Table of Contents
ALSO BY ERIC BURNS
Nonfiction
Broadcast Blues
The Joy of Books
The Spirits of America: A Social History of Alcohol
Infamous Scribblers: The Founding Fathers and the Rowdy
Beginnings of American Journalism
The Smoke of the Gods: A Social History of Tobacco
Virtue, Valor and Vanity: The Founding Fathers and the Pursuit of Fame
Fiction
The Autograph: A Modern Fable of a Father and a Daughter
Play
Mid-Strut
For Dianne, Toby, and Cailin, always, all ways
PART ONE
Telling Lies
USUALLY WHEN PEOPLE SAY THAT JOURNALISM IS THE FIRST draft of history, they are praising reporters for laying a foundation of knowledge that will last the ages. But there is another way to interpret the sentimentas a warning to historians to build on firmer ground.
This was especially true in the late seventeenth century and most of the eighteenth, when journalism as we know it today was such a novelty that readers were not quite sure what to make of it. Most Europeans and Americans of the time were citizens of a world that seemed so small it did not encourage curiosity, a world in which news could not thrive as a commodity because it barely existed as a concept. Which is to say that, the occasional explorer or trader notwithstanding, the lives people lived were narrow ones. They were concerned with their own families, their own farms and shops, their own relationship to the Almighty. What else was there? Of what possible interest could occurrences outside his daily realm be to a man? How could they affect his loved ones, his occupation, his nightly communication with his Maker? And how could a person who worked from dawn until dusk find the time to read a newspaper even if he wanted to? The few moments left at the end of the day for reading would be devoted to the word of God, not the word of a fellow sinner who happened to own a printing press.
It was attitudes like these that were the basis and curse of modern journalism, and it took centuries for them to change, a process so gradual as to be almost imperceptible. And because of these attitudes, many of the men who worked for newspapers in the past did not take their occupation seriously. Put simply, if the readers were not dedicated to the product, why should the writers be? The latter wanted to earn a living, and on occasion have a lark, more than they wanted to provide the historical record on which future generations would depend.
As a result, that record has often been riddled with errors, omissions, and pranks. Historians have had to seek sources other than newspapers in their quest for accuracy: letters to and from the principal figures in a certain event, letters referring to the principals from both supporters and opponents, documents produced by lawmaking bodies, artifacts of various kinds, and archaeological and geological records, to name but a few. And even so, the struggle to know the truth of ages past has often eluded them, and even eluded those living in the past until it was too late for them to respond as they otherwise might have.
We still do not know, and never will, about the precise deliberations of Parliament for a few years under George II, years when the relationship between Great Britain and its New World colonies was just beginning to fray. We still think too harshly of the British for their treatment of Americans that led to the Revolutionary War. We do not, for instance, understand the context of such legislative measures as the Stamp Act, which Americans found a bellicose provocation but their brethren in England had long accepted.
We were so often presented with one-sided views of early American presidents, either heroes or villains, that until fairly recent times we could not acquaint ourselves with the full range of their humanity. And we have still not discovered the true sentiments of early-twentieth-century presidents on a number of topics, because they forbade reporters to quote them directly, and reporters were only too happy to acquiesce.
Most of us do not realize the role of the press, one newspaper in particular, in leading to the deaths of almost twenty-four hundred Americans in a war that never should have been fought.
By refusing to report on the viciousness of Stalins rule in the early thirties, a reporter sympathetic to Stalins goals encouraged those who read him to be sympathetic to his goals as well. As a result, countless Americans were deceived and the entire course of mid-twentieth-century history in our country was altered.
We did not know about the drinking habits of legislators that might have affected their votes on crucial issues, or even their attendance when votes were being taken. We did not know about the extracurricular sex lives of legislators that might have compromised their integrity and interfered with their commitment to the duties of office.
We cannot even be as certain as we would like about the identity of the kidnapper, or kidnappers, of Charles and Anne Lindberghs baby son.
But not all journalistic misstatements or cover-ups have had, or have threatened, dire consequences. Some, however inadvertently, have been the equivalent of practical jokesthe woman determined to fill the colonies with baby colonists, as reported by the most erudite of the founding fathers; the bizarre sight in the Nevada desert, as reported by the man some believe to be the founding father of American literature; the wild man of Baltimore, as reported by the wittiest and most perceptive social critic of the twentieth century; and the three plays reviewed by the great American novelist who didnt see any of them. All of these men, at the time of their falsehoods, were working as journalists.
It is beyond the scope of this book, and beyond the ability of its author, to correct all of the first drafts of history that turned out to be mistaken. What follows are some examples of the sloppiest of those drafts, and analyses of the ways in which Americans, Englishmen, and Frenchmen were victimized, confused, and, on rare occasions, amused by them.
How Journalists Got the Idea
THE FIRST LIE EVER TOLD, ALTHOUGH THE STORY cannot be confirmed and therefore might be a lie itself, was uttered for the ears of God. Canadian journalist Bruce Deachman writes that sometime around four thousand years ago, a voice roared through the Garden of Eden, causing tree branches to shake, trunks to quiver, and roots to vibrate. Who ate my apple? the voice asked. The question, Deachman reports, was met by innocent looks all round and, eventually, a timid chorus of Not me.
Then, only a few days later, came the second lie. Deachman tells us that Eve slipped a fig leaf over her midsection, sashayed up to Adam, and asked him whether it made her look fat. No, dear, Adam replied, not at all. Eve looked at him dubiously.
Whenever it really happened, it was understandable, even inevitable, that human beings would discover the lie to be an invaluable tactic for interpersonal relationships, a natural reaction when we found ourselves in unfavorable circumstances. Adam and Eve were afraid of Gods punishment; why not deny the crime? Adam was afraid of hurting Eves feelings by telling her she needed a plus-size fig leaf; why not deny the perception? In both cases, self-interest seemed better served by fiction than by fact.