ruling passion, such as we read in Pope.  Who would not have expected them to be insipid likenesses of each other?  No such thing.  Harpagon is not more unlike Jourdain, Joseph Surface is not more unlike Sir Lucius O’Trigger, than every one of Miss Austen’s young divines to all his reverend brethren.  And almost all this is done by touches so delicate that they elude analysis, that they defy the powers of description, and that we know them to exist only by the general effect to which they have contributed.”

Dr. Whately, the Archbishop of Dublin, in the “Quarterly Review,” 1821, sums up his estimate of Miss Austen with these words:  “The Eastern monarch who proclaimed a reward to him who should discover a new pleasure would have deserved well of mankind, had he stipulated it should be blameless.  Those again who delight in the study of human nature may improve in the knowledge of it, and in the profitable application of that knowledge, by the perusal of such fictions.  Miss Austen introduces very little of what is technically called religion into her books, yet that must be a blinded soul which does not recognize the vital essence, everywhere present in her pages, of a deep and enlightened piety.

There are but few descriptions of scenery in her novels.  The figures of the piece are her care; and if she draws in a tree, a hill, or a manor-house, it is always in the background.  This fact did not arise from any want of appreciation for the glories or the beauties of the outward creation, for we know that the pencil was as often in her hand as the pen.  It was that unity of purpose, ever present to her mind, which never allowed her to swerve from the actual into the ideal, nor even to yield to tempting descriptions of Nature which might be near, and yet aside from the main object of her narrative.  Her creations are living people, not masks behind which the author soliloquizes or lectures.  These novels are impersonal; Miss Austen never herself appears; and if she ever had a lover, we cannot decide whom he resembled among the many masculine portraits she has drawn.

Very much has been said in her praise, and we, in this brief article, have summoned together witnesses to the extent of her powers, which are fit and not few.  Yet we are aware that to a class of readers Miss Austen’s novels must ever remain sealed books.  So be it.  While the English language is read, the world will always be provided with souls who can enjoy the rare excellence of that rich legacy left to them by her genius.

Once in our lifetime we spent three delicious days in the Isle of Wight, and then crossed the water to Portsmouth.  After taking a turn on the ramparts in memory of Fanny Price, and looking upon the harbor whence the Thrush went out, we drove over Portsdown Hill to visit the surviving member of that household which called Jane Austen their own.

We had been preceded by a letter, introducing us to Admiral Austen as fervent admirers of his sister’s genius, and were received by him with a gentle courtesy most winning to our heart.