with no sympathy for the story they are unfolding. The story of the evolution of such an institution as journalism should have very little to do with questions of taste or literature, except as they hindered or assisted the objects for which the journalist strove. Of all the editors in America, Bryant was pre-eminently literary, yet his influence was never so great as that of Bennett; even among the literary class he never achieved such influence and power as did Godkin, who wrote not a single poem.
We have spoken of journalism as the poor white brother of literature, a despised relative. In these later days it has become, with the impetus of being accepted as offering an academic career, something more; it might now be described as literature in action,—action first and action last. The artist may achieve success in journalism, as Dana did, but he must first be a man of action. The journalist must first see the truth, he must be one who is not deceived by the lie.
To tell such a story and to outline properly the relations of the press to government and to the people has necessitated a somewhat compact marshaling of a world of facts, the importance of which has been, not that they have been unrelated before, but that they show how resistless has been the law of advancement. The career of Benjamin Harris has been set forth in as careful detail as research would permit; this seems necessary if we are to understand journalism's very beginning, a beginning that makes luminous the struggle of Zenger and those patriots who made the Revolution possible.
The mere fact that Harris' name seemingly passed into oblivion does not mean that his influence was naught. Although directly, that influence was little, it was great in an indirect way, for the James Franklin who came
