_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.
The Paradise of Fiction, Feb. 9, 1888.
SIR,—My dear young friend, it is ten to one, and no takers, that the
public, than whom, between you and me, I do not think much of them, have
forgotten Nicholas, or even never heard of the Prophet. Youth will be
served; and it is now between twenty years since he left off vaticinating
in “Fun,” during young Mr. Hood’s time, of future sportive events for to
come, and came to live _here_ with the other celebrated characters of
Fiction, than whom I am sure a more mixed lot, though perhaps a little
gay. It having come to the Prophet’s knowledge that some of them was
writing letters to “The St. James’s Gazette” (than which I am sure none
more respectable, though perhaps a little not quite so attentive to
sportive interests as it might be), he have decided that Nicholas will
take up his pen once more, as of old.
The State of the Turf, my dear young friend, since an old but still
handsome bird would freely alight (when not warned off) on Newmarket
Heath, have caused Nicholas some anxiety. Sir, between you and me, _it
is rapidly getting no better_. Here is Lord — (than whom a more sterling
sportsman) as good as saying to Sir — (than whom, perhaps), “Did you ever
hear of a sporting character called Swindells?” And the Prophet _have_
been told that it may furnish matter for the gentlemen of the long
robe—which, in my time, many of them was backers of horses.
And all along of what? Why, of the “inexplicable in-and-out running of
horses,” as the “Standard” says, and as will often happen, you, perhaps,
having a likely dark one as you want to get light into a high-class
autumn handicap. The days is long past since Nicholas was nuts on the
game little Lecturer, but still has the interests of the Turf at heart;
and, my dear young friend, if horses never ran in and out, where would be
“the glorious uncertainty of the sport”? On the whole, then, if asked my
opinion on this affair, the Prophet would say—putting it
ambiguous-like—“Gentlemen, when there’s so much dirty linen to wash,
can’t you remember that we’re all pretty much tarred with the same
brush?” A great politician—which a lot of his family is here, Coningsby,
and the Young Duke, and many other sportsmen—used to say as what the Turf
was “a gigantic engine of national demoralisation;” which Nicholas is not
quite sure but what he was right for him, though his language on rather a
large scale. Horses running in and out is inexplicable! Why, gents all,
which of us _wouldn’t_ do it, if he had the chance to put the pot on
handsome, human nature being what it is, especially considering the
lowness of the market odds as you have often and often to be content
with. In short, the more you stir it the more it won’t exactly remind
you of gales from Araby the Blest; than which a more delightful country,
only not to be found on any atlas as Nicholas ever cast a glance at the
map, however large.
But enough of a subject than which perhaps one more painful to me; the
Prophet having often and often, in early days, been warned off Newmarket
Heath himself, and called a “disreputable old tout,” though only
labouring in his vocation.
(Make a new beginning here, please, Printer.)
It have come to the knowledge of the Prophet that his “Notes” are not
quite so much read as they once was, partly owing, no doubt, to the book
being not so much an “edition de looks” as rather a low-lived lot, to a
casual eye, at fourpence; the picture outside representing Nicholas
rather as having had too much for to drink than as a prominent member of
the Blue Ribbon Society, which it did not exist in his period, nor would
it have enjoyed, to any considerable extent, my personal or pecuniary
support, he having something else to do with his money. (Printer, please
put in a full stop somewhere here, Nicholas being a little out of the
habit of writing for the periodical press.) He have also heard that it
is proposed in literary circles to start a “Nicholas Society” for the
purpose of printing a limited edition of my works including my lost
treatise of Knur and Spell, on Japanese paper, illustrated with
photo-gravelures; they having come in since the Prophet’s period, though
perhaps a little gay.
But, my dear though exquisite young friends, is there no better way of
rallying round the Prophet than _this_? I have heard, from characters in
ancient literature, such as Agamemnon—than whom a more energetic soldier,
though perhaps a trifle arbitrary—the Prophet _have_ heard, I say, that a
deal of liquor used to be poured on the graves of coves like him and me,
and that it did them good. This may be the case, and anyway the
experiment is well worth trying; though, I would say, do not let it be
milk, as I gather was customary in early times, as didn’t know any
better; but, if possible, a bottle or two of sherry wine, to which, as is
well beknown, Nicholas was partial. He will now conclude; and the
Prophet hopes that an experiment, than which, I am sure, one more deeply
interesting, will not be deferred; he not much taking to the liquor here,
though the company makes up for a great deal, especially an Irish officer
by the name of Costigan, than whom a sweeter singer or a more honourable
gentleman; and signs himself, with gratitude for past favours, and kind
respects to the Editor of the “Guardian,”