tions, in our time, wisely use the outward vehicle of fiction to convey the deepest truths of social life, and believe that imagination, like every good gift, was bestowed to be used, and consecrated in its use. However, let us honour a conscientious scruple in a great writer, even though it hampered her powers and impeded her influence.
Her age was beautiful and dignified. Every good cause received her aid—^prominently the Anti-slavery Society, and the advancement of education: nor were the claims of the animal world neglected—man's faithful dumb companions and servants. In a time when animal wrongs and sufferings were too often ignored, she ever showed and taught mercy as a Christian duty.
Thus, amid her many elevated pursuits the years passed calmly on. She built a house for herself at Norwich, on Castle Hill, close to the old fortress she had known from earliest years, and amid the scenes she loved. The inevitably painful experience of advancing age—that of the loss of early friends—tried her affectionate heart; but she was so loving, that she was sure to win love from a generation succeeding those with whom she had set out in life. Miss Lucy Brightwell, her friend and biographer, and others paid her the tender attention of friendship as her infirmities increased.
She was last in London at the Great Exhibition in 1851; and, in common with many noble spirits, hailed the " rich dawn of an ampler day," in. hope
