favour. Its author was unknown. The house by which it was
published, was not, we believe, held high in estimation. No body
of partisans had been engaged to applaud. The better class of
readers expected little from a novel about a young lady's
entrance into the world. There was, indeed, at that time a
disposition among the most respectable people to condemn novels
generally: nor was this disposition by any means without excuse;
for works of that sort were then almost always silly and very
frequently wicked.

Soon, however, the first faint accents of praise began to be
heard: The keepers of the circulating libraries reported that
everybody was asking for "Evelina," and that some person had
guessed Anstey(13) to be the author. Then came a favourable
notice in the "London Review"; then another still more favourable
in the "Monthly." And now the book found its way to tables which
had seldom been polluted by marble-covered volumes. Scholars and
statesmen, who contemptuously abandoned the crowd of romances to
Miss Lydia Languish and Miss Sukey Saunter, were not ashamed to
own that they could not tear themselves away from "Evelina."
Fine carriages and rich liveries, not often seen east of
Temple-bar, were attracted to the publisher's shop in
Fleet-street. Lowndes was daily questioned about the author, but
was himself as much in the dark as any of the questioners. The
mystery, however, could not remain a mystery long. It was known
to brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins: and they were far too
proud and too happy to be discreet. Dr. Burney wept over the
book in rapture. Daddy Crisp shook his fist at his Fannikin in
affectionate anger at not having been admitted to her confidence.
The truth was whispered to Mrs. Thrale: and then it began to