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Tech Giants, Artificial
Intelligence, and the Future of
Journalism
This book examines the impact of the “Big Five” technology companies –
Apple, Google, Amazon, Facebook, and Microsoft – on journalism and
the media industries. It looks at the current role of algorithms and artifi-
cial intelligence in curating how we consume media and their increasing
influence on the production of the news.
Exploring the changes that the technology industry and automation
have made in the past decade to the production, distribution, and con-
sumption of news globally, the book considers what happens to journal-
ism once it is produced and enters the media ecosystems of the Internet
tech giants – and the impact of social media and AI on such things as
fake news in the post-truth age.
The audience for this book are students and researchers working
in the field of digital media, and journalism studies or media studies
more generally. It will also be useful to those who are looking for ex-
tended case studies of the role taken by tech giants such as Facebook and
Google in the fake news scandal, or the role of Jeff Bezos in transforming
The Washington Post.
19 News of Baltimore
Race, Rage and the City
Edited by Linda Steiner and Silvio Waisbord
23 Economic News
Informing the Inattentive Audience
Arjen van Dalen, Helle Svensson, Anotinus Kalogeropoulos, Erik
Albæk, Claes H. de Vreese
Jason Whittaker
Acknowledgements ix
Bibliography 173
Index 183
Acknowledgements
Apple 921
Amazon 765
Alphabet 750
Microsoft 746
Facebook 531
Berkshire Hathaway 492
JPMorgan Chase & Co. 388
Exxon Mobil 349
Johnson & Johnson 332
Bank of America Corp 315
Table I.2 V
alue of top tech companies versus top media companies
Notes
1 Chris Johnston, “Apple is the First Public Company Worth $1 Trillion”, BBC
News, 2 August 2018, www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-45050213; Thomas
Heath, “Apple is the First $1 Trillion Company in History”, The Washington
Post, 2 August 2018, www.washingtonpost.com/business/economy/apple-is-
the-first-1-trillion-company-in-history/2018/08/02/ea3e7a02-9599-11e8-a679-
b09212fb69c2_story.html; Mark Gurman, Mira Rojanasakul, and Cedric
Sam, “How Apple Overcame Fits and Flops to Grow Into a Trillion-Dollar
Company”, Bloomberg, 2 August 2018, www.bloomberg.com/graphics/2018-
apple-at-one-trillion-market-cap/; Kevin Kelleher, “As the Stock Market Closes,
Apple Is Officially the First Trillion-Dollar U.S. Company”, 2 August 2018,
http://fortune.com/2018/08/02/apple-trillion-dollar-stock-price/.
2 Lucinda Shen, “Apple Is Worth Over $900 Billion. But It Won’t Be the
World’s First Trillion-Dollar Company”, Fortune, 8 November 2017, http://
fortune.com/2017/11/08/apple-stock-amazon-trillion-aapl-iphone-x/.
3 Lucinda Shen, “Amazon and the Race to Be the First $1 Trillion Com-
pany”, Fortune, 31 March 2017, http://fortune.com/2017/03/31/amazon-
stock-trillion-dollar-company-apple-tesla-google/.
4 Ryan Derousseau, “Apple Isn’t the First to Hit $1 Trillion In Value. Here Are
5 Companies That Did It Earlier”, Money, 2 August 2018, http://time.com/
money/5282501/apple-trillion-biggest-companies-in-history/.
5 Jeff Desjardins, “Most Valuable U.S. Companies Over 100 Years”, Visual
Capitalist, 14 November 2017, www.visualcapitalist.com/most-valuable-
companies-100-years/.
6 Ben Bagdikian, The New Media Monopoly, Boston, MA: Beacon Press,
2004, p. 3.
7 Rafe Needleman, “Eric Schmidt: ‘Gang of four’ Rules Tech”, CNET, 31
May 2011, www.cnet.com/news/eric-schmidt-gang-of-four-rules-tech/.
8 Bryan Glick, “Beanbags 2.0 – The New Google Office”, Computer-
Weekly.com, 26 July 2012, www.computerweekly.com/blog/Downtime/
Beanbags-20-the-new-Google-office.
9 Jacky Law, Big Pharma: How the World’s Biggest Drug Companies Market
Illness, London: Constable, 2006.
10 Olivia Solon, “Tech’s Terrible Year: How the World Turned on Silicon Val-
ley in 2017”, The Guardian, 23 December 2017, www.theguardian.com/
technology/2017/dec/22/tech-year-in-review-2017.
10 Introduction
11 Richard E. Sclove, Democracy and Technology, New York: Guilford Press,
1995; Douglas Kellner, “Intellectuals, the New Public Spheres, and Techno-
Politics”, in Chris Toulouse and Timothy W. Luke (eds.), The Politics of
Cyberspace: A New Political Science Reader, New York: Routledge, 1998,
p. 174.
12 Mark Balnaves, and Michele A. Willson, A New Theory of Information &
the Internet: Public Sphere Meets Protocol, Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2011,
pp. 3–4; Lee Salter, Conflicting Forms of Use: The Potential of and Limits
to the Use of the Internet as a Public Sphere, Riga: VDM Verlag, 2010,
p. 10.
13 Natalie Fenton, “Fake Democracy: The Limits of Public Sphere Theory”,
in Slavko Splichal (ed.), The Liquefaction of Publicness: Communication,
Democracy and the Public Sphere in the Internet Age, New York: Rout-
ledge, 2018, pp. 28–34; Barbara Pfetsch, “Dissonant and Disconnected Pub-
lic Spheres as Challenge for Political Communication Research”, in Slavko
Splichal (ed.), The Liquefaction of Publicness: Communication, Democracy
and the Public Sphere in the Internet Age, New York: Routledge, 2018,
pp. 59–65.
14 Dennis Nguyen, Europe, the Crisis, and the Internet: A Web Sphere Analy-
sis, London: Palgrave, 2017, p. 271.
15 Julia Schwanholz, Todd Graham, and Peter-Tobias Stoll, Managing Democ-
racy in the Digital Age: Internet Regulation, Social Media Use, and Online
Civic Engagement, New York: Springer, 2017.
16 Dan Gillmor, We the Media: Grassroots Journalism By the People, For the
People. North Sebastopol, CA: O’Reilly Media, 2004, p. vi.
1 The New Ecology
A TALE.
“An’ ye winna believe i’ the bogle?” said a pretty young lassie to her
sweetheart, as they sat in the door of her father’s cottage one fine autumn
evening. “Do you hear that, mither? Andrew ’ll no believe i’ the bogle.”
“Gude be wi’ us, Effie!” exclaimed Andrew, a slender and delicate youth
of about two-and-twenty, “a bonny time I wad hae o’t, gin I were to heed
every auld wife’s clatter.”
The words “auld wife” had a manifest effect on Effie, and she bit her lips
in silence. Her mother immediately opened a battery upon the young man’s
prejudices, narrating how that on Anneslie Heath, at ten o’clock at night, a
certain apparition was wont to appear, in the form of a maiden above the
usual size, with a wide three-cornered hat. Sundry other particulars were
mentioned, but Andrew was still incredulous. “He’ll rue that, dearly will he
rue’t!” said Effie, as he departed.
Many days, however, passed away, and Effie was evidently much
disappointed to find that the scepticism of her lover gathered strength. Nay,
he had the audacity to insult, by gibes and jests, the true believers, and to
call upon them for the reasons of their faith. Effie was in a terrible passion.
At last, however, her prophecy was fulfilled. Andrew was passing over
the moor, while the clock struck ten; for it was his usual practice to walk at
that hour, in order to mock the fears of his future bride. He was just winding
round the thicket which opened to him a view of the cottage where Effie
dwelt, when he heard a light step behind him, and, in an instant, his feet
were tripped up, and he was laid prostrate on the turf. Upon looking up he
beheld a tall muscular man standing over him, who, in no courteous
manner, desired to see the contents of his pocket. “De’il be on ye!”
exclaimed the young forester, “I hae but ae coin i’ the warld.” “That coin
maun I hae,” said his assailant. “Faith! I’se show ye play for’t then,” said
Andrew, and sprang upon his feet.
Andrew was esteemed the best cudgel-player for twenty miles round, so
that in brief space he cooled the ardour of his antagonist, and dealt such
visitations upon his skull as might have made a much firmer head ache for a
fortnight. The man stepped back, and, pausing in his assault, raised his hand
to his forehead, and buried it among his dark locks. It returned covered with
blood. “Thou hast cracked my crown,” he said, “but yet ye sha’ na gang
scatheless;” and, flinging down his cudgel, he flew on his young foe, and,
grasping his body before he was aware of the attack, whirled him to the
earth with an appalling impetus. “The Lord hae mercy on me!” said
Andrew, “I’m a dead man.”
He was not far from it, for his rude foe was preparing to put the finishing
stroke to his victory. Suddenly something stirred in the bushes, and the
conqueror, turning away from his victim, cried out, “The bogle! the bogle!”
and fled precipitately. Andrew ventured to look up. He saw the figure which
had been described to him approaching; it came nearer and nearer; its face
was very pale, and its step was not heard on the grass. At last it stood by his
side, and looked down upon him. Andrew buried his face in his cloak:
presently the apparition spoke—indistinctly indeed, for its teeth seemed to
chatter with cold:
“This is a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie Muir!” and
immediately it glided away. Andrew lay a few minutes in a trance; and then,
arising from his cold bed, ran hastily towards the cottage of his mistress.
His hair stood on end, and the vapours of the night sunk chill upon his brow
as he lifted up the latch and flung himself upon an oaken seat.
“Preserve us!” cried the old woman. “Why, ye are mair than aneugh to
frighten a body out o’ her wits! To come in wi’ sic a flaunt and a fling, bare-
sconced, and the red bluid spatter’d a’ o’er your new leather jerkin! Shame
on you, Andrew! in what mishanter hast thou broken that fule’s head o’
thine?”
“Peace, mither!” said the young man, taking breath, “I hae seen the
bogle!”
The old lady had a long line of reproaches, drawn up in order of march,
between her lips; but the mention of the bogle was the signal for disbanding
them. A thousand questions poured in, in rapid succession. “How old was
she? How was she dressed? Who was she like? What did she say?”
“She was a tall thin woman, about seven feet high!”
“Oh Andrew!” cried Effie.
“As ugly as sin!”
“Other people tell a different story,” said Effie.
“True, on my Bible oath! And then her beard——”
“A beard, Andrew!” shrieked Effie: “a woman with a beard! For shame,
Andrew!”
“Nay, I’ll swear it upon my soul’s salvation! She had seen saxty winters
and mair, afore e’er she died to trouble us!”
“I’ll wager my best new goun,” said the maiden, “that saxteen would be
nearer the mark.”
“But wha was she like, Andrew?” said the old woman. “Was she like
auld Janet that was drowned in the burn forenaint? or that auld witch that
your maister hanged for stealing his pet lamb? or was she like——”
“Are you sure she was na like me, Andrew?” said Effie, looking archly
in his face.
“You—pshaw! Faith, guid mither, she was like to naebody that I ken,
unless it be auld Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife, that was blamed for a’ the
mischief or misfortunes o’ the kintra roun’, and was drowned at last for
having ‘sense aboon the lave.’”
“And how was she dressed, Andrew?”
“In that horrible three-cornered hat, which may I be blinded if ever I
seek to look upon again!—an’ in a lang blue apron——”
“Green, Andrew!” cried Effie, twirling her own green apron round her
thumb.
“How you like to tease ane!” said the lover. Poor Andrew did not at all
enter into his mistress’s pleasantry, for he laboured under a great depression
of spirits, and never lifted his eyes from the ground.
“But ye hae na tauld us what she said, lad!” said the old woman,
assuming an air of deeper mystery as each question was put and answered
in its turn.
“Lord! what signifies it whether she said this or that! Haud your tongue,
and get me some comfort; for, to speak truth, I’m vera cauld.”
“Weel mayest thou be sae,” said Effie, “for indeed,” she continued, in a
feigned voice, “it was a cauld an’ an eerie night to be sae late on Anneslie
Muir.”
Andrew started, and a doubt seemed to pass over his mind. He looked up
at the damsel, and perceived, for the first time, that her large blue eyes were
laughing at him from under the shade of a huge three-cornered hat. The
next moment he hung over her in an ecstasy of gratitude, and smothered
with his kisses the ridicule which she forced upon him as the penalty of his
preservation.
“Seven feet high, Andrew?”
“My dear Effie!”
“As ugly as sin?”
“My darling lassie!”
“And a beard?”
“Na! na! now you carry the jest o’er far!”
“And saxty winters?”
“Saxteen springs, Effie! Dear, delightfu’, smiling springs!”
“And Elspeth, the cobbler’s wife! Oh, Andrew, Andrew! I never can
forgie you for the cobbler’s wife! And what say you now, Andrew—is there
nae bogle on the muir?”
“My dear Effie, for your sake I’ll believe in a’ the bogles in
Christendie!”
“That is,” said Effie, at the conclusion of a long and vehement fit of
risibility, “that is, in a’ that wear ‘three-cornered hats.’”
ON THE PROPOSED ESTABLISHMENT OF A
PUBLIC LIBRARY AT ETON.
We are very glad to be able to announce that, after the Easter holidays, a
public library for the use of the school will be established by subscription,
at Mr. Williams’s. We are very glad of it, not for our own sake, for before it
shall rise to any degree of importance we shall be inhabitants of this spot no
longer; our very names will be forgotten among its more recent inmates.
But we hail with joy this institution, for the sake of the school we love and
reverence, to which we hope it will prove, at some future period, a valuable
addition.
The plan admits of one hundred subscribers—viz., the one hundred
senior members of the school. If any of these decline to become members,
the option will descend to the next in gradation. The subscription for the
first year will be 10s. 6d. after the Easter, Election, and Christmas holidays;
in future 10s. 6d. will be paid after the two latter vacations only. The library
will consist of the classics, history, &c.; and subscribers will be allowed,
under certain regulations, to take books from the room. Of course a thing of
this kind has not been set on foot without the concurrence of the higher
powers; and the head-master has assisted the promoters of it by his
approbation, as well as by liberality of another description. We trust that
Eton will not long continue to experience the want of an advantage which
many other public schools enjoy.
We had intended to send the foregoing loose remarks to press, in order to
request as many of our schoolfellows in the upper division as are willing to
become subscribers to leave their names with Mr. Williams, at whose house
the library will be established. But as we were preparing to send off the
manuscript, an old gentleman, for whom we have a great respect, called in,
and looked over our shoulder. He then took a chair, and observed to us:
“This will never do!” He took off his spectacles, wiped them, put them on
again, and repeated: “This will never do!
“I, sir, was an Etonian in the year 17—, and, being a bit of a speculator
in those days, had a mind to do what you are now dreaming of doing. I
addressed myself forthwith to various friends, all of them distinguished for
rank, or talent, or influence, among their companions. I began with Sir
Roger Gandy, expatiated on the sad want of books which many
experienced, and asked whether he did not think a public library would be a
very fine thing? ‘A circulating one,’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’—and he
yawned. There was taste!
“The next to whom I made application was Tom Luny, the fat son of a
fat merchant on Ludgate Hill. Poor Tom! He died last week, by-the-by, of a
surfeit. Well, sir, I harangued him for some time upon the advantages of my
scheme, to which he gave his cordial assent. Finally I observed that, of
course, it would not be very expensive. ‘Expensive!’ he said; ‘oh yes,
very!’—and he walked off. There was liberality!
“Next I besieged Will Wingham. I made my approaches as before, with
great caution, and at last summoned the garrison to surrender. ‘Books!’ he
exclaimed, ‘I haven’t one but a Greek Grammar, with all syntax out.’ ‘And
do you think,’ I resumed, ‘that an Etonian can do well without them?’ ‘Do
well!’ he said; ‘oh yes, very!’—and he laughed. There was a wish for
improvement!
“Now, my good Peregrine,” continued the old gentleman, putting his feet
up upon the hobs of my fire, and looking very argumentative, “what do you
say to all this?”
The old gentleman is
Laudator temporis acti
Se puero.
It is a point which has often been advanced and contested by the learned,
that the world grows worse as it grows older; arguments have been
advanced, and treatises written, in support of Horace’s opinion—
Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.
The supporters of this idea rest their sentence upon various grounds: they
mention the frequency of crim. con. cases, the increase of the poor-rate, the
licentiousness of the press, the celebrity of rouge et noir.
There is, however, one circumstance corroborative of their judgment, to
which we think the public opinion has not yet been sufficiently called. We
mean the indisputable fact that persons of all descriptions are growing
ashamed of their own names. We remember that when we were dragged in
our childhood to walk with our nurse, we were accustomed to beguile our
sense of weariness and disgust by studying the names, which, in their neat
brass plates, decorated the doors by which we passed. Now the case is
altered. We have observed elsewhere that the tradesmen have removed their
signs; it is equally true that the gentlemen have removed their names. The
simple numerical distinction, which is now alone emblazoned upon the
doors of our dwellings, but ill replaces that more gratifying custom, which,
in a literal sense, held up great names for our emulation, and made the
streets of the metropolis a muster-roll of examples for our conduct.
But a very serious inconvenience is also occasioned by this departure
from ancient observances. How is the visitor from the country to discover
the patron of his fortunes, the friend of his bosom, or the mistress of his
heart, if, in lieu of the above-mentioned edifying brass plates, his eye
glances upon the unsatisfactory information contained in 1, 2, or 3? In some
cases even this assistance is denied to him, and he wanders upon his dark
and comfortless voyage, like an ancient mariner deprived of the assistance
of the stars.
Our poor friend, Mr. Nichol Loaming, has treated us with a long and
eloquent dissertation upon this symptom of degeneracy; and certainly, if the
advice experto crede be of any weight, Mr. Nichol’s testimony ought to
induce all persons to hang out upon the exterior of their residences some
more convincing enunciation of their name and calling than it is at present
the fashion to produce.
Nichol came up to town with letters of introduction to several friends of
his family, whom it was his first duty and wish to discover. But his first
adventure so dispirited him, that, after having spent two mornings at an
hotel, he set out upon his homeward voyage, and left the metropolis an
unexplored region.
He purposed to make his first visit to Sir William Knowell, and, having
with some difficulty discovered the street to which he had been directed, he
proceeded to investigate the doors, in order to find out the object of his
search. The doors presented nothing but a blank! He made inquiries, was
directed to a house, heard that Sir William was at home, was shown into an
empty room, and waited for some time with patience.
The furniture of the house rather surprised him. It was handsomer than
he had expected to find it; and on the table were the Morning Chronicle and
the Edinburgh Review, although Sir William was a violent Tory. At length
the door opened, and a gentleman made his appearance. Nichol asked, in a
studied speech, whether he had the honour to address Sir William Knowell?
The gentleman replied that he believed there had been a little mistake, but
that he was an intimate friend of Sir W. Knowell’s, and expected him in the
course of a few minutes. Nichol resumed his seat, although he did not quite
perceive what mistake had taken place. He was unfortunately urged by his
evil genius to attempt conversation.
He observed that Sir W. Knowell had a delightful house, and inquired
whether the neighbourhood was pleasant. “His next neighbour,” said the
stranger, with a most incomprehensible smile, “is Sir William Morley.”
Nichol shook his head; was surprised to hear Sir William kept such
company—had heard strange stories of Sir W. Morley—hoped there was no
foundation—indeed had received no good report of the family! “The
mother rather weak in the head—to say the truth under confinement; the
sister a professed coquette—went off to Gretna last week with a Scotch
officer; Sir William himself a gambler by habit, a drunkard by inclination—
at present in the King’s Bench, without the possibility of an adjustment
——”
Here he was stopped by the entrance of an elderly lady leaning on the
arm of an interesting girl of sixteen or seventeen. Upon looking up, Nichol
perceived the gentleman he had been addressing rather embarrassed; and
“hoped that he had not said anything which could give offence.” “Not in the
least,” replied the stranger; “I am more amused by an account of the foibles
of Sir W. Morley than any one else can be; and of this I will immediately
convince you. Sir William Knowell resides at No. Six—you have stepped
by mistake into No. Seven. Before you leave it, allow me to introduce you
to Lady Morley—who is rather weak in the head, and, to say the truth,
under confinement; to Miss Ellen Morley, a professed coquette, who went
off to Gretna last week with a half-pay officer; finally”—(with a very low
bow)—“to Sir William Morley himself, a gambler by habit, and a drunkard
by inclination—who is at present in the King’s Bench, without the
possibility of an adjustment!”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY.
In a visit which we paid some time ago to our worthy contributor, Morris
Gowan, we became acquainted with two characters; upon whom, as they
afford a perfect counterpart to Messrs. “Rhyme and Reason,” recorded in a
former paper, we have bestowed the names of Sense and Sensibility.
The Misses Lowrie, of whom we are about to give our readers an
account, are both young, both handsome, both amiable: Nature made the
outline of their characters the same, but Education has varied the colouring.
Their mother died almost before they were able to profit by her example or
instruction. Emily, the eldest of the sisters, was brought up under the
immediate care of her father. He was a man of strong and temperate
judgment, obliging to his neighbours, and affectionate to his children; but
certainly rather calculated to educate a son than a daughter. Emily profited
abundantly by his assistance, as far as moral duties or literary
accomplishments were concerned; but for all the lesser agrémens of society,
she had nothing to depend upon but the suggestions of a kind heart and a
quiet temper. Matilda, on the contrary, spent her childhood in England, at
the house of a relation, who, having imbibed her notions of propriety at a
fashionable boarding-school, and made a love-match very early in life, was
but ill-prepared to regulate a warm disposition and check a natural tendency
to romance. The consequence has been such as might have been expected.
Matilda pities the distressed, and Emily relieves them; Matilda has more of
the love of the neighbourhood, although Emily is more entitled to its
gratitude; Matilda is very agreeable, while Emily is very useful; and two or
three old ladies, who talk scandal over their tea, and murder grammar and
reputations together, consider Matilda a practised heroine, and laugh at
Emily as an inveterate Blue.
The incident which first introduced us to them afforded us a tolerable
specimen of their different qualities. While on a long pedestrian excursion
with Morris, we met the two ladies returning from their walk; and, as our
companion had already the privileges of an intimate acquaintance, we
became their companions. An accurate observer of human manners knows
well how decisively character is marked by trifles, and how wide is the
distinction which is frequently made by circumstances apparently the most
insignificant.
In spite, therefore, of the similarity of age and person which existed
between the two sisters, the first glance at their dress and manner, the first
tones of their voice, were sufficient to distinguish the one from the other. It
was whimsical enough to observe how every object which attracted our
attention exhibited their respective peculiarities in a new and entertaining
light. Sense entered into a learned discussion on the nature of a plant, while
Sensibility talked enchantingly of the fading of its flower. From Matilda we
had a rapturous eulogium upon the surrounding scenery; from Emily we
derived much information relative to the state of its cultivation. When we
listened to the one, we seemed to be reading a novel, but a clever and an
interesting novel; when we turned to the other, we found only real life, but
real life in its most pleasant and engaging form.
Suddenly one of those rapid storms, which so frequently disturb for a
time the tranquillity of the finest weather, appeared to be gathering over our
heads. Dark clouds were driven impetuously over the clear sky, and the
refreshing coolness of the atmosphere was changed to a close and
overpowering heat. Matilda looked up in admiration—Emily in alarm;
Sensibility was thinking of a landscape—Sense of a wet pelisse. “This
would make a fine sketch,” said the first. “We had better make haste,” said
the second. The tempest continued to grow gloomier above us: we passed a
ruined hut, which had been long deserted by its inhabitants. “Suppose we
take refuge here for the evening,” said Morris. “It would be very romantic,”
said Sensibility. “It would be very disagreeable,” said Sense. “How it would
astonish my father!” said the heroine. “How it would alarm him!” said her
sister.
As yet we had only observed distant prognostics of the tumult of the
elements which was about to take place. Now, however, the collected fury
of the storm burst at once upon us. A long and bright flash of lightning,
together with a continued roll of thunder, accompanied one of the heaviest
rains that we have ever experienced. “We shall have an adventure!” cried
Matilda. “We shall be very late,” observed Emily. “I wish we were a
hundred miles off,” said the one hyperbolically. “I wish we were at home,”
replied the other soberly. “Alas! we shall never get home to-night,” sighed
Sensibility pathetically. “Possibly,” returned Sense dryly. The fact was that
the eldest of the sisters was quite calm, although she was aware of all the
inconveniences of their situation; and the youngest was terribly frightened,
although she began quoting poetry. There was another and a brighter flash,
another and a louder peal: Sense quickened her steps—Sensibility fainted.
With some difficulty, and not without the aid of a conveyance from a
neighbouring farmer, we brought our companions in safety to their father’s
door. We were of course received with an invitation to remain under shelter
till the weather should clear up; and of course we felt no reluctance to
accept the offer. The house was very neatly furnished, principally by the
care of the two young ladies; but here again the diversity of their manners
showed itself very plainly. The useful was produced by the labour of Emily;
the ornamental was the fruit of the leisure hours of Matilda. The skill of the
former was visible in the sofa-covers and the curtains, but the latter had
decorated the card-racks and painted the roses on the hand-screens. The
neat little bookcases, too, which contained their respective libraries,
suggested a similar remark. In that of the eldest we observed our native
English worthies—Milton, Shakespeare, Dryden, and Pope; on the shelves
of her sister reclined the more effeminate Italians—Tasso, Ariosto,
Metastasio, and Petrarch. It was a delightful thing to see two amiable beings
with tastes so widely different, yet with hearts so closely united.
It is not to be wondered at that we paid a longer visit than we had
originally intended. The conversation turned, at one time, upon the late
revolutions. Matilda was a terrible Radical, and spoke most enthusiastically
of tyranny and patriotism, the righteous cause, and the Holy Alliance:
Emily, however, declined to join in commiseration or invective, and pleaded
ignorance in excuse for her indifference. We fancy she was apprehensive of
blundering against a stranger’s political prejudices. However that may be,
Matilda sighed and talked, and Emily smiled and held her tongue. We
believe the silence was the most judicious; but we are sure the loquacity
was the most interesting.
We took up the newspaper. There was an account of a young man who
had gone out alone to the rescue of a vessel in distress. The design had been
utterly hopeless, and he had lost his life in the attempt. His fate struck our
fair friends in very different lights. “He ought to have had a better fortune,”
murmured Matilda. “Or more prudence,” added Emily. “He must have been
a hero,” said the first. “Or a madman,” rejoined the second.
The storm now died away in the distance, and a tranquil evening
approached. We set out on our return. The old gentleman, with his
daughters, accompanied us a small part of the way. The scene around us
was beautiful; the birds and the cattle seemed to be rejoicing in the return of
the sunshine, and every herb and leaf had derived a brighter tint from the
rain-drops with which it was spangled. As we lingered for a few moments
by the side of a beautiful piece of water, the mellowed sound of a flute was
conveyed to us over its clear surface. The instrument was delightfully
played: at such an hour, on such a spot, and with such companions, we
could have listened to it for ever. “That is George Mervyn,” said Morris to
us. “How very clever he is!” exclaimed Matilda. “How very imprudent,”
replied Emily. “He will catch all the hearts in the place!” said Sensibility,
with a sigh. “He will catch nothing but a cold!” said Sense, with a shiver.
We were reminded that our companions were running the same risk, and we
parted from them reluctantly.
After this introduction we had many opportunities of seeing them; we
became every day more pleased with the acquaintance, and looked forward
with regret to the day on which we were finally to leave so enchanting a
neighbourhood. The preceding night it was discovered that the cottage of
Mr. Lowrie was on fire. The destructive element was soon checked, and the
alarm quieted; but it produced a circumstance which illustrated, in a very
affecting manner, the observations we have been making. As the family
were greatly beloved by all who knew them, every one used the most
affectionate exertions in their behalf. When the father had been brought
safely from the house, several hastened to the relief of the daughters. They
were dressed, and were descending the stairs. The eldest, who had behaved
with great presence of mind, was supporting her sister, who trembled with
agitation. “Take care of this box,” said Emily: it contained her father’s title-
deeds. “For Heaven’s sake preserve this locket!” sobbed Matilda; it was a
miniature of her mother!
We have left, but not forgotten you, beautiful creatures! Often, when we
are sitting in solitude, with a pen behind our ear and a proof before our
eyes, you come, hand in hand, to our imagination! Some, indeed, enjoin us
to prefer esteem to fascination—to write sonnets to Sensibility, and to look
for a wife in Sense. These are the suggestions of age; perhaps of prudence.
We are young, and may be allowed to shake our heads as we listen!
MR. LOZELL’S
ESSAY ON WEATHERCOCKS.
“Round he spun.”—Byron.