autiful illustration of his religious feelings.

The curious part of this portion of Mr. Ward's book is, that having
previously informed his countrymen, in every variety of American
phraseology, that the English are composed of every abominable compound
which can exist in human nature, he selects them as his companions, and
courts their friendship to enjoy the pleasure of betraying it. Of
course, if one is to judge by former statements made in the volume,
which are so palpably and ridiculously false, one may reasonably
conclude that truth is equally disregarded here; but it looks to me
rather as if my countrymen had discovered his cloven hoof, as well as
his overweening vanity and pretensions, and, when he got pompously
classical, in his trip through Greece, they amused themselves at his
expense by suggesting that the Acropolis "was a capital place for
lunch;" Parnassus, "a regular sell;" Thermopylae, "great for
water-cresses." Passing on from his companions--one of whom was a fellow
of Oxford, and the other a captain in Her Majesty's service--he becomes
grandly Byronic, and consequently quite frantic at the idea of Mr. A.
Tennyson supplanting him! "Byron and Tennyson!--what an unholy alliance
of names!--what sinful juxtaposition! He who could seriously compare the
insipid effusions of Mr. Tennyson with the mighty genius of Byron, might
commit the sacrilege of likening the tricks of Professor Anderson to the
miracles of Our Saviour."

Having delivered himself of this pious burst, he proceeds to a
castigation of the English for their observations on the nasal twang of
his countrymen, and also for their criticism upon the sense in which
sundry adjectives are used; and, to show the superior purity of the
American language, he informs the reader that in England "the most
elegant and refined talk constantly of "fried 'am" ... they seem very
reluctant to _h_acknowledge this peculiarly _h_exceptionable 'abit, and
_h_insist that _h_it _h_is confined to the low and _h_ignorant of the
country." He then gets indignant that we call "stone" "stun," and
measure the gravity of flesh and blood thereby. "To unsophisticated
ears, 21 stone 6 pounds sounds infinitely less than three hundred
pounds, which weight is a fair average of the avoirdupois density of the
Sir Tunbelly Clumsies of the middle and upper classes."

From this elegant sentence he passes on to the evils of idleness, in
treating of which he supplies _The Christian Advocat