When the publisher wanted a signature for "Indiana" which should show that it was by one of the authors of "Rose et Blanche," which she had written in collaboration with Sandeau under the name of Jules Sand, the author retained the Sand and prefixed George to it as a simple and rustic title.
The Brontés when about to publish their poems took the names "Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell," each keeping her initials. This choice, wrote Charlotte, was "dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because, without at the time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called 'feminine,' we had a vague impression that authoresses were likely to be looked on with prejudice." The London "Athenaeum," which was one of the few papers that noticed the little book, spoke of the work of the three "brothers." Even after "Jane Eyre," "Wuthering Heights," and "Agnes Grey" were printed, the secret of the triple identity was jealously kept, until a vexatious tangle of their names, and a claim from certain publishers that the three authors of the three books were one person and that all the novels were by the author of "Jane Eyre," roused Charlotte and Anne Bronte to the point of setting off for London to show Smith and Elder that they were honest and fair. Up to this time the publishers had not known whether they were women or men. "On reaching Mr. Smith's," writes Mrs. Gaskell, "Charlotte put his own letter into his hands,—the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. 'Where did you get this?' said he, as if he could not believe that the two young ladies dressed in black, of slight figures, looking pleased yet agitated, could be the embodied Currer and Acton Bell for whom curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain." The secret, however, was not disclosed, except to the publishers. Until "Shirley" was published, opinion was much divided as to the probable sex of Currer Bell, but "Shirley" was declared to be written by a woman; and, this suggestion once started, questions of identity soon settled themselves. Charlotte went to London again, and this time was introduced to all the literary people in the town. It was not until her third visit, however, that she attended a lecture of Thackeray's, and at the close found that the audience, instead of withdrawing, had formed themselves into two lines and drawn back to see the famous authoress as she passed out. "During this passage through the 'cream of society,' Miss Bronté's hand trembled to such a degree that her companion feared lest she should turn faint and be unable to proceed." Ellis and Acton Bell were in their early graves, and all the splendor of her fame could hardly lighten by a breath the weight of that lonely sorrow of Charlotte.
The story of George Eliot's pseudonyme has been too recently told to require allusion, except to point out its practical value to herself, shielding as it did her susceptibilities,—in fact, guarding like a chrysalis the first strivings, the flutter into full life, of that immortal winged thing it concealed.
Several of our own female writers have chosen a masculine nom de plume, and guarded it consistently, like Saxe Holm, etc. Miss Murfree is, we believe, the first whose disguise editors as well as the general public failed to pierce. Now that the critical faculty begins to play more surely upon the works of Charles Egbert Craddock, it may be said that a woman's love of romance and picturesqueness shades off into haze and unreality some of the pictures of life which a man's experience and surer knowledge would have made vivid by fewer and more vigorous strokes. However, as long as she chose, Miss Murfree held her secret beyond the reach of discovery, because nobody questioned it; her disclosure was piquant, and the state of surprise into which she threw her admirers was so utter that the full story of it ought to be told, although we are not empowered to tell it here.
L.W.
The Abuse of Adjectives.
It is a great pity that the fairy willow whistle which blew everything into its proper place should have burst with its first note, for there would be such ample opportunity nowadays for the display of its peculiar functions. Why, for instance, should modern novel-writers turn the patient adjective into an overworked little drudge, and compel it to do thrice the labor that it can effectually perform? Fifty years ago it led a life of respected ease, and was only called on when it could be of some real use to the author; now it knows no respite from its ever-increasing tasks, and too often bears upon its weak shoulders the real burden of the book. Formerly we were told that Tilburina had golden hair and blue eyes, or raven hair and black eyes, as the case might be; and, that matter being settled, we heard little more upon the subject. Now the hair and eyes appear anew on every page, and are apparently considered the most important element in the story.
Who has not been struck with the slighting manner in which Sir Walter describes his heroines' charms? Edith Bellenden, we are asked to believe, was fair without insipidity; Julia Mannering, who is to Waverley what Rosalind is to Shakespeare, is hardly credited with being beautiful at all; while when it comes to his heroes Sir Walter is even more strikingly ineloquent. "A slender young man," or "a young man of genteel appearance," is sometimes all that is vouchsafed to us, the rest being happily left to our imagination. Among modern writers, Trollope alone manifests this curious indifference to the hair, eyes, noses, and mouths of his dramatis personae. What was the color of Grace Crawley's hair, or of Lily Dale's eyes? What did Archdeacon Grantby look like, or who shall venture to describe the immortal Mrs. Proudie? George Eliot, on the contrary, inclines, especially in her later books, to a lavish use of adjectives; and the aspiring authoress of to-day may cite Gwendolen's "long brown glance" as being quite as strained as any effort of her own. But then we can no more approach George Eliot by copying a few of her mannerisms than we can become Napoleons by wearing an old coat, or William the Thirds by cultivating an inordinate taste for green peas.
To all, however, who wish to behold this tendency in its fullest and freest development, we would recommend the perusal of a novel by Rhoda Broughton, called "Second Thoughts,"—a bright, vivacious, almost witty little book, marred only by its ineradicable defects of style. The heroine, Gillian Latimer, is described over and over again, with as much emphasis on every feature as if she were one of Madame Tussaud's pet creations and had nothing but her outward appearance to suggest the real woman she aspires to be. On her eyes alone more adjectives are brought to bear than would have sufficed Scott for all the orbs in Waverley. They are "gray eyes," "great gray eyes," "angry gray eyes," "steel-gray eyes," and "displeased gray eyes;" also "grave eyes," "sparkling eyes," "clear eyes," "blazing eyes," "proud eyes," "great eyes," "aching eyes," "large bright eyes," "drooped eyes," "eager young eyes," "angry eyes," "steel-colored eyes." "sad, leave-taking eyes," "flashing eyes," and "proud, dewy eyes." Upon one occasion she "lifts the fair stars of her gray eyes" into her lover's face; on another, she scorches him badly with "gray eyes like furious fires." The hero himself, a most quiet, commonplace young doctor, is not above a little eye-work on his own account. He has alternately "serious eyes," "cross eyes," "quiet, shrewd eyes," "coldly just, bright eyes," "steady eyes," "calm eyes," "fiery eyes," "town-tired eyes,"—which is quite a novelty in the list,—and "eyes of burning choler," to say nothing of eyes that "burn like fire," while he "grows pale as ashes," which must have given him the effect of a conflagration, especially as he stands once "all beflamed with sunset."
Next to the supreme question of eyes we hear most about Gillian's "blonde head," and her "flaxen head," her "flax head," her "bowed flax head," her "tossed head," her "wilful head," her "fair head," and her "well-poised head," while to match these maidenly attributes she has a "fair Sphinx face," a "tragic pale face," a "serious face," a "humiliated white face," a "flaming face," a "hotly-flushed face," a "sweetly apologetic face," and a "flower-textured face." Moreover, being a very remarkable girl, she is endowed with a "severe young figure," and a "gracious figure," whatever that may mean, while her "lily-fair" and "delicate-cold" hands have "satiny backs," and are "small and capable" as well. She is never merely pretty like other women, but she has "ripe June beauty." and a "robust yet delicate beauty." If she loses her temper, which happens rather often in the course of the story, she manifests the same by the "red scorn of her look," or by her "beautiful vexed eyes," which resemble a "sudden angry gray arrow,"—imagine an angry gray arrow,—or by "flaming out into crimson anger," or "with wreathed neck and flaming cheek," or "with enkindled eye and vermeil cheek," both of which expressions we would recommend to lovers of simplicity.