Jane Austen, Her Life and Letters | Page 8

formal line of quickset,
but an irregular border of copse-wood and timber, often wide enough to
contain within it a winding footpath, or a rough cart-track. Under its
shelter the earliest primroses, anemones, and wild hyacinths were to be
found; sometimes the first bird's nest; and, now and then, the
unwelcome adder. Two such hedgerows radiated, as it were, from the
parsonage garden. One, a continuation of the turf terrace, proceeded
westward, forming the southern boundary of the home meadows; and
was formed into a rustic shrubbery, with occasional seats, entitled "The
Wood Walk." The other ran straight up the hill, under the name of "The
Church Walk," because it led to the parish church, as well as to a fine
old manor-house of Henry VIII's time, occupied by a family named
Digweed, who for more than a century rented it, together with the chief
farm in the parish.'

The usefulness of a hedgerow as a place where a heroine might remain
unseen and overhear what was not intended to reach her ears must have
impressed itself early on the mind of our author; and readers of
Persuasion will remember the scene in the fields near Uppercross
where Anne hears a conversation about herself carried on by Captain
Wentworth and Louisa Musgrove. The writer had possibly intended to
introduce a similar scene into Mansfield Park, for, in a letter to her
sister, of January 29, 1813, when turning from Pride and Prejudice to a
new subject, she says: 'If you could discover whether Northamptonshire
is a country of hedgerows I should be glad again.' Presumably, her
question was answered in the negative, and her scrupulous desire for
accuracy did not allow of her making use of the intended device.
Steventon Church 'might have appeared mean and uninteresting to an
ordinary observer; but the adept in church architecture would have
known that it must have stood there some seven centuries, and would
have found beauty in the very narrow Early English windows, as well
as in the general proportions of its little chancel; while its solitary
position, far from the hum of the village, and within sight of no
habitation, except a glimpse of the grey manor-house through its
circling green of sycamores, has in it something solemn and
appropriate to the last resting-place of the silent dead. Sweet violets,
both purple and white, grow in abundance beneath its south wall. One
may imagine for how many centuries the ancestors of those little
flowers have occupied that undisturbed sunny nook, and may think
how few living families can boast of as ancient a tenure of their land.
Large elms protrude their rough branches; old hawthorns shed their
annual blossoms over the graves; and the hollow yew-tree must be at
least coeval with the church. But whatever may be the beauties or
defects of the surrounding scenery, this was the residence of Jane
Austen for twenty-four years. This was the cradle of her genius. These
were the first objects which inspired her young heart with a sense of the
beauties of nature. In strolls along these wood-walks, thick-coming
fancies rose to her mind, and gradually assumed the forms in which
they came forth to the world. In that simple church she brought them all
into subjection to the piety which ruled her in life and supported her in
death.'

To this description of the surroundings of the home, given by the
author of the Memoir, whose own home it was through childhood and
boyhood, we may add a few sentences respecting its interior as it
appeared to his sister, Mrs. Lefroy. She speaks of her grandfather's
study looking cheerfully into the sunny garden, 'his own exclusive
property, safe from the bustle of all household cares,' and adds:
'The dining-or common sitting-room looked to the front and was
lighted by two casement windows. On the same side the front door
opened into a smaller parlour, and visitors, who were few and rare,
were not a bit the less welcome to my grandmother because they found
her sitting there busily engaged with her needle,[16] making and
mending. In later times--but not probably until my two aunts had
completed their short course at Mrs. Latournelle's at Reading Abbey,
and were living at home--a sitting-room was made upstairs: "the
dressing-room," as they were pleased to call it, perhaps because it
opened into a smaller chamber in which my two aunts slept. I
remember the common-looking carpet with its chocolate ground, and
painted press with shelves above for books, and Jane's piano, and an
oval looking-glass that hung between the windows; but the charm of
the room with its scanty furniture and cheaply painted walls must have
been, for those old enough to understand it, the flow of native wit, with
all the fun and nonsense of a large