Very sorry for myself, I sought a hotel, and found in
the hall a reporter who wished to know what I thought of the
country. Him I lured into conversation about his own profession,
and from him gained much that confirmed me in my views of the
grinding tyranny of that thing which they call the Press here.
Thus: - I - But you talk about interviewing people whether they
like it or not. Have you no bounds beyond which even your
indecent curiosity must not go?
HE - I haven't struck 'em yet. What do you think of interviewing
a widow two hours after her husband's death, to get her version
of his life?
I - I think that is the work of a ghoul. Must the people have no
privacy?
HE - There is no domestic privacy in America. If there was, what
the deuce would the papers do? See here. Some time ago I had an
assignment to write up the floral tributes when a prominent
citizen had died.
I - Translate, please; I do not understand your pagan rites and
ceremonies.
HE - I was ordered by the office to describe the flowers, and
wreaths, and so on, that had been sent to a dead man's funeral.
