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The excellence of faith by its sweet deeds
Of peace and charity. So may ye stand,
Each on her pedestal that breasts the surge,
Until the strong archangel, with his foot
On sea and land, shall toll the knell of time.
Thursday, April 8, 1841.
The bold, rocky scenery of Clifton is after my own heart. There, at the base of beetling cliffs, and through overhanging defiles, the Avon, which in so many other places glides with a serene, classic flow, rushes in with tides of thirty-five feet. We saw many elegant mansions in commanding situations, and a suspension bridge in progress, where workmen were crossing by rope and basket at a tremendously dizzy height.
The house, where Mrs. Hannah More passed the last years of her venerable and useful life, was to us an interesting object. Almost as a pioneer for her sex, she entered the field of intellectual labor, warning them to forsake frivolity of pursuit, and exert in their own proper sphere their latent power to improve and elevate society. With a versatility equalled only by her persevering industry, she adapted the rudiments of moral truth to the comprehension of the collier, the farmer's boy, and the orange-girl; marked out the map of life for a princess; or followed in the heights of his sublime piety, the "very chiefest of the apos-