DE MORTUIS
FLEET STREET is haunted by the ghosts of dead newspapers. At midnight
they flit—in white sheets, of course—out of the doors and windows of old
offices in the thoroughfare itself, and in the tributary lanes and
streets and courts that flow into it. You may—if you have a good
reliable imagination—catch the glimmer of their silent passage as they
scurry back to their long homes. Poor sheeted dead! once so full of life
and hope and confidence, but cut down untimely, and fated to revisit the
scenes of their short but well-meant labours!
When my time comes to go, I shall not be able to leave my children much
money; but I can—and will—leave them a lot of good advice. Should one of
them determine to try his fortune in Fleet Street—a course which I should
deplore—I would advise that devoted child of mine to keep a diary. Had I
adopted this precaution, I should now be in a position to fix an exact
date to every incident and anecdote related in these chronicles, and to
record a hundred others which have escaped my memory. And for the
purposes of this particular chapter I should be in a position to give the
names, dates, and careers, of all the dead newspapers I have known during
their brief stay on earth.
In the absence of any record, and having no desire to engage in research
at the British Museum, I should roughly compute the number of
publications started in my time and since died the death at between forty
and fifty. I confine myself in this estimate to papers founded during
the twenty years of my Press experience, and issues with which I had some
intimate or remote personal connection. And here permit me to give
another crumb of advice to that unfortunate boy of mine who may develop
journalistic leanings. I would say to him:
“My son, when sinners entice thee to found a newpaper, be sure you do not
call it after the name of a bird.”
That way disaster lies. There is ill luck in the selection. Even
_Chantecler_ would fail to draw the public if put on a Fleet Street
publication. There is a fatality about feathers. It has happened so,
perhaps, since journalists abandoned the goose-quill for the Gillott, the
pencil, and the stylus. But that it _is_ so there can be no manner of
doubt. The smartest, breeziest, and best-written little paper of which I
have any recollection was _The Owl_. It appeared only during the
Parliamentary session. It was a sort of co-operative concern carried on
by a group of able men in politics and Society. It came somewhat before
my time, and I am shaky in my recollections of its short but brilliant
career. I think Bowles fleshed his maiden sword in its columns, and Hume
Williams the Elder wrote in it his “Diary of a Disappointed Politician.”
The other members of the group were persons of higher social distinction.
The profits of the issue were expended on dinners at Greenwich—I wonder
why people ever _did_ dine at Greenwich?—and on a box at the opera. But
the paper did not live, and now “_The Owl_, for all his feathers, is a’
cold.”
_The Cuckoo_ made its early flights with a strong pinion. It was started
as an evening paper by Edmund Yates, and was frankly named after the
predatory fowl because it made free with the nests of its morning
contemporaries. Yet in truth it did not sin half so largely in this
direction as the other evening papers, and its original matter was smart,
ably written, and cheery. But who cares in these days to hear of
original matter in a paper? Nowadays matter doesn’t matter. From Yates
the devoted _Cuckoo_ passed, by purchase, into the hands of my friend
“Jimmy” Davis. “Jimmy,” in his desire to make his journal spicy, lowered
its tone. He was very fond of writing what he called “snaky” paragraphs,
and too ready to accept, without making due inquiries, items of curious
information about people in Society. It was useless to reason with him
on the subject. A short time before the end came I met the sub-editor in
Fleet Street, evidently labouring under a stress of emotion. I asked him
what was the matter.
“If we don’t dry up we’ll be smashed tip,” he replied. “Look at this!
He insists on its going in!”
“He,” of course, was Davis, and “it” was a paragraph dealing with the
private life of a very great lady indeed. This particular item got
crushed out at the last minute. But the risks of criminal libel run
every day by “Jimmy” would appal the modern journalist. This
notwithstanding, the _Cuckoo_ died a natural death. Contrary to general
expectation, it “dried up,” and was not “smashed up.”
The bat is not what naturalists would call a bird, but I feel sure Davis
thought it was. For his second venture was a weekly publication called
_The Bat_. In his earlier paper he had gone out of his way to attack
Society people; in the _Bat_ he found a savage delight in crucifying
Stage folk. In this direction he probably went as far as any man ever
_did_ go without suffering from reprisals. He was less fortunate when he
turned his attention to the leading men on the Turf. Lord Durham, being
advised that the _Bat_ had gone beyond the limits of fair criticism, took
criminal proceedings. The redoubtable James, having a lawyer’s notion of
what the upshot would be, and a nice appreciation of the advantages of
liberty, repaired to France, where he remained in exile for several
years. George Lewis, indeed, boasted that as long as he (Lewis) lived
Jimmy should never return to his native land. And when two Jews feel
like that about each other, you may safely anticipate trouble. But Mrs.
Davis brought her personal influence to bear on Lord Durham, and, the
Hatton Garden threat notwithstanding, “Jimmy,” who had got as far as
Boulogne, was permitted to return to London—absent from which centre of
activity he was never really happy.
Some few years before his death Davis founded yet another paper. This
time he combined in his title his taste both for ornithology and for
mythology. He called his paper _The Phœnix_. He now showed his pristine
smartness without his old-time scurrility. The paper was, indeed, very
well done—bright, original, and mordantly humorous. But the day for that
sort of thing was closing in. There was no longer any public for
six-pennyworth of smartness. Seeing this, the accommodating proprietor
reduced his price to twopence; but even at that figure his smartness
proved unsaleable. At the other end of the town, however, he was making
money “hand over fist,” as the vulgar saying has it. His “Floradora” was
running at a West End theatre and playing to crowded houses. I suspect
that a considerable amount of the money which he made out of comic opera
was lost in comic journalism. I wrote for Davis on all his papers, and
although he usually owed me a balance at the moment of the inevitable
“smash-up” or “dry-up,” that balance was so inconsiderable in each case,
as compared with the sums that I had taken from him, that I never thought
of pressing him. Davis was essentially a good “pal.” He has followed
his papers and his other enterprises into the grave. May the turf lie
light on him! The Turf pressed him rather heavily here.
Another bird of ill omen was _The Hawk_. This was hatched out by
Augustus Moore, an Irishman very well known in the eighties on the Press,
but in later years better known in connection with the stage and stage
plays. Augustus Moore was the brother of George of that ilk, an author
who first came into notice by means of a collection of verses, chiefly
imitations of Swinburne, and called “Pagan Poems,” and afterwards
notorious for some faithful studies of domestic servants given to the
public in the guise of fiction of the Zolaesque order of literature. In
his labours on the _Hawk_, Augustus Moore was greatly assisted by his
compatriot and copartner, Mr. J. M. Glover, known in later days as the
conductor at Drury Lane and onetime Mayor of Bexhill-on-Sea.
Moore passed through many vicissitudes in carrying on the _Hawk_, all of
them encountered in that spirit of cheery optimism which characterized
the adventurers of the jocund days—the boys of the Old Brigade, as
Clement Scott called them. But the financial position at last became
impossible. Moore sold out his interest for a small sum, and the _Hank_
came under the control of John Chandor, an implacable enemy of Moore’s,
and a sort of Ishmael in his attitude with respect to society generally.
Chandor’s reign was brief but lurid. He hit out all round, not with the
rapier, but with the bludgeon, and at last, getting into a fracas at the
Aquarium with some gentlemen holding commissions in the army, he attacked
these men by name in his paper. The Colonel of the regiment insisted on
his officers obtaining an apology or bringing an action. No apology was
forthcoming. The action was taken; heavy damages were imposed. The
venomous bird of prey had made her last flight.
_The Pelican_ may, at first sight, appear to be an exception to the rule
which associates ill luck with the selection of a bird name for a paper.
But, with all respect to Mr. Boyd, the _Pelican_ is scarcely a paper in
any large or liberal use of that term. It is a little organ owned,
edited, and principally written, by one man. It has discovered a nice
adjustment between the minimum of “copy” and the maximum of
advertisement. But the circulation is good, and the advertisers are
quite satisfied, so no one else need cavil; however, I should not advise
any future promoter to attempt success on Mr. Boyd’s lines, even with a
good bird name to start out on.
Another bird which, having for many years suffered severely from the pip,
at length died a lingering death, not greatly regretted by the public for
which it fatuously “clucked,” was _The Bird o’ Freedom_. This weird fowl
was hatched in the hot incubators of the _Sporting Times_. Its memorial
tablet is now affixed, together with that of the _Man of the World_,
among the titles of the parent paper. No paper has so many titles
incorporated as the _Pink Un_.
“How much money should you have to start a daily newspaper?” I once asked
the owner of one of our great dailies.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” he answered promptly.
Many daily papers have been started on less than that sum, and a few of
them have succeeded. But my experience of Fleet Street confirms the
estimate of the eminent man whom I have quoted. It is not the mere
start, of course, that demands that large capital sum; it is the income
expended in keeping the thing going until it reaches the paying point
that renders desirable a big capital. The best sub-edited paper that
ever saw the light in London was _The Echo_. Its editing also was good.
But for sub-editing it held, in its time, an easy pre-eminence. No one
knows—no one ever will know—the amount of capital sunk in that venture
successively by the publishers in La Belle Sauvage Yard, by Baron Grant,
and by Passmore Edwards. Sanguine speculators succeeded each other in
prolonging its existence. It was the very type and model of what an
evening paper should be. It lived for many years. It never paid. It is
one of the mysteries of the profession.
A much shorter shrift was accorded by the public—that _difficile_ and
insensate public!—to _The Hour_. This ambitious Tory organ was edited by
Captain Hamber, who had held a corresponding post on the _Standard_.
Hamber was one of the most remarkable men I ever met. He possessed some
rather pronounced eccentricities; but he was a gentleman _ad unguem_, and
he had the authentic editorial _flair_. But the faith of the proprietors
of the _Hour_ could not have been equal to the proverbial grain of
mustard-seed. For—at least, so Hamber more than once told me—they “shut
down” on the very day on which, for the first time, the paper showed a
profit. On the collapse of this Conservative venture the gallant Captain
was offered the editorship of the _Morning Advertiser_. Thus he
could—and did—boast of having controlled the destinies of three morning
papers. He did not, however, very greatly relish his connection with the
“_’Tiser_,” as it was irreverently called by the Street. But he did his
work well and conscientiously, and succeeded in what should have seemed
an impossible task—that, namely, of raising the tone and increasing the
influence and circulation of the organ of the British Bung.
Hamber always treated his licensed victualling proprietors with a sort of
lordly tolerance, and they forgave his mood in return for the good
fortune which had attended his conduct of their property. Indeed, they
evinced the unbounded confidence they bestowed in him by always granting
any advances for which he asked, for he was afflicted with a chronic need
of advances. Once or twice the worthy men gave him a bonus to discharge
some pressing obligations. His salary was £1,000 a year; but had it been
£5,000 a year, Hamber would have contrived to get through it. To be in
debt was his _métier_. Yet he was fond of lecturing members of the
staff, who evinced a faculty for following his brilliant example on the
folly and wickedness of the thing. Indeed, I have known him to be
interrupted in the delivery of a homily of the kind by the intrusion of a
Sheriff’s officer charged with an ultimatum to the genial editor himself.
His handwriting was the very worst I ever attempted to make out. As a
matter of fact, he could not decipher it himself. But there was one
compositor in each of the offices in which he had edited who could set up
his copy, though, as Hamber often said, “whether he really sets up
exactly what I wrote is quite another matter. But he always swears he
does, and I’m blessed if I can contradict him!” Before Captain Hamber
took to journalism he had become known as having been the man who
enrolled and commanded the German Legion during the Crimean War. Neither
Hamber nor his Legion was ever called to the front; but it was generally
admitted that in this matter he had acted promptly and patriotically.
Hamber was a staunch party man, a member of the Junior Carlton Club from
its foundation, and he possessed an unrivalled acquaintance with the fine
art of party tactics. It is not altogether to the credit of the party
that his last days should have been passed under a cloud to which there
was no silver lining. He was a man physically of great proportions, but
had acquired a stooping habit and unmilitary gait. And his great frame
contained a heart as big as the shell that enshrined it.
The forerunner of the halfpenny dailies was _The Morning_. The one
circumstance against that wonderfully well edited paper was that it came
before its time. It was founded by Mr. Chester Ives, one of the most
popular and most accomplished of the American colony in London. He
edited the paper himself, and surrounded himself with a really smart and
reliable staff. Among other men whom he introduced was a young man from
the North who afterwards became associated with the Harmsworths in the
promotion of their successful newspaper undertakings. Notwithstanding
the bold bid which the _Morning_ made for public favour, it failed to
“catch on,” and we watched its disappearance with regret—but not as those
without hope. Poor Chester Ives! since the above lines were penned he
has passed from amongst us, and under peculiarly painful circumstances.
H. J. Byron brought out a penny rival to _Punch_, to which he gave the
somewhat jejune title _Comic News_. But there was nothing at all jejune
about the contents. The editor seemed to have inspired his staff with
his own spirit of wild and irresponsible fun. The thing was a roar from
beginning to end. The title displayed a caricature of the royal arms,
with the mottoes “Dieu et mon droit” and “Honi soit qui mal y pense”
riotously rendered, “Do ’em and drwaw it” and “On his walks he madly
puns.” It was the funniest thing ever produced, but it did not take with
the many-headed. I strongly suspect that the public imagined that “H.
J.” was laughing _at_ and not _with_ them.
Two weekly organs of gossip, criticism, and politics which depended for
acceptance chiefly on their cartoons were the _Tomahawk_ and _Will O’ the
Wisp_. The former introduced to the public the bold and effective
artistic work of Matt Morgan; the latter was the first to discover the
abundant merits of the art of my friend John Proctor. In the literary
department both papers occasionally condescended to scandal and
scurrility. Morgan’s cartoon entitled “A Brown Study” was resented by
all decent-minded men, and both papers failed because they entirely
misunderstood the tastes of those who at that time purchased weekly
journals. The cartoons in both cases were of sufficient merit to keep
any properly edited paper alive. But when the cartoonists themselves
were inspired by the conductors the worst happened. Both papers died the
death unregretted.
How the _St. Stephen’s Review_ managed to struggle through its recurring
financial viscissitudes is one of the unsolved mysteries of the
publishing world. It was a strong Tory weekly, price sixpence, with a
coloured cartoon by Tom Merry, and the one outstanding fact to its credit
is that Mr. William Alison, the editor, gave Phil May his first chance.
Alison has since those days discovered his journalistic _métier_ in a
field far removed from the arid area of politics, and in his new line he
has achieved a large and financial success. I wrote a lot of copy for
the _St. Stephen’s Review_. But I turned it up after a while, and I have
no doubt someone better qualified took my place.
A curious incident happened to me in connection with this paper. The
Hon. Mrs. Whyte-Melville, widow of the novelist, had engaged as her
private chaplain a wild Irish divine known as the Rev. Peter Higginson.
Peter had been chaplain to Bishop Colenso, and his native impetuosity had
been increased on the African veldt. Now, a paragraph had appeared in
Alison’s paper in which it was stated, as a matter of gossip, that
Whyte-Melville’s favourite cob, which had been provided an old age of
ease by the deceased gentleman’s will, was being daily galloped about the
Thames Valley by a mad clergyman with a big red beard. A day or two
after the appearance of the paragraph a gentleman answering the
description of the person mentioned in connection with Whyte-Melville’s
cob, entered my room unannounced. He threw a copy of the paper
containing the note on the table at which I was sitting.
“That manes me, an’ you wrote it!” he said.
I asked him to be so good as to remove his hat and take a seat. He
complied growling, and blushing, I thought, on his cheek-bones.
“Now, perhaps,” I suggested suavely, “you will tell me who you are and
how you got in here.”
“I’m the Rivirind Pether Higginson,” he answered, in a more chastened
spirit, “an’ I gev your boy five shilluns to let me in.”
I rang the bell. My unfortunate clerk entered.
“You’ve got five shillings belonging to this gentleman. Give them back
to him.” Greatly resenting the order, the boy complied. “Now show the
gentleman out!” I continued.
A letter from Peter received a month after assured me that he had
discovered the writer of the offensive note, that he greatly regretted
his intrusion, and that he would esteem it as a great favour if I would
lunch with him on the following day at Simpson’s in the Strand. I went,
and had a most amusing time listening to his gasconading. He married the
widow for the repose of whose husband’s soul he had been engaged to pray,
and I became an occasional visitor at their house at St.
Margaret’s-on-Thames. Peter’s solicitude for my welfare was quaintly
evinced on the first occasion of my dining with the newly-married couple.
Just before going into the dining-room he whispered solemnly in my ear:
“Don’t dhrink the clar’t: it’s muck!”
“If I be waspish best beware!” was the motto which appeared under the
title of _The Hornet_. This smart and satirical little paper was
originally launched in the wilds of Hornsey as a minor City organ. It
then came into the hands of the American, Stephen Fiske. This gentleman
made theatrical criticism the leading feature of his newly-acquired
property. He was a great friend of Mrs. John Wood, the inimitable
comedienne, and he was said to have been financed by Peabody the
philanthropist. This I always took leave to doubt, because, although
Fiske put plenty of brains and labour into his new purchase, it gave none
of the customary signs of any considerable outlay of money. Indeed, in
his hands, the _Hornet_ was more or less (rather more than less) of a
financial failure. Fiske returned to New York. Here he took up the post
of dramatic critic on the _Spirit of the Times_, a position which he
still holds, though the name of the journal has been changed to _Sports
of the Times_.
Joseph Hatton then undertook to run the _Hornet_. Hatton had written a
novel called “Clytie,” a great part of which was made up of the
proceedings in the celebrated Twiss case lifted bodily from the columns
of a daily paper. The novel enjoyed a sort of library success, and
Hatton thought to increase the circulation of his new property by
bringing out “Clytie” as a serial. Now, the public hates reprint, and it
particularly hates reprint of unsuccessful stuff. But Hatton was
obsessed by “Clytie.” He not only ran it in his paper, but he turned it
into a play, and as he could not find a manager willing to produce it, he
took it on the road himself. That soon settled poor Jo Hatton, and
incidentally involved his parting with the _Hornet_.
Under the editorship of Vero Shaw the _Hornet_ exhibited all the signs of
enlightened management and a desire to live up to the paper’s motto.
Shaw introduced new men and new features. H. J. Byron was engaged to
write a serial, and he also contributed a weekly causerie entitled “Our
Absurd Column.” Other members of the staff were Godfrey Turner, John
Augustus O’Shea, Tom Purnell, and the redoubtable Featherstonhaugh. For
the first time in its varied career the paper began to hum, a
circumstance attributable not only to the increased brightness of the
literary department, but also to the fact that the cartoons were the work
of that most gifted of caricaturists and most amiable of men, the late
Alfred Bryan. One salient feature of the paper under its new control was
a spicy City article in which the bucket-shops of the period were
remorselessly exposed and condemned. A syndicate of City men then came
forward and offered a price so substantial that the proprietor could not
resist the temptation to realize. Having gained their object by
purchase, the _Hornet_ was put to a speedy and painless end by its new
owners.
An incident delightfully characteristic of the irresponsible way in which
minor journalism was carried on in the jocund days may be popped in here.
I can personally vouch for the truth of it. During the last weeks of his
proprietorship, and during the negotiations for sale, Hatton was away
from home, and the affairs of the _Hornet_ were left in the hands of
Broughton, the dramatic critic. It was essential, in view of
negotiations then pending, that the paper should be kept alive. Danks,
the printer, whose “works” were next door to the Argyll Rooms, suddenly
refused to proceed with the printing unless his balance were paid, and
the “oof bird” was particularly shy and strong on the wing just then.
Broughton, though a little man, was a most loyal and determined one. By
hypothecating some sleeve-links and a watch-chain, and by the skilful
manœuvring of cross cheques, a small sum of “ready” was secured. The
Cesarewitch was being run that day, and the money thus secured was, on
the advice of Vero Shaw, invested on Hilarious. The noble horse won at
excellent odds. Danks, the printer, was appeased, the hypothecated
jewellery was redeemed, the cross cheques met, and the _Hornet_ saved!
James Mortimer made a long, arduous, and plucky fight of it with
_Figaro_. First of all the paper appeared as a daily, and was supposed
to enjoy some financial backing from the Tuileries. Eventually it
settled down into a weekly. For a short period, too, it sent out a
Sunday edition. But Mortimer was not one of the lucky ones. After the
disappearance of _Figaro_ from the face of the earth, he started the
_Lantern_, and in still more recent years the _Anglo-Saxon_. His later
bantlings all perished in early life owing to feeble circulation and
insufficient nourishment. It is, however, with his first venture,
_Figaro_, that the name of James Mortimer will always remain honourably
associated. His staff on that paper was largely recruited from the Civil
Service. He engaged Clement Scott, of the War Office; Dowty (“ O. P. Q.
Philander Smiff”), of the Paymaster’s Office; Ernest Bendall, of the same
Department; Archer and Winterbotham. They were not only capable
writers—Mortimer was wont to say—but they were reliable. “You always
know where to find them when you want them,” he would slyly add.
Mortimer’s hobby had always been chess, and to the pursuit of this
stimulating science he devoted a considerable portion of a full and busy
life.
Hugo Ames was, I think, the tallest man who ever adventured in Fleet
Street. He is a younger brother of Captain “Ossy” Ames, who has the
distinction of being the tallest man in the British Army. The career of
Mr. Ames as a newspaper proprietor was brief—and disastrous. He
established a smart little paper called _The Dwarf_, to which he
contributed largely himself. He also founded _Smart Society_, and he was
foolishly persuaded to purchase the _Hawk_. Ames was a splendid fellow,
but he got into wrong hands, and as a consequence dropped a fortune at
newspaper promotion in less than two years.
. . . But I have exceeded the chapter limit which I had assigned to
myself, and I have dealt with but a few of the dear—the very
dear—departed papers of my day. . . . The sheeted dead press round me,
gibbering and clamouring for notice. Poor ineffectual ghosts! They are
doomed still to “walk.” I have no space in which to “lay” them.