journalist to have an exaggerated idea of the importance of the work done by his fraternity. What journalists write are at the best ephemeral in influence and length of life. And the value of journalistic productions cannot equal the products of creative genius. What journalists produce cannot take rank with genuine poetry, drama, romance, song, music, painting, sculpture, architecture, scientific discovery, etc. Some artist or poet or dramatist may to-day be obliged by circumstances to seek the favour of some editor or other, but twenty-five or fifty years hence the editor’s bare name alone may survive, whilst the poor unrecognised man of genius of to-day may become a luminary in the firmament of literature and art.
It is, of course, very difficult to judge for oneself whether one possesses creative genius or not. It is also difficult even for good critics to judge at first whether a budding poet or artist is destined to produce things of lasting worth. Nevertheless it may be said in general terms that those who possess creative genius or the capacity to produce something of lasting value—lasting in the comparative human sense, for nothing merely human is everlasting—should not, except temporarily in case of need, give to journalism what is meant for a higher vocation.
This word of caution is not superfluous. For journalism has its attractions and temptations. None of us mere journalists can equal or approach those living in our midst who have some lasting achievement to their credit. But even the youngest and most inexperienced journalist among us may often feel the temptation of posing as superior or at least equal to, say, the greatest statesman or scientist or philosopher among us by criticising them. There is no harm in such criticism; nay, it is often absolutely necessary. But we should never forget in a fit of vanity that the critic is not equal to the doer in the broadest and deepest sense.
Another temptation of journalism is that it enables one to give an outlet to the anger and irritation one feels when something wrong happens. What is wrong should certainly be condemned, but it should be remembered that mere condemnation, however necessary, cannot take the place of constructive work and achievement.
There is also the temptation of crying down or even abusing those whom one dislikes or of whom one is jealous. This temptation should be resisted at all costs. It is said that once upon a time a young man, in search of a journalistic job, asked to see John Morley, editor of The Pall Mall Gazette. When the young man was brought to his presence, the great editor enquired what were his qualifications. Young hopeful replied that invective was his forte. It may be that invective forms the major part of many journalist’s stock-in-trade. But though we may shine in invective, we should never forget that journalism is a high, though not the highest calling, and preparation for it, therefore, involves not only the acquisition of varied knowledge and information, but also the training of the intellect and moral and spiritual self-discipline. Judged by this standard, none of us may be able to pass the test, but there is nothing to lose but everything to gain by seriously placing a high ideal before ourselves.
Sir Surendra Nath Banerjea
Of the distingnished band of veterans who saw the birth of the Indian National Congress and were in a sense its originators, almost the last passed away the other day in the person of Sir Surendranath Banerjea, only Sir Dinshaw Edulji Wacha remaining in our midst.
Sir Surendranath’s early career was a chequered one; but even in those early days of his life the quality of indomitability which led to his being nicknamed “Surrender Not” came into play. He went to England when in his teens, in spite of the objections of his family, for appearing at the competitive examination for the Indian Civil Service. He was successful, but on the alleged ground of his age being higher than the limit fixed, he was not chosen by the civil service commissioners. Nothing daunted he sought the proper legal remedy and was successful. He came out to India as a covenanted civilian and was posted to Sylhet, then forming part of Bengal, as an Assistant Magistrate. At that time, unlike our present-day civilians of indigenous birth, he wore a long coat buttoned up to the chin and a beaver cap. But he and Mrs. Banerjea refused to be treated as socially inferior to the English officials and their wives. It seems that owing to this cause and the dislike which Anglo-Indian (old style) persons of both sexes still generally feel for educated, and specially for high-placed, Indians who want to maintain their
