The Hound in the Stadium
PRESS
By KARL F. ZEISLER
I AM a country editor and I happened upon a paragraph the other day that made me blush. I found it in W. H. Hudson, A Portrait, by Morley Roberts: —
Like so many men of science . . . he kept his eye on the ancient eternal drama of evolution and scorned those who were as ready as the cheap politicians to offer cures for the world’s ills at a moment’s notice and at six shillings a box.
The paragraph made me think back over the succession of shrill headlines and shriller editorials which I have published in the past eighteen or twenty years. It now occurs to me that we have all — the newspapers, I mean — been making too much noise. Nobody can think in a boiler factory. I am laying down my hammer and dropping my voice to conversational tones.
In country print shops, you know, we have an ancient and mildly sacrilegious legend that tucked away in a dusty case is a font of blackface wooden streamer type that the editor is saving for the “second coming.” In our shop that type, long since rounded on the corners and press-worn, is now back in its dusty case to await its legendary purpose.
Day after day, that type had been used to bannerline the self-appointed Jeremiahs and overplay the shouts of the doomsters, with the honest intention of doing good. All these will toot Gabriel’s trumpet in a hush from here on so far as I am concerned.
The extenuating circumstances for this constant yelling at the people ran out long ago. I joined stridently in the chorus from 1933 on, foretelling the certain end of the American Way. The rise of totalitarianism gave us a chance to develop antiphonal overtones, with some solo parts.
The coming of war shocked us into hushed tones for a spell in a new-found national unity, but the relative silence lasted only a short lime. I did my best, along with the unscientific scientists, to frighten a bewildered and set-upon people into the Atomic Age. I’m not quite ready to go back to Coolidge era attacks on the man-eating shark, supposedly the only editorial target that never fights back, but I’m all through using headline language and 12-point boldface type in the editorials I write from now on. I have quit pointing to the “whither now” signs at each successive crossroads, for I’m convinced that people perpetually facing crossroads are liable to lose all sense of direction.
I’m going to try to live down my portentous past, and live up to (he expectations of free people to get guidance and not exhortation in a bewildering world from their editors, publicists, scholars, scientists, politicians, and other leaders. I’m going to try to remember that even in the Atomic Age the ancient eternal drama of evolution unfolds at a molasses pace in contrast to the daily pumped-up crises of the shouters. I’m going to relieve the strained ears of my few listeners and try to win hack their credence.
Not long ago I sat, with 89,999 others, in a football stadium. Between halves students pushed an amiable, tail-wagging hound out on the playing field. Instantly a chorus of whistles, dog calls, and shouts arose from the jammed stands. I watched the mongrel rush frantically toward a half-recognized voice, and then wheel in response to a more piercing whistle. I couldn’t help thinking that the American people have been in exactly the position of the hound in the stadium. They have been so much yelled at from the sidelines that it is no wonder they have not known where to turn in order to find the exit to calm and safety.
From now on, I’m going to let the people find the exit. Living in a small community, I think I am closer to the people than the Stentors perched on editorial high chairs and before network microphones who make a loud noise over every clash of opinion in order to be heard. I’m satisfied the people are tired of being shouted at. I think they know the score and keep closer tab on their affairs than most of the pundits realize. I believe that native common sense, given a chance to be heard above the racket, is more than a match for all the menaces you can shake a stick at.