ear with our weaknesses, while we were animated by
her sweet and noble example, existence would be, under any aspect, a
blessing. This felicity was reserved for Captain Wentworth. Happy man!
In "Persuasion" we also find the subtle Mr. Elliot. Here, as with Mr.
Crawford in "Mansfield Park," Miss Austen deals dexterously with the
character of a man of the world, and uses a nicer discernment than is
often found in the writings of women, even those who assume masculine
names.

"Emma" we know to have been a favorite with the author. "I have drawn
a character full of faults," said she, "nevertheless I like her."
In Emma's company we meet Mr. Knightley, Harriet Smith, and Frank
Churchill. We sit beside good old Mr. Woodhouse, and please him by
tasting his gruel. We walk through Highbury, we are patronized by Mrs.
Elton, listen forbearingly to the indefatigable Miss Bates, and take
an early walk to the post-office with Jane Fairfax. Once we found
ourselves actually on "Box Hill," but it did not seem half so real as
when we "explored" there with the party from Highbury.

"Pride and Prejudice" is piquant In style and masterly in portraiture.
We make perhaps too many disagreeable acquaintances to enjoy ourselves
entirely; yet who would forego Mr. Collins, or forget Lady Catherine
de Bourgh, though each in their way is more stupid and odious than any
one but Miss Austen could induce us to endure. Mr. Darcy's character
is ably given; a very difficult one to sustain under all the
circumstances in which he is placed. It is no small tribute to the
power of the author to concede that she has so managed the workings
of his real nature as to make it possible, and even probable, that a
high-born, high-bred Englishman of Mr. Darcy's stamp could become the
son-in-law of Mrs. Bennet. The scene of Darcy's declaration of love
to Elizabeth, at the Hunsford Parsonage, is one of the most remarkable
passages in Miss Austen's writings, and, indeed, we remember nothing
equal to it among the many writers of fiction who have endeavored to
describe that culminating point of human destiny.

"Northanger Abbey" is written in a fine vein of irony, called forth,
in some degree, by the romantic school of Mrs. Radcliffe and her
imitators. We doubt whether Miss Austen was not over-wise with regard
to these romances. Though born after the Radcliffe era, we well
remember shivering through the "Mysteries of Udolpho" with as quaking
a heart as beat in the bosom