newspapers than most reporters, and they made more money at the start. Many copyreaders were scholarly men, and nearly all possessed a wealth of information and knowledge of law that helped the newspaper avoid errors and libel. Still, the copyreader could not go very far. If he was diligent, he might during a decade move from one end of the curved copydesk, where he began his career, to the middle of the desk, becoming slotman, and this permitted him to distribute stories as they came in to other copyreaders for editing and headlines. If he was diligent and lucky, he might someday be promoted to the head of the desk and be given a title. And if he was
very
diligent and lucky, he might finally end up one night sitting in the bullpen. This is what had happened to Neil MacNeil. And it was understandable, once he had worked his way through the maze and reached the top in the Thirties, that he would appear to be a man of great certainty, pride, and confidence.
MacNeil had been born in Nova Scotia, a big muscular man with none of the bad posture and pallor of so many copyreaders. He had a deep commanding voice, and on his desk in the bullpen he had a little bell that he would ring with his thick forefinger when he wanted a copyboy. The copyboys, in deference to his position, were quick in responding, and because he had a gentle manner and did not address them in the peremptory tone used by some lesser editors of that time, they liked him and tried hard to please him and didnot resent it when he occasionally sent them out at midnight to a food shop on Eighth Avenue to buy him a small bag of apples.
As was the case with a high percentage of editors in the newsroom in the Thirties, MacNeil was a Roman Catholic, and it was often said of
The Times
during these years that it was a paper “owned by Jews and edited by Catholics for Protestants.” The bullpen was lightly styled the “Catholic bullpen” within the office and, though no one could prove it, Neil MacNeil, Raymond H. McCaw (the senior bullpen editor), and others were said to reflect a Catholic viewpoint when appraising the news, with the results ranging from the playing down of stories about birth control to the playing up of stories expressing alarm over communism. If a
Times
reporter was even rumored as leaning to the left, his stories were vigilantly read and reread by the bullpen editors, and they were no less scrupulous with the controversial dispatches from Spain by Herbert Matthews than with the less noticeable stories from New York by such younger men as A. H. Raskin, the latter having gotten onto the staff after having served, during his undergraduate days, as
The Times
’ campus correspondent at the City College of New York, the Berkeley of the Thirties.
In Matthews’ case, his difficulty with a large portion of the pro-Franco Catholic readership in America was no secret at
The Times
, there having been several organized campaigns and statements at tacking Matthews, and on one occasion the Catholic Press Association made an official protest to
The Times
’ publisher. It had “no confidence” in Matthews’ reporting from the Loyalist side, it said, and it was particularly annoyed, among other things, by Matthews’ repeated suggestions in his stories that the Fascists in Italy and even Germany were participating heavily on the side of Franco.
The New York Times
’ correspondent covering the war from Franco’s side, William P. Carney, had denied this, and one night a message went out to Matthews from the newsroom reading: “Why do you continue to say Italians are fighting in Spain when Carney claims there are no Italians in Spain?” Matthews’ subsequent dispatch repeated the claim—“These troops were Italians and nothing but Italians”—but this sentence in
The Times
was changed to read: “These troops were insurgents and nothing but insurgents.”
When A. H. Raskin, who had been an aggressive campus correspondent at City College, was promoted
very
diligent and lucky, he might finally end up one night sitting in the bullpen. This is what had happened to Neil MacNeil. And it was understandable, once he had worked his way through the maze and reached the top in the Thirties, that he would appear to be a man of great certainty, pride, and confidence.
MacNeil had been born in Nova Scotia, a big muscular man with none of the bad posture and pallor of so many copyreaders. He had a deep commanding voice, and on his desk in the bullpen he had a little bell that he would ring with his thick forefinger when he wanted a copyboy. The copyboys, in deference to his position, were quick in responding, and because he had a gentle manner and did not address them in the peremptory tone used by some lesser editors of that time, they liked him and tried hard to please him and didnot resent it when he occasionally sent them out at midnight to a food shop on Eighth Avenue to buy him a small bag of apples.
As was the case with a high percentage of editors in the newsroom in the Thirties, MacNeil was a Roman Catholic, and it was often said of
The Times
during these years that it was a paper “owned by Jews and edited by Catholics for Protestants.” The bullpen was lightly styled the “Catholic bullpen” within the office and, though no one could prove it, Neil MacNeil, Raymond H. McCaw (the senior bullpen editor), and others were said to reflect a Catholic viewpoint when appraising the news, with the results ranging from the playing down of stories about birth control to the playing up of stories expressing alarm over communism. If a
Times
reporter was even rumored as leaning to the left, his stories were vigilantly read and reread by the bullpen editors, and they were no less scrupulous with the controversial dispatches from Spain by Herbert Matthews than with the less noticeable stories from New York by such younger men as A. H. Raskin, the latter having gotten onto the staff after having served, during his undergraduate days, as
The Times
’ campus correspondent at the City College of New York, the Berkeley of the Thirties.
In Matthews’ case, his difficulty with a large portion of the pro-Franco Catholic readership in America was no secret at
The Times
, there having been several organized campaigns and statements at tacking Matthews, and on one occasion the Catholic Press Association made an official protest to
The Times
’ publisher. It had “no confidence” in Matthews’ reporting from the Loyalist side, it said, and it was particularly annoyed, among other things, by Matthews’ repeated suggestions in his stories that the Fascists in Italy and even Germany were participating heavily on the side of Franco.
The New York Times
’ correspondent covering the war from Franco’s side, William P. Carney, had denied this, and one night a message went out to Matthews from the newsroom reading: “Why do you continue to say Italians are fighting in Spain when Carney claims there are no Italians in Spain?” Matthews’ subsequent dispatch repeated the claim—“These troops were Italians and nothing but Italians”—but this sentence in
The Times
was changed to read: “These troops were insurgents and nothing but insurgents.”
When A. H. Raskin, who had been an aggressive campus correspondent at City College, was promoted
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