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?