(Publishing the above paragraph thus, gives me a sort of authority for reproducing the _Saturday Review's_ article in full in these pages. I dearly wanted to do it, for I cannot write anything half so delicious myself. If I had a cast-iron dog that could read this English criticism and preserve his austerity, I would drive him off the door-step.) (From the London “Saturday Review.”) REVIEWS OF NEW BOOKS _The Innocents Abroad_. A Book of Travels. By Mark Twain. London: Hotten, publisher. 1870. Lord Macaulay died too soon. We never felt this so deeply as when we finished the last chapter of the above-named extravagant work. Macaulay died too soon--for none but he could mete out complete and comprehensive justice to the insolence, the impertinence, the presumption, the mendacity, and, above all, the majestic ignorance of this author. To say that _The Innocents Abroad_ is a curious book, would be to use the faintest language--would be to speak of the Matterhorn as a neat elevation or of Niagara as being “nice” or “pretty.” “Curious” is too tame a word wherewith to describe the imposing insanity of this work. There is no word that is large enough or long enough. Let us, therefore, photograph a passing glimpse of book and author, and trust the rest to the reader. Let the cultivated English student of human nature picture to himself this Mark Twain as a person capable of doing the following-described things--and not only doing them, but with incredible innocence _printing them_ calmly and tranquilly in a book. For instance: He states that he entered a hair-dresser's in Paris to get shaved, and the first “rake” the barber gave him with his razor it _loosened his “hide”_ and _lifted him out of the chair._