young orphan; a coarse sea-captain; an ugly insolent fop, blazing in a superb court-dress; another fop, as ugly and as insolent, but lodged on Snow Hill, and tricked out in second-hand finery for the Hampstead ball; an old woman, all wrinkles and rouge, flirting her fan with the air of a Miss of seventeen, and screaming in a dialect made up of vulgar French and vulgar English; a poet lean and ragged, with a broad Scotch accent.  By degrees these shadows acquired stronger and stronger consistence:  the impulse which urged Frances to write became irresistible; and the result was the history of Evelina.

Then came, naturally enough, a wish, mingled with many fears, to appear before the public; for, timid as Frances was, and bashful, and altogether unaccustomed to hear her own praises, it is clear that she wanted neither a strong passion for distinction, nor a just confidence in her own powers.  Her scheme was to become, if possible, a candidate for fame without running any risk of disgrace.  She had no money to bear the expense of printing.  It was therefore necessary that some bookseller should be induced to take the risk; and such a bookseller was not readily found.  Dodsley refused even to look at the manuscript unless he were trusted with the name of the author.  A publisher in Fleet Street, named Lowndes, was more complaisant.  Some correspondence took place between this person and Miss Burney, who took the name of Grafton, and desired that the letters addressed to her might be left at the Orange Coffee-House.  But, before the bargain was finally struck, Fanny thought it her duty to obtain her father’s consent.  She told him that she had written a book, that she wished to have his permission to publish [Transcriber’s note:  “published” in original] it anonymously, but that she hoped that he would not insist upon seeing it.  What followed may serve to illustrate what we meant when we said that Dr. Burney was as bad a father as so good-hearted a man could possibly be.  It never seems to have crossed his mind that Fanny was about to take a step on which the whole happiness of her life might depend, a step which might raise her to an honourable eminence, or cover her with ridicule and contempt.  Several people had already been trusted, and strict concealment was therefore not to be expected.  On so grave an occasion, it was surely his duty to give his best counsel to his daughter, to win her confidence, to prevent her from exposing herself if her book were a bad one, and, if it were a good one, to see that the terms which she made with the publisher were likely to be beneficial to her.  Instead of this, he only stared, burst out a laughing, kissed her, gave her leave to do as she liked, and never even asked the name of her work.  The contract with Lowndes was speedily concluded.  Twenty pounds were given for the copyright, and were accepted by Fanny with delight.  Her father’s inexcusable neglect of his duty, happily caused her no worse evil than the loss of twelve or fifteen hundred pounds.