“’Well now, my dear sir, I’m worth what I say.  I can pay you.  There’s my property,’ spreading out half a dozen very beautiful lithographs; ’but really I can’t raise that amount at present.  Yesterday, I had to give three per cent a month for $4,000 to save my whole fortune.  I had to look out for the mortgages.  Take my note; you can get it discounted for three per cent.’

     “’No, I can’t.  If you will give me $250 for the debt, I
     shall give the other half to pay the interest on your
     mortgages.’....

     “Whether the proposition has been accepted we shall know
     to-morrow; but we have many such rich people.”—­Herald,
     Oct. 28, 1836.

But it was not such things as these that established the Herald.  Confined as he was to the limits of a single town, and being compelled to do everything with his own hands, he could not have much in his columns that we should now call “news.”  But what is news?  The answer to that question involves the whole art, mystery, and history of journalism.  The time was when news signified the doings of the king and his court.  This was the staple of the first news-letter writers, who were employed by great lords, absent from court, to send them court intelligence.  To this was soon added news of the doings of other kings and courts; and from that day to this the word news has been continually gaining increase of meaning, until now it includes all that the public are curious to know, which may be told without injury to the public or injustice to individuals.  While this man was playing fantastic tricks before high Heaven, his serious thoughts were absorbed in schemes to make his paper the great vehicle of news.  Early in the second month, while he was still losing money every day, he hit upon a new kind of news, which perhaps had more to do with the final success of the Herald than any other single thing.  His working day, at that time, was sixteen or seventeen hours.  In the morning, from five to eight, he was busy, in the quiet of his room, with those light, nonsensical paragraphs and editorials which made his readers smile in spite of themselves.  During the usual business hours of the morning, he was in his cellar, over his flour-barrel desk, engaged in the ordinary routine of editorial work; not disdaining to sell the morning paper, write advertisements, and take the money for them.

About one o’clock, having provided abundant copy for the compositors, he sallied forth into Wall Street, picking up material for his stock-tables and subjects for paragraphs.  From four to six he was at his office again, winding up the business, of the day.  In the evening he was abroad,—­at theatre, concert, ball, or public meeting,—­absorbing fresh material for his paper.  He converted himself, as it were, into a medium through which the gossip, scandal, fun, and nonsense of this great town were daily conveyed back to it for its amusement; just as a certain popular preacher is reported to do, who spends six days in circulating among his parishioners, and on the seventh tells them all that they have taught him.