is irresistibly reminded of the bad child in the nursery who, seeing his two little brothers quarrelling, cries out: "Go it, Tom! Go it, Jack! Hit him in the eye!" and then, when the hit is given and mutual screams follow, runs to his mother with the news—"Ma! Tom and Jack are fighting!" carefully suppressing the fact that he helped to set them at it. And when the trouble begins to be serious, and national recriminations are freely exchanged, it is curious to note how quickly the Press, on both sides, assumes the attitude of an almost matronly remonstrance. One hears in every leading article the "How can you behave so, Jack? What a naughty boy you are, Tom! Positively, I am ashamed of you both!"
There would be no greater force existing in the world as an aid to civilization and human fraternity than the Press, if its vast powers were employed to the noblest purposes. It ought to resemble a mighty ship, which, with brave, true men at the helm, moves ever on a straight course, cleaving the waters of darkness and error, and making direct for the highest shores of peace and promise. But it must be a ship indeed,—grandly built, nobly manned, and steadily steered,—not a crazy, water-logged vessel, creaking with the thud of every wave, or bobbing backwards and forwards uncertainly in a gale. Its position at the present day is, or appears to be, rather the latter than the former. Unquestionably the people, taken in the mass, do not rely upon it. They read the newspapers—but they almost immediately forget everything in them except the headlines and one or two unpleasant police cases. And why do they forget? Simply because first
