to spend a fortnight with me here at Bar Harbor. You see, I don't like
to issue invitations and have them 'turned down,' so I'm not going to
invite you till you write me that you will come."
In answer to that invitation I passed a fortnight with him. From
beginning to end of the time he forbade all mention of the newspaper of
which he was chief owner and I the responsible editor. But during that
time he "talked into me," as he said at parting, a deal of high thinking
that he ought to have put into print.
His mind had one notable quality in common with Emerson's--the capacity
to fecundate every other mind with which it came into close contact.
One came away, from a conference with him, feeling enriched, inspired,
enlarged, not so much by the thought he had expressed as by the thinking
he had instigated in his listener's mind.
It was so with me on that occasion. I came away full of a thought that
grew and fruited in my mind. Presently--an occasion offering--I wrote
it into a series of articles in the newspaper. These attracted the
attention of Dr. William M. Sloane, now of Columbia University, then
professor of history at Princeton and editor of the _Princeton Review_.
At his instigation I presented the same thought in his _Review_, and a
little later by invitation I addressed the Nineteenth Century Club on
the subject. I called it "The American Idea." In substance it was that
our country had been founded and had grown great upon the idea that
every man born into the world has a right to do as he pleases, so long
as he does not trespass upon the equal right of any other man to do
as he pleases, and that in a free country it is the sole function of
government to maintain the conditions of liberty and to let men alone.
The idea seemed to be successful in its appeal to men's intelligence at
that time, but many years later--only a year or so ago, in fact--I put
it forward in a commencement address at a Virginia College and found
it sharply though silently antagonized by professors and trustees on
the ground that it seemed to deny to government the right to enact
prohibitory liquor laws, or otherwise to make men moral by statute. The
doctrine was pure Jeffersonianism, of course, and the professors and
trustees sincerely believed themselves to be Jeffersonians. But the
doctrine had gored their pet ox, and that made a difference.
[Sidenote: Some Recollections of Mr. Godwin]
One day Mr. Godwin expressed himself as delighted with all I had written
on the American Idea. I responded:
"That is very natural. The idea is yours, not mine, and in all that I
have written about it, I have merely been reporting what you said to me,
as we stood looking at the surf dashing itself to pieces on the rocks at
Bar Harbor."
"Not at all," he answered. "No man can expound and elaborate another
man's thought without putting so much of himself into it as to make it
essentially and altogether his own. I may have dropped a seed into your
mind, but I didn't know it or intend it. The fruitage is all your own.
My thinking on the subject was casual, vagrant, unorganized. I had never
formulated it in my own mind. You see we all gather ideas in converse
with others. That is what speech was given to man for. But the value of
the ideas depends upon the use made of them."
Mr. Godwin had been at one time in his life rather intimately associated
with Louis Kossuth, the Hungarian patriot and statesman. As all old
newspaper men remember, Kossuth had a habit of dying frequently. News
of his death would come and all the newspapers would print extended
obituary articles. Within a day or two the news would be authoritatively
contradicted, and the obituaries would be laid away for use at some
future time. On one of these occasions Mr. Godwin wrote for me a
singularly interesting article, giving his personal reminiscences of
Kossuth. Before I could print it despatches came contradicting the news
of the old Hungarian's death. I put Mr. Godwin's manuscript into a
pigeonhole and both he and I forgot all about it. A year or so later
Kossuth did in fact die, and in looking through my papers to see what I
might have ready for printing on the subject, I discovered Mr. Godwin's
paper. It was not signed, but purported to be the personal recollections
of one who had known the patriot well.
I hurried it into print, thus gaining twelve or fourteen hours on the
morning newspapers.
The next morning Mr. Godwin called upon me, declaring that he had come
face to face with the most extraordinary psychological problem he had
ever encountered.
"The chapter of Kossuth reminiscences that you printed yesterday," he
said, "was as exact a report of my own recollections of the man as I
could have given you if you had sent a reporter to interview me on the
subject; and the strangest part of it is that the article reports many
things which I could have sworn were known only to myself. It is
astonishing, inexplicable."
"This isn't a case of talking your thought into another person," I
answered, referring to the former incident. "This time you put yourself
down on paper, and what I printed was set from the manuscript you gave
me a year or so ago."
This solved the psychological puzzle and to that extent relieved his
mind. But there remained the further difficulty that, cudgel his brain
as he might, he could find in it no trace of recollection regarding the
matter.
[Sidenote: A Mystery of Forgetting]
"I remember very well," he said, "that I often thought I ought to write
out my recollections of Kossuth, but I can't remember that I ever did
so. I remember taking myself to task many times for my indolence in
postponing a thing that I knew I ought to do, but that only makes the
case the more inexplicable. When I scourged myself for neglecting the
task, why didn't my memory remind me that I had actually discharged the
duty? And now that I have read the reminiscences in print, why am I
unable to recall the fact that I wrote them? The article fills several
columns. Certainly I ought to have some recollection of the labor
involved in writing so much. Are you entirely certain that the
manuscript was mine?"
I sent to the composing room for the "copy" and showed it to him. As he
looked it over he said:
"'Strange to say, on Club paper.' You remember Thackeray's Roundabout
paper with that headline? It has a bearing here, for this is written on
paper that the Century Club alone provides for the use of its members.
I must, therefore, have written the thing at the Century Club, and that
ought to resurrect some memory of it in my mind, but it doesn't. No. I
have not the slightest recollection of having put that matter on paper."
At that point his wonderfully alert mind turned to another thought.
"Suppose you and I believed in the occult, the mystical, the so-called
supernatural, as we don't," he said, "what a mystery we might make of
this in the way of psychical manifestation--which usually belongs to the
domain of psycho-pathology. Think of it! As I chastised myself in my own
mind for my neglect to put these things on paper, your mind came under
subjection to mine and you wrote them in my stead. So complete was the
possession that your handwriting, which is clear and legible, became an
exact facsimile of mine, which is obscure and difficult. Then you, being
under possession, preserved no memory of having written the thing, while
I, knowing nothing of your unconscious agency in the matter, had nothing
to remember concerning it. Isn't that about the way the mysticists make
up their 'facts' for the misleading of half-baked brains?"
In later years I related this incident to a distinguished half-believer
in things mystical, adding Mr. Godwin's laughingly conjectural explanation
of it, whereupon the reply came:
"May not that have been the real explanation, in spite of your own and
Mr. Godwin's skepticism?"
I was left with the feeling that after all what Mr. Godwin had intended
as an extravagant caricature was a veritable representation of a
credulity that actually exists, even among men commonly accounted sane,
and certainly learned. The reflection was discouraging to one who hopes
for the progress of mankind through sanity of mind.
LXIV
In the days of which I have hitherto written there was a dignity,
reserve, contentment--call it what you will--in the conduct of newspapers
of established reputation. There was rivalry among them in their endeavors
to publish the earliest news of public events, but it was a dignified
rivalry involving comparatively little of that self-glorification which
has since come to be a double-leaded feature in the conduct of many
newspapers. The era of illustration and exploitation by the use of
pictures had not yet been born of cheapened reproductive processes.
Newspapers were usually printed directly from type because stereotyping
was then a costly process and a slow one. As a consequence, newspapers
were printed in regular columns consecutively arranged, and articles
begun in one column were carried forward in the next. There were no such
legends as "continued on page five," and the like.
Headlines were confined to the column that began the article. The art
of stretching them halfway or all the way across the page and involving
half a dozen of them in gymnastic wrestlings with each other for supremacy
in conspicuity had not then been invented, and in its absence the use of
circus poster type and circus poster exaggeration of phrase was undreamed
of.
Now and then an advertiser anxious for conspicuity would pay a heavy
price to have column rules cut so that his announcement might stretch
over two or more columns, but the cost of that was so great that
indulgence in it was rare even among ambitious advertisers, while in
the reading columns the practice was wholly unknown.
[Sidenote: The Price of Newspapers]
Another thing. It was then thought that when a copy of a newspaper was
sold, the price paid for it ought to be sufficient at least to pay the
cost of its manufacture, plus some small margin of profit. All the great
morning newspapers except the _Sun_ were sold at four cents a copy; the
_Sun_, by virtue of extraordinary literary condensation, used only about
half the amount of paper consumed by the others, and was sold at two
cents. The afternoon newspapers were sold at three cents.
The publishers of newspapers had not then grasped the idea that is
now dominant, that if a great circulation can be achieved by selling
newspapers for less than the mere paper in them costs, the increase
in the volume and price of advertising will make of them enormously
valuable properties.
That idea was not born suddenly. Even after the revolution was
established, the cost of the white paper used in making a newspaper
helped to determine the price of it to the public. It was not until the
phenomenal success of cheap newspapers years afterwards tempted even
more reckless adventurers into the field that publishers generally threw
the entire burden of profit-making upon the advertising columns and thus
established the business office in the seat before occupied by the editor
and made business considerations altogether dominant over utterance,
attitude, and conduct.
There were in the meantime many attempts made to establish a cheaper
form of journalism, but they were inadequately supported by working
capital; they were usually conducted by men of small capacity; they had
no traditions of good will behind them, and above all, they could not
get Associated Press franchises. For the benefit of readers who are
not familiar with the facts, I explain that the Associated Press is an
organization for news-gathering, formed by the great newspapers by way
of securing news that no newspaper could afford to secure for itself.
It maintains bureaus in all the great news centers of the world, and
these collect and distribute to the newspapers concerned a great mass
of routine news that would be otherwise inaccessible to them. If a
president's message, or an inaugural address, or any other public
document of voluminous character is to be given out, it is obvious that
the newspapers concerned cannot wait for telegraphic reports of its
contents. By way of saving time and telegraphic expense, the document
is delivered to the Associated Press, and copies of it are sent to all
the newspapers concerned, with a strict limitation upon the hour of its
publication. Until that hour comes no newspaper in the association is
privileged to print it or in any way, by reference or otherwise, to
reveal any part of its contents. But in the meanwhile they can put it
into type, and with it their editorial comments upon it, so that when
the hour of release comes, they can print the whole thing--text and
comment--without loss of time. The newspaper not endowed with an
Associated Press franchise must wait for twenty-four hours or more
for its copy of the document.
Hardly less important is the fact that in every city, town, and village
in the country, the Associated Press has its agent--the local editor or
the telegraph operator, or some one else--who is commissioned to report
to it every news happening that may arise within his bailiwick. Often
these reports are interesting; sometimes they are of importance, and in
either case the newspaper not allied with a press association must miss
them.
At the time of which I am writing, the Associated Press was the only
organization in the country that could render such service, and every
newspaper venture lacking its franchise was foredoomed to failure.
[Sidenote: The Pulitzer Revolution]
But a newspaper revolution was impending and presently it broke upon us.
In 1883 Mr. Joseph Pulitzer bought the _World_ and instituted a totally
new system of newspaper conduct.
His advent into New York journalism was called an "irruption," and it
was resented not only by the other newspapers, but even more by a large
proportion of the conservative public.
In its fundamental principle, Mr. Pulitzer's revolutionary method was
based upon an idea identical with that suggested by Mr. John Bigelow
when he told me there were too many newspapers for the educated class.
Mr. Pulitzer undertook to make a newspaper, not for the educated class,
but for all sorts and conditions of men. He did not intend to overlook
the educated class, but he saw clearly how small a part of the community
it was, and he refused to make his appeal to it exclusively or even
chiefly.
The results were instantaneous and startling. The _World_, which had
never been able to achieve a paying circulation or a paying constituency
of advertisers, suddenly began selling in phenomenal numbers, while its
advertising business became what Mr. Pulitzer once called a "bewildering
chaos of success, yielding a revenue that the business office was
imperfectly equipped to handle."
It is an interesting fact, that the _World's_ gain in circulation was
not made at the expense of any other newspaper. The books of account
show clearly that while the _World_ was gaining circulation by scores
and hundreds of thousands, no other morning newspaper was losing. The
simple fact was that by appealing to a larger class, the _World_ had
created a great company of newspaper readers who had not before been
newspaper readers at all. Reluctantly, and only by degrees, the other
morning newspapers adopted the _World's_ methods, and won to themselves
a larger constituency than they had ever enjoyed before.
All this had little effect upon the afternoon newspapers. They had their
constituencies. Their province was quite apart from that of the morning
papers. A circulation of ten or twenty thousand copies seemed to them
satisfactory; any greater circulation was deemed extraordinary, and if
at a time of popular excitement their sales exceeded twenty thousand
they regarded it not only as phenomenal but as a strain upon their
printing and distributing machinery which it would be undesirable to
repeat very often.
But the revolution was destined to reach them presently. At that time
none of the morning newspapers thought of issuing afternoon editions.
The game seemed not worth the candle. But presently the sagacity of Mr.
William M. Laffan--then a subordinate on the _Sun's_ staff, later the
proprietor and editor of that newspaper--saw and seized an opportunity.
The morning papers had learned their lesson and were making their appeal
to the multitude instead of the select few. The afternoon newspapers
were still addressing themselves solely to "the educated class." Mr.
Laffan decided to make an afternoon appeal to the more multitudinous
audience. Under his inspiration the _Evening Sun_ was established on the
seventeenth day of March, 1887, and it instantly achieved a circulation
of forty thousand--from twice to four times that of its more
conservative competitors.
[Sidenote: The Lure of the World]
A little later an evening edition of the _World_ was established. Its
success at first was small, but Mr. Pulitzer quickly saw the reason
for that. The paper was too closely modeled upon the conservative and
dignified pattern of the established afternoon newspapers. To his
subordinates Mr. Pulitzer said:
"You are making a three-cent newspaper for a one-cent constituency.
I want you to make it a one-cent newspaper."
What further instructions he gave to that end, I have never heard, but
whatever they were they were carried out with a success that seemed to
me to threaten the very existence of such newspapers as the one I was
editing. I was satisfied that if the newspaper under my control was to
survive it must adopt the new methods of journalism, broaden its appeal
to the people, and reduce its price to the "penny" which alone the
people could be expected to pay when the _Evening Sun_ and the _Evening
World_ could be had for that price.
The board of directors of the newspaper could not be induced to take
this view, and just then one of the editors of the _World_, acting for
Mr. Pulitzer, asked me to take luncheon with him. He explained to me
that Mr. Pulitzer wanted an editorial writer and that he--my host--had
been commissioned to engage me in that capacity, if I was open to
engagement. In the end he made me a proposal which I could not put aside
in justice to myself and my family. My relations with Mr. Godwin and his
associates were so cordial, and their treatment of me had been always so
generous, that I could not think of leaving them without their hearty
consent and approval. The summer was approaching, when the members of
the board of directors would go away to their summer homes or to Europe.
The last regular meeting of the board for the season had been held, and
nothing had been done to meet the new conditions of competition. I was
discouraged by the prospect of addressing a steadily diminishing
audience throughout the summer, with the possibility of having no
audience at all to address when the fall should come.
I hastily called the board together in a special meeting. I told them
of the proposal made to me by the _World_ and of my desire to accept
it unless they could be induced to let me adopt the new methods at an
expense much greater than any of the established afternoon newspapers
had ever contemplated, and much greater than my board of directors
was willing to contemplate. I said frankly that without their cordial
consent, I could not quit their service, but that if we were to go on
as before, I earnestly wished to be released from a responsibility that
threatened my health with disaster.
They decided to release me, after passing some very flattering
resolutions, and in early June, 1889, I went to the _World_ as an
editorial writer free from all responsibility for the news management of
the paper, free from all problems of newspaper finance, and free from
the crushing weight of the thought that other men's property interests
to the extent of many hundreds of thousands of dollars were in hourly
danger of destruction by some fault or failure of judgment on my part.
As I rejoiced in this sense of release, I recalled what James R. Osgood,
one of the princes among publishers, had once said to me, and for the
first time I fully grasped his meaning. At some public banquet or
other he and I were seated side by side and we fell into conversation
regarding certain books he had published. They were altogether worthy
books, but their appeal seemed to me to be to so small a constituency
that I could not understand what had induced him to publish them at all.
I said to him:
"I sometimes wonder at your courage in putting your money into the
publication of such books."
He answered:
"That's the smallest part of the matter. Think of my courage in putting
_other people's money_ into their publication!"
It was not long after that that Osgood's enterprises failed, and he
retired from business as a publisher to the sorrow of every American who
in any way cared for literature.
[Sidenote: The Little Dinner to Osgood]
When Osgood went to London as an agent of the Harpers, some of us gave
him a farewell dinner, for which Thomas Nast designed the menu cards.
When these were passed around for souvenir autographs, Edwin A. Abbey
drew upon each, in connection with his signature, a caricature of
himself which revealed new possibilities in his genius--possibilities
that have come to nothing simply because Mr. Abbey has found a better
use for his gifts than any that the caricaturist can hope for. But those
of us who were present at that little Osgood dinner still cherish our
copies of the dinner card on which, with a few strokes of his pencil,
Abbey revealed an unsuspected aspect of his genius. In view of the
greatness of his more serious work, we rejoice that he went no further
than an after-dinner jest, in the exercise of his gift of caricature.
Had he given comic direction to his work, he might have become a
Hogarth, perhaps; as it is, he is something far better worth while--he
is Abbey.
LXV
I shall write comparatively little here of the eleven years I remained
in the service of the _World_. The experience is too recent to constitute
a proper subject of freehand reminiscence. My relations with Mr. Pulitzer
were too closely personal, too intimate, and in many ways too
confidential to serve a purpose of that kind.
But of the men with whom my work on the _World_ brought me into contact,
I am free to write. So, too, I am at liberty, I think, to relate certain
dramatic happenings that serve to illustrate the Napoleonic methods
of modern journalism and certain other things, not of a confidential
nature, which throw light upon the character, impulses, and methods of
the man whose genius first discovered the possibilities of journalism
and whose courage, energy, and extraordinary sagacity have made of those
possibilities accomplished facts.
It has been more than ten years since my term of service on the _World_
came to an end, but it seems recent to me, except when I begin counting
up the men now dead who were my fellow-workmen there.
I did not personally know Mr. Pulitzer when I began my duties on the
_World_. He was living in Europe then, and about to start on a long
yachting cruise. John A. Cockerill was managing editor and in control
of the paper, subject, of course, to daily and sometimes hourly
instructions from Paris by cable. For, during my eleven years of service
on the _World_, I never knew the time when Mr. Pulitzer did not himself
actively direct the conduct of his paper wherever he might be. Even when
he made a yachting voyage as far as the East Indies, his hand remained
always on the helm in New York.
[Sidenote: John A. Cockerill]