Happy Birthday

In 50 blatant columns of type, cartoons and pictures, Hearst's New York Journal-American last week went on a seven-day sentimental jag. Occasion: the golden anniversary of William Randolph Hearst's brash invasion of the New York newspaper field. Like any 50-year-old celebrating a birthday (see above), the Journal remembered just what it wanted to about the good old days.

Back in 1896--the year when Adolph S. Ochs bought control of the tired Times for $75,000--ambitious young (33) Hearst picked up the tottering Journal for $180,-ooo. Over at the World (according to the Journal's historians), Joseph Pulitzer pooh-poohed: "No one from the West lasts in New York." Before long such Pulitzer prizes as Arthur Brisbane, S. S. Carvalho and Merrill Goddard were working for Hearst, and inside of a year the Journal's circulation skyrocketed from 50,000 to 510,197.

Tucked into the Journal's 16,000-word chronicle of medicine-show journalism were many carefully chosen glimpses of the Chief. But none showed him as his early opposition had seen him (see cut). There was his election to Congress in 1903 (but, naturally, no mention of his ill-fated tries for the presidency, the New York mayoralty and governorship). There was his imperial decree of 1902:

"Brisbane: Make sustained crusade on

U.S. Senate as unrepresentative . . . opposition people's wishes and interest . . . merely House of Lords of the trusts. . . . Compel election of Senators by the people . . . make big editorials in all papers. . . ." Brisbane made big editorials; the result (eleven years later) was the 17th Amendment.

There were plenty of other crusades--for woman suffrage, against child labor and the yellow peril, etc. (The Journal gracefully took no credit for the Spanish-American War.) If a Hearst reporter had not dropped a chance remark to a Manhattan Borough president in 1915, the Triborough Bridge might never have been built. The politician told the reporter the idea of the bridge was "a wonderful thing. . . . Write me a memo on it." And 21 years later, the bridge was there.

Major (and unintentional) point driven home by the week's work: under Favorite Son William Randolph Hearst Jr., the Journal ain't what it used to be.

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