On perusing the above, Mr. JONES decided that he could no longer keep silence, and has made public the subjoined explanation:—
"When I first saw Mrs. JONES—then Miss THOMPSON—her youthful grace quite captivated me. Her age was under fifty-six, and mine was just sixty. She was, in fact, as I told her at the time, almost old enough to know her own mind. It is true that she was wealthy, but that had no influence on my conduct. On the contrary I felt it as a positive drawback, as my domestic ideal has always been Love in a Cottage! But as she was bent upon our marrying, I agreed to waive this objection.
"In proof of this assertion I need only say that on the very day after our first meeting, I received the following letter:—
"'PRICELESS AND ADORABLE PET,—How are your little tootsy-wootsicums? Did they get wet in conducting me home after that delicious interview? If so, and you were to catch cold in your precious head, I should never forgive myself. Oh, come and see me soon! Your Own, till Death, ANGELINA.'
"Possibly I may be blamed for publishing this letter. I do it for her sake, not for mine. Even now I believe that, were I left alone with her for an hour, with none of her relatives nor a policeman near, I could persuade her to retract her calumnious statement about the poker. I conclude by saying that it is my belief that her relatives, who are all of them powerful mesmerists, have hypnotised her!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
My Face is My Fortune, by Messrs. PHILIPS and FENDALL. Why don't they agree to spell both names with an "F," and make it FILLIPS and FENDALL. I fancy that FENDALL couldn't do without the sensational fillips. This story excites curiosity throughout the first volume, and then, in the other volume, satisfies it in so disappointing and commonplace a fashion as to suggest the idea that one of the authors, becoming weary of his share in the work, suddenly chucked it up, and said, "Oh, bother! let's finish anyhow;" and then the other collaborateur, whichever it was, did finish it as best and as quickly as he could. There is evidence of laziness or of lack of invention in the story. If it were for the first time in fiction that a secret is learnt by some one hiding behind some pantomime plants in a conservatory, then too much praise could not be bestowed on the ingenious devisers of so strong and original a situation. But as "we know that situation,—he comes from Sheffield," and as it has done duty some scores of times before, on or off the stage, why, the thoroughgoing novel-reader shakes his head and asks, "Couldn't they have devised something better than this between them?" "I expected much from this combination in Authorship, and am disappointed," says the candid BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.