrs (it is a way that family have to keep changing their names), editor of the “Musical World,” not a bad paper either. Richard has a fine profile, a trim, tight figure, always unexceptionably arrayed, and has a gravity of mien most edifying to one who has eat bread and molasses out of the same plate with him. Behind that beard coming down street in that night-gown overcoat, is Mr. Charles A. Dana, of the “New York Tribune,” who is ready to say, “Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,” when he shall have made the “New York Tribune” like unto the “London Times;” Charles should remember that the motto of the “London Times” is “Fair Play”--not the _appearance_ of fair play. And here is Philander Doesticks, of the “New York Picayune,” and “New York Tribune,” a delightful specimen of healthy manhood, in a day whose boys at sixteen look as though they had exhausted life; may his wit continue as keen as his eyes, his heart as fresh as his complexion, and his fancy as luxuriant as his beard. There’s Bayard Taylor, “the Oriental Bayard.” Now I don’t suppose Bayard is to blame for being a _pretty_ man, or for looking so nice and bandbox-y. But if some public benefactor _would_ tumble his hair and shirt collar, and tie his cravat in a loose sailor knot, and if Bayard himself _would_ open that little three-cent piece mouth of his a l-i-t-t-l-e wider when he lectures, it would take a load off my mind! I write this, in full view of his interest in the Almighty “Tribune,” and also set up before him certain “Leaves” for a target, by way of reprisal. And there is George P. Morris--General George Morris--and Briga-_dear_ General at that, with an eye like a star; and more vitality in him than there is in half the young men who might call him father. May Time, who has dealt so gently with “The Woodman,” long delay to cut him down. * * * * *