Queen took Mrs. Fry by
the hand. The murmur was followed by a clap and a shout, which was
taken up by the multitudes without till it died away in the distance.

Those who regard Hannah More as a prim maiden lady of the conventional
type, with a pious and literary turn of mind, will be obliged to change
their views should they read Mrs. Walford's admirable sketch of the
authoress of Percy. Hannah More was a brilliant wit, a femme d'esprit,
passionately fond of society, and loved by society in return. When the
serious-minded little country girl, who at the age of eight had covered a
whole quire of paper with letters seeking to reform imaginary depraved
characters, and with return epistles full of contrition and promises of
amendment, paid her first visit to London, she became at once the
intimate friend of Johnson, Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Garrick, and most
of the distinguished people of the day, delighting them by her charm, and
grace, and wit. 'I dined at the Adelphi yesterday,' she writes in one of
her letters. 'Garrick was the very soul of the company, and I never saw
Johnson in more perfect good-humour. After all had risen to go we stood
round them for above an hour, laughing, in defiance of every rule of
decorum and Chesterfield. I believe we should never have thought of
sitting down, nor of parting, had not an impertinent watchman been
saucily vociferating. Johnson outstaid them all, and sat with me for
half an hour.' The following is from her sister's pen:

On Tuesday evening we drank tea at Sir Joshua's with Dr. Johnson.
Hannah is certainly a great favourite. She was placed next him, and
they had the entire conversation to themselves. They were both in
remarkably high spirits, and it was certainly her lucky night; I never
heard her say so many good things. The old genius was as jocular as
the young one was pleasant. You would have imagined we were at some
comedy had you heard our peals of laughter. They certainly tried
which could 'pepper the highest,' and it is not clear to me that the
lexicographer was really the highest seasoner.

Hannah More was certainly, as Mrs. Walford says, 'the feted and caressed
idol of society.' The theatre at Bristol vaunted, 'Boast we not a More?'
and the learned cits at Oxford inscribed their acknowledgment of her
authority. Horace Walpole sat on the doorstep--or threatened to do
so--till she promised to go down to Strawberry Hil