In the spring of 1874 I was living in the pretty English town of
Leamington, a place that will be remembered by most Americans who have
visited the grave of Shakespeare at Stratford-on-Avon, or by personal
inspection of the ruins of Kenilworth Castle have verified their knowledge
of English history derived from Scott's incomparable romance. I was at
that time connected with several London newspapers, among them the
_Figaro_, a small weekly publication, semi-humorous, semi-theatrical, with
a remarkable aptitude for managing the political affairs of France in the
interest of the Imperialists. This last peculiarity it owed to the
personal sympathies of its editor and proprietor, Mr. James Mortimer, a
gentleman who for some twenty years before the overthrow of the Empire had
lived in Paris. Mr. Mortimer had been a personal friend of the Emperor and
Empress, and on the flight of the latter to England had rendered her
important service; and after the release of the Emperor from captivity
among the Germans Mr. Mortimer was a frequent visitor to the imperial
exiles at Chiselhurst.
One day at Leamington my London mail brought a letter from Mr. Mortimer,
informing me that he intended to publish a new satirical journal, which he
wished me to write. I was to do all the writing, he the editing; and it
would not be necessary for me to come up to London; I could send
manuscript by mail. The new journal was not to appear at stated periods,
but "occasionally." Would I submit to him a list of suitable titles for
it, from which he could make a selection?
With some surprise at what seemed to me the singularly whimsical and
unbusiness-like features of the enterprise I wrote him earnestly advising
him either to abandon it or materially to modify his plan. I represented
to him that such a journal, so conducted, could not in my judgment
succeed; but he was obdurate and after a good deal of correspondence I
consented to do all the writing if he was willing to do all the losing
money. I submitted a number of names which I thought suitable for the
paper, but all were rejected, and he finally wrote that he had decided to
call the new journal _The Lantern_. This decision elicited from me another
energetic protest. The title was not original, but obviously borrowed from
M. Rochefort's famous journal, _La Lanterne_. True, that publication was
dead, and its audacious editor deported to New Caledonia with his
Communistic following; but the name could hardly be agreeable to Mr.
Mortimer's Imperialist friends, particularly the Empress--the Emperor was
then dead. To my surprise Mr. Mortimer not only adhered to his resolution
but suggested the propriety of my taking M. Rochefort's late lamented
journal as a model for our own. This I flatly declined to do and carried
my point; I was delighted to promise, however, that the new paper should
resemble the old in one particular: it should be irritatingly
disrespectful of existing institutions and exalted personages.
On the 18th of May, 1874, there was published at the corner of St. Bride
Street and Shoe Lane, E.C., London, the first number of "_The
Lantern_--Appearing Occasionally. Illuminated by Faustin. Price,
sixpence." It was a twelve-page paper with four pages of superb
illustrations in six colors. I winced when I contemplated its artistic and
mechanical excellence, for I knew at what a price that quality had been
obtained. A gold mine would be required to maintain that journal, and that
journal could by no means ever be itself a gold mine. A copy lies before
me as I write and noting it critically I cannot help thinking that the
illuminated title-page of this pioneer in the field of chromatic
journalism is the finest thing of the kind that ever came from a press.
Of the literary contents I am less qualified for judgment, inasmuch as I
wrote every line in the paper. It may perhaps be said without immodesty
that the new "candidate for popular favor" was not distinguished by
servile flattery of the British character and meek subservience to the
British Government, as might perhaps be inferred from the following
extract from an article on General Sir Garnet Wolseley, who had just
received the thanks of his Sovereign and a munificent reward from
Parliament for his successful plundering expedition through Ashantee:
"We feel a comfortable sense of satisfaction in the thought that _The
Lantern_ will never fail to shed the light of its loyal approval upon any
unworthy act by which our country shall secure an adequate and permanent
advantage. When the great heart of England is stirred by quick cupidity to
profitable crime, far be it from us to lift our palms in deprecation. In
the wrangle for existence nations, equally with individuals, work by
diverse means to a common end--the spoiling of the weak; and when by
whatever of outrage we have pushed a feeble competitor to the wall, in
Heaven's name let us pin him fast and relieve his pockets of the material
good to which, in bestowing it upon him, the bountiful Lord has invited
our thieving hand. But these Ashantee women were not worth garroting.
Their fal-lals, precious to them, are worthless to us; the entire loot
fetched only £11,000--of which sum the man who brought home the trinkets
took a little more than four halves. We submit that with practiced agents
in every corner of the world and a watchful government at home this great
commercial nation might dispose of its honor to better advantage."
With the candor of repentance it may now be confessed that, however
unscrupulous it may be abroad, a government which tolerates this kind of
criticism cannot rightly be charged with tyranny at home.
By way (as I supposed) of gratitude to M. Rochefort for the use of the
title of his defunct journal it had been suggested by Mr. Mortimer that he
be given a little wholesome admonition here and there in the paper and I
had cheerfully complied. M. Rochefort had escaped from New Caledonia some
months before. A disagreeable cartoon was devised for his discomfort and
he received a number of such delicate attentions as that following, which
in the issue of July 15th greeted him on his arrival in England along with
his distinguished compatriot, M. Pascal Grousset:
"M. Rochefort is a gentleman who has lost his standing. There have been
greater falls than his. Kings before now have become servitors, honest men
bandits, thieves communists. Insignificant in his fortunes as in his
abilities, M. Rochefort, who was never very high, is not now very low--he
has avoided the falsehood of extremes: never quite a count, he is now but
half a convict. Having missed the eminence that would have given him
calumniation, he is also denied the obscurity that would bring
misconstruction. He is not even a _miserable_; he is a person. It is
curious to note how persistently this man has perverted his gifts. With
talents that might have corrupted panegyric, he preferred to refine
detraction; fitted to disgrace the _salon_, he has elected to adorn the
cell; the qualities that would have endeared him to a blackguard he has
wasted upon Pascal Grousset.
"As we write, it is reported that this person is in England. It is further
affirmed that it is his intention to proceed to Belgium or Switzerland to
fight certain journalists who have not had the courtesy to suppress the
truth about him, though he never told it of them. We presume, however,
this rumor is false; M. Rochefort must retain enough of the knowledge he
acquired when he was esteemed a gentleman to be aware that a meeting
between him and a journalist is now impossible. This is the more to be
regretted, because M. Paul de Cassagnac would have much pleasure in taking
M. Rochefort's life and we in lamenting his fall.
"M. Rochefort, we believe, is already suffering from an unhealed wound. It
is his mouth."
There was a good deal of such "scurril jesting" in the paper, especially
in a department called "Prattle." There were verses on all manner of
subjects--mostly the nobility and their works and ways, from the viewpoint
of disapproval--and epigrams, generally ill-humorous, like the following,
headed "_Novum Organum_":
"In Bacon see the culminating prime
Of British intellect and British crime.
He died, and Nature, settling his affairs,
Parted his powers among us, his heirs:
To each a pinch of common-sense, for seed,
And, to develop it, a pinch of greed.
Each frugal heir, to make the gift suffice,
Buries the talent to manure the vice."
When the first issue of _The Lantern_ appeared I wrote to Mr. Mortimer,
again urging him to modify his plans and alter the character of the
journal. He replied that it suited him as it was and he would let me know
when to prepare "copy" for the second number. That eventually appeared on
July 15th. I never was instructed to prepare any more copy, and there has
been, I believe, no further issue of that interesting sheet as yet.
Taking a retrospective view of this singular venture in journalism, one
day, the explanation of the whole matter came to my understanding in the
light of a revelation, and was confirmed later by Mr. Mortimer.
In the days when Napoleon III was at the zenith of his glory and power
there was a thorn in his side. It was the pen of M. Henri Rochefort, le
Comte de Luçay, journalist and communard. Despite fines, "suppressions,"
and imprisonments, this gifted writer and unscrupulous blackguard had, as
every one knows, made incessant war upon the Empire and all its
_personnel_. The bitter and unfair attacks of his paper, _La Lanterne_,
made life at the Tuilleries exceedingly uncomfortable. His rancor against
the Empress was something horrible, and went to the length of denying the
legitimacy of the Prince Imperial. His existence was a menace and a terror
to the illustrious lady, even when she was in exile at Chiselhurst and he
in confinement on the distant island of New Caledonia. When the news of
his escape from that penal colony arrived at Chiselhurst the widowed
Empress was in despair; and when, on his way to England, he announced his
intention of reviving _La Lanterne_ in London (of course he dared not
cross the borders of France) she was utterly prostrated by the fear of his
pitiless animosity. But what could she do? Not prevent the revival of his
dreadful newspaper, certainly, but--well, she could send for Mr. Mortimer.
That ingenious gentleman was not long at a loss for an expedient that
would accomplish what was possible. He shut Rochefort out of London by
forestalling him. At the very time when Mortimer was asking me to suggest
a suitable name for the new satirical journal he had already registered at
Stationers' Hall--that is to say, copyrighted--the title of _The Lantern_,
a precaution which M. Rochefort's French friends had neglected to take,
although they had expended thousands of pounds in a plant for their
venture. Mr. Mortimer cruelly permitted them to go on with their costly
preparations, and the first intimation they had that the field was
occupied came from the newsdealers selling _The Lantern_. After some
futile attempts at relief and redress, M. Rochefort took himself off and
set up his paper in Belgium.
The expenses of _The Lantern_--including a generous _douceur_ to
myself--were all defrayed by the Empress. She was the sole owner of it
and, I was gratified to learn, took so lively an interest in her venture
that a special French edition was printed for her private reading. I was
told that she especially enjoyed the articles on M. le Comte de Luçay,
though I dare say some of the delicate subtleties of their literary style
were lost in translation.
Being in London later in the year, I received through Mortimer an
invitation to visit the poor lady, _en famille_, at Chiselhurst; but as
the iron rules of imperial etiquette, even in exile, required that the
hospitable request be made in the form of a "command," my republican
independence took alarm and I had the incivility to disobey; and I still
think it a sufficient distinction to be probably the only American
journalist who was ever employed by an Empress in so congenial a pursuit
as the pursuit of another journalist.