, but had the right to anticipate a brilliant and good-humored portraiture of American life.
There were some who predicted we should catch it, but it was believed that if satirized at all, it would be in such artistic style that we should enjoy our own dissection.
But we were all to be grievously disappointed.
The book overflowed with gall and venom.
There was scarcely a drop of the milk of human kindness in it. It out-Trolloped Trollope, and in downright misrepresentation and abuse threw Hall and Maryatt into the shade.
As a specimen of wit and humor, it was beneath contempt.
He came back at us in the same style in "Martin Chuzzlewit." Instead of a Damascus blade of bright and trenchant satire, he cut us up with a rusty butcher-knife, which, considering us a nation of swine, he probably thought the most appropriate weapon.
Forgetting his own caricature in Pickwick of French travelers in England, he himself enacted the part of Count Smorltork in America.
He gravely declared in