“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.
CHAPTER XIV
MY FRIENDS THE PLAYERS
Nearly opposite the old Gaiety Theatre in the Strand stood the offices of Gaze and Co., the tourists’ agents. And in the early seventies the upper part of the premises had been let to a retired old sea-dog of portly person and convivial habits called Captain Harris. This gentleman had made a somewhat extensive acquaintance among the lesser lights of the stage, the music-hall, and the newspaper world, and he had taken the upper part of the Gaze office with the view of turning it into a Bohemian club.