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 superficial chatter about books and authors, pictures and music--both English and foreign--is too often passed as the real coin of the great realm of literature, when it is but a base imitation, stamped, it may be, on a showy surface with the same token, but utterly worthless when the first brilliancy is worn off. "Come, my dear Miss Falconer," was Mrs. More's greeting to Joyce; "come and sit near me, that we may have a pleasant chat. Tell me how you have sped since I saw you, and whether you have studied the Book I gave you." "Yes, madam," Joyce said, as she seated herself on a high Chippendale chair, the seat covered with fine cross-stitch, close to Mrs. More; "yes, madam, I have read all the passages you marked; and I had no notion before that the Bible was so beautiful."