Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Four-and-twenty hours in a newspaper office - I
FOUR AND TWENTY HOURS IN A NEWSPAPER OFFICE.
The interest created by a newspaper is hardly confined to a perusal of its pages. After we have devoured the motley contents of its voluminous columns, and drunk in the excitement of its serried lines of print, there comes a pause—and in that pause we naturally turn to the marvellous phenomenon of its production. Reflect for a moment what this mighty broadsheet means; what it represents; what a graphic picture it is of “moving incidents by flood and field,” how truly it describes events that are taking place in every quarter of the world; how it chronicles the deeds of governments and the actions of individuals; how it is moist with the tears of the mourner, and bright with the joy of the happy; how it toils for the banker and the merchant; how it sits in judgment on Justice herself; how it stereotypes our social and criminal life; how it becomes the mirror in which mankind in every region of the globe is faithfully reflected,—and the greatness of its character, the extent of its influence, the magnitude of its labours will be understood and appreciated. This sheet of news which but an hour before was a blank piece of paper, a tabula rasa, becomes, by a magic more potent than any read of in the Arabian Nights or tales of fairy romance, covered with the hieroglyphics of the alphabet, which being interpreted, reveal to the reading public the mighty doings of this vast world of ours.
And what is the machinery by which this great result is obtained? Let us step into the office of the Daily Argus and Universal Recorder, and we may perchance learn something. The building is not very inviting; but what of that? It has the air of a factory; the stairs are dirty, the walls once whitewashed are no longer white; there is a smell of oil, and every now and then a rumble of wheels and rollers—still all this is but of small account. Open this door, it is the Editor’s room. It is spacious and lofty, well lighted, and lined with shelves filled with works of reference; there may be found “Hansard’s Debates” for half a century back; biographies and histories; the speeches of distinguished parliamentary speakers; memoirs of eminent statesmen and diplomatists; volumes of statistics containing the populations of every country in the world, with the revenues, customs returns and forms of government; peerages and baronetages; army, navy, and clergy lists; parliamentary and general directories, not to speak of gazetteers and dictionaries without number which give the dates of events and occurrences long ago silent and forgotten. Perhaps a Blue Book or an official report may be lying on the table. It has been brought from that side room or closet around which are ranged in goodly order the records of the labours of our Legislature for years past.
Having ushered you into this stately room, allow me to introduce you to the gentleman in the arm-chair. His hair is thin and grey; he is slightly round-shouldered, and stoops even when not sitting; as he looks up you perceive that his face is pale, if not sallow, and his eye is contracted with reading almost illegible manuscript and roods of small type. He is the Editor. At that side-desk is an assistant who opens the voluminous correspondence as it arrives, ascertains what letters are worthless, and what are important, and writes the contents of each upon the back. In this room are received the higher class of callers who seek an interview with the “potentate in the arm-chair,”—merchants with special views and facts connected with trade and navigation; members of parliament riding their own hobbies; clergymen with pet schemes on still more petted grievances; barristers burning to amend the law or panting for recorderships, vacant judgeships, and other “small deer” sinecures; officials who think that a word from the pen of the all-powerful and widely-circulated Daily Argus and Universal Recorder would carry their point and civilise mankind—all press in succession up to this throne and pour their plaint into the ear or place their petition in the hand of this editorial Rhadamanthus. He, bland and courteous, listens with more or less gravity of attention as he deems the subject brought before him of public moment. When, however, he thinks the visitor trivial and tedious, he quietly dismisses him by a civil gesture of impatience, an allusion to the pressure of engagements, and a touch of the American bell which lies by his side on the table.
Before the hour, however, for admitting this miscellaneous throng of visitors has arrived, essential work has been despatched. The correspondence has been glanced through,—in some instances carefully read,—the morning papers have been examined, and notes made of any important intelligence they contain, or remarkable views enunciated. But the Editor does not examine these papers with a view to find out what they contain alone. Great is the glee of the Daily Argus if the Matutinal Medley or the Auroral Agitator has omitted an important item of home news or failed to enlighten with equal lucidity its portion of the reading public on the mysterious proceedings of a foreign government. On the other hand, should the A. A. or the M. M. be first in the intelligence-market, deep is the grief of the Editor. Here is food for lamentation, indeed, for the reputation of the Daily Argus is seriously menaced. Presently, however, a calm comes over the editorial nerves, and the work of the office falls back into its ordinary grooves.
The most important hour of the four-and-twenty is probably that when the council of leader-writers meets, and the topics of the day are gravely discussed, with a view to their eventual treatment. What subjects shall be selected? What pen shall comment upon them? This is matter of no slight importance. Occasionally the day teems with a plenitude of matter, and then little is the trouble of selection; but this is not always the case, and the editor and his council have to rack their brains to find the necessary complement. The American war and the Polish question are standard dishes which can be réchauffé à discrétion, the arrival of each mail furnishing fresh sauce to make repetition palatable. Mexico and Brazil, like Schleswig-Holstein, and Scandinavian unity, are delicate and cloudy topics, and can only be used at discreet intervals. Parliament ought to be a rich mine, but now-a-days it is nearly “all talk and no work,” so that it affords really little that is practical and profitable for the pen of conscientious patriotism to dilate upon. Besides, the Legislature sits but half the year. Society kindly offers a few subjects; but then they usually turn up in the wrong places—in the police courts or the higher judicial tribunals. Railway accidents, aristocratic escapades, official boards, metropolitan improvements, church extension, ill-judged clerical preferment, nepotism in exalted places, street obstructions, the weather, the crops, the harvest, the national revenue returns, garotting, or an execution, all are good in their turn, though, like pumpkins, they soon grow stale. For effect, however, commend me to a thumping grievance, or a shameless scandal. The world grows mad with excitement to hear the naughty doings of naughty people described, and a column of fierce invective against an unfortunate delinquent, be he peasant or prince, peer, commoner, merchant, clerk or artisan, is read with an avidity that would be incredible did not the ledgers of the publisher reveal the truth. All these things the editor and his council have to bear in mind whilst catering for the public appetite. To them belongs a grave responsibility, and they are not unmindful of it. They select those subjects which tend best to inform the public mind and guide the public taste, whilst the entertainment of their readers is not overlooked. When a topic has been chosen, it is not left to the caprice of the individual writer to treat it in any random way he may please. It is thoroughly discussed, viewed in all its various phases, weighed in the balance, twisted round and round, and when it is maturely considered, and not till then, the line of argument is laid down, and, in fact, the general form and scope of the article arranged. To the skill and imagination of the writer entrusted with each text, is left the task of embodying in his own language, and giving life and colour to, the principles to be enunciated, the policy to be advocated. When this has been settled, the council breaks up, and the literary athletes depart, each to his own place, to prepare “copy” for the printer.
Whilst the editor has been holding this important parliament, the sub-editor has, on his part, not been idle. The mass of papers he has to examine and arrange far exceeds that of his chief, and no small judgment is required to determine what shall be retained and what shall be destroyed. Look at that heap of papers. Surprise is often expressed that an editor should be able to fill his forty or fifty columns with such unvarying punctuality, morning after morning. “Whence can he find matter?” it is asked. Look again at that mass of flimsy. The real difficulty is what to do with it all. In the law reports alone, supplied by short-hand writers specially appointed to the duty of describing the proceedings of our tribunals of justice, there is enough, probably, to fill two-thirds of the newspaper. Then there are the cases in the Police and Bankruptcy Courts to be given, as well as the Stock Exchange and Shipping business matters to be recorded. Sporting has become so thoroughly an English institution that intelligence under this head cannot be neglected. We do not allude solely to horse-racing or steeple-chasing; we have our cricket-matches, and our pedestrian matches, matches at racket, and now must be included matches at swimming, all of which have been enthusiastically adopted by the British public, who will have an account of yesterday’s play, come what may. Nor must we forget our gallant body of volunteers, who look every morning in the daily press for the chronicle of their latest doings. All of this intelligence has to appear daily, or the grumblings of the reader would make themselves unmistakably heard, and even felt.
But how is it all to be given? That is the question—that is the Gordian Knot, and had not the sub-editor nerves of steel, and a cool head, he would faint whilst contemplating this labyrinth of matter. It has, however, all to be cut down, condensed, arranged, and put into form for the compositors. None of the information can be omitted; all must go in. By diligent industry, and a judicious procrustean process, that formidable mass is reduced to order, and appears next morning in an agreeable and comprehensible form, for the delectation and instruction of the public. Little do the uninitiated know the labour that is expended in providing for them their regular pabulum of morning news!
I have not, however, yet exhausted the perplexities which besiege the indefatigable sub-editor. What he has already achieved is comparatively speaking smooth and pleasant work. In addition to this daily accumulation of news—the stream of which is constant as the rise and fall of the tide, and as inexorable—flow in occasional freshets of intelligence. They sweep in like the Bore of the Ganges, and all must be made straight for their reception. It may be a grand political banquet, or a dog and cattle show, or a volunteer review, or a Wimbledon rifle-match, or the tour of the future majesties of England through the country, or an agricultural meeting, or the funeral of some distinguished warrior or statesman. Each of these important events has to be elaborately and picturesquely described, and special gentlemen, fluent with their pen, and capable of writing a glowing narrative, have to be despatched in order that the journal-reader may have every particular circumstance and incident detailed for his special gratification. For the elaborate and brilliant reports of these our contemporary Froissarts space must be found, however jammed and crammed the columns of the Daily Argus may previously have been. It would be as much as his place is worth for our friend the sub-editor—and he is a plodding, hard-working, manœuvring fellow indeed—to keep out so important and interesting a morceau of news. So the hydraulic pressure is again applied, and the graphic account of “our special correspondent” appears next morning in clear and unmistakable bourgeois type, realising for the world and his wife the scene as vividly and faithfully as though they themselves had been present on the spot.
Leaving the sub-editor in his room half-smothered in a mass of correspondence and flimsy, sometimes tearing his hair in an agony of desperation and confusion, let us go abroad for awhile and visit the various stations of that large army of purveyors of mental pabulum for the public who are ever and everywhere on the alert to collect and send in the “very latest” news. It is a widely-scattered army, and may be found in greater or less detachments in every continent and country of the habitable globe. For our purpose, however, we will divide them into the Home and Foreign Legions,—the Household Troops, and those which may be despatched on distant service. These, again, may be subdivided into the regulars and irregulars, the Guards and Bashi-Bazouks of journalism.
We will first describe those at home—those, for example, who labour within the precincts of the metropolis. The regulars, however, must take precedence of the irregulars, a force not unknown to fame under the title of “penny-a-liners.” Foremost in the ranks we place that learned and industrious body, the Parliamentary corps. Theirs is no easy task. During the hottest working time of the session the House meets at four and sits on till one, two, and sometimes three o’clock in the morning—the business of the nation has been known to have been protracted till four o’clock, long after daylight has appeared. Of course the toil and labour of the Parliamentary staff are not in all cases the same. It stands to reason, moreover, that there is more or less difficulty in taking down the speeches according to the peculiarities of the speakers. Some deliver their ideas fast; others slow; others indistinctly; some, on the contrary, are loud yet not plain, whilst some absolutely stutter over their sentences, so that it is next to impossible to catch their meaning. Lord Palmerston addresses the House in a quiet and familiar manner, and is easy to follow; Earl Russell is slow and deliberate, weighing each word carefully as though it were gold; Gladstone is fluent as a swift-flowing stream; Bright comes next to Gladstone in rapidity and smoothness. Disraeli dashes headlong like a torrent when the spirit of invective is strong upon him, and gives trouble. Again, some journals have a more numerous corps than others; in fact, the proportion averages from six to sixteen. According to the numerical force of each corps, therefore, the hours are divided, some turns being only for a quarter of an hour, others for half an hour, an hour, and even an hour and a half. As soon as the “quarter of an hour” is up, the reporter retires, and from his short-hand notes writes out what has been addressed to the House during his turn. Much, however, is left to his discretion. He is not required to “write out” every member in full. According to the importance of the speaker and the subject of debate, he gives a verbatim report, or condenses the whole speech. Ministers, leading men in the House, and the chief of the Opposition, are not only given, as a rule, verbatim, but are accorded the dignity of “the great I.” The orations of less influential members are reported in the third person, and not a few insignificant speakers are only mentioned as having spoken. It is on sufferance alone, however, that reporters are allowed in the Chambers of the Legislature, notwithstanding that a special gallery for their accommodation has been erected; any member can clear the House of strangers at any moment he pleases. But the “parliamentary reports” have become an institution of the country, and one of the “representatives of the people” would as soon think of interfering with the publication of these reports as he would of proposing to pay the National Debt out of his own purse. Occasionally, indeed, a member does feel irritated at some apparent neglect, becomes cantankerous, and makes a wild effort to punish the press by suspending this privilege. But it is the serpent biting the file; the only notice taken of his spite is to omit his name altogether from the debates. This touches the indignant member to the quick, but sooner or later he falls on his knees before the Gallery, as penitent and humble as a prisoner at the bar of the House.
In our Law and Police Courts may be seen, sitting in a privileged compartment, a busy penman taking down notes of the proceedings. This person is likewise preparing copy for the press. He is generally a barrister not overburthened with briefs, who is glad to eke out an uncertain income by “just doing a little reporting.” As a rule, he receives a weekly stipend, and, with one or two exceptions, is in the service of three or four journals, receiving a limited salary from each. He writes upon very thin prepared paper with a pencil also specially adapted to the paper, and is thus enabled to produce six or seven copies of his reports at once. This saves time, labour, and expense. Amongst the other members of the regular force may be enumerated the persons who watch the transactions of the city—the operations of the Bank and the Stock Exchange, Mining Matters, the Coal, Corn, Sugar, Tea, and Tallow Markets, &c., as well as that important and somewhat mysterious individual who peers into the private movements of royalty, and is known to the public as the “Court Newsman.”
During the session of Parliament, when space is valuable, the “Penny-a-liner” finds it difficult to subsist, though such is his art, that he seldom fails to “send in” something true and acceptable. But when Parliament rises and autumn commences, he gathers in a rich harvest. The “Sea Serpent,” a “shower of frogs,” “four-at-a-birth,” “people consumed by spontaneous combustion,” “marvellous escapes,” and no less “marvellous rescues,” “awfully sudden deaths,” “wonderful escapes,” “curious travels,” &c., form the stock-in-trade of these gentry, and vigorously they ply their pen, and this in additon to the legitimate business of real accidents and events which they can honestly record. Not the least active amongst them, however, is the Fire-reporter. This is not a chance individual, created on the spot by the catastrophe. He is as well known as the turncock of the parish, and is recognised by the engine-drivers as they rattle along the streets, and is taken up along with them to give a full, true, and particular account of each “terrible calamity.” This is his prerogative, and one would as soon think of an attempt to oust the sweep from his crossing, as the fire-reporter from his berth.
Next, as to the Foreign Correspondents, and “Our Special.” Where are they not to be found? In Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and that fifth quarter of the world, our Antipodes, there they are more than gleaners, plodding away to pick up information for the reader of the “Daily Argus” and his contemporaries. Cast an eye over the map, fix upon one great city, and it would be difficult to say that a correspondent is not there. In Paris and Berlin; at Athens and Alexandria; in India, China, Australia, and New Zealand; in New York and California, Chili and Peru; wherever the track of British commerce and British interests is to be followed, there this indefatigable “servitor of the public” may be found, noting down facts and opinions for the benefit and entertainment of his fellow-countrymen.
In most of the capitals of Europe he is as well known as the ambassador himself. In fact, the duties of the two are closely analogous. The object of the one is to keep his government au courant with the political aspect of affairs in that country to which he is accredited; of the other, to acquaint the public with precisely the same information. It not unfrequently happens, too, that the “journalist” is the better man, and can send home a more authentic and more reliable picture of the state of matters. Lord M., or Sir N. N., is raised too high, lives in too official an atmosphere, mixes too much with notables and politicians of one stamp, to obtain the best means of judging of the truth. His vision is too circumscribed by the gilt and velvet barriers of the court for him to be able to estimate justly the opinions of the nation. The views which a minister wishes him to receive are so strewed in his path, that he cannot resist the temptation of accepting them as gospel. “Our Correspondent,” on the other hand, takes a wider range, learns of the masses, and is thus in a position to correct the erroneous impressions of the ambassador. He has the entrée not unfrequently of the sanctum sanctorum of ministers, and moves in the highest society of the land. Where he is not on intimate terms with cabinet councillors themselves, he is generally acquainted with under-secretaries and officials who let him into the secrets of the Government, and enable him to warn the world while yet there is time. As one of the people, again, he dwells amongst and sympathises with them. They are not afraid to lay bare their hearts before him; they pour their grievances into his ears; they give him their opinions of the state of the country; they regard him as their friend; and whether it be on matters of politics or religion, of art or commerce, of government or of justice, they desire reform, they know that he will be their best advocate and coadjutor; they consequently look up to him as the Mercury who can proclaim their wants, not only with impunity but with effect. His person is sacred, and he can say what he likes and write what he likes without fear of arrest or domiciliary visits from the police.
An important person is “our own correspondent” if he has the tact to use his position and opportunities well; if he has the judgment to lay their true price upon the various pieces of information he gathers; if he knows how to discharge impartially the duties entrusted to him. On very extraordinary occasions, however, “our special” is despatched to aid “Our Own.” Like the staff of plenipotentiaries in the diplomatic world, this corps de reserve is seldom drawn upon. A royal visit of any moment, the trial trip of a war-ship constructed on a new principle, any grand and exciting event about to take place at home or abroad, would warrant the despatch of a “special,” and like Lord Clyde or Sir Charles Napier, they are ready to set out at an hour’s notice. But the occasion which tests their powers of intelligence and endurance most is the breaking out of a war. The difficulties, not to say the dangers, they have to encounter would daunt a less bold and enterprising race of civilians. They face equally with the army the perils of the campaign; they run the risk of being shot or taken prisoners; they have to rough it like their belted comrades; they are familiar with hunger and thirst, fatigue, and exhaustion, and often whilst the weary private sleeps by the side of his rifle, “Our Special” is writing the description of a battle just fought, after having been scouring the field the whole day watching the movements of the various divisions, and eagerly listening to the accounts of those who had been engaged, in order that he might make his narrative more complete and graphic by introducing personal as well as general incidents of the struggle. Thus amid the smoke and confusion, the blood and groans of the scene of carnage, he sits down to write, perhaps on the head of a broken drum, his hurried despatches. The narratives of “our special” at the Crimean campaign, in the Italian war, and during the terrible rebellion in India, will remain a monument to their cool intrepidity, no less than their great erudition and masterly descriptive powers. At the present moment in the woods and wilds of Poland, and with the armies of the North and South in America, is to be found “our special correspondent.” His is no tranquil labour; he has to write, and does write, in the teeth of obloquy and real peril, and were it not that the ægis of British sovereignty is thrown over him, his very life would be frequently endangered.
Returning, however, from this long flight, let us once more enter the rooms of the sub-editor and his chief. It is 10 p.m. The latter is still where we left him in the morning; but how differently engaged. He is poring over long thin strips—mere ribbons of printed matter, and mercilessly does he drive his pen in amongst these serried columns of words. For every expression in these columns he is responsible. They contain the opinions of the “Daily Argus,” and are supposed to represent the opinions of the most powerful section of the political world outside. Again are they read, corrected, and re-corrected. Not a single epithet is allowed to remain which is likely to compromise the views of the paper; anything that savours of a libel is rigorously struck out; the exuberant humour of each writer is chastened down to comport better with the sober taste of the public. When these alterations and improvements have been achieved, and the style and substance of each leader have passed the ordeal of an unflinching criticism, the “proofs” are sent up to the compositors. Even then the editorial labours are not concluded; ten to one but he takes to nibbling his pen once more and subjects the “revises” to the same surgical operations which the proofs have already undergone.
The sub-editor, no less than his chief, has before him an herculean toil. He has that mass of matter which we have seen pouring into him from every point of the compass to arrange for the hands of the printer. But he has still to be on his guard. At the last moment a lengthy telegram arrives from America, or Poland; or an Overland Mail unexpectedly comes in; or a statesman dies suddenly, and his biography—which has been lying for months, perhaps for years, in a drawer of the escritoire, waiting, as it were, the death of the great man—must be used that night. Or perhaps the debates in the Lords and Commons have run long, or a dreadful murder has been just committed, or a terrible fire has broken out, and the claims of all these for insertion have to be attended to. By two or three o’clock in the morning, however, he has pretty well terminated his labours for the day, or rather the morning. Having had one or more explanations with the head printer, and given his last instructions, he goes home yawning to bed shortly before other men rise for their ordinary duties.