If it be possible to imagine one thing upon earth more irresistibly ridiculous than another, it is the composition of this enormous thing--the size of it is thirty-five feet by twenty-one--in the centre appears the Duke of Wellington in a pearl car--under his feet are legs and arms, and heads in glorious confusion--before him rides a pretty little naked boy upon a lion--over him in the clouds are a group of young gentlemen with wings, representing the Duke's victories, who look like Mrs. Wilkinson's Preparatory Academy turned out for a bathe; and amongst these pretty little dears are Peace and Plenty, and a great angel overshadowing the whole party. But this very absurd jumble (at which, through a little hole, Blucher and Platoff are looking with some surprise,) is by no means the most ludicrous part of the affair--in the clouds are two persons, called by Mr. Ward, Ignorance and Error, (one of whom has a dirty handkerchief tied over his eyes,) beneath whom are dogs' heads with wings--a tipsy-looking cock-eyed owl trampling a heavy stone Osiris into the earth--a little calf without a head--a red night-cap--a watchman's rattle--an old crow--Paine's "Rights of Man"--Voltaire's works, a sick harpy--a devil sucking his fingers--a hobby-horse's head, and a heap of chains--here is the allegory--all of which we shall attempt to explain in Mr. Ward's own words, for he is an author as well as a painter, and, absurd as are the productions of his pencil, the nonsense of his pen is, of the two, the most exquisite. In the foreground of the picture is a skeleton evidently afflicted with the head-ache, before whom runs a little wide-mouthed waddling frog with a long tail, and beyond these a group which defies description. The horses (particularly the near wheeler) have a very droll and cunning expression about the eye; but the four persons leading them, whether considered as to their drawing or colouring, are beneath all criticism: a pupil of six months' standing ought to have been flogged for doing anything so bad. In short, the whole thing in its kind closely resembles the overgrown transparencies painted to be stuck up at Vauxhall, or the Cumberland Gardens, or for public rejoicings, and ought, as soon as it has answered its purpose like those, be obliterated, and the stuff worked up for something else. In a book published upon this performance, Mr. Ward modestly says, that he is not ambitious to be considered an author, and adds, that there exists some insuperable objection to his ever being one; but still, he professes to attempt in his own simple style an explanation of his own ideas. He feels quite confident of public favour and indulgence, and then gives us his view of the thing:--as a specimen of this said style, we shall quote his notions about envy--its beauty, we confess, is evident--its simplicity we are afraid is somewhat questionable.