* * * * *

From the Onion Grove Phoenix.

A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental tour, and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly letters from abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday.  We learn from him, that, having enjoyed the distinguished privilege, while in Germany, of an introduction to the celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to present that eminent man with a copy of the ‘Biglow Papers.’  The next morning he received the following note, which he has kindly furnished us for publication.  We prefer to print it verbatim, knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors into which the lllustrious writer has fallen, through ignorance of our language.

’HIGH-WORTHY MISTER!

’I shall also now especially happy starve, because I have more or less a work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which have I so deaf an interest ever taken full-worthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched to be upset.

’Pardon my in the English-speech un-practice!

‘Von Humbug.’

He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on ‘Cosmetics,’ to be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from our friend by the English custom-house officers, probably through a petty national spite.  No doubt, it has by this time found its way into the British Museum.  We trust this outrage will be exposed in all our American papers.  We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the State Department.  Our numerous readers will share in the pleasure we experience at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus encouragingly patted on the head by this venerable and world-renowned German.  We love to see these reciprocations of good-feeling between the different branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race.

[The following genuine ‘notice’ having met my eye, I gladly insert a portion of it here, the more especially as it contains one of Mr. Biglow’s poems not elsewhere printed.—­H.W.]

From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss.

...  But, while we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the presence of talents which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many.  As a proof that he is competent to the production of other kinds of poetry, we copy for our readers a short fragment of a pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned us by a friend.  The title of it is ‘The Courtin’.’

Zekle crep’ up, quite unbeknown,
  An’ peeked in thru the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
  ’ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin’ the chimbly crooknecks hung,
  An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
  Fetched back frum Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out
  Towards the pootiest, bless her! 
An’ leetle fires danced all about
  The chlny on the dresser.