And then Mr. Jones started another objection. The reader will soon realize that anything I do is sure to be wrong with Mr. Jones. It wouldn’t be him else. He next declares that I can’t write English, and that the book must be corrected, and put out by an editor? Now, when I inform the discerning British Public that every advertisement that has been posted by Brown, Jones, and Robinson, during the last three years has come from my own unaided pen, I think few will doubt my capacity to write the “Memoirs of Brown, Jones, and Robinson,” without any editor whatsoever. On this head I was determined to be firm. What! after preparing, and correcting, and publishing such thousands of advertisements in prose and verse and in every form of which the language is susceptible, to be told that I couldn’t write English! It was Jones all over. If there is a party envious of the genius of another party in this sublunary world that party is our Mr. Jones. But I was again softened by a touching appeal from our senior partner. Mr. Brown, though prosaic enough in his general ideas, was still sometimes given to the Muses; and now, with a melancholy and tender cadence, he quoted the following lines:— “Let dogs delight,” said he, “to bark and bite,” said he, “For ’tis their nature to— But ’tis a shameful sight to see when partners of one firm like we Fall out, and chide, and fight!” So I gave in again. It was then arranged that one of Smith and Elder’s young men should look through the manuscript, and make any few alterations which the taste of the public might require. It might be that the sonorous, and, if I may so express myself, magniloquent phraseology in which I was accustomed to invite the attention of the nobility and gentry to our last importations was not suited for the purposes of light literature, such as this. “In fiction, Mr. Robinson, your own unaided talents would doubtless make you great,” said to me the editor of this Magazine; “but if I may be allowed an opinion, I do think that in the delicate task of composing memoirs a little assistance may perhaps be not inexpedient.” This was prettily worded; so what with this, and what with our Mr. Brown’s poetry, I gave way; but I reserved to myself the right of an epistolary preface in my own name. So here it is.