whimsical absurdity of a
second-rate set in fashion ever courted and entertained, never had any
one less pretensions to the civility he received than the author of
'Pencillings by the Way'--poor in thought, still poorer in expression,
without a spark of wit, without a gleam of imagination--a fourth-rate
looking man, and a fifth-rate talker, he continued to receive the
homage we were wont to bestow upon a Scott, and even charily extended
to a Dickens. His writings the very slip-slop of "commerage," the
tittle-tattle of a Sunday paper, dressed up in the cant of Kentucky;
the very titles, the contemptible affectation of unredeemed twaddle,
'Pencillings by the Way!' 'Letters from under a Bridge!' Good lack!
how the latter name is suggestive of eaves-dropping and listening; and
how involuntarily we call to mind those chance expressions of his
partners in the dance, or his companions at the table, faithfully
recorded for the edification of the free-born Americans, who, while
they ridicule our institutions, endeavour to pantomime our manners.

For many years past a number of persons have driven a thriving trade
in a singular branch of commerce, no less than buying up cast court
dresses and second-hand uniforms for exportation to the colonies. The
negroes, it is said, are far prouder of figuring in the tattered and
tarnished fragments of former greatness, than of wearing the less
gaudy, but more useful garb, befitting their condition. So it would
seem our trans-Atlantic friends prefer importing through their agents,
for that purpose, the abandoned finery of courtly gossip, to the more
useful but less pretentious apparel, of common-place information. Mr.
Willis was invaluable for this purpose; he told his friends every
thing that he heard, and he heard every thing that he could; and, like
mercy, he enjoyed a duplicate of blessings--for while he was delighted
in by his own countrymen, he was dined by ours. He scattered his
autographs, as Feargus O'Connor did franks; he smiled; he ogled; he
read his own poetry, and went the whole lion with all his might; and
yet, in the midst of this, a rival starts up equally desirous of court
secrets, and fifty times as enterprising in their search; he risks his
liberty, perhaps his life, in the pursuit, and what is his reward? I
need only tell you his name, and you are answered--I mean the boy
Jones; not under a bridge, but under a sofa; not in Almacks, obtaining
it at second-hand, but in Buck