Originally published in Temple Bar–A London Magazine for Town and Country Readers (Ward and Lock) vol.1 #1 (Dec 1860).
It is not easy to discover why Frenchmen crowd about the little closely-packed Boulevard watch-boxes, where women in snowy caps deal in evening journals. For, take up one of these gray little papers, and discover the interest in it if you can. It includes scraps of news, it is true; lively criticisms on opera or drama; the latest quotations of the Bourse; divers facts; and opinions on medicaments and cheap slop clothes, paid by the line. There is a slice of a highly-coloured romance in it, in which a nettle is called a nettle, and sometimes a little more. It comprehends, it may be, a foreign letter, which flirts about matters political, but touches them never.
"And is this a newspaper," an Englishman asks—"this soulless, timid, uninformed square of tea-paper?" Even so; it is a journal of the Empire, costing three-halfpence, and sold by thousands from the site of the Bastille to the Are de Triomphe. It is read eagerly by gentlemen wearing the after-dinner toothpick gracefully dangling from the mouth. The concierge has an eager glance at it before he carries it to monsieur on the fourth floor. The café waiter unwinds it from a stick at his first leisure moment, and becomes absorbed in its tittle-tattle. Ladies who have dined in Véry's best salon, or who have enjoyed Barrière hospitality by the heights of Montmartre, thank their bearded husbands for it, while the Cognac is burning bluely upon the surface of the coffee. In crémeries, where students with empty pockets congregate; in pewter-countered wine-shops, where the patois of Brittany and of Marseilles pleasantly commingle; in black wood-sheds, where the Auvergnat works and screeches;—from garret to porter's hole, from the Quartier d'Antin to the Montagne Ste. Genevieve, is this paper, call it Patrie or Presse, thumbed and devoured. It is by turns lively and grandiose. It gives to a fracas in the street the dignity of an historical event; but, then, on historical events proper it is, as a rule, silent. You may learn "the reason why" at a certain bureau in the Rue Bellechasse. Let us not sigh and complain, and bewail the lot of our French brothers, or that there is an evil eye shadowed by a cocked-hat ever glancing over the shoulder of the journalist. For who so gay as this same journalist, save his readers? It is the merriest dance in fetters we can call to mind. The jingle of the iron is sweet music, to which absinthe may be pleasantly sipped. The historian of this same journal, and of all French journals from Renaudot's time down to this hour, calmly remarks that fetters are the proper accoutrements of the French journalist. Absolute liberty is incompatible with his prosperity. He sings well only in a cage. Open his door, and he chirrups and twitters in high regions, until he maddens all who hear his notes without method or harmony. His wild song—we have no less an authority than that of M. Hatin—destroys the equilibrium of Frenchmen. Then we may fairly suppose that the evening journal now served from the Boulevard watch-boxes, in every paragraph of which the scratch of the Imperial eagle's claw is apparent, is a mixture as strong as Gallic nerves will bear. There are wide diversities of the human race. While one begs for more water in the tea-pot, another calls for tea, green and plentiful. If our neighbours can swallow only the weakest brew, we cry, Tant pis, and pass on.
French journalism has, however, a strange history. It took its rise at the commencement of the seventeenth century, with other presses in different parts of Europe. Guttemberg's invention had been long familiar to men, when, in the early part of 1631, Renaudot with his Gazette elbowed his way before an astonished public. Richelieu was at hand to take advantage of Renaudot's venture. This father of French journalism had a monopoly of all gazettes and political squibs. Richelieu made the monopolist his creature. The cloud of pamphlets, libels, satires,—the storm of ink beating against and blackening every thing,—the Mazarinades, in short, disturbed the days of Renaudot and his Gazette. Then the indefatigable J. Loret, with his incessant rhymed news, which went jingling on through twenty years, held the public by the ear. As Renaudot was the father of the political journal in France, so was Loret the parent of the social literary journal, of that which is understood in France as "little journalism." From Loret's rhymes of the Fronde arose, in 1672, the Mercure Galant. Gallant Mercury, if he can arise from his yellow sheet; if the worm have not eaten through every page of him to his heart,—may peep through nearly two centuries, and behold the wondrous progeny for which he is responsible. Let him dip his grisly head into one of the Boulevard news-boxes, and he will find children of his there by the dozen. There, packed together, lie Figaro, and Charivari, and the little loosely-clad Zou-Zou, and The Thief, with a chattering multitude of little sou voices, too many to command space even for their names. Will our gallant old Mercury shudder, withdraw his head, and fold himself up in his worm-riddled sheets upon the shelves of the Imperial Library, a quiet repose that will not ask him again to look upon his degenerate progeny? Or will he trip proudly back to his ragged catacomb, his lank face lighted with a smile? We confess that we are doubtful. But we know what Councillor Denis Sallo, the brave old scholar, would have to say to the Zou-Zou, with his farcical stories, his barrack humour, and his flavour of camphre and caporal. Sallo commands our respect as originator of the Scholars' Journal, the famous Journal des Savants, that has sown much good seed in the world. He is the grave and learned father of the literary press of France, whom Colbert wisely protected from the spite of his enemies. We are now introduced to the three fathers of that great intellectual operation which now covers France with printed thoughts adapted to all capacities,—to Arago in his observatory, and to the garde champêtre resting at the road-side. How, from the first efforts of these men, the great press of France, that is as penetrating as Australian dust, reaching the darkest and farthest corners, grew from the Gazette, the Gallant Mercury, and the Scholars' Journal, is a story for stout octavo volumes, many in number, whereof I have en before me, by M. Hatin; to say nothing of the Red Journals described by a Girondin of 1850.
But we may set up a landmark or two, if the time and space are wanting for an inch-by-inch survey. The parents of the press cried and whined to have their monopoly held by the force of the law. But there were greedy children of letters without who were too noisy and intrepid to be frowned away. Gallant Mercury's stronghold was scaled, and breaches were battered into it, and all kinds of strange flags were planted around it. The Petites Affiches were tantalising as gnats, and like gnats came in swarms. The Journal de Paris arose, and made itself heard daily. Not without grave apprehension did the great ones of the earth perceive this setting-up of independent flags. The law dealt rigorously with them while they were in weak hands; but borne by clouds of partisans, what could the law do save make way for them and treat them civilly? An impetuous, turbulent, and most aggressive army had Renaudot and Company brought into the world. The government made difficulties when still fresh comers asked to set up a flag, whereupon the frontiers of France bristled with quills, and journals were sent to Paris from foreign cities. But still the army of quills threatened, and still the law fell back.
In 1704, was not the Verdun Journal printed in Paris? The law kept the ghost of its monopolising power by winking at a falsehood. The Journal of Verdun became a grave Paris newspaper. All these papers were but chronicles—reports. Government would have no critics while its arm was strong enough to hold the rod over them. The political journals were but the mouthpieces of authority, singing the airs of the man in authority, on pain of death. But the literary journals found a means of speaking freely; and by all kinds of ingenious devices coteries of men arose to lead rival publications. The Année Littéraire warred long and well with the Encyclopæedists. Then Ninguet, with his trenchant arm, cleverly posted himself behind book or pamphlet, and from this secure retreat stung and crazed economists and Encyclopæedists, the Academy, and the Bar. The ingenuity of the invading host of writers was too strong for the frightened government. It put its back to the wall, and made a manful stand at every advantageous point; but the thrusts of the Encyclopæedists were too keen and too frequent to be resisted. It brought pens to do battle for the throne, and to help the priests to master and trample underfoot the audacious philosophers. The police interfered. Imbecile courtiers believed that these philosophers would be routed, like brawlers in a street-fight, by the appearance of the police. But menaced in open day, they had recourse to dark corners, where clandestine journals (the more savage because they could be passed about under the table only) struggled forth, with barbed epigram and seditions song: not often of the kind Mrs. Grundy would consent to read over her tea and muffins. Time, it seemed to the clandestine satirists of king and priests, would be lost in flinging roses at the enemy, in the hope that the little thorns behind might puncture him. Guttemberg, with his clumsy moveable types, had lived to make a new order of things possible upon earth; and of this new order of things they were born to be the preachers.
How varied and ingenious, as the fight thickened, were the forms the opposing armies took! Abbé Prévost's "For and Against;" the Jansenists' "Ecclesiastical News;" the Jesuits' famous Journal de Trévoux; the publications conducted by Desfontaines, Geoffroy, and Fréron; and lastly, the "Spirit of the Journals" (that included the cream of all of them), published at Liége;—all floated upon the growing tempest, and still agitated their power to heighten the waves. Ephémérides, annals written upon a white table by the supreme pontiff; Acta Publica, or Diurna; Nouvelles à la Main; Notizie Scritte,—these were pale bald chronicles whereof it was no longer question. There was a greed for news abroad, and an impatience to learn the "For and Against" that could not be defeated. The lion that had licked the hand of power so long had brought blood at last, and was a dangerous beast thenceforth. Men had come to know somewhat of their neighbours, and they were impatient to know more. Religious wars—the wars between Protestantism and Catholicism, so lavish of blood in Holland and Germany—had carried men's eyes over the walls of their native city. Guttemberg had helped partisans to disseminate the knowledge of their doings. Slips of printed paper, hidden in the lining of a cloak or under a saddle, carried news far and wide. By these slips French Protestants were informed of the triumphs of their co-religionists inGermany. These slips of printed matter gradually included various events of public importance; and so the modern journal grew out of a demand for news. Just as a village-street grows along a high-road, then spreads at right angles, until it becomes a town, with a hall and a mayor with a gold chain and mace,—so has the European newspaper grown from the dimensions of a snuff-paper to that of the Times broadsheet. From the chroniclers to "our own correspondent," with the electric telegraph at his elbow and the steam-engine at his command, there is a long journey.
The discovery of America and the invention of printing were narrated to the Parisians of the fifteenth century in slipshod verse by Georges Chastelain and Jehan Molinet. But this slipshod verse naturally led its readers to ask for more wonders—for more news from foreign parts. The newsmongers of the Tuileries, the Palais Royal, and the Luxembourg, who drew crowds about them under the trees, were a race that supplied a want, or helped to supply it. They drew amply upon their imagination when facts failed; they pretended to have access to all kinds of committee-rooms; they made generals victorious, and toppled ramparts like packs of cards. Montesquieu said of these mongers of news, that "they had bridges of their own over every river, secret roads over every mountain, immense powder-magazines in burning sands; they lacked only common sense." The earliest numbers of the Gallant Mercury described them, and sounded their knell. They had fallen into disrepute. "The occupation of newsmonger makes a man ridiculous," saith the Dictionary of Trévoux. Yet rich men kept a newsmonger, as they kept a valet. The newsmongers presently took to writing their news in manuscript journals, which were kept at clubs, in great numbers. But more remarkable than the newsmongers, who chattered in the Tuileries and other public places, were the intrepid men who carried the redoubtable Nouvelles à la Main about, defying military and police. The Prince of Condé declared that they were an irremediable evil. Twelve were thrown together into the Bastille, and still these hawkers of scandalous and seditious news sold their illegal bits of paper. One of these hawkers was flogged in the centre of the Pont Neuf, in 1668, for having composed and written "gazettes." Gazetier à la Main was written upon the unhappy man's chest and back, that the populace might know all his infamy. The culprit was only a penny-a-liner in advance of his time. Another suffered the amputation of his nose by the sword of the Marquis de Vardes. But there were still buyers of these news-slips; and while the market existed, Bastille or no Bastille, men would be found to supply it.
In the early years of the seventeenth century, however, a young doctor arrived in Paris, who was destined to deal a fatal blow at news-slips, news-mongers, and club manuscripts of tittle-tattle.
Théophraste Renaudot was a man of inquisitive mind, quick to perceive improvements, and bold in the adoption of them. As a doctor he distinguished himself by bearding the Faculty of Paris, and by adopting new remedies for certain ailments, which he gave gratuitously to poor patients. He was made Commissary-General of Poor Invalids by Richelieu, who saw that he had an original man under him. Renaudot had a tender heart, and did good service to the poor, not only as a doctor, but also by establishing the first Mont-de-Piété in Paris. He turned from this good work; he founded an office where merchants could learn the addresses of other merchants, and hold meetings. Here is the germ of the 500,000 addresses of to-day, and the foundation of the many address-offices which have subsequently flourished in France. From this idea Renaudot moved gradually to the definite conception of a newspaper. He heard gossip from all parts of Paris in his address-office, and he had a friend (D'Hozier, the famous genealogist) who was in constant communication with distant provinces. These sources of passing knowledge made Doctor Renaudot a gossip of the most attractive description to his noble patients. Presently he was tempted to write a few copies of the news he collected, and spread them in various directions. But the demand soon exceeded the supply, and the doctor went boldly to the printing-press.
M. Hatin gives Renaudot credit for having founded the first French newspaper on honourable principles; but he declines to admit its amusing qualities. It is probable that the sagacious doctor, when he found himself forced into print, put forth news with a more timid hand than he had shown when he was merely amusing sick men. He aspired to make his newspaper not merely so much gossip, but a political organ and authority also. Richelieu gave him readily the authority he needed; for the statesman saw at a glance the use which an organ "inspired" by the government would be. It is believed that the first number of the first French newspaper appeared on the 30th of May 1631.
The first article was dated from Constantinople, the 2d of April. It informed the good people of Paris that the King of Persia was besieging Dille, two days' march from Babylon, with fifteen thousand cavalry and fifty thousand infantry. The Grand Seignor had commanded all his janissaries to repair, on pain of death, to him. Notwithstanding this grave business, the Grand Seignor continued to wage war against murderers by choking them with smoke. The first five numbers of the Gazette contained no Paris news. The good doctor was probably feeling his way with his somewhat perilous venture. In his sixth number, however, he ventured to inform his countrymen that the king and his court were drinking the mineral waters of St. Germains; and that the fine edition of the Bible, in nine volumes and eight languages, was in progress—a work in which he invited all nations to take part.
From month to month, from year to year, Renaudot enlarged his scheme. During twenty-two years he worked at his desk; and in reply to the base calumnies with which he was assailed, and the low jeers which met him at every turn, he gave the lofty replies of an honest man whose conscience was quiet. His preface, addressed to the public with the first volume of his Gazette, manifests a dignified spirit of independence, and an anxiety to adhere strictly to truth, which might be read with advantage in many publishing offices of Paris at this date. He declared that his Gazette would gain only strength from resistance, that it had this of the nature of a torrent, that it would grow with opposition. He makes bold to remind his readers that he does not "Monseigneur" all great people, because these titles are well known to the vulgar, and need not be repeated. He entreated that all his correspondents would send the naked truth to him; and at the same time he bade upstarts beware, and told them that he would parade their names in his columns until they had done something worthy the regard of their countrymen. There is, indeed, a print of the old man in the Imperial Library. The Gazette is seated upon a bench, her robe sprinkled with tongues and ears. Falsehood, unmasked, scowls at the Gazette; while Truth courts the Gazette's attention. On the right is Renandot, crier of the court. People press about him, and offer him money; but his face is turned from them, and he will none of their bribes. To the left are representatives of various nations, who bring letters and news to the Gazette, singing in the Gazette's honour the while. Pleased with his success, Renaudot produced a monthly abstract of his Gazette, in which great events were treated with historic gravity.
The great Richelieu sent him contributions; and even the king revenged himself on his spouse by furnishing Renaudot with important revelations. Supplements and extraordinaries were natural offshoots of the doctor's print. All this in the midst of troubles, libels, and lawsuits. He was denounced as a usurer and a charlatan. The good he did, as doctor to the poor, was brought in evidence against him. When the king died, he was for a time in peril; for he had offended the Regent. But his native honesty and his consummate tact saved him; and Mazarin became as firm a friend of the Gazette as Richelieu had been. This new favour only heightened the fury of his enemies. His children were persecuted, the privacy of his home was held up to ridicule. The Faculty of Paris led the most furious attacks against him, with Guy Patin at their head. But he stood in the pillory bravely, and died in harness, still with his noble face fronting his ignoble foes.
The father of the French press may not be disturbed in days like these. He look into the newsvendors' cabins on the Boulevards of the second Empire! Why, the look of horror and disgust that would settle upon his face would send the white-capped denizens into convulsions. Renaudot was a rough, perhaps inelegant, journalist; but at least his hands were clean.