The “Adventures of Eovaai” contains almost the last of the dedications written in a servile tone to a patron whose favor Mrs. Haywood hoped to curry.  Henceforward she was to be more truly a woman of letters in that her books appealed ostensibly at least only to the reading public.  The victim of her final eulogy was the redoubtable Sarah, Duchess Dowager of Marlborough, who, when finding herself addressed as “O most illustrious Wife, and Parent of the Greatest, Best, and Loveliest! it was not sufficient for you to adorn Posterity with the Amiableness of every Virtue,” etc., etc., may perhaps have recalled how her shining character had been blackened some twelve years before in a licentious volume called “Memoirs of a Certain Island adjacent to the Kingdom of Utopia."[11] Had her Grace been aware that the reputed author of that comprehensive lampoon was none other than the woman who now outdid herself in praise, Eliza Haywood would probably have profited little by her panegyric.  For though the “Memoirs of a Certain Island” like the “Adventures of Eovaai” made a pretence of being translated into English from the work of a celebrated Utopian author, the British public found no difficulty in attributing it by popular acclaim to Mrs. Haywood, and she reaped immense notoriety from it.  In prefaces to some of her subsequent works she complained of the readiness of the world to pick meanings in whatever was published by a struggling woman, or protested that she had no persons or families in view in writing her stories, but she never disclaimed the authorship of this production.  Undoubtedly the world was right in “smoking” the writer.[12]

If before she had retailed secret histories of late amours singly, Mrs. Haywood dealt in them now by the wholesale, and any reader curious to know the identity of the personages hidden under such fictitious names as Romanus, Beaujune, Orainos, Davilla, Flirtillaria, or Saloida could obtain the information by consulting a convenient “key” affixed to each of the two volumes.  In this respect, as in the general scheme of her work, Mrs. Haywood was following the model set by the celebrated Mrs. Manley in her “New Atalantis.”  She in turn had derived her method from the French romans a clef or romances in which contemporary scandal was reported in a fictitious disguise.  The imitation written by Mrs. Haywood became only less notorious than her original, and was still well enough known in 1760 to be included in the convenient list of novels prefixed to the elder Colman’s “Polly Honeycombe.”  It consists of a tissue of anecdotes which, if retold, would (in Fuller’s words) “stain through the cleanest language I can wrap them in,” all set in an allegorical framework of a commonplace kind.