Jonathan and His Continent Part 16

_Ruptures_;

_Marriages_;

_Divorces and Separations_;

_Deaths_.

It was the whole comedy of life.

What a pity the American papers cannot have reporters in the other world to note the _entries into Paradise_, and _descents into h.e.l.l_!

_Ten minutes' stoppage in Purgatory_ would be very crisp and effective.

Compared with the French and English papers, the American dailies have neither the literary value of the former nor the authority of the latter in the matter of political foreign news.

The French newspapers are most of them literary productions of incontestable worth; but, with the exception of one or two leading articles, and the literary, musical, and dramatic criticisms, nothing very serious in the way of information is to be found in them. The foreign intelligence is of the most meagre, and usually consists of a few lines furnished by _L'agence Havas_: "The Emperor of Germany is a little better," or "Queen Victoria has returned to Windsor from Scotland," etc.

Mr. George Augustus Sala once said very wittily that the French papers bear the date of to-morrow and the news of yesterday. The satire is a little severe, but it is not unmerited. He might, however, have taken that opportunity for reminding his numerous readers that, if the Parisian papers are inferior to the London ones in the matter of news, they are greatly their superiors in the matter of articles. It is true we have no longer among our journalists Roqueplan, Karr, Mery, Janin, Prevost-Paradol, Girardin, Taine, About; but we have still John Lemoinne, Weiss, Sarcey, Rochefort, Wolff, Lockroy, Vacquerie, Scholl, Fouquier, Bergerat, and many others, who offer to the public every morning articles stamped with genius, or, at the least, sparkling with wit; yes, we have still a goodly group of such.

For the intelligent, serious man, the English daily papers have only the attraction of the correctness of their correspondence, home and foreign.

It consists of facts in all their aridity, but still facts. As for the articles, few persons, I fancy, read those productions written, with few exceptions, in the dry, thready, pedagogic style much affected by lower-form schoolboys, and often deserving the favourite comment of the late M. Lemaire, professor at the Lycee Charlemagne: "_Lourd, pateux, delaye dans le vide_."

An American newspaper is a conglomeration of news, political, literary, artistic, scientific, and fashionable, of reports of trials, of amusing anecdotes, gossip of all kinds, interviews, jokes, scandal; the whole written in a style which sometimes shocks the man of taste, but which often interests, and always amuses.

A literary celebrity of Boston said to me one day: "I am ashamed of our American press; we have only two papers in the country that I do not blush for, and those are the Boston _Post_, and the _Evening Post_ of New York.

I must say that, if you want to hear America and everything American severely criticised, you have only to go to Boston. There you will hear Boston and England praised, and America picked to pieces.

"Are you an American?" I once asked of a gentleman I met in New York.

"Well," he said after some hesitation, "I'm from Boston."

Fancy! being born in Boston, and obliged to be an American! That's hard.

The American public is not composed merely of the refined society of Boston and New York, and the press is obliged to cater to the public taste. When the public taste is improved, the newspapers will reform, and everything leads to the belief that the amelioration will not be long coming.

As for political news sent over from Europe, one needs to allow a little margin on what one reads in the American papers; but it is impossible not to praise the activity which animates the press.

Thus, for instance, I was in New York on the day that M. Victorien Sardou brought out _La Tosca_ at the Porte St. Martin. The first representation took place on a Sat.u.r.day. The next morning, my newspaper gave me a most complete a.n.a.lytical description of the performance in two columns. That is to say, the Americans were able to read the details of Sarah Bernhardt's latest triumph earlier than the inhabitants of Lyons or Ma.r.s.eilles, who had to wait for the Paris papers.

Thanks to their journalism, the Americans have at least an idea of what is going on in Europe: they know our new plays, they read our new books, they are kept informed of every event, just as if they were neighbours.

And how is it possible, I repeat, not to say a good word for a journalism which knows how to excite, as well as satisfy, the curiosity of a great people?

Go and ask the first hundred Frenchmen you meet in the streets of Paris what is the name of the President of the United States, you will find ninety-nine of them unable to tell you. The Frenchman is exclusive to the point of stupidity, and that which is not French possesses no interest for him. Enveloped in this exclusiveness, he knows nothing: in the matter of foreign questions, he is the most ignorant being in the world; and French journalism, obliged to study his tastes, serves him with nothing but French dishes.

You must visit the offices of the great New York papers in the evening, if you would get an idea of these colossal enterprises. There you see about fifty reporters with their news all ready for print in their hands. Each one in turn pa.s.ses before the heads of the various departments, political, literary, dramatic, etc.

"What have you?" asks an editor of the first reporter who presents himself.

"An interview with Sarah Bernhardt."

"Very good. Half a column. And what have you?" he says, turning to the second.

"A report of John Smith, the banker's case."

"Right. One column. And you?"

"I have an account of the President's forthcoming journey to the South."

When all the reporters have pa.s.sed, they go to another room to reduce their articles to the required length. Over six hundred correspondents, scattered all over the globe, send in their telegrams[9] by special wire for the most part; and the conversation, which we have just overheard in the office, begins again, this time with Washington, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, Paris, London, Berlin, &c.

[9] I have seen, in American papers, European telegrams of 2,000 and even 3,000 words--at sixpence a word.

"What have you for us this evening?" says the editor to his correspondent in Berlin.

"Bismarck threatens to send in his resignation."

"One column."

"Boulanger has just received an ovation at Lille. A riot is feared in Paris," wires the Paris correspondent.

"Capital! send two columns."

"A scandal in Rome. The Marchioness of N. has run away with her husband's secretary."

"Good. Where are they gone?"

"No one knows."

"No matter. Send a good stirring column all the same."

"What's-his-name, the financier, has made off," ticks the wire from Chicago.

"A column. Send report, and start on scent of the fugitive."

When the telegraph has ceased ticking, and the crowd of reporters have departed, the chief editor, like a ship's captain, the last to leave the deck, works on. He reads over everything--yes, everything; sifts, corrects, cuts down, adds to, puts all in order, and towards two o'clock in the morning gives the order to print, and goes home.

But once more all this is nothing. It is in the Sunday's issue that you have the crowning feat of journalistic enterprise: thirty or thirty-two pages of telegrams, articles, essays on politics, the drama, literature, pictures, the fashions, anecdotes, _bons mots_, interviews, stories for children, poetry, biographies, chats on science, the whole ill.u.s.trated with portraits, sketches of interesting places mentioned in the text, caricatures, etc. All this for the sum of three halfpence.

And this is not all. How send these mammoth newspapers throughout the different States of the Union? How? Oh, that is very simple. The _New York World_ and the _New York Herald_ have special trains. Tell me if it is not enough to take one's breath away. But, you will ask, how can a paper publish such a number for three halfpence? From thirty to forty columns of advertis.e.m.e.nts, such is the solution of the mystery.

I admire several large papers, notably the _New York Herald_, which put their immense publicity at the disposition of lean purses. Persons in want of servants, for example, have to pay 25 cents. a line for advertising; but male servants in search of a situation only pay 10 cents. a line, and women 5 cents. This is philanthropy of the right sort, chivalrous philanthropy.