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.