“Yes,” I said, “I’ve been getting a grey hair or so for some time. I don’t know how it is. I’m not much over thirty.” (I repeat that the incident occurred some years ago.)
“No, sir, you’re not what might be called old,” said he indulgently. “Maybe you’re doing some brain-work?” he suggested, after a pause.
“Brain-work?” said I. “Oh no! I work for a daily paper, and usually write a column of leading articles every night. I produce a book a year, and a play every now and again. But brain-work—oh no!”
“Oh, in that case, sir, it must be due to something else. Maybe you drink a bit, sir.”
I did not buy the bottle which he offered me at four-and-nine. I left the shop dissatisfied.
This is why I hesitate to affirm that modern journalism is wholly understanded of the people.
But for that matter it is not wholly understanded of the people who might be expected to know something about it. The proprietor of a newspaper on which I worked some years ago made use of me one day to translate a few lines of Greek which appeared on the back of an old print in his possession. My powers amazed him. The lines were from an obscure and little-known poem called the “Odyssey.”
“You must read a great deal, my boy,” said he.
I shook my head.
“The fact is,” said I, “I’ve lately had so much reviewing to do that I haven’t been able to read a single book.”