Journalism is merely history's first draft.

Journalism is merely history's first draft.

The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with
care,
His mind at the bottom of business, read more

The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with
care,
His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a
chair,
His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his
head,
His eyes on his dusty table, with different documents spread.

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;
News read more

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.

To serve thy generation, this thy fate:
"Written in water," swiftly fades thy name;
But he who read more

To serve thy generation, this thy fate:
"Written in water," swiftly fades thy name;
But he who loves his kind does, first and late,
A work too late for fame.

I read the newspaper avidly. It is my one form of continuous fiction.

I read the newspaper avidly. It is my one form of continuous fiction.

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the read more

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine.

The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything. Except what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious of this, and having read more

The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything. Except what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious of this, and having tradesman-like habits, supplies their demands.

None of our political writers . . . take notice of any more than
three estates, namely, Kings, Lords read more

None of our political writers . . . take notice of any more than
three estates, namely, Kings, Lords and Commons . . . passing by
in silence that very large and powerful body which form the
fourth estate in the community . . . the Mob.

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address
Thou God of our idolatry, the Press.
. read more

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address
Thou God of our idolatry, the Press.
. . . .
Like Eden's dead probationary tree,
Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.