oing into the presence of royalty, and far
more in awe of Mrs. More, than she had done when offering her the milk
at the carriage door, before Fair Acres.

Indeed Hannah More had a certain queenly dignity about her, and the
reflection of those palmy days when she was the admired of all admirers
in the gay London world, the friend of Garrick and the great Dr.
Johnson, did, in some degree, remain with her always.

The spiritual life in which she had lived and moved for so many years,
had lifted her far above the interests and pursuits which once she held
to be the end and aim of life. Her religion was eminently practical, and
to do good and to communicate was never forgotten. Nevertheless, the
literary efforts which had made her famous, her brilliant conversation,
her intellectual powers, had given her a certain tone and dignity, which
while attractive, might yet be called the air of superiority, which in
those days was conceded, to be as quite the proper attitude for any
woman who had made herself a name. Now, in the great crowd of authors
and craftswomen of the pen, it is hard for anyone to lift her head above
her neighbours.

A thing of the past indeed it is to remember how famous "the little
Burney," as Dr. Johnson called her, became; how flattery was poured upon
her, how no one dared to be jealous, because no one would dare to
emulate her performances. To be great in London Society in Hannah More's
early days, was to be great indeed. The author of "Percy" was presented
with a laurel crown, the stems confined within an elegant ring, and
Garrick himself read aloud the play to a select circle of admiring
listeners!

But though history repeats itself, and fashion ruled then as now, in
literature as in other things, I think there was more honest and kindly
appreciation of the work of others than we have now-a-days.

The literary field was narrower, it is true, and therefore was not
broken up into plots, each plot hedged in by various conceits--a barrier
the uninitiated cannot pass. All flowers growing outside the barrier
are called weeds; and if they are fragrant, they are pronounced sickly;
if bright and vivid in colour, common. I may be wrong, but I think this
self-sufficient, dogmatic criticism is very much on the increase, and
that the little jealousies and rivalries amongst men and women who
follow the same profession in art or literature grow more frequent.
Tongue and pen are often both too sharp; and the super