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 gray
manor-house through its circling screen 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.

[Steventon Manor House: ManorHouse.jpg]

But whatever may be the beauties or defects of the surrounding scenery,
this was the residence of Jane Austen for twenty-five 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
those wood-walks, thick-coming fancies rose in 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.

The home at Steventon must have been, for many years, a pleasant and
prosperous one. The family was unbroken by death, and seldom visited by
sorrow. Their situation had some peculiar advantages beyond those of
ordinary rectories. Steventon was a family living. Mr. Knight, the
patron, was also proprietor of nearly the whole parish. He never resided