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."
"Ah, my child, it is a deep mine; its treasures do not lie on the surface; and let me tell you that I, who have drunk of the waters at many springs, find in the Bible alone, the living fountain of water. Your aunt told me she was anxious as to your education; she thought you needed more than your good father found it convenient to give you."
"Father has so many boys," Joyce said, "and, of course, boarding schools are very expensive. I have had to help mother a great deal at home, and I never wished to go to school. I think Aunt Letitia means by education accomplishments like Charlotte's, and I have none of them. But," Joyce went on, "I have a very clever brother, Ralph, and, when he is at home for the holidays, I write his Latin exercises, and he corrects them, and I can read French with him; and then I know a good deal of natural history—because my brother Piers is lame, and nothing amuses him like collections of birds, and moths, and insects."
"Well," Hannah More said, smiling, "I think you have laid a very good foundation; upon this, as you grow older, you can build up many fair temples of knowledge, and I hope they will be ornamented by wisdom. You know my story, I dare say."
Joyce hesitated, "I know you write plays and books. We have 'Christian Morals,' and 'Village Politics.' But——"
"Oh," Hannah More said, "those are my published works. I was alluding to the story of my own life. I always like to bring it before the young, because I can say to them, I have tasted all the world can give, and found it vanity. My dear, if I were now depending on the favours of the great for happiness, or the showering upon me of the fame which my literary work brought me, where should I be? An old woman in her eightieth year, can no longer dine with bishops and princes of the land. She can take no part in routs, and theatres would be a weariness; but, thank God, and I beg you, my child, to mark this, I turned from those vanities to strive to serve the living God when I was in my heyday. And why? Because I felt them then to be but vanity, often vexation of spirit, and the higher part of me loathed the false lustre of the gay world."