“What does a signed article imply?” someone may wonder. It means double, treble, quadruple pay—as compared with an unsigned one. It means the writer’s name is of value, and sufficiently established to say what he thinks and means right out, instead of sending his poisoned darts unofficially in the disguise of anonymity. All articles and reviews ought to be signed, I think. One takes more care, gives more thought, attains a higher standard than for anonymous stuff. Leaders and critiques would be of real value if one knew who had written them.
Ease has come, facility of the pen. I believe I could write an article on almost any sort of subject with five minutes’ notice, and twenty minutes in which to dictate it. It is so easy to write on a theme which you never really touch on at all, but just glide along the outside edge. Things conceived like this cannot be of permanent value, but they are the product of an active brain and serve their purpose for the moment. That is journalism.
It may be interesting to beginners to read here how I wrote my first magazine article as a girl, in amateur days. This will illustrate how wise it is to make use of one’s opportunities; how from one small beginning a path may be opened in the wood of difficulty, at which, except in rare instances, all but genius has to hew.
I chanced to be in Paris in 1890, with my husband and mother who knew Pasteur, and thus I saw a good deal of the delightful, grey-bearded old gentleman whose work made such a stir at that time and revolutionised science. He was then about seventy. Short in stature, he was in no way a striking figure, but his clear eyes and thoughtful face arrested attention. I shall never forget the charm of his manner, and the courteous tolerance he displayed towards an unscientific young woman, who had no excuse for poking about the place save that she was the sister of one of his students and the daughter of a scientist. At that time Pasteur did very little personal work or research himself, but he most carefully superintended everything that was done under his roof.
So anxious was he for others to benefit by his experience that he had set apart fourteen tables in his large laboratory, at which were to be found working students of all nationalities and ages, from twenty-five to fifty—some of them men who had already won a name in science. No charge was made to them beyond the price of the materials they used, and every facility for scientific research was provided.
The hydrophobia cure was then the subject of commanding interest in the scientific world. It was a curious set of people who assembled in the large outer hall of the Institute every morning. On one occasion when I was there the patients numbered eighty-nine, amongst whom were a little English girl (the first to be sent over by the Lord Mayor’s Mansion-House Fund), a French soldier, a Belgian fisherman, a German, and many more of different nationalities.
On my return to England from that visit, with mental and scribbled notes, I sat down to write a little article on “Pasteur and his Institute,” which I sent addressed to the editor of Murray’s Magazine, feeling quite proud of myself but absolutely certain of its rejection. It was the first magazine article I had attempted. What was my surprise on receiving a letter in the course of a few days, signed “The Editor,” saying that he had been much interested in the article, but it was far too short for a magazine, and if I could double its length and write on one side of the paper only, he would have great pleasure in inserting it.
I actually jumped for joy. It seemed as if the whole literary world were opening at my feet. Of course, I copied it all out carefully on one side of the paper as ordered, and added a little bit here and a little bit there, counting the words one by one as they crept from tens into hundreds. The article duly appeared. It was wonderfully well reviewed, for it was the first thing of the kind on Pasteur that had been written in English, and therefore was quoted at some length in our Press.
A few years afterwards, when struggling to pay Charterhouse and Harrow bills, I was dining out one night when a gentleman was introduced to me. He said: