She dined with the Greysons the Sunday after, and mooted the question of
the coming fight with Carleton. Greyson thought Phillips would find
plenty of journalistic backing. The concentration of the Press into the
hands of a few conscienceless schemers was threatening to reduce the
journalist to a mere hireling, and the better-class men were becoming
seriously alarmed. He found in his desk the report of a speech made by a
well-known leader writer at a recent dinner of the Press Club. The man
had risen to respond to the toast of his own health and had taken the
opportunity to unpack his heart.
"I am paid a thousand a year," so Greyson read to them, "for keeping my
own opinions out of my paper. Some of you, perhaps, earn more, and
others less; but you're getting it for writing what you're told. If I
were to be so foolish as to express my honest opinion, I'd be on the
street, the next morning, looking for another job."
"The business of the journalist," the man had continued, "is to destroy
the truth, to lie, to pervert, to vilify, to fawn at the feet of Mammon,
to sell his soul for his daily bread.
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