Subsequently her nephew Mr. Austen-Leigh inserted a brass on the wall near with an inscription which runs as follows: “Jane Austen, known to many by her writing, endeared to her family by the varied charms of her character, and ennobled by Christian faith and piety, was born at Steventon in the county of Hampshire Dec. 16, 1775, and buried in this cathedral July 24, 1817. ‘She openeth her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue is the law of kindness.’” In 1900 a memorial window was inserted as the result of a public subscription; it was designed and executed by C. E. Kemp. In the head of the window is a figure of St. Augustine whose name in its abbreviated form is St. Austin. In the centre of the upper row of lights is David with his harp. Below his figure, in Latin, are the words, “Remember in the Lord Jane Austen who died July 18, A.D. 1817.” In the centre of the bottom row is the figure of St. John, and the remaining figures are those of the sons of Korah carrying scrolls, with sentences in Latin, indicative of the religious side of Jane Austen’s character, namely, “Come ye children, hearken unto me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord.” “Them that are meek shall He guide in judgement, and such as are gentle them shall He teach His way.” “My mouth shall speak of wisdom and my heart shall muse on understanding.” “My mouth shall daily speak of Thy righteousness and Thy salvation.” That Jane was so deeply and dearly loved by her own people speaks much for her worth. She and Cassandra, especially Cassandra, were very reticent in their expression of feeling, but seldom has heart been knit to heart as were theirs. The love of sisters has not often formed the theme of song or romance; we hear of a mother’s love for her son, of a brother for a brother, but the love of sisters is, when it exists in perfection, as strong as these, as pure in its spring, and more full of feeling. Sisters whose hearts are open to one another, who have shared the same experiences, look on the world from a similar standpoint, and the breaking of such ties is severe agony. At only forty-one Jane had passed away still in the highest maturity of her powers, leaving behind her but six completed books, all short, but each one perfect in itself. This is what will be said of her—She did what she attempted to do perfectly. The books are all instinct with the same qualities, the precision of word and phrase, the genius for knowing what to select and what to leave unsaid, but not one is a repetition of another, in the whole gallery of characters each one is distinct.