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 Lucay, 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.

ACROSS THE PLAINS

That noted pioneer, General John Bidwell, of California, once made a longish step up the western slope of our American Parnassus by an account of his journey “across the plains” seven years before the lamented Mr. Marshall had found the least and worst of all possible reasons for making the “trek.”  General Bidwell had not the distinction to be a great writer, but in order to command admiration and respect in that province of the Republic of Letters which lies in the Sacramento Valley above the mouth of the Yuba the gift of writing greatly is a needless endowment.  Nevertheless I read his narrative with an interest which on analysis turns out to be a by-product of personal experience:  among my youthful indiscretions was a journey over much of the same ground, which I took in much the same way—­as did many thousands before and after.