THE YELLOW PRESS.

If all countries may boast the Press which they deserve, America's

desert is small indeed. No civilised country in the world has been

content with newspapers so grossly contemptible as those which are read

from New York to the Pacific Coast. The journals known as Yellow would

be a disgrace to dusky Timbuctoo, and it is difficult to understand

the state of mind which can tolerate them. Divorced completely from the

world of truth and intelligence, they present nothing which an educated

man would desire to read. They are said to be excluded from clubs and

from respectable houses. But even if this prohibition be a fact, their

proprietors need feel no regret. We are informed by the Yellowest of

Editors that his burning words are read every day by five million men

and women.

What, then, is the aspect and character of these Yellow Journals?

As they are happily strange on our side the ocean, they need some

description. They are ill-printed, over-illustrated sheets, whose end

and aim are to inflame a jaded or insensitive palate. They seem to

address the blind eye and the sluggish mind of the halfwitted. The

wholly unimportant information which they desire to impart is not

conveyed in type of the ordinary shape and size. The "scare" headlines

are set forth in letters three inches in height. It is as though the

editors of these sheets are determined to exhaust your attention. They

are not content to tell you that this or that inapposite event has taken

place. They pant, they shriek, they yell. Their method represents the

beating of a thousand big drums, the blare of unnumbered trumpets, the

shouted blasphemies of a million raucous throats. And if, with all this

noise dinning in your ear, you are persuaded to read a Yellow sheet,

which is commonly pink in colour, you are grievously disappointed. The

thing is not even sensational. Its "scare" headlines do but arouse a

curiosity which the "brightest and brainiest" reporter in the United

States is not able to satisfy.

Of what happens in the great world you will find not a trace in the

Yellow Journals. They betray no interest in politics, in literature,

or in the fine arts. There is nothing of grave importance which can be

converted into a "good story." That a great man should perform a great

task is immaterial. Noble deeds make no scandal, and are therefore not

worth reporting. But if you can discover that the great man has a hidden

vice, or an eccentric taste in boots or hats, there is "copy" ready to

your hand. All things and all men must be reduced to a dead level of

imbecility. The Yellow Press is not obscene--it has not the courage for

that. Its proud boast is that it never prints a line that a father might

not read to his daughter. It is merely personal and impertinent. No

one's life is secure from its spies. No privacy is sacred. Mr Stead's

famous ideal of an ear at every keyhole is magnificently realised in

America. A hundred reporters are ready, at a moment's notice, to invade

houses, to uncover secrets, to molest honest citizens with indiscreet

questions. And if their victims are unwilling to respond, they pay for

it with public insult and malicious invention. Those who will not bow to

the common tyrant of the Press cannot complain if words are ascribed

to them which they never uttered, if they are held guilty of deeds from

which they would shrink in horror. Law and custom are alike powerless

to fight this tyranny, which is the most ingenious and irksome form of

blackmail yet invented.

The perfect newspaper, if such were possible, would present to its

readers a succinct history of each day as it passes. It would weigh with

a scrupulous hand the relative importance of events. It would give to

each department of human activity no more than its just space. It would

reduce scandal within the narrow limits which ought to confine it. Under

its wise auspices murder, burglary, and suicide would be deposed from

the eminence upon which an idle curiosity has placed them. Those strange

beings known as public men would be famous not for what their wives wear

at somebody else's "At Home," but for their own virtues and attainments.

The foolish actors and actresses, who now believe themselves the masters

of the world, would slink away into _entrefilets_ on a back page. The

perfect newspaper, in brief, would resemble a Palace of Truth, in

which deceit was impossible and vanity ridiculous. It would crush the

hankerers after false reputations, it would hurl the foolish from the

mighty seats which they try to fill, and it would present an invaluable

record to future generations.

What picture of its world does the Yellow Press present? A picture of

colossal folly and unpardonable indiscretion. If there be a museum which

preserves these screaming sheets, this is the sort of stuff which in

two thousand years will puzzle the scholars: "Mrs Jones won't admit

Wedding," "Millionaires Bet on a Snake Fight," "Chicago Church Girl

Accuses Millionaire," "Athletics make John D. forget his Money." These

are a few pearls hastily strung together, and they show what jewels of

intelligence are most highly prized by the Greatest Democracy on earth.

Now and again the editor takes his readers into his confidence and asks

them to interfere in the affairs of persons whom they will never know.

Here, for instance, is a characteristic problem set by an editor whose

knowledge of his public exceeds his respect for the decencies of life:

"What Mrs Washington ought to do. Her husband Wall Street Broker. Got

tired of Her and Deserted. But Mrs Washington, who still loves him

dearly, Is determined to win him back. And here is the Advice of the

Readers of this Journal." Is it not monstrous--this interference with

the privacy of common citizens? And yet this specimen has an air of

dignity compared with the grosser exploits of the hired eavesdropper.

Not long since there appeared in a Sunday paper a full list, with

portraits and biographies, of all the ladies in New York who are

habitual drunkards. From which it is clear that the law of libel has

sunk into oblivion, and that the cowhide is no longer a useful weapon.

The disastrous effect upon the people of such a Press as I have

described is obvious. It excites the nerves of the feeble, it presents a

hideously false standard of life, it suggests that nobody is secure from

the omnipotent eavesdropper, and it preaches day after day at the top

of its husky voice the gospel of snobbishness. But it is not merely the

public manners which it degrades; it does its best to hamper the proper

administration of the law. In America trial by journalism has long

supplemented, and goes far to supplant, trial by jury. If a murder be

committed its detection is not left to the officers of the police. A

thousand reporters, cunning as monkeys, active as sleuth-hounds, are on

the track. Whether it is the criminal that they pursue or an innocent

man is indifferent to them. Heedless of injustice, they go in search of

"copy." They interrogate the friends of the victim, and they uncover

the secrets of all the friends and relatives he may have possessed. They

care not how they prejudice the public mind, or what wrong they do to

innocent men. If they make a fair trial impossible, it matters not. They

have given their tired readers a new sensation; they have stimulated

gossip in a thousand tenement houses; justice may fall in ruins so

long as they sell another edition. And nobody protests against their

unbridled licence, not even when they have made it an affair of the

utmost difficulty and many weeks to empanel an unprejudiced jury.

The greatest opportunity of the Yellow Press came when a Mr H. K. Thaw

murdered an accomplished architect. The day after the murder the trial

began in the newspapers, and it was "run as a serial" for months. The

lives of the murderer and his victim were uncovered with the utmost

effrontery. The character of the dead man was painted in the blackest

colours by cowards, who knew that they were beyond the reach of

vengeance. The murderer's friends and kinsmen were compelled to pay

their tribute to the demon of publicity. The people was presented

with plans of the cell in which the man Thaw was imprisoned, while

photographs of his wife and his mother were printed day after day that

a silly mob might note the effect of anguish on the human countenance.

And, not content with thus adorning the tale, the journals were eloquent

in pointing the moral. Sentimental spinsters were invited to warn the

lady typewriters of America that death and ruin inevitably overtake the

wrongdoer. Stern-eyed clergymen thought well to anticipate justice in

sermons addressed to erring youth. Finally, _a plébiscite_ decided, by

2 to 1, that Thaw should immediately be set free. And when you remember

the arrogant tyranny of the Yellow Journals, you are surprised that at

the mere sound of the people's voice the prison doors did not instantly

fly open.

We have been told, as though it were no more than a simple truth, that

the Yellow Press--the journals owned by Mr Hearst--not merely made the

Spanish-American War, but procured the assassination of Mr M'Kinley. The

statement seems incredible, because it is difficult to believe that such

stuff as this should have any influence either for good or evil. The

idle gossip and flagrant scandal which are its daily food do not appear

to be efficient leaders of opinion. But it is the Editorial columns

which do the work of conviction, and they assume an air of gravity

which may easily deceive the unwary. And their gravity is the natural

accompaniment of scandal. There is but a slender difference between

barbarity and senti-mentalism. The same temper which delights in reading

of murder and sudden death weeps with anguish at the mere hint of

oppression. No cheek is so easily bedewed by the unnecessary tear as

the cheek of the ruffian--and those who compose the "editorials" for Mr

Hearst's papers have cynically realised this truth. They rant and they

cant and they argue, as though nothing but noble thoughts were permitted

to lodge within the poor brains of their readers. Their favourite gospel

is the gospel of Socialism. They tell the workers that the world is

their inalienable inheritance, that skill and capital are the snares of

the evil one, and that nothing is worth a reward save manual toil. They

pretend for a moment to look with a kindly eye upon the Trusts, because,

when all enterprises and industries are collected into a small compass,

the people will have less trouble in laying hands upon them. In brief,

they teach the supreme duty of plunder with all the _staccato_ eloquence

at their command. For the man whose thrift and energy have helped him

to success they have nothing but contempt. They cannot think of the

criminal without bursting into tears. And, while they lay upon the rich

man the guilty burden of his wealth, they charge the community with

the full responsibility for the convict's misfortune. Such doctrines,

cunningly taught, and read day after day by the degenerate and

unrestrained, can only have one effect, and that effect, no doubt, the

"editorials" of the Yellow Press will some day succeed in producing.

The result is, of course, revolution, and revolution is being carefully

and insidiously prepared after the common fashion. Not a word is left

unsaid that can flatter the criminal or encourage the thriftless. Those

who are too idle to work but not too idle to read the Sunday papers are

told that it will be the fault of their own inaction, not of the Yellow

Press, if they do not some day lay violent hands upon the country's

wealth. And when they are tired of politics the Yellow Editors turn to

popular philosophy or cheap theology for the solace of their public. To

men and women excited by the details of the last murder they discourse

of the existence of God in short, crisp sentences,--and I know not which

is worse, the triviality of the discourse or its inappositeness. They

preface one of their most impassioned exhortations with the words: "If

you read this, you will probably think you have wasted time." Though

this might with propriety stand for the motto of all the columns of all

Mr Hearst's journals, here it is clearly used in the same hope which

inspires the sandwichman to carry on his front the classic legend:

"Please do not look on my back." But what is dearest to the souls of

these editors is a mean commonplace. One leader, which surely had a

triumphant success, is headed, "What the Bar-tender Sees." And the

exordium is worthy so profound a speculation. "Did you ever stop to

think," murmurs the Yellow philosopher, "of all the strange beings that

pass before him?" There's profundity for you! There's invention! Is it

wonderful that five million men and women read these golden words, or

others of a like currency, every day?

And politics, theology, and philosophy are all served up in the same

thick sauce of sentiment. The "baby" seems to play a great part in the

Yellow morality. One day you are told, "A baby can educate a man"; on

another you read, "Last week's baby will surely talk some day," and you

are amazed, as at a brilliant discovery. And you cannot but ask: To whom

are these exhortations addressed? To children or to idiots? The grown

men and women of the United States, can hardly regard such poor twaddle

as this with a serious eye. And what of the writers? How can they

reconcile their lofty tone, which truly is above suspicion, with the

shameful sensationalism of their news-columns? They know not the meaning

of sincerity. If they really believed that "a baby can educate a man,"

they would suppress their reporters. In short, they are either blind

or cynical. From these alternatives there is no escape, and for their

sakes, as well as for America's, I hope they write with their tongue in

their cheeks.

The style of the Yellow Journals is appropriate to their matter. The

headlines live on and by the historic present; the text is as bald as

a paper of statistics. It is the big type that does the execution. The

"story" itself, to use the slang of the newspaper, is seldom either

humorous or picturesque. Bare facts and vulgar incidents are enough for

the public, which cares as little for wit as for sane writing. One fact

only can explain the imbecility of the Yellow Press: it is written for

immigrants, who have but an imperfect knowledge of English, who prefer

to see their news rather than to read it, and who, if they must read,

can best understand words of one syllable and sentences of no more than

five words.

For good or evil, America has the sole claim to the invention of

the Yellow Press. It came, fully armed, from the head of its first

proprietor, It owes nothing to Europe, nothing to the traditions of

its own country. It grew out of nothing, and, let us hope, it will soon

disappear into nothingness. The real Press of America was rather red

than yellow. It had an energy and a character which still exist in some

more reputable sheets, and which are the direct antithesis of Yellow

sensationalism. The horsewhip and revolver were as necessary to its

conduct as the pen and inkpot. If the editors of an older and wiser time

insulted their enemies, they were ready to defend themselves, like men.

They did not eavesdrop and betray. They would have scorned to reveal the

secrets of private citizens, even though they did not refrain their hand

from their rivals. Yet, with all their brutality, they were brave and

honourable, and you cannot justly measure the degradation of the Yellow

Press unless you cast your mind a little further back and contemplate

the achievement of another generation.

The tradition of journalism came to America from England. 'The Sun,'

'The Tribune,' and 'The Post,' as wise and trustworthy papers as may be

found on the surface of the globe, are still conscious of their origin,

though they possess added virtues of their own. 'The New York Herald,'

as conducted by James Gordon Bennett the First, modelled its scurrilous

energy upon the Press of our eighteenth century. The influence of Junius

and the pamphleteers was discernible in its columns, and many of

its articles might have been signed by Wilkes himself. But there was

something in 'The Herald' which you would seek in vain in Perry's

'Morning Chronicle,' say, or 'The North Briton,' and that was the

free-and-easy style of the backwoods. Gordon Bennett grasped as well

as any one the value of news. He boarded vessels far out at sea that he

might forestall his rivals. In some respects he was as "yellow" as his

successor, whose great exploit of employing a man convicted of murder

to report the trial of a murderer is not likely to be forgotten. On the

other hand, he set before New York the history of Europe and of European

thought with appreciation and exactitude. He knew the theatre of England

and France more intimately than most of his contemporaries, and he did a

great deal to encourage the art of acting in his own country. Above all

things he was a fighter, both with pen and fist. He had something of

the spirit which in-spired the old mining-camp. "We never saw the man we

feared," he once said, "nor the woman we had not some liking for." That

healthy, if primitive, sentiment breathes in all his works. And his

magnanimity was equal to his courage. "I have no objection to forgive

enemies," he wrote, "particularly after I have trampled them under my

feet." This principle guided his life and his journal, and, while it

gave a superb dash of energy to his style, it put a wholesome fear into

the hearts and heads of his antagonists.

One antagonist there was who knew neither fear nor forgetfulness, and he

attacked Bennett again and again. Bennett returned his blows, and then

made most admirable "copy" of the assault. The last encounter between

the two is so plainly characteristic of Bennett's style that I quote his

description in his own words. "As I was leisurely pursuing my business

yesterday in Wall Street," wrote Bennett, "collecting the information

which is daily disseminated in 'The Herald,' James Watson Webb came up

to me, on the northern side of the street--said something which I could

not hear distinctly, then pushed me down the stone steps leading to one

of the brokers' offices, and commenced fighting with a species of

brutal and demoniac desperation characteristic of a fury. My damage is a

scratch, about three-quarters of an inch in length, on the third finger

of the left hand, which I received from the iron railing I was forced

against, and three buttons torn from my vest, which my tailor will

reinstate for six cents. His loss is a rent from top to bottom of a very

beautiful black coat, which cost the ruffian $40, and a blow in the face

which may have knocked down his throat some of his infernal teeth for

all I know. Balance in my favour $39.94. As to intimidating me, or

changing my course, the thing cannot be done. Neither Webb nor any

other man shall, or can, intimidate me.... I may be attacked, I may be

assailed, I may be killed, I may be murdered, but I will never succumb."

There speaks the true Gordon Bennett, and his voice, though it may be

the voice of a ruffian, is also the voice of a man who is certainly

courageous and is not without humour. It is not from such a tradition as

that, that the Yellow Press emerged. It does not want much pluck to hang

about and sneak secrets. It is the pure negation of humour to preach

Socialism in the name of the criminal and degenerate. To judge America

by this product would be monstrously unfair, but it corresponds perforce

to some baser quality in the cosmopolitans of the United States, and it

cannot be overlooked. As it stands, it is the heaviest indictment of the

popular taste that can be made. There is no vice so mean as impertinent

curiosity, and it is upon this curiosity that the Yellow Press meanly

lives and meanly thrives.

What is the remedy? There is none, unless time brings with it a natural

reaction. It is as desperate a task to touch the Press as to change the

Constitution. The odds against reform are too great. A law to check

the exuberance of newspapers would never survive the attacks of the

newspapers themselves.

Nor is it only in America that reform is necessary. The Press of Europe,

also, has strayed so far from its origins as to be a danger to the

State. In their inception the newspapers were given freedom, that they

might expose and check the corruption and dishonesty of politicians. It

was thought that publicity was the best cure for intrigue. For a while

the liberty of the Press seemed justified. It is justified no longer.

The licence which it assumes has led to far worse evils than those

which it was designed to prevent. In other words, the slave has become

a tyrant, and where is the statesman who shall rid us of this tyranny?

Failure alone can kill what lives only upon popular success, and it

is the old-fashioned, self-respecting journals which are facing ruin.

Prosperity is with the large circulations, and a large circulation is no

test of merit. Success is made neither by honesty nor wisdom. The people

will buy what flatters its vanity or appeals to its folly. And the

Yellow Press will flourish, with its headlines and its vulgarity, until

the mixed population of America has sufficiently mastered the art of

life and the English tongue to demand something better wherewith to

solace its leisure than scandal and imbecility.