the time that a man can least forget in after life, --the time when he believes that the first woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something--a word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid--that she is at least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye--he could describe it to no one--it is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to have changed his whole being, to have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious consciousness of everything but the present moment." (Adam Bede, p. 187.)
Observe here the eager iteration of the woman, making haste to say what she means, and, conscious of failure, falling back on insistence and loquacity. Exactly the same vehement spirit of pseudo-forcefulness characterises women's journalism to-day. And the worst is that these tactics inevitably induce formlessness and exaggeration; the one by reason of mere verbiage, the other as the result of a too feverish anxiety to be effective.
I submit that this lack of restraint shown by women writers as a class is due (like other defects) less to sex than to training. The value of restraint is seldom inculcated upon women. Indeed, its opposites--gush and a tendency to hysteria--are regarded, in many respectable quarters, as among the proper attributes of true womanliness; attributes to be artistically cultivated. When at length the principles on which women are brought up come to be altered, then this fault (and the others which I have mentioned) will disappear. In the meantime much can be done in individual cases by suitable moral and intellectual calisthenics.
Chapter III
The Roads towards Journalism
More women long and strive to be journalists than by natural gifts are fitted for the profession. By itself, the wish is no evidence of latent capacity. Such desire may be induced by the need to earn a livelihood; or by the peremptory impulse to do something which drives forward so many women to-day; or perhaps through conversing with an enthusiastic journalist; or by printed statements as to the incomes and influence of certain famous members of the craft; or by the mere glamour which surrounds the newspaper life; or in forty other ways. The practice of journalism does not demand intellectual power beyond the endowment of the average clever brain. It is less difficult, I should say, to succeed moderately in journalism than to succeed moderately in dressmaking. Any woman of understanding and education, provided she has good health and the necessary iron determination, can become a competent journalist of sorts if she chooses to put herself into hard training for a year or two--and this irrespective of natural bent. Yet even so, I would recommend you, unless you are assured of a genuine predisposition towards it, to find another and less exhausting, less disappointing occupation than journalism. For it will surely prove both exhausting and disappointing to those whose hearts are not set fast upon it.
But how are you, the woman who desires to be a journalist, to ascertain whether you have that genuine predisposition, those natural gifts which will renew your strength and take away the bitterness of disappointments? You may come some way towards deciding the point by answering these three questions:--
1 Are you seriously addicted to reading newspapers and periodicals?
2 Does the thought regularly occur to you, apropos of fact or incident personally observed: "Here is 'copy' for a paper"?
3 Have you the reputation among your friends of being a good letter-writer?
If you cannot reply in the affirmative to two of these queries, then take up pokerwork, or oratory, or fiction, or nursing, but leave journalism alone. If by good fortune you are able to say "Yes" to all three of them, you may go forward rejoicing, for only perseverance will be necessary to your success; you are indeed "called."
* * *
There are several ways of entering upon journalism. One is at once to found or purchase a paper, and thus achieve the editorial chair at a single step. This course is often adopted in novels, sometimes with the happiest results; and much less often in real life, where the end is invariably and inevitably painful.
Another way is to buy the sub-editorship of a third-rate paper, by subscribing towards its capital. By such a transaction one gains experience, but the cost is commonly too dear.
Another way is to possess friends of high influence in the world of journalism, who will find for one a seat in a respectable office; an office where one will be in a position to learn everything without pecuniary risk, and where one can look forward to earning a salary within a reasonable time. The sole objection to this method is that it is usually quite impracticable.
Another way is to learn shorthand and the use of the typewriter, and so obtain an editorial secretaryship. An editor's secretary has every opportunity of conning the secrets of the profession, and it is her own fault if she is not soon herself a journalist.
But the time-honoured, the only proper way of entering upon journalism is to become what is called an "outside contributor." The outside contributor sends unsolicited paragraphs and articles to papers, on the chance of acceptance. By dint of a thousand refusals, she learns to gauge the public, which is the editorial, taste, and at length, fortified by many printed specimens of her work and a list as long as your arm of the various publications for which she writes, she is able to demand with dignity a position (in the office or out of it, as her tastes lie) on the staff of some paper of renown. Some journalists are so successful as outside contributors--writing when, how, and for whom they choose--that they would scorn the offer of any regular appointment; but such are rare.
Chapter IV
The Aspirant
When you have decided to become an outside contributor you are entitled to call yourself by the proud title of "journalistic aspirant."
The procedure of the aspirant is usually this:--
She casts about for a subject on which to write, and according to her temperament and circumstances she will certainly choose one of six things:--"A Spring Reverie" (or it may be "An Autumn Reverie," as the time of year suits); or "Elsie, a character sketch" (describing one of those insufferably angelic women whom happily God never made); or "Hints on Economy in Dress"; or "My First Bicycle Ride"; or an exposure of the New Woman; or, lastly, a short story, probably styled "An Incident." and beginning: "Enid Anstruther had come to the end of her resources. As she sat by the fire that winter afternoon, the glow of the red coal playing on her soft brown hair, she reflected with a grim smile that," &c., &c.
The aspirant, left to herself, never goes beyond these six topics for her first venture.
Having written the thing, she copies it out in a hand as fair as she can compass (or, if she can afford the expense, gets it typewritten)--on one side of the paper only. She has read somewhere that manuscripts should be on one side of the paper only, and that they have a better chance of acceptance if typewritten. Next she stitches the sheets together, as a rule with black cotton; occasionally she uses a safety-pin for safety. Then she composes a pretty letter to the editor of the paper with which she happens to be most familiar, telling him that she is anxious to make a little money (though not dependent on her earnings for a livelihood), and hopes he will come to a decision on her article at his earliest convenience; she adds that she has always admired his journal, and would esteem it a great honour to be counted among his contributors.
She has previously determined
