g directness and simplicity the story of this good and gifted
woman, whose name has long been a household word among us, but of whose
history nothing was known until this little volume appeared. It is but
the story of a country lady, of quiet days following quiet days of
seasons in their course of common events; and yet the history is deeply
interesting to those who loved the writer of whom it is written; and as
we turn from the story of Jane Austen's life to her books again, we feel
more than ever that she, too, was one of those true friends who belong
to us inalienably--simple, wise, contented, living in others, one of
those whom we seem to have a right to love. Such people belong to all
humankind by the very right of their wide and generous sympathies, of
their gentle wisdom and loveableness. Jane Austen's life, as it is told
by Mr. Austen Legh, is very touching, sweet, and peaceful. It is a
country landscape, where the cattle are grazing, the boughs of the great
elm-tree rocking in the wind: sometimes, as we read, they come falling
with a crash into the sweep; birds are flying about the old house,
homely in its simple rule. The rafters cross the whitewashed ceilings,
the beams project into the room below. We can see it all: the parlour
with the horsehair sofa, the scant, quaint furniture, the old-fashioned
garden outside, with its flowers and vegetables combined, and along the
south side of the garden the green terrace sloping away.

There is a pretty description of the sisters' devotion to one another
(when Cassandra went to school little Jane accompanied her, the sisters
could not be parted), of the family party, of the old place, 'where
there are hedgerows winding, with green shady footpaths within the
copse; where the earliest primroses and hyacinths are found.' There
is the wood-walk, with its rustic seats, leading to the meadows; the
church-walk leading to the church, 'which is far from the hum of the
village, and within sight of no habitation, except a glimpse of the grey
manor-house through its circling screen of sycamores. Sweet violets,
both purple and white, grow in abundance beneath its south wall. Large
elms protrude their rough branches, old hawthorns shed their blossoms
over the graves, and the hollow yew-tree must be at least coeval with
the church.'

One may read the account of Catherine Morland's home with new interest,
from the hint which is given of its likeness to the old house at
Steventon, wh