The preface is not English, nor yet Scotch or Irish.

It must have been written by Lady Morgan.

In the body of the volume, there is not _one_ new nor curious article, unless it be Lady Hood's "Tiger Hunt." In your Mechanics there is a miserable want of information, and in your Statistics there is a sad superabundance of American hyperbole and dulness mixed together, like the mud and gunpowder which, when a boy, I used to mix together to make a fizz.

Your Poetry is so bad that I look upon it as your personal kindness to me that you did not put my lines under that head.

Your criticism on Painting begins by calling West's very pale horse "an extraordinary effort of human _genius_." Your criticism on Sculpture begins by applauding _beforehand_ Mr.Wyatt's _impudent_ cenotaph.