Poor British ratepayer! It is to be feared he is easily gulled! But,—to return to the old argument—if he knew “how” to read—really knew,—he would not be so easily taken in, even by the schemes of philanthropy. He would buy his books himself, and among them he might even manage to secure a copy of a very interesting volume published in America, so I am given to understand, which tells us how Carnegie made his millions, and how he sanctioned the action of the Pinkerton police force in firing on his men when they “struck” for higher wages.
Apropos of America and things American, there is just now a pretty little story started in the press on both sides of the water, about British novels and British authors no longer being wanted in the United States. The Children of the Eagle are going to make their fiction themselves. All power to their elbows! But British authors will do themselves no harm by enquiring carefully into this report. It may even pay some of them to send over a private agent on their own behalf to study the American book stores, and take count of the thousands of volumes of British fiction which are selling there “like hot cakes,” to quote a choice expression of Transatlantic slang. It is quite evident that the Children of the Eagle purchase British fiction. It is equally evident that the publishers who cater for the Children of the Eagle are anxious to get British fiction cheap, and are doing this little deal of the “No demand” business from an acute sense of urgency. It is all right, of course! If I were an American publisher and had to pay large prices to popular British authors for popular British fiction (now that “piracy” is no longer possible), I should naturally tell those British authors that they are not wanted in America, and that it is very good and condescending of me to consider their wares at all. I should give a well-known British author from £100 to £500 for the sole American rights of his or her newest production, and proceed to make £5,000 or £7,000 profit out of it. That kind of thing is called “business.” I should never suspect the British author of being so base as to send over and get legal statements as to how his or her book was selling, or to take note of the thousands of copies stacked up every day in the stores, to be melted away as soon as stacked, in the hands of eager purchasers. No! As a strictly honourable person, I should hope that the British author would stay at home and mind his or her own business. But let us suppose that the American publisher’s latest delicate “feeler” respecting the “No demand for British literature” were true, it would seem that Americans, even more than the British, require to be taught “how” to read. If one may judge from their own output of literature, the lesson is badly needed. Ralph Waldo Emerson remains, as yet, their biggest literary man. He knew “how” to read, and from that knowledge learned “how” to write. But no American author has come after him that can be called greater than he, or as great. Concerning the art of fiction, the present American “make” is, whatever the immediate “catching on” of it may be, distinctly ephemera of the utmost ephemeral. Such “literature” would not exist even in America, if Americans knew “how” to read. What is called the “Yellow Journalism” would not exist either. Why? Because a really educated reader of things worth reading would not read it—and it would therefore be a case of the wicked ceasing to trouble and the weary being at rest.
There is a general complaint nowadays—especially among authors—of the “decadence” of literature. It is true enough. But the cause of the “decadence” is the same—simply and solely that people cannot and will not read. They do not know “how” to do it. If they ever did know in the bygone days of Dickens and Thackeray, they have forgotten. Every book is “too long” for them. Yet scarcely any novel is published now as long as the novels of Dickens, which were so eagerly devoured at one time by tens of thousands of admiring readers. A short, risky, rather “nasty” book, (reviewers would call it strong, but that is only a little joke of theirs,—they speak of this kind of literature as though it were cheese) finds most favour with the “upper” circles of society in Great Britain and America. Not so with the “million” though. The million prefer simpler fare—and they read a good deal—though scarcely in the right way. It is always more a case of “skimming” than reading. If they are ever taught the right way to read, they may become wiser than any political government would like them to be. For right reading makes right thinking—and right thinking makes right living—and right living would result in what? Well! For one thing, members of councils and other “ruling” bodies would be lazier than ever, with less to do—and the Education Act would no longer be necessary, as the fact of simply knowing “how” to read, would educate everybody without further trouble.
Dear Sir or Madam,—read! Don’t “skim”! Learn your letters! Study the pronunciation and meaning of words thoroughly first, and then you may proceed to sentences. Gradually you will be able to master a whole passage of prose or poetry in such a manner as actually to understand it. That will be a great thing! And once you understand it, you may even possibly remember it! And then,—no matter how much you may have previously been educated,—your education will only have just begun.
THE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE PRESS
Not very long ago a Royal hint was given by one of the wisest and most tactful among the great throned Rulers of the world, to that other ruling power which is frequently alluded to as “the Fourth Estate.” Edward the Seventh, King by the Grace of God over Great Britain and all the dependencies which flourish under the sign of the Rose, Shamrock and Thistle, using that courteous and diplomatic manner which particularly belongs to him, expressed his “hope” that the Gentlemen of the Press would do their best to foster amity and goodwill between the British Empire and other nations. Now amongst the many kindly, thoughtful, sagacious and farsighted things which His Majesty has done since he ascended the English Throne, that highest seat of honour in the world—perhaps this mild and friendly suggestion to the Press is one of the most pointed, necessary and admirable. It is a suggestion which, if accepted in the frank, manly and magnanimous spirit in which it has been conveyed, would make for the peace of Europe. Petty insult often begets serious strife, and the cheap sneer of a would-be “smart” journalist at another country’s governmental mistakes may lead to consequences undreamt of in newspaper-office philosophy. Yet the journalist, as journalist, is scarcely to blame if, in a praiseworthy desire to give a “selling” impetus to the paper on which he is employed, he gets up a little bit of speculative melodrama, such as “German Malignity,” “Russian Trickery,” “Mysterious Movements of the Fleet,” “French Insult to the King,” “America’s Secret Treaty,” or “Alarming Eastern Rumours.” He is perhaps not in any way departing from his own special line of business if he counts on the general gullibility of the public, though in this matter he is often liable to be himself gulled. For the public have been so frequently taken in by mere “sensationalism” in war news and the like, that they are beginning to view all such rumours with more contempt than credence. Nevertheless the ambitious little Press boys (for they are only boys in their lack of discernment, whatever may be their external appearance as grown men) do not deserve so much reproof for their hot-headed, impulsive and thoughtless ways as the personages set in authority over them, whose business it is to edit their “copy” before passing it on to the printers. They are the responsible parties,—and when they forget the dignity of their position so much as to allow a merely jejune view of the political situation to appear in their journals, under flamboyant headlines which catch the eye and ensnare the attention of the more or less uninstructed crowd, one naturally deplores the lapse of their honourable duty. For in this way a great deal of harm may be done and endless misunderstanding and mischief created. It is quite wrong and wholly unpatriotic that the newspapers of any country should strive to foster ill-feeling between conflicting nations or political parties. When they engage in this kind of petty strife one is irresistibly reminded of the bad child in the nursery who, seeing his two little brothers quarrelling, cries out: “Go it, Tom! Go it, Jack! Hit him in the eye!” and then, when the hit is given and mutual screams follow, runs to his mother with the news—“Ma! Tom and Jack are fighting!” carefully suppressing the fact that he helped to set them at it. And when the trouble begins to be serious, and national recriminations are freely exchanged, it is curious to note how quickly the Press, on both sides, assumes the attitude of an almost matronly remonstrance. One hears in every leading article the “How can you behave so, Jack? What a naughty boy you are, Tom! Positively, I am ashamed of you both!”
There would be no greater force existing in the world as an aid to civilization and human fraternity than the Press, if its vast powers were employed to the noblest purposes. It ought to resemble a mighty ship, which, with brave, true men at the helm, moves ever on a straight course, cleaving the waters of darkness and error, and making direct for the highest shores of peace and promise. But it must be a ship indeed,—grandly built, nobly manned, and steadily steered,—not a crazy, water-logged vessel, creaking with the thud of every wave, or bobbing backwards and forwards uncertainly in a gale. Its position at the present day is, or appears to be, rather the latter than the former. Unquestionably the people, taken in the mass, do not rely upon it. They read the newspapers—but they almost immediately forget everything in them except the headlines and one or two unpleasant police cases. And why do they forget? Simply because first of all they are not sufficiently interested; and, secondly, because they do not believe the news they read. A working man told me the other day that he had been saving sixpence a week on two halfpenny papers which he had been accustomed to take in for the past year. “I found ’em out in ten lies, all on top of one another, in two weeks,” he candidly explained; “and so I thought I might as well keep my money for something more useful. So I started putting the halfpence by for my little kiddie, and I’m going to stick to it. There’s five shillings in the Savings Bank already!”