 | NEWSPAPERS. Sporting scenes and sundry sketches |  |
11. NEWSPAPERS.
“Quid novi?”—“What's the news?”—Demosthenes lectured
his acres-spread congregation, once for asking this
question, when Philip of Macedon was on their boundary
line, without opposition, and his countrymen were without
means of defence. “H” said he,
?”
Is there no Demosthenes in Columbia? Are the orators
voiceless?—or corrupt all? Heartless! Is it possible that
is the news?” are we readers only, and not doers? Do
we lie in bed and comfortably read, in print, how splendidly
our brother fell, cut with a Floridian tomahawk? Do we
prefer “to read” the account of the atrocities perpetrated by
her Majesty's Most particular Lieutenant Governor of ALL the
Canadas on the suffering chickens of Bill Jones' farm? Do
we choose to sleep and dream, upon the authority of the
printer-devil-children of Dr. Faustus, of the invasion of the
Spaniard and the Camanche at the South-west—of the stealthy
insinuation of the Russ at Columbia River,—or the
skulking policy of “negotiation” of our own selves with regard
to the boundary line of Maine!—
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”—
“Who the devil are you! Jack, my dear boy, I'm glad to
see you. You came in quiet, then, and looked over my
shoulder—ha?”
“Those are my precise sentiments.”
“The”—
“I say that we, the people of the United States of America,
are a set of cowards and sneaks.”
“Moderate, Jack, moderate.”
“I insist that there is not a spark of soul or pluck left in
the republic. People have got quicksilver running through
their veins instead of blood. I swear—”
“Don't swear, Jack. What do you lay it to?”
“Lay it to? I lay the whole at the door of the newspapers.”
“Why so, my dear fellow, why so?”
“Now,” said Jack, “I shall, like enough, make some
rough and harsh remarks, which, knowing as I do your attachment
to the Press—and the Press-gang is a big power,
money drawer;—”
“Jack, none of your gammon. Take your finger off your
nose—”
“—I say, then, I mean there is not a paper in this country
whose columns may not be bought. They belong to,
are supported by, and paid for by Parties. They are merely
hired agents, like the Brummagem `travellers' dressed up in
clean shirts, and dispatched abroad for customers for particular
houses, all of them taking pains to avoid the general good.
They would sacrifice their country to benefit their own selfish
ambition. Each pretends that he is the man, and that
wisdom will die with his party.”
“But, Jack, what parties? You surely don't include the
religious papers. Think of the `Deserver.”'
“Deserver! Why, do you suppose I am capable of believing
that the Editor of that ably conducted Presbyterian
oracle would record the dying faith and pious decadence from
earth, and ascent to Heaven of a Catholic Priest?”
“But then take the `Verity Teller,' Jack. What objections,
if you are a subject of the Pope, have you to that?”
“None; none, my friend, but upon the score of its
being a party paper. The Deserver says that their—Deserving—party
will go to Heaven. The Verity Teller tells
them that they lie, and that they'll go to Hell. The different
members of the crafts meet in the day time, and buy
and sell, and cheat each other, and one goes home at night
and prays for the crushation of Antichrist, and the other goes
to an earthly `Father,' and `confesses' that he hath had dealings
with an Heretic. Both having absolved themselves, by
praying God's curses on each other, they meet again next day,
and trade and sin until the hour of prayer and confession.”
“Jack, are you sincere in this?”
“Sincere? Look at their files. Nothing but fire, shot,
bang, blast, attack, storm, cut, slash, and the devil. Hughes
and Breckenridge, Christian and Appollyon all over. But
this isn't to the point. What I meant to say was, that with
all their pious zeal, I can buy both those papers. I can
make the `Deserver' Catholic, and the `Verity Teller' Presbyterian
to-morrow.”
“You're a fool.”
“That's what was said to Columbus and Ben Franklin.
Havn't you lived long enough in this world to learn that
people now-a-days profess principles for money's sake? Are
the editors of either of those papers apostles, living on their
own hooks—”
“Jack, you're blasphemous.”
“God forbid! I meant nothing about those glorious Heaven-appointed,
being fishermen—who worked for love merely,
—but intended merely to ask does anybody preach, teach, write,
or speak in these modern of times without being paid for the
service? Is not talent a thing to be bought, and wisdom a
commodity in the market? Is it public good that induces
a poor scholar to set up a paper?—to stake his all upon a
fount of types? Or is it not the hope of gain, or at least
a livelihood? What writer throws the bread of his own
baking upon the waters of the ocean, trusting, on a falso
credit hope, that it will come back to him buttered, with a
fish fast hold of it?”
“Stop; stop; you impetuous cynic. I say yes; yes; yes.
It is public good that has made many `a poor scholar' write,
and many a benevolent man-angel speak. Think of the
quaker preachers! They get no pay.”
“None but world applause. Dr. Cox thinks their drafts
on heaven will all be dishonored.”
“Jack, you are the most incorrigible—Change the subject—change
the subject—some other line of news—stages.”
“Be it so.”
“What do you think of the magazines?”
“Most decidedly all for party and profit. Mere meadow-hens,
looking out for their families. Picking up is their
vocation. How gloriously they can persuade an ambitious
graduate that it will be to his eternal happiness to be in
their month, like a soft shelled crab!”
“But, Jack, they must live.”
“Truly so. But not honorably, nor morally at other men's
expenses. Do they ever hand the plate in the church, to
the pews where the poor communicants sit?”
“But the magazine publishers pay their correspondents, don't
they?—I don't mean out of mere charity.”
“When a contributor gets his name `up' they do. Let a
writer get established and he can write any manner of nonsense,
and the discriminating public will cry `beautiful!' and
the proprietors of the magazine will look the respectfully
amiable, and contribute back. But let a man be unknown,
no matter how good his article, and he has the solitary satisfaction
of seeing himself in print.”
“Well, they are honest—impartial, and free from `Party,'
are they not?”
“Are you so innocent as to ask that question? Why, one
is mercantile, another law, another mechanical, another philosophical,
another moral, another military, another political,
another religious, another anti-masonic, another abolition, another—”
“Hold up, Jack. Do you mean to say that these all represent
different parties?”
“Most distinctly. They all belong to a particular interest.
An independent article in any one of them, acknowledging
the hope of salvation of another, would effectually damn the
bold admitter. The patrons would send in an immediate discontinuance.
Why, our friend Harry—who writes, you
know, for several of them,—has to select his subject, accommodate
his sentiments, study his style, and pick his words.
At seven P. M. he will write a sermon for `the Watchman
on the Wall,'—at nine `a few remarks on snakes' for the
`Philosophical Observer,'—at ten `the last moments of Jane
Shore' for the `Ladies' Maga,'—at eleven `Abolition on the
Railroad of Success” for `Garrison's Glory,' and then go to
bed like a good carpenter after his day's work.”
“But, dear Jack, how does this hurt the country? How
can you say that our liberties or virtue are endangered, or the
happiness of the republican family prejudiced by the conflicts
of opinion or taste? Ought we not to have parties to balance
the—”
“Now, that is as silly a proposition as the nursery ballad
of
His wife could eat no lean;
And so it was, betwixt them both
They licked the platter clean.'
Do you seriously believe that it is necessary to have `parties'
in the country to save our glorious Constitution? And do
they not keep the country in a constant ferment, setting son
against father, and neighbor against neighbor?—”
“Jack, there must be parties. Eternal watchfulness—”
“Gammon, gammon! You put me in mind of the daily
press.”
“Well, what of that?”
“That's what I began on;—the vilest, truckling sycophantic,
hypocritical, money-begging, proud-swaggering, empty-headed,
encyclopedia-thieves—”
“—Some exceptions, Jack?”
“Few, few. They all boast of their exclusive virtue, and
damn their neighbors.”
“The `Dispatch and Asker' is a good paper?”
“Meat-axe all over. When I take it up I consider myself
entering a butcher's knife-shop. Cut, cut, strike, cut, for
our party, is the cry of the `leader.' There is not an honest
man in the world but belongs to us. `Extreminate the rascals,
and then we'll have a new fight among ourselves,' is all
the talk, and all the patriotism.”
“What have you to say against the quiet `Columbian?' ”
“Quiet? quiet! Yes, how quietly it honored the dead
wife of General Jackson, for party's sake. A woman—
dead!”
“I won't say a word to you on that head, Jack. I've no
doubt it's sorry for it. Party spirit—”
“Yes, that's the very thing I am telling you of. It was
the same print that came out with a recommendation to every
man to reject his son, every mother to turn her daughter out
of doors, every sweet girl to dismiss her lover, every brother
to strike his brother, every friend to deny his friend, who did
not belong to his or her party.”
“That's rather on the horrid, Jack. What have you got
against the `Evening Rail?' ”
“Party all over. Party, `us,' `we' and public printing.
There is powerful writing there, and some truth, but it is
often askew. The everlasting looking out for `the greatest
good of the greatest number,' leads the editor too much to
and minify decent men into bloodsuckers. The best of
the instructive `leaders' are full of cool, deliberate, party
heat. They are paid for.”
“Well, you are a queer one. Whom will you except?
What do you say to the `Animal Magnetism Advertiser?' ”
“No let up. The bitterest partisan—methodistical and
solemn its partizanship; It would take the Canadas for itself,
by artifice, but write against the true soldiers of the Republic
entering them by bravery.”
“What against the `Quicksent?' ”
“A mere made thing, baked out of the ashes of two or
three dead prints. It knows barely enough to help to distract
the public comfort by joining in the chorus of `Ruin,' which
the Dispatch leads the air to.”
“Journal of Merchandize?”
“There's an exception. I believe that paper is pure. It
is good, at all events, and it tells the story on both sides. If
you have acid in one column, you have soda in the next.
You may mix up Amos Kendall and Daniel Webster, and
have a right good drink.”
“What do you think of the penny papers?”
“Some are strong; almost all good; but their excellence
arise from their freedom from party thrall. Where they do
owe allegiance, they are slaves, and can talk no freer language
than an English clodhopper. But I am interrupting
you. I only called in to say how d'ye do. What the deuce
was you going to write when I came in?”
“I can't say, Jack, I forget. You put me out. It was
something about newspapers—I was going to praise them,
but you have put a twist into my pen, and belied the craft.
the glorious freedom of thought, the—”
“I see the fit is on you yet. Good bye.”
“Good bye, Jack. But don't be in a hurry. Hold on half
a minute. What do you think of `the Moon?' ”
“It's like all moons—it has its changes. It has its phases.
It sometimes runs high, and sometimes runs low. It
professes great morality, talks windy solemnity in its editorials,
as though it was learned and serious upon every subject
—Newton to-day, Beethoven yesterday, Napoleon to-morrow,
Channing next day, Recorder Riker the day following. Successive
sermons stamp its editorial columns. But look at its
advertising part—can you find anything more filthy than the
constant notices about `no mercury'—`French specific'—`no
quackery'—`to the ladies,' and so on? I cannot speak the
infamy of the accumulated titles. `Rapes,' `robberies,' `murders,'
`coroner's inquests,' and all sorts of police reports, of
the most disgusting detail.”
“You are pretty much of my sentiments.”
“I see that you and I agree that all papers belong to
some clique or party. Now, I say that the Moon is a party
paper. It belongs to the no-party-party, and to that class of
people who need secret quack medicines, and lose dogs and
cows, and who like advertisements of drinking-shops, and
can tolerate lectures on temperance. But it will never hurt
the country as the partisan warriors do, and there is really
much talent thrown away upon its leaders. But its columns,
instead of teaching American boys the pride of National
Honor, more effectually call their young eyes to the `Quid
novi' of the Police office and the Five Points.”
“Why, Jack, you beat all men I ever heard talk. Pray
how does `the Herald' stand in your estimation?”
“I don't know the coin, my friend. But to return to general
observations. It is safer than to particularize. The newsspaper
press throughout the whole Union is by its own confession,
and by its mutual proofs against each other, the mere organ
of ambition, selfishness, and humbug. They usurp, it is true,
the places of the ancient orators, and dictate morals and
patriotism to the country. But you do not hear Cicero;—
you recognise not the pure flame of Grecian boldness, that
threw itself into the mob, and storm-like, dashed out the fire of
plebeian madness. The difference between our ditors eand
ancient orators is something like that between garden fireworks
and Heaven's lightning. Would any of the old-times
voice-strikers for liberty have ended his speech with a notice
that Jacobus Corvus had a farm for sale at 12 M. at the
capitol—terms easy?'—wouldn't he have fallen at the feet of
Pompey's statue? or been torn to pieces? Now look at the
successors of the orators! Read their affectation first, and
then look at their proof. “We call the particular attention
of our readers to the sale of the splendid building lots at Frogpond,
advertised to be sold this day at 12 M., by blinker and
Book, auctioneers.” For the same hour you see—“We must
not forego the opportunity to remind our friends! that the
sale of Colonel Bankem's delightfully situated building lots
on Prospect Hill comes off to-day at 12 M.” Next—“It is
expected that Mr. Preston will address his fellow citizens at
12 M. this day, from the steps of the Astor House. No true
friend of the country should be absent. Citizens who have
got them, are requested to appear in white pantaloons, on
horseback.” Next—“Our readers will bear in mind that
the sale of all the imported blood stock of Creature Comfort,
Esq., is to take place to-day at 12 M., at the Exchange.
The horses will make a fine stud. No true lover of his country
Mr. Ascent starts his balloon from Castle Garden. That invaluable
citizen, Mr. Marsh, the proprietor, has provided extensive
accommodations, and no friend of industrious enterprise
should be wanting, for any consideration. Let no one be
absent.”
“This is a specimen of editorials. Call you it honest?—
Independent? Free from party falsehoods and gull-traps?
Are they not all paid for? Who cracked up the miserable
speculations in town lots and wilderness tracts, in the wretched
speculation times, but the newspaper editors? How many
a trusting fool was gulled by the editorial lie of `We take
pleasure to call the attention of our readers,' &c.? Which
daily theatre puff shall we now-a-days, out of the six or eight,
believe?”
“Jack! Jack! you'll get into the papers yourself. They'll
put you in for high treason!”
“Damn 'em, let 'em do it, and I'll give them more truth.
They're ruining the country. The police ought to stop them.
The Chancellor ought to issue an injunction against them.
They all go against Vice, but they teach its existence, so
that they may have a chance to abuse it, and clarion their
own health, while they pamper, or poison, or create subjects
for new articles. There is such a thing in criminal law as
`crimen non nominandum;'—but these collectors of rottenness,
paste, as it were, the name upon their forehead, and stand
in the street for curious, innocent purchasers—perhaps virgins!
If things are not sufficiently `rank and gross in nature,
they or their reporter—horrid office! Rag-picker!
Street-sweeper! Kennel-cleaner!—must pepper more filth
of prurient imagination into it—”
“Hallo! Hallo! Jack!”
“Where are the fathers of the city who tolerate such news
papers?—Here, take up a number of one of them by chance;
it is the number for August, 13th, 1840. First is a puff of
themselves, and their success. Next a part encyclopedia
and part magazine copied sermon set up as `original matter,'
on the much vexed question whether a countryman ought to
be allowed to charge more than sixpence a-piece for his
chickens now, in consideration of the state of the currency.
Then a sprinkling of more gammon. Then—the cream of
the paper—`Fatal accident'—`State prison'—`Shall not be
surprised if we before long hear of some act of desperation'
—alias, kill your sentinels, and come to the city—then
`Inquest'—on a—fallen woman—`Indians'—`Shocking suicide'—”
“Jack, don't go too far.”
“My friend I've not gone far enough. If you want evidence
of the licentiousness and degradation of the press, look
at the police reports in that same paper—`Stealing a shawl
—a female'—`Stealing dresses—Maria Stone'—`Stealing
money and a watch—some person.' But look at the two following,
entitled `Disorderly house,' and `Scenes in Anthony
street!'—Great God! are we not bad enough by nature, but
that we need the devil to teach us through the printing-press
how to sin, where to sin, and how many others sin?”
“Well, what would you have? What the dickens do you
want? Would you go back to old John Lang's time, who
wouldn't let more than half a little finger of editorial go into
the Gazette, because it didn't look like business?”
“I would. A newspaper is not a place to inculcate general
literature and morals, or to lay down the laws, or herald
vice. We have books enough, holding the fountain where
we can bend and drink for ourselves wisdom and virtue.
a debator, it is an essayist, bought to write up an opinion,
instead of a newspaper. Old Lang was right. In place of
reading the bought opinions of party hirelings, who would
write on the other side for sixpence more to-morrow, let men go
home and study the Constitution, and the early history and
splendid debates of their old Congresses and Conventions.
From them they can imbibe an honest and fervent draught
of the freest spirit of freedom, the holiest mounting-foam of
liberty, truth untrammelled, glory—”
“In excelsis, Jack, keep down lower, or I shall lose sight
of you. You mean to say a man may mis-spend his time in
reading newspapers?”
“I do. If he reads them all, and pays attention to one-tenth
of the saints' days, he'll have no time for the duties
of personal life, contract wrong ideas, hurt his health, and
crack his brains. A constant reader of newspapers, instead
of wholesome authority, that speaks without party influence,
is like an idiot boy who would plunge into a green mantling
cow-pool, in preference to bathing in the ocean.”
“Jack, you're right. I'll put your sentiments down. I don't
wonder that Cooper is compelled to sue them.”
“Nor I. Farewell once more.”
“Good bye.”
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