“Don’t you think,” wrote the author of “Evelina” to her sister, “there must be some wager depending among the little curled imps who hover over us mortals, of how much flummery goes to turn the head of an authoress?” For at that time little Fanny Burney, twenty-six years of age, was enjoying such an ovation as had never before come within the experience of woman.  She had written a book which all London was reading, quoting, and discussing admiringly without the least idea of the author’s identity; and Fanny could not meet an acquaintance, could not receive a letter, could not attend a party of friends, without being asked, “Have you read ‘Evelina’?  Is it not charming?” Anonymity was in this case the cleverest ruse for an absolute enjoyment of the results of her work.  One after another her family and outside friends, from the great Dr. Johnson down, were admitted to a share of the delightful secret.  All who knew that “Little Burney” was at the bottom of this fascinating mystery were as eager as she herself for nattering comments and conjectures, and there were nudgings of elbows, “nods and becks and wreathed smiles,” when “Evelina” was mentioned.  It would have been no wonder if the little girl’s head had been turned as she hugged her surprise and happiness to her swelling little heart.  When the murder was out, and she was feted and honored, called to court and compelled to courtesy thankfully at the ponderous compliments of great personages, she must have felt that the bloom of the peach was rubbed off and the bubble of the champagne departed.

In most cases strangers may not intermeddle with the joy of authorship.  Spoken praise carries off the rose and puts a thorn in its place.  One of our famous novelists, whom we will call Brown, happened to catch sight in a strange city of the sign, “Autographs of distinguished authors for sale,” He thought to himself he would test his own market value, and accordingly entered the shop.

“Have you the autograph of Mr. Brown?” he inquired.

“Oh, yes.”

“What is the price?” he asked.

“One for two cents, or two for three cents,” was the reply.

He was in the habit of declaring afterward that he could have borne the one for two cents, but that the two for three cents stung him bitterly.  Such is fame; and no wonder that young authoresses often begrudge a complete surrender of their identity to the Juggernaut car of public curiosity and criticism, and begin either anonymously or with a pseudonyme.  A masculine nom de plume has of late been a favorite device with the fair sex, partly for the reason that it is supposed to confer an ampler ease, and partly from an idea that male writers command a readier hearing and higher prices than female.  We see a great many Henris, Georges, and the like on the title-pages of books which are a flimsy veil to conceal the pretty feminine figure behind.