It astonished her to see the facility with which her pen danced humorous jigs, flung off diamonds of wit, and set in motion rippling waves of laughter. It was strange that she who was but emerging from the valley of despair, and whose life so far had had in it but little of the glitter of pleasure, could write as one who knew the light, the joyous, the mirthful, the happy side of existence.
Yet even in her most jaunty and jubilant products, here and there would be a bold, strong stroke of another kind, which made the reader know that he was following no light soul. In all she wrote, whether grave or gay, were the “fresh eyes,” to which we give the name of originality, and another quality, for which we have no name, which moves us, we know not why.
When it began to be rumored that the Register’s new writer was a woman, the smart people, who knew everything, shook their heads and sniffed incredulously, saying that there was too much force in the work; that the style was not womanish—it was Prescott in disguise. They expected the apron-strings to flutter conspicuously from every page prepared by a feminine hand. For them genius has sex and that sex is always male.
It must not be understood that these early efforts of my heroine were worthy a place among the works of genius. They were only fresh, spirited, striking sketches of life as their author saw it, and they went into the great ocean of newspaper literature here, there and all about, that lives but for a day. Some of them, it is true, found a pathetic scrap-book immortality. Others were picked up by mightier periodicals than the Register, and given a flatteringly wide circulation, and a few met the dreary fate of getting into imposingly bound collections of “Literary Gems,” there to rest in undisturbed security on village parlor tables for many a year to come.
In a few weeks Mrs. Doring had the felicity to be installed as associate editor of the Register. Her salary was not munificent, as salaries usually are in fiction. Let no one imagine that all aspirants get an opportunity to do newspaper work and ascend the ladder as easily. Her good luck in this particular could be traced to her fitness for the position. Prescott soon discovered that besides having extraordinary ability and originality as a writer, she had what he called the “editorial instinct,” which, being interpreted, meant that she knew instinctively what an attractive newspaper should contain.
In novels it is always easy to get to the top. In that respect the people who live in books have a much better time than they who live outside of them. There young heroes make dazzling flights up the journalistic mountains. A young man comes out of college, writes something for a powerful daily newspaper, whose editor at once begs him to accept a lucrative situation thereon. He allows himself to be persuaded, after some hesitation, and takes advantage of the opportunity for distinction thrust upon him, after which he goes up without delay or hindrance, till he becomes editor-in-chief, owns the paper and is a recognized power in the land. But in real life, alas! the get-there road is a harder one to travel.
Another thing in real life is managed less excellently than in fiction. The women who do newspaper work, too frequently have a little place fenced off to operate in. This is called “Woman’s Corner,” or “Woman’s Work,” or “Woman’s World,” and therein the entire female part of the population is supposed to find satisfactory news aliment. There the whole mass of reading women are expected to pasture in peace and plenty. And why not? There they can find out just how long a sponge cake should be left in the oven, what is the best lotion for the complexion, how to polish their finger nails, the latest thing in embroidery stitches, the newest style in visiting cards, the most approved method of conducting an afternoon tea, and no end of valuable and ennobling information in regard to what “they” are wearing.
Beside all this indispensable instruction the corner is sure to contain many proud allusions to that terrible scourge, the “true woman,” who is always found sitting serenely within her “sphere,” her feet on a hassock, her embroidery in hand, ignorance in her head, selfishness in her heart, vanity and jealousy written all over her feeble face, saying that she “has rights enough,” just as she would say she has bread enough. But evolution, that “slow performance of miracles,” will eventually oust even this stumbling-block in the path of human progress.
Cartice Doring was not a “true woman,” nor was her work on the Register to be found in a “corner,” neither had it a fence of any kind about it, seen or unseen, nor was it addressed to women more than to men. As she saw it, newspapers were for all and dealt with matters of interest to all humankind.
Happily Prescott thought the same. He held almost no opinions dear to the average mind, and scarcely ever put pen to paper without tearing up the ground under the feet of those who insisted upon thinking “the same thoughts their fathers did think.” He had founded the Register and made it the vehicle of his opinions rather than a mere news journal. These opinions were invariably so new and daring, and so entertainingly expressed that his worst enemies could not deny themselves the pleasure of reading them. Hence it was that the Register was a flying success.