[MAY 3, 1862.
A LITTLE TOO BAD.
Distinguished Foreigner.—'i Ah, ha ! ze dam boys insult me !. zay ask me if I make
one of Sheneral Fremont's aides-de-camp !" .......
"IT SMELLS OF THE SHOP."
The American edition of Mrs. Browning's
" Last Poems" is introduced to the be night-
ed reader by Mr. Theodore Tilton in a n essay
more remarkable for length than depth. In
the course of some very flaccid verbal criticism, he drags in Mr. Henry Ward Beecher
and Mr. Wendell Phillips, to sustain him
in his views of Mrs. Browning's genius.
We are gravely informed that Mr. Beecher
admires a certain passage in " Aurora Leigh,"
(how condescending in Henry !) and that Mr.
Wendell Phillips considers her letters
" above praise." Mr. Tilton himself says
" they make Cowper's poor." However fine
Mrs Browning's epistolary efforts may be,
we fail to see how they can injure the merits
of Cowper's* As to Mr. Beecher pronouncing an opinion on Browning—that is simply
ridiculous. He has a hard, coarse mind, we
are speaking of him as a writer, with a certain red morocco and burnt-cork sublimity
pleasing to elderly females and children. To
quote him in c onnection with poetry like
Mrs. Browning's is to place a Cincinnatian
among pearls. T he use of Mr. Phillips was
not so unfortunat e, for he is really a gentleman of cultured taste, though the public is
not often fav r ed with a specimen of it.
Mr. Tilton's opinion (though Mr* Tilton
resides at " No. 27 Oxford street, Brooklyn,"
as he informs us at the close of his article,)
is neither here nor there. We would much
rather hear what the " Four-Cent-Man' * has
to say on the subject, or George Christy,
or the perpetual''gentleman recently from
Kichmond," or even the " What-is-It?"
A metre used by a good many "poets,"
The Gas Meter.
iwhy the War would be shorter. Now then, please shut the door,
and shut it behind you. The fewer old Keformer-y white beards I
see around here, the better I shall like the place.''
He took his hat pretty quick, and didn't stay much longer. He
hasn't been back again. lam comfortable
The Post has been very bitter on the conduct of the War,
Bryant used to write pretty good sonnets, before he grew too old.
I don't want to hurt him, but I want him to stop saying dirty
things about McClellan "
....A large and highly-explosive projectile has entered my,
window, and now lies sizzling away on the carpet. Judging by
appearances, the fuse is getting short, and the thing will burst
soon. Some confusion will probably result, and I deem it safe to
be absent. Farewell.
An Ignis Fatuus.
Gen. Mitchel writes from Alabama that he has abandoned the
idea of ever coming nearer to the enemy than long cannon range.
He says : " This is the third State through which I have hunted
him without success."
It is a matter of surprise that an astronomer of the experience
of Gen. Mitchel should be so long, beguiled,* by the gaseous exhalations of the Southern marshes. He should know that not
every luminous meteor is a Shooting Star, nor every erratic body
with a train a Comet, nor every one that makes a Revolution a
Planet. Perhaps the test of a glass would convince him that the
object of pursuit was not a heavenly body. It is to be hoped that
the Will-o'the-Wisp will not lead him into the bog.
Bad News for the Negromancers.
By late mails from the West Coast of Africa, we are informed
that a native tribe called the Bonny men had got the worst of it in
a battle with another tribe. This will be depressing intelligence
for Messrs. Wendell Phillips, Greeley, and others who look upon
all the negroes as Bonny men.
OUR BOOK REVIEW.
Ballads of the War; by George Whitfield Hewes. New York:
Carleton, 130 Grand Street.
An elegantly dressed little volume, the material part of which
is literally the crime de la crime of cream paper. We have been
unable to give more than a passing glance at the poetry, and
cannot, therefore, profess to render a candid statement with regard
to its merits. One of the poems, entitled "Ode to the Wailing
Dogs," appears to be very spirited, but we confess to disappointment upon turning to it, because, from its title, we supposed that
it must have been a phillipic addressed to the editors of certain
New York daily journals, which it would be needless to particularize. The poem is inspired by Canine Dogs, however.
Prison Life in the Tobacco Warehouse at Richmond: By Lieut. W. C.
Harris. Philadelphia : George W. Childs.
These tobacco experiences of Lieut. Harris, who fell into the
hands of the Confederates at Ball's Bluff, make a pretty good
strong article for the rebels to put in their pipes and smoke. In
his description of "Our Jailers," he introduces us to several
charming samples of Secesh " officers of the day," some of whom
might with mere zoological propriety be classed as " birds of the
night," in consideration of their Foul language and Owlish propensities. The book is an interesting one, and although manufactured out of tobacco does not require any puffing.
Beauties of De Quincey. Boston : Ticknor & Fields.
A selection from the writings of the celebrated " Opium Eater,"
with an excellent portrait prefixed. How sadly, on looking over
this elegant volume, arises to our mind the reflection that the
vulgar tobacco quid possesses not the spell imparted to the mind
by opium—otherwise what a splendid and prolific literature would
If we Were disposed to follow the barbarous example set us by
the rebels, couldn't we make some very neat " dollar jewelry" out
of the Knights of the Golden Circle ?
Published by Louis H. Stephen?, for the Proprietors, at 116 Nassau street, N Y.