presenting, to face the facts of the situation and to seek ethical solutions. The sons of such men form a large portion of the student bodies of the better schools of journalism which have been established in the last dozen years.
These, too, are the men who, in many of the western states, gather year after year in their state universities in ever increasing numbers to discuss professional problems with each other and with the faculties and students of the schools of journalism. It was such a body of men that adopted the Kansas Newspaper Code in 1910, and such a body that decided to make clear to the public a rather definite statement of their professional practices in Oregon in 1922.
It is becoming old-fashioned in such meetings to deny that there is room for further progress in journalism, or that study of newspaper problems may be of some effect. The old tendency to resent and sweepingly repudiate anything said in criticism of the press is disappearing from the newspapers themselves. The old-time editor not only did this but did it in such a way as deeply to wound the spirit or reputation of the person who dared to criticise.
Social Need for a Clarified Code
The old theory—for public consumption—was that all newspaper men, without taking thought, naturally from the first day of their careers mystically knew all the ethical implications of their acts.
"The very fact that it becomes necessary to publish a definite code of the ideals to which most journalists have subscribed from the day they entered the profession," says Henry Ford's Dearborn Independent, "is proof that somewhere all is not as it should be." The premise and the conclusion of this reasoning both seem to be that perfection has not yet been obtained; which is correct, but the italicized words picture a miracle that has not happened.
The New York Times, in the more light-hearted of its editorial columns—"Topics of the Times"—takes much the same stand, narrowing the accusation down to the Oregonians whose adoption of a code calling for papers to be conducted, says the Times, "as reputable papers have always been" is characterized—light-heartedly—as a confession of past wickedness. Lighthearted, too, was the Times in violating three or four sections of the code by stating out of its own inner and incorrect knowledge that the Oregon document was not written "by a newspaper man or even a journalist."
The written code is an instrument of education. It is not a confession of wickedness nor is there anything light-hearted about it. Its function is to make clear not only to the university trained neophyte but to the untrained man in the profession, to the critical public and to the publisher himself the premises and the type of reasoning upon which newspaper decisions must be based and upon which erroneous decisions are rightly to be criticised.
The reasons behind newspaper decisions are not, upon the whole, well understood by the public. Many a conscientious act, public spirited in its intent, is interpreted as wanton cruelty or sordid sensationalism, or attributed to commercial motives. On the other hand, many a publisher utterly mistakes what the public interest really demands, or even acts upon incentives which he regards as legitimate but which sound principles of journalistic ethics should forbid.
If any body of thought ever demanded clarification, systematization,
