Newspapers of 1880s
Pioneer Country Editors and Printers Added
Color to Their Environment
By HOMER O. CAMPBELL, Seattle, Wash.
Weekly newspapers in Holt county in the early 80s were
peculiarly personalized. Their editors, looking upon themselves
and their precious mediums as one and the same thing, called the
combination “we.” Thus, their papers partook the nature of per
sonal organs. Similarly, local news—even a personal telling who
went where—was alive with sympathy, kindliness or a little joke,
the editor’s very own.
Yet, in this fraternal quietude there was always the likelihood
a war of words would break out. Without warning and for no
other reason possibly than a temporary feeling of orneriness, a
brother editor might attack an esteemed contemporary, charging
with drawn split infinitives under a barrage of long-primer epi
thets.
Nor was this all bad, for occasional change from the pastor
al to the bellicose was what was needed to put the old zipper
into a calling which, in poetic truth, otherwise must have been
exclusivly a labor of love.
I chanced among these unpredictable good fellows in 1883
when the Atkinson Graphic, Harry Mathews publisher, took me on
as printer’s devil. And for five or six years thereafter I worked
at different times on most of the other weeklies in the county.
Unfortunately for the classics, no Dickens was around to assign to
imperishable roles these country-editor stars, together with print
ers and townspeople sucked in as the situation developed.
Limited News, Slim Rewards
The weekly paper in those
days, consisting of four or eight
pages, supplied three out of
four families their only news.
Half of the pages, containing
world and other external news,
was printed, say in Omaha, j
leaving blank the reverse side of
these already printed pages, to
be filled with local news and
sent to press at home by the
respective publishers.
What a contrast with today,
when nearly everyone suffers
from a news tapeworm that
keeps him or her insatiably
hungry, glued to the radio or
chasing after extras.
While this frontier at the time
was cushioned from the depres
sion prevailing in the country at
large, due mainly to settlers
having brought with them means
to keep going awhile, the press
as a rule experienced close to
hard times. A few papers, how
ever, benefited more than others
from publication of final-proof
notices. These usually came as
political patronage from the
district land office, and meant $5
for a lucky publisher every time
a quarter section of land was
deeded to a settler.
In the tightest pinches the
less fortunate resorted to bar
ter, accepting merchandise and
services in exchange for ad
vertising and subscriptions.
Printers working for wages
not infrequently helped out
by taking underwear, shoes
and plug tobacco on account.
Times got tough for home
steaders, too, as the Winter wore
on. There was reliance on buf
falo chips and ear corn for fuel.
Farm wives quit offering butter
at the general store. “It’s a
shame,” said one, “to be slavin’
and doin’ for eight cints a
pound. Now we lob plenty of
butter on the potatoes.”
About Mediums and Men
In this period, according to
my recollection, Atkinson, Ew
ing, Inman, and Stuart had one
weekly each; O’Neill had a pair.
A little later Atkinson and
Stuart added another paper each;
O’Neill at the same time be
came the first Holt county town
to have quadruplets (Frontier,
Tribune, Holt County People,
and Free Press).
For the sake of a first love I’d
like to start the rounds of the
Holt county press by saluting
the Atkinson Graphic, where
65 years ago I set my first line
of type. The publisher who paid
my devil’s wages at $5 a month
was Harry Mathews, himself a
printer but at the time in the
front end of the business. A
likeable, well-groomed gentle
man in his late 30s, he employed
a full-time journeyman who
also did much of the writing—
“Chas. E. Fields,” he signed
himself. Charley was smart and
dynamic, the kind that any
small community would en- i
throne as poobah.
At his next stop after leav
ing Atkinson he started a
weekly on a shoe string, was
appointed postmaster, elected
justice of the peace, and own
ed a drug store which did a
big business in Hostetler's Bit
ters.
I do not recall the name of
the paper which later became a
competitor of the Graphic, al
though a Mr. Dudley was its
editor. Like Harry Mathews, he
hired a printer and kept to the
front office. By the way, his
printer was Liss (Ulysses S.
Grant) Moon, a hometown boy
graduated from the Graphic.
He knew all the local characters,
too. One of these was a saloon
keeper christened Patrick — as
good a man behind the bar as
you’d meet in the full length of
the Elkhorn river. Many’s the
time, should one of the sprouts
enjoying a social round show
signs of elevation, Pat would
admonish, “Ye have enough
taken; not anither drop!” (the
last three words very emphatic).
Again, it might happen that the
fellows would get a bit primed,
in spite of Pat’s watchfulness,
and start ribbing him. On one
such occasion, when the well
meaning Irishman could stand
it no longer, he leaned across
the bar and expounded: “There
’re two divels. There’s a divel on
earth, and there’s a divel below
the earth. You b’at th’ both of
thim.”
Knew a Lot for a Printer
Another printer-editor assoc
iated with the Graphic in the
late 80s was “that inspired
pagan, O. C. (“Old”) Bates," as
my boyhood friend Romaine
Saunders affectionately calls
him. Were the ancients from
Aristotle to Zenophanes too
much for him? Did he too read
ily agree with Ecclesiastes that
all is vanity? No. He was ever
lastingly unperturbed.
I regret never having had
personal contact with either
the Ewing Item or the Inman In
dex, or their editors. It was on
the Item, however, that my in
timate in those days, Clyde
King, served much of his print
er apprenticeship before moving
to O’Neill and entering upon his
well-known career. Clyde was
an excellent printer and a crafts
man at phrasing whatever came
to mind.
Still another of Holt coun
ty's early printer-editors was
Colonel Ketcham, who had
been around long enough to be
rated "oldtimer."
He was a Civil War veteran,
had worked in the Government
Printing Office in Washington,
D. C., and took pride in a mas
sive mustache that stuck out at
both ends and hung down in
front—the kind that went out
of style about the time printers
began wearing derbies. The
colonel was having a fling at
country journalism on the Stuart
Ledger at the time I met him,
which was just before John
Wertz took over the paper. I re
member watching him as he
stood at the case setting type
with smooth rhythm, going
right along; never, however,
raising his eyes to read copy.
Then I realized this typesetter’s
copy was in his head. It seems
the colonel’s weekly schedule
was divided between covering
the local field and doing job
work about half the time, and
throwing in” his cases, setting
up the paper and going to press
the rest of the time. Doing the
work himself, he explained.
LONGEST CAREER . . . Dennis H. Cronin, who died in March
1947, was identifed with The Frontier for 54 years—the longest
active career of any Holt county newspaperman. For 12 years
he was U. S. mashal, served in the state legislature.
I there was no need to write
copy.
Good Writer Saw Bad Times
John Wertz, editor, of the
! Stuart Ledger, by whom I was
given my first job as a journey
man printer, possessed both na
tive ability and liberal arts
training. Not only was he a
born epigrammatist, but there
was a Wertzian piquancy in ev
ery “take” he sent to the printer.
Oddly, much of his best work
was penciled on scrap, such as
old envelopes carried in his
pockets, crumpled paper bags or
brindle meat wrappers from the
hotel kitchen. More than once
copy was on thin panels of a
pine box.
My stipend was $8 a week and
“keep.” This included rooming
I with the boss and three meals a
day at the hotel, where the
waitress sang the menu (beef
steak, pork chops, cold meat,
etc.), and where, perhaps be
cause John and I were rated
second-table boarders, we sel
dom got the hotcakes for break
fast always served commercial
travelers. Supplementing my
keep, John kept for final set
tlement so much of the $8 per
week as he was unable to pay
weekly.
inurea 10 nara umes mat win
ter though we were, the last
straw was added when the Elk
horn station agent put a $1.20
COD on our patent insides,
without which we could not go
to press.
In spite of such incidents, ex
istence was not without mo
ments of luxury—for example,
at the height of Summer when
the watermelon crop was prime
our offer of a year’s subscrip
tion for the largest melon
brought in so many we ate only
the immense hearts.
Sketches from O'Neill Scene
O’Neill newspapers 60 years
ago reflected more or less the
stability built into an older
community. Along about 1886
’87, however, with the advent of
the Free Press and the Holt
County People, the stage was set
for a comic-opera interlude. The
“People,” bringing type but no
press, which it rented from a
competitor, came upon the scene
unannounced and soon departed
unwept. The Free Press, though,
brought not only a complete
printshop but Doc Mathews, vet
eran editor earlier connected
with The Frontier.
In due course the versatile
Doctor and John McDonough,
editor of the Tribune, began
lifting the journalistic hide
off each other. If Doc led with
"yap-yap-yap," John counter
ed with "yap-yap-yap-yap."
Usually each paper carried
on the war with a reply, a new
attack, and epigrammatic jabs
as fillers. About the time yap
ping had become meaningless,
one of the principals—which, I
do not recall — played up a
story alleging a certain editor
had been observed acting sus
piciously in the vicinity of a
certain woodpile (the weather
had been bitter cold), and that
the owner of the wood had re
ported several armfuls missing.
Townfolk began wondering
what would happen next—a gun
battle? No. The editors met, ex
changed blows, got a shiner
apiece, and quit yapping.
Tribune Talent Two Deep
John McDonough, editor of the
Tribune, would stand out in any
group of country editors. He was
tall, trim, well groomed, and
well dressed except for wearing
the highest collar and the long
est cuffs stocked by his haber
dasher. Often he would sit in
obvious preoccupation softly
twining the ends of an adequate
but unobtrusive mustache. Even
tually he realized at least tem
porary satisfaction of his am
bition to be associated with a
New York City daily, which
happened to be the World.
It would be unfair, however,
to say the Tribune was a one
man shop in those days, or that
its editor had lost in popularity
merely because the best he could
get was a draw with Doc Mat
hews. Endowed in no mean way
also was a strong boy who regu
larly propelled by hand the
shop’s power press. This strong
boy had the loudest laugh imag
inable (fortissimo jackassimo).
To go with it were slightly re
tarded mental reactions—a de
fect which set him back two or
three seconds in getting the
point of a joke. The result was.
when others were in the last
ha-ha of laughter, the strong boy
would get the point and let loose
triphammer guffaws even fun
nier than the joke. He was so
good the boys got to taking him
to the visiting rqad shows, sit
ting with him far back in the
gallery. Fun! Always just as
the ripple of laughter following
a funny hit was fading, the
strong boy would get the point
and bring down the house.
"Jimmy" Riggs' Frontier
The Frontier was the atmos
phere, not the deadweight, of
life in the new country. James
H (“Jimmy”) Riggs, editor and
publisher, was the kind of a
man younger fellows could wish
to emulate. Cleanminded, kind- :
ly, with a little cloud sometimes
in his sunny smile, he kept The
Frontier on a high plane. On
the credit side of his ledger,
Jimmy had the satisfaction of
knowing that the following
young men who got part of their
training under him later made
good in the metroplitan field or
at home: Lish Graham, Jimmy
Killoran, G rant Saunders
l S60^ R,S8s- Clyde King n
I H. (“Denny”) Cronin, and rS
maine Saunders.
th^The SJS?- been ,0re»‘<™
fh-c, K h started the
fust branch publication in Holt
county. It was about 1886 when
this offshot. called the Emmet
Echo, was founded. Emmet in
those days consisted of a lone
general store, the Elkhom depot
and water tank, and little else.
A number of homesteaders
roundabout, however, were
anticipating the time when
they would receive govern
ment title to their claims. And
this branch was established in
anticipation of a number of $5
fees for printing notices in con
nection with what was called
"proving up."
Jimmy sent me, along with
several cases of text type, a few
fonts of display, and an army
press, to do the job, requiring
but two days. He also had issued
in my name a pass on the Elk
horn railroad between Norfolk
and Long Pine, which I had no
opportunity to use except a
round trip each week between
O’Neill and Emmet. (Was that a
square deal?)
The hardest part of the job
was discovering something that
would make news. In the semi
solitude one could walk a mile
for a personal. It turned out,
too, that final-proof notices be
came scarcer and scarcer. So, af
ter a few short weeks that were
pregnant with promise, the Echo j
passed to its reward. (If Bill Nye
had been its editor he would
have given it a real obituary.)
It was in the late Summer of
1890 I last worked on The Fron- j
tier, helping with a “progress”
edition. Today I can hardly
realize 58 volumes of this sturdy
pioneer have gone to press since
I went away.
Giraffes grow as tall as 18
feet
Gillespie Story
(Continued from page 2-C)
nesses during contempt of court.
Connolly had no doubt been
‘posted’ and knew the only pun
ishment he would get in case
the court fined him for contempt
would be good board at the City
hotel with a servant for com
panion.”
Hileman was Pound over to
district court for trial on a
charge of grand larceny, bail
fixed at $300. What ever became
of these cases the writer has not
thought it worth while to look
up. A1 went into the race horse
business, at which he was a
howling success. Mr. Gillespie
became county judge, the fam
ily esteemed residents of O’Neill
and later B. S. became a U. S.
land office official, while the
Dutchers and others faded away.
O'Neill a Man's Town —
So far as early isues o€ The
Frontier disclose O’Neill was
a man’s town. Perhaps the edi
tor felt that the ladies were so
far above him that he dare not
take their names on the end of
his editorial quill. One excep
tion is found in the following
which appeared in a January
issue in 1882:
Miss C. E. Cleveland, sister
of G. M. Cleveland, an O’Neill
attorney, wrote the Sioux City
Journal from Mitchell: “It
would be very gratifying to the
Woman’s Christian Temperance
Union, of Mitchell, if you would
publish the fact that upwards of
200 have signed the pledge dur
ing the week’s meetings just
held.”
Glass windows were known
1,600 years ago.
For More Than 60 Years Holt
County Has Depended
on Banks...
FOR THE INDIANS IT WAS TRADE AND BARTER
THEN THE WHITE MAN CAME
AND GRADUALLY conditions changed. \^ith the
coming of the white men the bank took its place
with the church, the school and the press in providing the
services needed for the pioneer who had come from the
more populated sections of the East.
IN THIS COMMUNITY the dependency upon banks was
evident long before the town of O’Neill was incor
porated and the services rendered in those early days made
it possible for the community to forge ahead more rapidly
than in less favored settlements. Through the years the
needs and demands of the community in financial matters
have been met.
TODA\ the O Neill National Bank stands ready and wil
ling to provide banking facilities second to none,
and our friendly service is at the disposal of those in our
great community. The past record of this banking insti
tution has been outstanding and has stood the stress of
storm and time, growing stronger with each year. We in
vite you to take advantage of our services.
O’Neill National Bank
1901 — Member Federal Deposit Insurance Corp. — 1949