spread fast.

The book had been admired while it had been ascribed to men of
letters long conversant with the world and accustomed to
composition. But when it was known that a reserved, silent young
woman had produced the best work of fiction that had appeared
since' the death of Smollett, the acclamations were redoubled.
What she had done was, indeed, extraordinary. But, as usual,
various reports improved the story till it became miraculous.
"Evelina," it was said, was the work of a girl of seventeen.
Incredible as this tale was, it continued to be repeated down to
our own time. Frances was too honest to confirm it. Probably
she Was too much a woman to contradict it; and it was long before
any of her detractors thought of this mode of annoyance. Yet
there was no want of low minds and bad hearts in the generation
Page Xxvi

which witnessed her first appearance. There was the envious
Kenrick and the savage Wolcot, the asp George Steevens and the
polecat John Williams. It did not, however, occur to them to
search the parish register of Lynn, in order that they might be
able to twit a lady with having concealed her age. That truly
chivalrous exploit was reserved for a bad writer(14) of our own
time, whose spite she had provoked by not furnishing him with
materials for a worthless edition of Boswell's "Life of Johnson,"
some sheets of which our readers have doubtless seen round
parcels of better books.

But we must return to our story. The triumph was complete. The
timid and obscure girl found herself on the highest pinnacle of