Sealed Envelope

One hot morning last week, a tall, austere man sat at his desk in the open city room of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, scribbling with a thick blue pencil. Few minutes later his memo was posted on the bulletin board. It read:

To the staff:

With regret I have to tell you that I have resigned because of irreconcilable differences of opinion with Mr. Pulitzer as to the general conduct of the paper, and am leaving the office Aug. 13. 1 recognize and respect the rights and responsibilities of ownership and make no complaint.

I salute you, a splendid body of men and an exceptional newspaper staff. I shall always be proud of my association with you, and my best wishes remain with you, collectively and individually.

Faithfully yours,

Oliver K. Bovard.

An amazed staff nearly stopped work on the first edition. This notice that one of the most eminent, though least-known, careers in U. S. journalism had ended brought gloom to the office in which Oliver Kirby Bovard had spent 40 of his 66 years. For 28 of those years he had been managing editor, respected, feared, idolized by newspapermen whose bylines he made famous.

Faithful to a lifelong passion for self-effacement, O. K. Bovard kept to himself the nature of the differences with Publisher Joseph Pulitzer Jr. It had been assumed, however, that he liked neither the Post-Dispatch's support of Landon in 1936 nor the deepening conservatism of its editorial page, for which he occasionally wrote, but over which he never had control.

What made O. K. Bovard a great editor was his inflexible integrity. When Bovard ordered his most famous correspondent, Paul Y. Anderson,* to stop writing for The Nation four years ago, that hardhitting reporter took the order in good part, ridiculed the suggestion "that interests which I have treated none too tenderly" had finally caught up with his boss: "Don't believe a word of it. The Post-Dispatch cannot be 'reached'--I have seen that tried often enough to know." In a gregarious profession, Bovard's aloofness has become a legend. To keep his objectivity on ice, he lived completely withdrawn from the social and community life of St. Louis, in which he was a pervasive power. He belonged to no clubs, had no friends in public life. Childless, he lives with his wife on a salary that one year reached $75,000 plus bonus, on a 96-acre farm in St. Louis County.

His broad interests were reflected most clearly on the first page of the Sunday editorial section, long known as "the dignity page." Here were expositions of significant national and international developments ; detailed exposes of economic, religious, racial repression, written by reporters who knew their stories would get into print. Most spectacular example of his editorial discretion was his iron refusal to accept the news of the Armistice that turned out to be false. Bovard was always calm, never lost control of his emotions. Once his star rewrite man got a big story just before the deadline, became so nervous that his fingers froze. Bovard walked over to his typewriter and remarked: "Take your time, old fellow, you've got two minutes."

Several years ago, when he was dangerously ill, Bovard's obituary was prepared. When he recovered he ordered it filed in the morgue in a sealed envelope which was not to be removed or opened except on his express orders. Last week even the sealed envelope could not be found when the last of the journalistic giants nurtured by the elder Joseph Pulitzer prepared to close his desk. Bovard, hopeful that his retirement would be as unpublicized as his career, had removed it the day he penciled his resignation.

* Fired six months ago on orders from Publisher Pulitzer. Last week, Anderson wired Bovard: "Congratulations. . . ."

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