my small circle of friends is remarkable. At this rate, I shall not pity the writers of history any longer. If people like to read their books, it is all very well; but to be at so much trouble in filling great volumes, which, as I used to think, nobody would willingly ever look into, to be labouring only for the torment of little boys and girls, always struck me as a hard fate. And though I know it is all very right and necessary, I have often wondered at the person's courage that could sit down on purpose to do it."
To be told that history is made admirable because you read it, is flattering indeed. Mr. Tilney is satisfied that Catherine has "a great deal of natural taste,"—an impression which her artless admiration for his talents deepens into agreeable certainty. When he asks her hand in marriage, Miss Austen reminds us with dispassionate candour that his attachment originated in gratitude. "A persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of his giving her a serious thought." There is a final jest about beginning "perfect happiness" at the respective ages of twenty-six and eigh-
