“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.”