'ONE more last word' to '_Mein Herr of Albany_,' to whom we alluded in our last number. We admit the justice of your satire; but with deference, it strikes us that it does not require a cimeter to cut down a gnat. HOOD somewhere mentions an Irishman who apologized to the keeper of a menagerie for insulting his elephant by a rude assault upon his most prominent feature. He couldn't resist, he said, the only chance he had ever had to pull a nose that he could take hold of with both hands! Our correspondent has a kindred excuse, certainly, in _one_ sense, but not in another. 'Fleas are not lobsters,' nor are asses elephants. * * * A VERY charming story, friend 'G.' of Illinois; simple, well-told, and _not too long_--the bane of kindred performances. Love-stories should _end_ once in a while, by way of novelty. How many novelists have elaborated chapter after chapter, to depict the true-hearted constancy which is better described in these four lines: 'I LO'E nae a laddie but ane, He lo'es nae a lassie but me; He's willing to make me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be.' 'T.'S manuscript is _wretched_. The words are strung together like a bunch of onions. Some of the conglomerated syllables reminded us of a sign in London, mentioned by HOOK, whereby a plain manufacturer of Roman cement was turned into a manufacturer of _Romancement_; as if he were anxious to solicit business from the prolific fashionable novelists of the time. * * * WE do _not_ accept '_The Signs of the Times_.' The writer looks through a pair of very dark spectacles, we should say. Going upon the assumption that every man is a rascal until he _proves_ himself an honest man, would be a course as unjust to a community as to an individual. Our correspondent seems to think that 'the world is in a state of bankruptcy; that it owes the world more than the world can pay, and ought to go into chancery and be sold!' The best-laid plans of _honest_ men, our censor should remember, often fail. The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong, as many a delving, toiling 'two-footed worker' can bear witness: 'DAME FORTUNE is a fickle gipsy, And always blind, and often tipsy; Sometimes for years and years together She'll bless you with the sunniest weather, Bestowing honor, pudding, pence, You can't imagine why, or whence; Then in a moment. Presto, pass! Your hopes are withered like the grass.'