The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst (42 page)
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Authors: Kenneth Whyte
BOOK: The Uncrowned King: The Sensational Rise of William Randolph Hearst
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Hearst himself seems to have been uncertain about the word sensationalism. He could at times embrace it, and in the next breath modify it (“intelligent sensationalism”), and on other occasions eschew it in favor of “striking journalism.” But most of his efforts to distance himself from the word came later in his career. At this point he appears to have enjoyed his sensations both for their own sake and for the readers they attracted. He always believed that a successful newspaper entertained as well as informed its readers.
83
83
Over the years, there have been efforts to measure sensationalism empirically or to define it objectively, but they all founder on the same rocks. Who is to say how many murders, cartoons, and bold headlines are too many? Shouldn’t sensational news receive sensational treatment? Who is to say what is genuine journalism and what is trivial or prurient? How do we know when an editor is genuinely outraged or excited by a story and when is he just trying to sell newspapers? (And what’s wrong with selling newspapers?) These are all questions on which reasonable people (and reasonable editors) disagree. Sensationalism, in the end, is a highly subjective concept.
Subjective or not, few would disagree that the
Journal
and the
World
were more sensational than other Park Row sheets. Of course, in any crowded newspaper market, one daily is bound to be relatively sensational and another relatively dreary. The test is whether or not the sensationalism undermines the paper’s credibility with its audience; readers who do not share an editor’s excitement or concern over a story will consider his paper unreliable.
Journal
and the
World
were more sensational than other Park Row sheets. Of course, in any crowded newspaper market, one daily is bound to be relatively sensational and another relatively dreary. The test is whether or not the sensationalism undermines the paper’s credibility with its audience; readers who do not share an editor’s excitement or concern over a story will consider his paper unreliable.
There is no question that some readers and critics believed that the
Journal
failed the test of reliability, but the
Journal
’s many regular patrons felt otherwise. They either liked the paper’s style or tolerated it or discounted it in the same way that they were accustomed to discounting extreme political rhetoric in all newspapers. This is not a sad commentary on Hearst’s readers. Again, everything Hearst was doing was different only in degree, not in kind, from the work of his competitors, and none of it was inherently incompatible with quality journalism. One might argue that the high color of the yellow papers led to distortions of reality, that the world was never so exciting or lurid as it seemed in their pages. But it is not at all clear that Godkin’s
Evening Post,
the dreariest of the grays, got closer to real life by filling long columns of unbroken type “without prejudice, without color, and without style,” as its alumnus Lincoln Steffens described it.
84
Journal
failed the test of reliability, but the
Journal
’s many regular patrons felt otherwise. They either liked the paper’s style or tolerated it or discounted it in the same way that they were accustomed to discounting extreme political rhetoric in all newspapers. This is not a sad commentary on Hearst’s readers. Again, everything Hearst was doing was different only in degree, not in kind, from the work of his competitors, and none of it was inherently incompatible with quality journalism. One might argue that the high color of the yellow papers led to distortions of reality, that the world was never so exciting or lurid as it seemed in their pages. But it is not at all clear that Godkin’s
Evening Post,
the dreariest of the grays, got closer to real life by filling long columns of unbroken type “without prejudice, without color, and without style,” as its alumnus Lincoln Steffens described it.
84
The trades, on the whole, recognized that there was more than one correct way to make a newspaper and that differences in style had little to do with good and evil, right or wrong. Different dailies appealed to different tastes. “Approaching the subject from an unprejudiced standpoint,” wrote one commentator in the
Journalist,
“I should say Mr. Hearst’s gravest offense has been against good taste rather than morals.” Like many traditionalists, this critic wished for more serious news of the commercial, scientific, and artistic worlds. He frankly admitted to preferring the rambling wit of the
Sun
to the shout and hurry of the
Journal.
85
He nonetheless acknowledged that his own tastes were not representative of the greater reading public. There will never be a model journalism, he wrote, “until there shall be a model public to read and support it.”
Journalist,
“I should say Mr. Hearst’s gravest offense has been against good taste rather than morals.” Like many traditionalists, this critic wished for more serious news of the commercial, scientific, and artistic worlds. He frankly admitted to preferring the rambling wit of the
Sun
to the shout and hurry of the
Journal.
85
He nonetheless acknowledged that his own tastes were not representative of the greater reading public. There will never be a model journalism, he wrote, “until there shall be a model public to read and support it.”
The paternalism of that last comment—assuming a low estimate of the public mind—runs through all discussion of sensationalism. As early as the 1840s, press critics had complained of penny papers’ feeding “the depraved appetites” of their readers with exciting news.
86
The word “sensationalism” was first applied to journalism in an 1869 essay by E.L. Godkin that protested newspapers’ squandering attention on the lives and opinions of people inherently unworthy of notice. Godkin was referring specifically to the vulgar human-interest journalism of the
Sun
and the
Herald.
87
By showing high regard for popular sensibilities, he maintained, these papers were destroying the reverence of the people for their betters.
86
The word “sensationalism” was first applied to journalism in an 1869 essay by E.L. Godkin that protested newspapers’ squandering attention on the lives and opinions of people inherently unworthy of notice. Godkin was referring specifically to the vulgar human-interest journalism of the
Sun
and the
Herald.
87
By showing high regard for popular sensibilities, he maintained, these papers were destroying the reverence of the people for their betters.
The same paternalism runs through the 1896-97 morals campaign against Hearst and Pulitzer. Wardman hated the Yellow Kid cartoon with its mockery of dress balls, horse shows, and much else that the privileged classes held dear. The Kid was wicked and subversive, the dirty emblem of the very same dirty sheet that had embraced Bryan’s anarchic mob and ridiculed the Seeley clubmen. The gray editors believed themselves to embody the highest purposes and best practices of newspapering, and they considered the
Journal
an affront to their principles and tastes, as well as a menace to their ideas about society and culture. They understood themselves to be wrestling with the yellows for cultural authority, which, of course, they were. Wardman, Dana, and Godkin were in the newspaper business to wield influence and shape opinion, as well as to make a good living, and their pleas for moral and intellectual enlightenment were being overpowered by Hearst’s ribald conversations with the common man.
Journal
an affront to their principles and tastes, as well as a menace to their ideas about society and culture. They understood themselves to be wrestling with the yellows for cultural authority, which, of course, they were. Wardman, Dana, and Godkin were in the newspaper business to wield influence and shape opinion, as well as to make a good living, and their pleas for moral and intellectual enlightenment were being overpowered by Hearst’s ribald conversations with the common man.
Which brings us back to competitive realities on Park Row. Hearst’s rise was fast and destabilizing. He was pulling readers and advertisers from other titles and no one knew for certain in 1897 if he was already peaking or just ramping up. The market shares of smaller dailies like the
Press,
the
Times,
and the
Sun
were shrinking, they were desperate for a competitive response, and it cost them nothing to fling mud at Hearst while promoting themselves as “decent” and “wholesome” newspapers. They wrapped their elitism and conservative politics in a cloak of goodness, and sold their comparatively dreary presentation of news as a measure of their reliability and sobriety.
Press,
the
Times,
and the
Sun
were shrinking, they were desperate for a competitive response, and it cost them nothing to fling mud at Hearst while promoting themselves as “decent” and “wholesome” newspapers. They wrapped their elitism and conservative politics in a cloak of goodness, and sold their comparatively dreary presentation of news as a measure of their reliability and sobriety.
In this limited respect, the decency campaign was effective. It did not ruin or even hurt the
Journal,
and it probably did not expand the audiences of the gray papers, either—Wardman and his ilk were preaching to the choir. But the choir was flattered. The gray editors made their journalists, their readers, and their advertisers feel better about themselves and their choice of newspaper. No one understood the commercial advantages of journalistic “sanitation” better than Ochs at the
Times.
88
He liked to publish letters from readers who got the spirit of it. The
Times,
wrote one fan, was a “clean, wholesome family paper, bound to be appreciated by the many thousands who have become ashamed to place some of our great newspapers in the hands of their children.”
89
Ochs used his cleansing campaign in a naked bid to win advertisers by claiming that “respectable men and women” were abandoning the yellows.
90
He liked it so much that he adopted it as a marketing slogan: “All The News That’s Fit To Print.”
Journal,
and it probably did not expand the audiences of the gray papers, either—Wardman and his ilk were preaching to the choir. But the choir was flattered. The gray editors made their journalists, their readers, and their advertisers feel better about themselves and their choice of newspaper. No one understood the commercial advantages of journalistic “sanitation” better than Ochs at the
Times.
88
He liked to publish letters from readers who got the spirit of it. The
Times,
wrote one fan, was a “clean, wholesome family paper, bound to be appreciated by the many thousands who have become ashamed to place some of our great newspapers in the hands of their children.”
89
Ochs used his cleansing campaign in a naked bid to win advertisers by claiming that “respectable men and women” were abandoning the yellows.
90
He liked it so much that he adopted it as a marketing slogan: “All The News That’s Fit To Print.”
The decency crusade was also effective in other ways. It prompted many trade commentators to take sides on the merits of the yellow press; the near universal applause that greeted Hearst in his first year would henceforth be balanced by serious criticism of his politics, taste, and practices. What’s more, while Hearst did not join a morals debate with the gray editors, he did eventually react, and in a predictable manner. James Gordon Bennett, target of the first great morals campaign, had emerged from it a relentless self-promoter. He used his own pages to trumpet the virtues and the success of his
Herald
in response to his critics. Hearst, having promoted the
Journal
enthusiastically in his first year, would do so maniacally in the months ahead. Sensationalism, the
Journal
would maintain, “is always the cry of the newspaper to the rival which passes it.”
91
Herald
in response to his critics. Hearst, having promoted the
Journal
enthusiastically in his first year, would do so maniacally in the months ahead. Sensationalism, the
Journal
would maintain, “is always the cry of the newspaper to the rival which passes it.”
91
CHAPTER NINE
Two Warm Babes and a Hot Hansom
I
t is easy to forget that in 1897 the editor whose name was on everyone’s lips, whose next moves were the subject of speculation and dread all along Park Row, was only thirty-three years old. Hearst was by no means the only young man in the newspaper business. There were plenty of boyish scribblers around when he hit town—the likes of Richard Harding Davis, Stephen Crane, and David Graham Phillips. There were also men of his vintage clawing their way into the management suite, including Ervin Wardman, Arthur Brisbane, Morrill Goddard, and Charles Edward Russell. But it was one thing to find gainful employment at a big city paper at an early age and quite another to be operating your own scorching entry in the high-stakes race for daily newspaper supremacy. Hearst’s main competitors—Joseph Pulitzer, James Gordon Bennett Jr., Charles A. Dana, E.L. Godkin, and Whitelaw Reid—were all giants of the industry a generation or two older than he was. The next youngest of this bunch was Pulitzer, seventeen years Hearst’s senior; Dana, the eldest, was twenty-eight years beyond Pulitzer. Even Adolph Ochs, recently arrived from Tennessee to purchase the struggling
New York Times,
was five years older than Hearst. The trades considered Ochs a whelp, and in journalistic terms they were correct: it would take him more than a decade to give the
Times
a commanding voice.
t is easy to forget that in 1897 the editor whose name was on everyone’s lips, whose next moves were the subject of speculation and dread all along Park Row, was only thirty-three years old. Hearst was by no means the only young man in the newspaper business. There were plenty of boyish scribblers around when he hit town—the likes of Richard Harding Davis, Stephen Crane, and David Graham Phillips. There were also men of his vintage clawing their way into the management suite, including Ervin Wardman, Arthur Brisbane, Morrill Goddard, and Charles Edward Russell. But it was one thing to find gainful employment at a big city paper at an early age and quite another to be operating your own scorching entry in the high-stakes race for daily newspaper supremacy. Hearst’s main competitors—Joseph Pulitzer, James Gordon Bennett Jr., Charles A. Dana, E.L. Godkin, and Whitelaw Reid—were all giants of the industry a generation or two older than he was. The next youngest of this bunch was Pulitzer, seventeen years Hearst’s senior; Dana, the eldest, was twenty-eight years beyond Pulitzer. Even Adolph Ochs, recently arrived from Tennessee to purchase the struggling
New York Times,
was five years older than Hearst. The trades considered Ochs a whelp, and in journalistic terms they were correct: it would take him more than a decade to give the
Times
a commanding voice.
One has to reach as far back as the 1840s, when Horace Greeley took over the
Tribune,
to find another editor playing so significant a role as Hearst at so early an age. And it is unlikely that the priggish Greeley ever enjoyed the experience as much as the upstart Californian. However much turmoil Hearst was creating around him, however much effort and concentration he gave the
Journal,
he still managed to tend to his pleasure. He was a dashing newspaper publisher with an ample allowance, no attachments, and half a lifetime’s experience of living on his own, and the high life was in his blood. Both of his parents were vigorously self-indulgent: his mother lived like a queen and his father had lived as he pleased. Their son did a little of both. The bounteous delights of Gilded Age New York were now laid out before him, and he knew exactly what he wanted.
Tribune,
to find another editor playing so significant a role as Hearst at so early an age. And it is unlikely that the priggish Greeley ever enjoyed the experience as much as the upstart Californian. However much turmoil Hearst was creating around him, however much effort and concentration he gave the
Journal,
he still managed to tend to his pleasure. He was a dashing newspaper publisher with an ample allowance, no attachments, and half a lifetime’s experience of living on his own, and the high life was in his blood. Both of his parents were vigorously self-indulgent: his mother lived like a queen and his father had lived as he pleased. Their son did a little of both. The bounteous delights of Gilded Age New York were now laid out before him, and he knew exactly what he wanted.
After his brief residence at the Hoffman House, Hearst moved to the third floor of Worth House, across 25th Street, where he was refused a long-term lease as the building was on the market. He nevertheless renovated, gutting the interior of his apartment and rebuilding it to his own taste with beamed ceilings and antique mantelpieces. He furnished the rooms with tapestries, paintings, and other pieces from his swelling collection of European treasure. The Worth House was reportedly sold shortly after he was settled in. Hearst salvaged some of his fittings and furnishing and reinstalled them in his new home, an unpretentious four-story residence previously owned by President Chester Arthur and sitting at the unfashionable address of 123 Lexington and 28th Street. Hearst dubbed it “the shanty.” In addition to his own quarters, he set aside rooms for his college friend Jack Follansbee, who spent his winters running the Hearst ranch in Mexico, and his summers in New York, following the ponies and entertaining his friends. The shanty’s other inhabitant was George Thompson, Hearst’s fat, pop-eyed Irish valet, hired away from service at the Hoffman House. Thompson would maintain a precise and tactful domestic order in Hearst’s life for thirty years.
All three of the aforementioned Hearst residences were within a few blocks of Madison Square Garden, in the center of town. This was the rebuilt Madison Square Garden, Stanford White’s Moorish pavilion with its soaring mock minaret topped by an eighteen-foot nude statue of the goddess Diana. As the Astors, Vanderbilts, and Whitneys migrated north of 50th Street, the neighborhood was taking on a commercial cast, but it suited a busy young press lord perfectly. On a typical day, Hearst would start with meetings at the bar of the Hoffman House, followed by a short walk to Delmonico’s for a hearty lunch. Early in the afternoon, he would hop into a carriage or hansom cab, and head south to the
Journal
offices on Park Row, where he would catch up on the day’s news and prepare his next edition. By early evening he was bouncing back up Broadway to the theater. Sometime around midnight, after a late supper at Bustanoby’s or Sherry’s or Jim’s Chop House, he would rush back to Park Row and see his paper to bed, returning to the shanty just before dawn.
Journal
offices on Park Row, where he would catch up on the day’s news and prepare his next edition. By early evening he was bouncing back up Broadway to the theater. Sometime around midnight, after a late supper at Bustanoby’s or Sherry’s or Jim’s Chop House, he would rush back to Park Row and see his paper to bed, returning to the shanty just before dawn.
Notably absent from Hearst’s daily rounds were social obligations. Phoebe still longed for her only child to blossom into an impeccable gentleman, taking his rightful place among the New York elite, hiring a box at the opera, attending masked balls and cotillions and society weddings, perhaps summering in Newport. Hearst had been inundated with social invitations on his arrival in town. He accepted some, probably out of deference to his mother, who had many connections in New York. He may also have wanted to extend his commercial contacts and to bone up on local affairs prior to his newspaper launch. Once the
Journal
was up and running, however, he declined most invitations. He joined the exclusive Metropolitan and Union Clubs but seldom visited either, and, given his anti-establishment politics, he was probably not missed (any mention of Hearst’s name in the haunts of capital and conservatism, remembered the critic James L. Ford, would cause the tables to be pounded with impotent fists).
1
Nor did Hearst believe he was missing anything. His attitude toward America’s social elite was hardening—“he despised them,” according to Flint.
Journal
was up and running, however, he declined most invitations. He joined the exclusive Metropolitan and Union Clubs but seldom visited either, and, given his anti-establishment politics, he was probably not missed (any mention of Hearst’s name in the haunts of capital and conservatism, remembered the critic James L. Ford, would cause the tables to be pounded with impotent fists).
1
Nor did Hearst believe he was missing anything. His attitude toward America’s social elite was hardening—“he despised them,” according to Flint.
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