My Dear Sir,--Alas, your warning comes too late. An accursed
example of womankind, fit descendant of that unhappy Betty Barnes,
cook to Mr. Warburton, who destroyed his ancient manuscript plays,
hath invaded my sanctum, and the original black-letter text of the
ballad has gone to join Shakspeare's "Stephen" and "Henry II." She
hath lit with it my study fire, and it is fortunate indeed that I
had made the copy of the ballad for you. But the volume of
Coquillart is alive to testify to the authenticity of the poem;
which, after all, is needless evidence, as not even Ritson could
suspect of either the skill or the malice of such a forgery, Yours
most faithfully,

ROBERT SURTEES.



LETTER: From Nicholas to the Editor of the St. James's Gazette,



It is only too probable that a later generation has forgotten
"Nicholas," the sporting Prophet of "Fun," in the reign of Mr. Hood
the younger. The little work, "Nicholas's Notes," in which Mr. W.
J. Prowse collected the papers of the old Prophet, is, indeed, not
an "edition de looks," as the aged Seer says, with his simple
humour. From the Paradise of Fiction, however (and the Paradise of
Touts), Nicholas has communicated, perhaps to the Psychical
Society, the following Epistle. His friendly mention of a brother
journalist speaks well for the Old Man's head and heart.