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UC-NRLF 


1 

B 

M 

p 

'ill 

071 

III 

^^^^H 

1 

1 

A    MEMOIE 

OF 

JANE    AUSTEN 

AND 

LADY    SUSAN 


/ 


A    MEMOIE 


OF 


JANE     AUSTEN 


BY 


J.    E.    AUSTEN    LEIGH 


LADY      SUSAN 


BY 


JANE    AUSTEN 


LONDON 

RICHARD    BENTLEY   &    SON.    NEW    BURLINGTON    STREET 

^ublisljeis  tu  CDitiinarji  to  ^ev  iilfljestn  tlje  09)iceu 

1882 


Pi 


m^f 


JSU 


PREFACE. 


The  Memoir  of  my  Aunt,  Jane  Austen,  has 
been  received  with  more  favour  than  I  liad 
ventured  to  expect.  The  notices  taken  of  it 
in  the  periodical  press,  as  well  as  letters  ad- 
dressed to  me  by  many  with  whom  I  am  not 
personally  acquainted,  show  that  an  unabated 
interest  is  still  taken  in  every  particular  that 
can  be  told  about  her.  I  am  thus  encouraged 
not  only  to  offer  a  Second  Edition  of  the 
Memoir,  but  also  to  enlarge  it  with  some  addi- 
tional matter  which  I  might  have  scrupled  to 
intrude  on  the  public  if  they  had  not  thus  seemed 
to  call  for  it.  In  the  present  Edition,  the  nar- 
rative Is  somewhat  enlarged,  and  a  few  more 
letters  are  added  ;  with  a  short  specimen  of  her 
childish  stories.  The  cancelled  chapter  of  *  Per- 
suasion '  Is  given,  in  compliance  with  wishes 
both  publicly  and  privately  expressed.  A  frag- 
liient   of  a   story   entitled    '  The   Watsons '   is 


301733 


vi  Preface. 

printed  ;  and  extracts  are  given  from  a  novel 
which  she  had  begun  a  few  months  before  her 
death  ;  but  the  chief  addition  is  a  short  tale 
never  before  pubhshed,  called  '  Lady  Susan.' 
I  reo^ret  that  the  little  which  I  have  been  able 
to  add  could  not  appear  in  my  First  Edition  ; 
as  much  of  it  was  either  unknown  to  me,  or 
not  at  my  command,  when  I  first  published ; 
and  I  hope  that  I  may  claim  some  indulgent 
allowance  for  the  difficulty  of  recovering  little 
facts  and  feelings  which  had  been  merged  half 
a  century  deep  in  oblivion. 

November  17,  1870. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

TAGB 

Tntroductory    Remarks — Birth     of  yafie     Austen — Het 
Family  Connections — Their  Influence  on  her  Writings  .         j 


CHAPTER    n. 

Description  of  Steventon — Life  at  Steventon — Changes  of 
Habits  and  Customs  in  the  last  Ceiitury  .         .         .18 


CHAPTER   III. 

Early  Compositions — Friends  at  Ashe — A  vefy  Old  Letter 
— Lines  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Lefroy — Observatiojis  on 
fane  Austen's  Letter-writing — Letters  .        .        .        .41 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Kemoval  from  Steventon — Residence  at  Bath  and  at  South- 
ampton — Settling  at  Chawton 66 


CHAPTER   V. 
Description  of  Jane  Austen's  person,  charade  r^  and  tastes        82 

a 


viii  Contents. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PAGE 

Habits  of  Composition  7'cs2uned  after  a  long  intervat — 
First  publication — The  interest  taken  by  the  Author  in 
the  success  of  Jier  Works 95 


CHAPTER   Vir. 

Seclusion  from  the  literary  world — Notice  froin  the  Prince 
Regent — Corj'cspondcnce  with  Mr.  Clarke — Suggestions 
to  alter  her  style  of  writing     .        .        .        ,        ,        .108 


CHAPTER   Vni. 

Slow  growth  of  her  fame — ///  success  of  first  attempts  at 
publication-  Two  l\eviews  of  her  works  contrasted        .     127 


CHAPTER   IX. 

opinions  expressed  by  eminent  persons — Opinions  of  others 
of  less  eminence — Opinion  of  American  readers      .        .136 


CHAPTER  X. 
Observations  on  the  Novels 144 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Declinifig  health  of  Jane  Austen — Elasticity  of  her  spirits 
— Her  resignation  and  humility — Her  death  .        .        .     1 50 

CHAPTER  XII. 
The  cancelled  Chapter  of  '  Persuasion '      .        .        •        .167 


Contents.  ix 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

PAGE 

The  last  work i8i 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
Postscript 195 


LADY  SUSAN      .       .  199 

THE  WATSONS .297 


*  He  knew  of  no  one  but  himself  who  was  inchned  to  the  work. 
This  is  no  uncommon  motive.  A  man  sees  something  to  be 
done,  knows  of  no  one  who  will  do  it  but  himself,  and  so  is 
driven  to  the  enterprise.' 

Helps'  Life  of  Columbus,  ch.  i. 


<^\^  ''^^.^>c^  (^Cj^^x^cA^  U^t^^^'C'x.jLj  ay^  "^^^-^-^^uu 


£:?.  A.^^/^ 


^:^-e-^^ 


A   MEMOIR 


OF 


JANE    AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER   I. 

fntrodu'ctory  Rcniarh — Birth  of  Jane  Austen — Her  Family 
Connections — Their  Influence  on  her  IVritings. 

ORE  than  half  a  century  has  passed  away 
since  I,  the  youngest  of  the  mourners,* 
attended  the  funeral  of  my  dear  aunt 
Jane  in  Winchester  Cathedral ;  and  now, 
in  my  old  age,  I  am  asked  whether  my  memory 
will  serve  to  rescue  from  oblivion  any  events  of  her 
life  or  any  traits  of  her  character  to  satisfy  the  en- 
quiries of  a  generation  of  readers  who  have  been 
born  since  she  died.  Of  events  her  life  was  singu- 
larly barren :  few  changes  and  no  great  crisis  ever 
broke  the  smooth  current  of  its  course.  liven  her 
fame  may  be  said   to  have  been  posthumous :  it  did 


*  I  went  to  represent  my  father,  who  was  too  unwell  to  attend  him- 
self, and  thus  I  was  the  only  one  of  my  generation  present. 


A  Memoir  of 


not  attain  to  any  vigorous  life  till  she  had  ceased  to 
exist.  Her  talents  did  not  introduce  her  to  the 
notice  of  other  writers,  or  connect  her  with  the  lite- 
rary world,  or  in  any  degree  pierce  through  the 
obscurity  of  her  domestic  retirement.  I  have  there- 
fore scarcely  any  materials  for  a  detailed  life  of  my 
aunt ;  but  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  her  person 
and  character ;  and  perhaps  many  may  take  an  in- 
terest in  a  delineation,  if  any  such  can  be  drawn,  of 
that  prolific  mind  whence  sprung  the  Dashwoods 
and  Bennets,  the  Bertrams  and  Woodhouses,  the 
Thorpes  and  Musgroves,  who  have  been  admitted 
as  familiar  guests  to  the  firesides  of  so  many  families, 
and  are  known  there  as  individually  and  intimately 
as  if  they  were  living  neighbours.  Many  may  care 
to  know  whether  the  moral  rectitude,  the  correct 
taste,  and  the  warm  affections  with  which  she  in- 
vested her  ideal  characters,  were  really  existing  in 
the  native  source  whence  those  ideas  flowed,  and 
were  actually  exhibited  by  her  in  the  various  rela- 
tions of  life.  I  can  indeed  bear  witness  that  there 
was  scarcely  a  charm  in  her  most  delightful  charac- 
ters that  was  not  a  true  reflection  of  her  own  sweet 
temper  and  loving  heart.  I  was  young  when  we  lost 
her ;  but  the  impressions  made  on  the  young  are 
deep,  and  though  in  the  course  of  fifty  years  I  have 
forgotten  much,  I  have  not  forgotten  that  'Aunt 
Jane '  was  the  delight  of  all  her  nephews  and  nieces. 
We  did  not  think  of  her  as  being  clever,  still  less  as 
being  famous  ;  but  we  valued  her  as  one  always  kind, 
sympathising,   and   amusing.      To  all    this    I    am  a 


Jane  Austen,  j 


living  witness,  but  whether  I  can  sketch  out  such  a 
faint  outHne  of  this  excellence  as  shall  be  perceptible 
to  others  may  be  reasonably  doubted.  Aided,  how- 
ever, by  a  few  survivors*  who  knew  her,  I  will  not 
refuse  to  make  the  attempt.  I  am  the  more  inclined 
to  undertake  the  task  from  a  conviction  that,  however 
little  1  may  have  to  tell,  no  one  else  is  left  who  could 
tell  so  much  of  her. 

Jane  Austen  was  born  on  December  i6,  1775,  at 
the  Parsonage  House  of  Steventon  in  Hampshire. 
Her  father,  the  Rev.  George  Austen,  was  of  a  family 
long  established  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Tenterden 
and  Sevenoaks  in  Kent.  I  believe  that  early  in  the 
seventeenth  century  they  were  clothiers.  Hasted,  in 
his  history  of  Kent,  says  :  '  The  clothing  business 
was  exercised  by  persons  who  possessed  most  of  the 
landed  property  in  the  Weald,  insomuch  that  almost 
all  the  ancient  families  of  these  parts,  now  of  large 
estates  and  genteel  rank  in  life,  and  some  of  them 
ennobled  by  titles,  are  sprung  from  ancestors  who 
have  used  this  great  staple  manufacture,  now  almost 
unknown  here.'  In  his  list  of  these  families  Hasted 
places  the  Austens,  and  he  adds  that  these  clothiers 
'  were   usually  called   the  Gray  Coats   of  Kent ;  and 

*  My  chief  assistants  have  been  my  sisters,  Mrs.  B.  Lcfroy  and  Miss 
Austen,  whose  recollections  of  our  aunt  are,  on  some  points,  more  vivid 
than  my  own.  I  have  not  only  been  indebted  to  their  memory  for  facts, 
but  have  sometimes  used  their  words.  Indeed  some  passages  towards 
the  end  of  the  work  were  entirely  written  by  the  latter. 

I  have  also  to  thank  some  of  my  cousins,  and  especially  the  daughters 
of  Admiral  Charles  Austen,  for  the  use  of  letters  and  papers  which  had 
passed  mto  their  hands,  without  which  this  Memoir,  scanty  as  it  is, 
could  not  have  been  written. 

B2 


A  Memoir  of 


were  a  body  so  numerous  and  united  that  at  county 
elections  whoever  had  their  vote  and  interest  w^as 
almost  certain  of  being  elected.'  The  family  still 
retains  a  badge  of  this  origin  ;  for  their  livery  is  of 
that  peculiar  mixture  of  light  blue  and  white  called 
Kentish  gray,  which  forms  the  facings  of  the  Kentish 
militia. 

Mr.  George  Austen  had  lost  both  his  parents  before 
he  was  nine  years  old.  He  inherited  no  property 
from  them  ;  but  was  happy  in  having  a  kind  uncle, 
Mr.  Francis  Austen,  a  successful  lawyer  at  Tunbridge, 
the  ancestor  of  the  Austens  of  Kippington,  who, 
though  he  had  children  of  his  own,  yet  made  liberal 
provision  for  his  orphan  nephew.  The  boy  received 
a  good  education  at  Tunbridge  School,  whence  he 
obtained  a  scholarship,  and  subsequently  a  fellowship, 
at  St.  John's  College,  Oxford.  In  1764  he  came  into 
possession  of  the  two  adjoining  Rectories  of  Deane 
and  Steventon  in  Hampshire ;  the  former  purchased 
for  him  by  his  generous  uncle  Francis,  the  latter 
given  by  his  cousin  Mr.  Knight.  This  was  no  very 
gross  case  of  plurality,  according  to  the  ideas  of  that 
time,  for  the  two  villages  were  little  more  than  a  mile 
apart,  and  their  united  populations  scarcely  amounted 
to  three  hundred.  In  the  same  year  he  married  Cas- 
sandra, youngest  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Leigh, 
of  the  family  of  Leighs  of  Warwickshire,  who,  having 
been  a  fellow  of  All  Souls,  held  the  College  living  of 
Harpsden,  near  Henley-upon-Thames.  Mr.  Thomas 
Leigh  was  a  younger  brother  of  Dr.  Theophilus 
Leigh,  a  personage  well  known  at  Oxford  in  his  day, 


yane  Aiistcii 


and  his  day  was  not  a  short  one,  for  he  hVed  to  be 

ninety,  and  held  tlie  Mastership  of  l^alliol  Collef^e  for 
above  half  a  ccntur\'.  He  was  a  man  more  famous 
for  his  sayings  than  his  doings,  overflowing  with  puns 
and  witticisms  and  sharp  retorts  ;  but  his  most 
serious  joke  was  his  practical  one  of  living  much 
longer  than  had  been  expected  or  intended.  He  was 
a  fellow  of  Corpus,  and  the  story  is  that  the  Balliol 
men,  unable  to  agree  in  electing  one  of  their  own 
number  to  the  Mastership,  chose  him,  partly  under 
the  idea  that  he  was  in  weak  health  and  likely  soon 
to  cause  another  vacancy.  It  was  afterwards  said 
that  his  long  incumbency  had  been  a  judgment  on 
the  Society  for  having  elected  an  Out-Collcge  Ma7i* 
1  imagine  that  the  front  of  Balliol  towards  Broad  Street 
which  has  recently  been  pulled  down  must  have  been 
built,  or  at  least  restored,  while  he  was  Master,  for 
the  Leigh  arms  were  placed  under  the  cornice  at  the 
corner  nearest  to  Trinity  gateSc  The  beautiful  build- 
ing lately  erected  has  destroyed  this  record,  and  thus 
*  monuments  themselves  memorials  need.' 

His  fame  for  witty  and  agreeable  conversation  ex- 
tended beyond  the  bounds  of  the  University.  Mrs. 
Thrale,  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  Johnson,  writes  thus  :  'Arc 
you  acquainted  with  Dr.  Leigh, f  the  Master  of  Balliol 
College,  and  are  you  not  delighted  with  his  gaiety  of 


*  There  seems  to  have  Leen  some  doubt  as  to  the  validity  of  tins 
election;  for  Ilearne  say;  that  it  was  referred  to  the  Visitor,  \\\\o 
confirmed  it.     (Hearne's  Diaries,  v.  2.) 

t  Mrs.  Thrale  writes  Dr.  lec,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the 
identity  of  person. 


A  Memoir  of 


manners  and  youthful  vivacity,  now  that  he  is  eighty- 
six  years  of  age  ?  I  never  heard  a  more  perfect  or 
excellent  pun  than  his,  when  some  one  told  him  how, 
in  a  late  dispute  among  the  Privy  Councillors,  the 
Lord  Chancellor  struck  the  table  with  such  violence 
that  he  split  it.  **  No,  no,  no,"  replied  the  Master; 
"  I  can  hardly  persuade  myself  that  he  split  the  tabic, 
though  I  believe  he  divided  the  Board.''  ' 

Some  of  his  sayings  of  course  survive  in  family 
tradition.  He  was  once  calling  on  a  gentleman 
notorious  for  never  opening  a  book,  who  took  him 
into  a  room  overlooking  the  Bath  Road,  which  was 
then  a  great  thoroughfare  for  travellers  of  every  class, 
saying  rather  pompously,  '  This,  Doctor,  I  call  my 
study.'  The  Doctor,  glancing  his  eye  round  the 
room,  in  which  no  books  were  to  be  seen,  replied, 
*  And  very  well  named  too,  sir,  for  you  know  Pope 
tells  us,  **  The  proper  st?idy  of  mankind  is  Manr ' 
When  my  father  went  to  Oxford  he  was  honoured 
with  an  invitation  to  dine  with  this  dignified  cousin. 
Being  a  raw  undergraduate,  unaccustomed  to  the 
habits  of  the  University,  he  was  about  to  take  off  his 
gown,  as  if  it  were  a  great  coat,  when  the  old  man, 
then  considerably  turned  eighty,  said,  with  a  grim 
smile,  *  Young  man,  you  need  not  strip :  we  are  not 
going  to  fight.'  This  humour  remained  in  him  so 
strongly  to  the  last  that  he  might  almost  have  sup- 
plied Pope  with  another  instance  of '  the  ruling  passion 
strong  in  death,'  for  only  three  days  before  he  expired, 
being  told  that  an  old  acquaintance  was  lately  married, 
having  recovered  from  a  long  illness  by  eating  eggs, 


Jane  Austen. 


and  that  the  wits  said  that  lie  had  been  egged  on  to 
matrimony,  he  immediately  trumped  the  joke,  saying, 
'  Then  may  the  yoke  sit  easy  on  him.'  I  do  not 
know  from  what  common  ancestor  the  Master  of 
Balliol  and  his  great-niece  Jane  Austen,  with  some 
others  of  the  family,  may  have  derived  the  keen 
sense  of  humour  which  they  certainly  possessed. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Austen  resided  first  at  Deane, 
but  removed  in  1771  to  Steventon,  which  was  their 
residence  for  about  thirty  years.  They  commenced 
their  married  life  with  the  charge  of  a  little  child,  a 
son  of  the  celebrated  Warren  Hastings,  who  had 
been  committed  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Austen  before  his 
marriage,  probably  through  the  influence  of  his  sister, 
Mrs.  Hancock,  whose  husband  at  that  time  held 
some  office  under  Hastings  in  India.  Mr.  Gleig,  in 
his  *  Life  of  Hastings/  says  that  his  son  George,  the 
offspring  of  his  first  marriage,  was  sent  to  England 
in  1 76 1  for  his  education,  but  that  he  had  never  been 
able  to  ascertain  to  whom  this  precious  charge  was 
entrusted,  nor  what  became  of  him.  I  am  able  to 
state,  from  family  tradition,  that  he  died  young,  of 
what  was  then  called  putrid  sore  throat ;  and  that 
Mrs.  Austen  had  become  so  much  attached  to  him 
that  she  always  declared  that  his  death  had  been  as 
great  a  grieftoheras  if  he  had  been  a  child  of  her  own. 

About  this  time,  the  grandfather  of  Mary  Russell 
Mitford,  Dr.  Russell,  was  Rector  of  the  adjoining 
parish  of  Ashe  ;  so  that  the  parents  of  two  popular 
female  writers  must  have  been  intimately  acquainted 
with  each  other. 


8  A  Memoir  of 

As  my  subject  carries  me  back  about  a  hundred 
years,  it  will  afford  occasions  for  observing  many 
changes  gradually  eftected  in  the  manners  and  habits 
of  society,  which  I  may  think  it  worth  while  to  men- 
tion. They  may  be  Httle  things,  but  time  gives  a 
certain  importance  even  to  trifles,  as  it  imparts  a 
peculiar  flavour  to  wine.  The  most  ordinary  articles 
of  domestic  life  are  looked  on  with  some  interest,  if 
they  are  brought  to  light  alter  being  long  buried  ; 
and  we  feel  a  natural  curiosity  to  know  what  was 
done  and  said  by  our  forefathers,  even  though  it  may 
be  nothing  wiser  or  better  than  what  we  are  daily 
doing  or  saying  ourselves.  Some  of  this  generation 
may  be  little  aware  how  many  conveniences,  now 
considered  to  be  necessaries  and  matters  of  course, 
were  unknown  to  their  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers. The  lane  between  Deane  and  Steventon 
has  long  been  as  smooth  as  the  best  turnpike  road  ; 
but  when  the  family  removed  from  the  one  residence 
to  the  other  in  1771,  it  was  a  mere  cart  track,  so  cut 
up  by  deep  ruts  as  to  be  impassable  for  a  hght 
carriage.  Mrs.  Austen,  who  was  not  then  in  strong 
health,  performed  the  short  journey  on  a  feather-bed, 
placed  upon  some  soft  articles  of  furniture  in  the 
waggon  which  held  their  household  goods.  In  those 
days  it  was  not  unusual  to  set  men  to  work  with 
shovel  and  pickaxe  to  fill  up  ruts  and  holes  in  roads 
seldom  used  by  carriages,  on  such  special  occasions 
as  a  funeral  or  a  wedding.  Ignorance  and  coarseness 
of  language  also  were  still  lingering  even  upon  higher 
levels  of  society  than  might  have  been  expected  to 


JlVIC  a  listen. 


retain  such  mists.  About  this  time,  a  neighbouring 
squire,  a  man  of  many  acres,  referred  the  following 
difficulty  to  Mr.  Austen's  decision:  'You  know  all 
about  these  sort  of  things.  Do  tell  us.  Is  Paris  in 
P'rance,  or  France  in  Paris  }  for  my  wife  has  been 
disputing  with  me  about  it'  The  same  gentleman, 
narrating  some  conversation  which  he  had  heard 
between  the  rector  and  his  wife,  represented  the 
latter  as  beginning  her  reply  to  her  husband  with  a 
round  oath;  and  when  his  daughter  called  him  to 
task,  reminding  him  that  Mrs.  Austen  never  swore, 
he  replied,  '  Now,  Betty,  why  do  you  pull  me  up  for 
nothing }  that's  neither  here  nor  there ;  you  know 
very  well  that's  only  my  ivay  of  telling  the  story. 
Attention  has  lately  been  called  by  a  celebrated  writer 
to  the  inferiority  of  the  clergy  to  the  laity  of  England 
two  centuries  ago.  The  charge  no  doubt  is  true,  if 
the  rural  clergy  are  to  be  compared  with  that  higher 
section  of  country  gentlemen  who  went  into  parlia- 
ment, and  mixed  in  London  society,  and  took  the 
lead  in  their  several  counties  ;  but  it  might  be  found 
less  true  if  they  were  to  be  compared,  as  in  all  fair- 
ness they  ought  to  be,  with  that  lower  section  with 
whom  they  usually  associated.  The  smaller  landed 
proprietors,  who  seldom  went  farther  from  home  than 
their  county  town,  from  the  squire  with  his  thousand 
acres  to  the  yeoman  who  cultivated  his  hereditary 
property  of  one  or  two  hundred,  then  formed  a 
numerous  class — each  the  aristocrat  of  his  own  parish; 
and  there  was  probably  a  greater  difference  in  man- 
ners and  refinement  between  this  glass  and  that  im- 


10  A  Mmtoir  of 


mediately  above  them  than  could  now  be  found 
between  any  two  persons  who  rank  as  gentlemen. 
For  in  the  progress  of  civilisation,  though  all  orders 
may  make  some  progress,  yet  it  is  most  perceptible 
in  the  lower.  It  is  a  process  of  *  levelling  up  ; '  the 
rear  rank  *  dressing  up,'  as  it  were,  close  to  the  front 
rank.  When  Hamlet  mentions,  as  something  which 
he  had  *for  three  yeai^s  taken  note  of,'  that  '  the  toe  of 
the  peasant  comes  so  near  the  heel  of  the  courtier,'  it 
was  probably  intended  by  Shakspeare  as  a  satire  on 
his  own  times  ;  but  it  expressed  a  principle  which  is 
working  at  all  times  in  which  society  makes  any 
progress.  I  believe  that  a  century  ago  the  improve- 
ment in  most  country  parishes  began  with  the  clergy  ; 
and  that  in  those  days  a  rector  who  chanced  to  be  a 
gentleman  and  a  scholar  found  himself  superior  to  his 
chief  parishioners  in  information  and  manners,  and 
became  a  sort  of  centre  of  refinement  and  politeness. 

Mr.  Austen  was  a  remarkably  good-looking  man, 
both  in  his  youth  and  his  old  age.  During  his  year 
of  office  at  Oxford  he  had  been  called  *  the  handsome 
Froctor  ;'  and  at  Bath,  when  more  than  seventy  years 
old,  he  attracted  observation  by  his  fine  features  and 
abundance  of  snow-white  hair.  Being  a  good  scholar 
he  was  able  to  prepare  two  of  his  sons  for  the  Univer- 
sity, and  to  direct  the  studies  of  his  other  children, 
whether  sons  or  daughters,  as  well  as  to  increase  his 
income  by  taking  pupils. 

In  Mrs.  Austen  also  was  to  be  found  the  germ  of 
much  of  the  ability  which  was  concentrated  in  Jane, 
but  of  which  others  of  her  children  had  a  share.     She 


Jane  Austen,  1 1 


united  stronc^  common  sense  witli  a  lively  imagina- 
tion, and  often  expressed  herself,  both  in  writing  and 
in  conversation,  with  epigrammatic  force  and  poinc. 
She  lived,  like  many  of  her  family,  to  an  advanced 
age.  During  the  last  years  of  her  life  she  endured 
continual  pain,  not  only  patiently  but  with  character- 
istic cheerfulness.  She  once  said  to  me,  '  Ah,  my 
dear,  you  find  me  just  where  you  left  me — on  the  sofa. 
I  sometimes  think  that  God  Almighty  must  have 
forgotten  me  ;  but  I  dare  say  He  will  come  for  me  in 
His  own  good  time.*  She  died  and  was  buried  at 
Chawton,  January  1827,  aged  eighty-eight. 

Her  own  family  were  so  much,  and  the  rest  of  the 
world  .so  little,  to  Jane  Austen,  that  some  brief  men- 
tion of  her  brothers  and  sister  is  necessary  in  order  to 
give  any  idea  of  the  objects  which  principally  occu- 
pied her  thoughts  and  filled  her  heart,  especially  as 
some  of  them,  from  their  characters  or  professions  in 
life,  may  be  supposed  to  have  had  more  or  less  influ- 
ence on  her  writings  :  though  I  feel  some  reluctance 
in  bringing  before  public  notice  persons  and  circum- 
stances essentially  private. 

Her  eldest  brother  James,  my  own  father,  had,  when 
a  very  young  man,  at  St.  John's  College,  Oxford,  been 
the  originator  and  chief  supporter  of  a  periodical 
paper  called  '  The  Loiterer,'  written  somewhat  on 
the  plan  of  the  *  Spectator'  and  its  successors,  but 
nearly  confined  to  subjects  connected  with  the  Uni- 
versity. In  after  life  he  used  to  speak  very  slight- 
ingly of  this  early  work,  which  he  had  the  better  right 


12  A  Memoir  of 


to  do,  as,  whatever  may  have  been  the  degree  of  their 
merits,  the  best  papers  had  certainly  been  written  by 
himself.  He  was  well  read  in  English  literature,  had 
a  correct  taste,  and  wrote  readily  and  happily,  both 
in  prose  and  verse.  He  was  more  than  ten  years 
older  than  Jane,  and  had,  I  believe,  a  large  share  in 
directing  her  reading  and  forming  her  taste. 

Her  second  brother,  Edward,  had  been  a  good  deal 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  family,  as  he  was  early 
adopted  by  his  cousin,  Mr.  Knight,  of  Godmersham 
Park  in  Kent  and  Chawton  House  in  Hampshire  ; 
and  finally  came  into  possession  both  of  the  property 
and  the  name.  But  though  a  good  deal  separated  in 
childhood,  they  were  much  together  in  after  life,  and 
Jane  gave  a  large  share  of  her  affections  to  him  and 
his  children.  Mr.  Knight  was  not  only  a  very  amiable 
man,  kind  and  indulgent  to  all  connected  with  him, 
but  possessed  also  a  spirit  of  fun  and  liveliness,  which 
made  him  especially  delightful  to  all  young  people. 

Her  third  brother,  Henry,  had  great  conversational 
powers,  and  inherited  from  his  father  an  eager  and 
sanguine  disposition.  He  was  a  very  entertaining 
companion,  but  had  perhaps  less  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose, certainly  less  success  in  life,  than  his  brothers. 
He  became  a  clergyman  when  middle-aged  ;  and  an 
allusion  to  his  sermons  will  be  found  in  one  of  Jane's 
letters.  At  one  time  he  resided  in  London,  and  was 
useful  in  transacting  his  sister's  business  with  hei 
publishers. 

Her  two  youngest  brothers,  Francis  and  Charles, 
were  sailors  during  that  glorious  period  of  the  British 


Jane  Austen.  13 

navy  which  comprises  tlie  close  of  the  last  and  the 
beginning  of  the  present  century,  when  it  was  impos- 
sible for  an  officer  to  be  almost  always  afloat,  as  these 
brothers  were,  without  seeing  service  which,  in  these 
days,  would  be  considered  distinguished.  Accord- 
ingly, they  were  continually  engaged  in  actions  of 
more  or  less  importance,  and  sometimes  gained  pro- 
motion by  their  success.  Both  rose  to  the  rank 
of  Admiral,  and  carried  out  their  flags  to  distant 
stations. 

Francis  lived  to  attain  the  very  summit  of  his  pro- 
fession, having  died,  in  his  ninety-third  year,  G.C.13. 
and  Senior  Admiral  of  the  Fleet,  in  1865.  He  pos- 
sessed great  firmness  of  character,  with  a  strong  sense 
of  duty,  whether  due  from  himself  to  others,  or  from 
others  to  himself.  He  was  consequently  a  strict  dis- 
ciplinarian ;  but,  as  he  was  a  very  religious  man,  it 
was  remarked  of  him  (for  in  those  days,  at  least,  it 
was  remarkable)  that  he  maintained  this  discipline 
without  ever  uttering  an  oath  or  permitting  one  in 
his  presence.  On  one  occasion,  when  ashore  in  a  sea- 
side town,  he  was  spoken  of  as  *  t/ie  officer  who 
kneeled  at  church  ;'  a  custom  which  now  happily 
would  not  be  thought  peculiar. 

Charles  was  generally  sei'v^ing  in  frigates  or  sloops ; 
blockading  harbours,  driving  the  ships  of  the  enemy 
ashore,  boarding  gun-boats,  and  frequently  making 
small  prizes.  At  one  time  he  was  absent  from  Eng- 
land on  such  services  for  seven  years  together.  In 
later  life  he  commanded  the  Bcllcrophon,  at  the  bom- 
bardment of  St.  Jean  d'Acre  in   1840      In   1850  he 


14  A  Memoir  of 

went  out  in  the  Hastings,  in  command  of  the  East 
India  and  China  station,  but  on  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Burmese  war  he  transferred  his  flag  to  a  steam 
sloop,  for  the  purpose  of  getting  up  the  shallow 
waters  of  the  Irrawaddy,  on  board  of  which  he  died 
of  cholera  in  1852,  in  the  seventy-fourth  year  of  his 
age.  His  sweet  temper  and  affectionate  disposition, 
in  which  he  resembled  his  sister  Jane,  had  secured  to 
him  an  unusual  portion  of  attachment,  not  only  from 
his  own  family,  but  from  all  the  officers  and  common 
sailors  who  served  under  him.  One  who  was  with 
him  at  his  death  has  left  this  record  of  him  :  *  Our 
good  Admiral  won  the  hearts  of  all  by  his  gentleness 
and  kindness  while  he  was  struggling  with  disease, 
and  endeavouring  to  do  his  duty  as  Commander-in- 
chief  of  the  British  naval  forces  in  these  waters.  His 
death  was  a  great  grief  to  the  whole  fleet.  I  know 
that  I  cried  bitterly  when  I  found  he  was  dead.'  The 
Order  in  Council  of  the  Governor-General  of  India, 
Lord  Dalhousie,  expresses  '  admiration  of  the  staunch 
high  spirit  which,  notwithstanding  his  age  and  pre- 
vious sufferings,  had  led  the  Admiral  to  take  his  part 
in  the  trying  service  which  has  closed  his  career.' 

These  two  brothers  have  been  dwelt  on  longer  than 
the  others  because  their  honourable  career  accounts 
for  Jane  Austen's  partiality  for  the  Navy,  as  well  as 
for  the  readiness  and  accuracy  with  which  she  wrote 
about  it.  She  was  always  very  careful  not  to  meddle 
with  matters  v/hich  she  did  not  thoroughly  understand. 
She  never  touched  upon  politics,  law,  or  medicine, 
subjects  which  some  novel  writers  have  ventured  on 


Jane  Austen.  15 


rather  too  boldly,  and  have  treated,  perhaps,  with 
more  brilliancy  than  accuracy.  But  with  ships  and 
sailors  she  felt  herself  at  home,  or  at  least  could 
always  trust  to  a  brotherly  critic  to  keep  her  right. 
I  believe  that  no  flaw  has  ever  been  found  in  her 
seamanship  either  in  *  Mansfield  Park  '  or  in  '  Per- 
suasion.' 

But  dearest  of  all  to  the  heart  of  Jane  was  her 
sister  Cassandra,  about  three  years  her  senior.  Their 
sisterly  affection  for  each  other  could  scarcely  be  ex- 
ceeded. Perhaps  it  began  on  Jane's  side  with  the 
feeling  of  deference  natural  to  a  loving  child  towards 
a  kind  elder  sister.  Something  of  this  feeling  always 
remained  ;  and  even  in  the  maturity  of  her  powers, 
and  in  the  enjoyment  of  increasing  success,  she  would 
still  speak  of  Cassandra  as  of  one  wiser  and  better 
than  herself  In  childhood,  when  the  elder  was  sent 
to  the  school  of  a  Mrs,  Latournelle,  in  the  Forbury 
at  Reading,  the  younger  went  with  her,  not  because 
she  was  thought  old  enough  to  profit  much  by  the 
instruction  there  imparted,  but  because  she  would 
have  been  miserable  without  her  sister ;  her  mother 
observing  that  *  if  Cassandra  were  going  to  have  her 
head  cut  off,  Jane  would  insist  on  sharing  her  fate.' 
This  attachment  was  never  interrupted  or  weakened. 
They  lived  in  the  same  home,  and  shared  the  same 
bed-room,  till  separated  by  death.  They  were  not 
exactly  alike.  Cassandra's  was  the  colder  and  calmer 
disposition  ;  she  was  always  prudent  and  well  judging, 
but  with  less  outward  demonstration  of  feeling  and 
less  sunniness  of  temper  than  Jane  possessed.     It  was 


l6  A  Memoir  of 


remarked  in  her  family  that  '  Cassandra  had  the  incrit 
of  having  her  temper  ahvays  under  command,  but 
that  Jane  had  the  happiness  of  a  temper  that  never 
required  to  be  commanded.'  When  *  Sense  and 
SensibiHty '  came  out,  some  persons,  who  knew  the 
family  sHghtly,  surmised  that  the  two  elder  Miss 
Dashwoods  were  intended  by  the  author  for  her  sister 
and  herself;  but  this  could  not  be  the  case.  Cas- 
sandra's character  might  indeed  represent  the  '  sense^ 
of  Elinor,  but  Jane's  had  little  in  common  with  the 
*  sensibility'  of  Marianne.  The  young  woman  who, 
before  the  age  of  twenty,  could  so  clearly  discern  the 
failings  of  Marianne  Dashwood,  could  hardly  have 
been  subject  to  them  herself. 

This  was  the  small  circle,  continually  enlarged, 
however,  by  the  increasing  families  of  four  of  her 
brothers,  within  which  Jane  Austen  found  her  whole- 
some pleasures,  duties,  and  interests,  and  beyond  which 
she  went  very  little  into  society  during  the  last  ten 
years  of  her  life.  There  was  so  much  that  was  agree- 
able and  attractive  in  this  family  party  that  its 
members  may  be  excused  if  they  were  inclined  to 
live  somewhat  too  exclusively  within  it.  They  might 
see  in  each  other  much  to  love  and  esteem,  and 
something  to  admire.  The  family  talk  had  abun- 
dance of  spirit  and  vivacity,  and  was  never  troubled 
by  disagreements  even  in  little  matters,  for  it  was  .'.lot 
their  habit  to  dispute  or  argue  with  each  other :  above 
all,  there  was  strong  family  affection  and  firm  union, 
never  to  be  broken  but  by  death.  It  cannot  be 
doubted  that  all  this  had  its  influence  on  the  author 


yafie  Aiisien,  1 7 


in  llic  construction  of  her  stories,  in  which  a  family 
party  usually  supplies  the  narrow  stage,  while  the 
interest  is  made  to  revolve  round  r»  few  actors. 

It  will  be  seen  also  that  though  her  circle  of  society 
was  small,  yet  she  found  in  her  neighbourhood  persons 
of  good  taste  and  cultivated  minds.  Her  acquaint- 
ance, in  fact,  constituted  the  veiy  class  from  which 
she  took  her  imaginary  characters,  ranging  from  the 
member  of  parliament,  or  large  landed  proprietor,  to 
the  young  curate  or  younger  midshipman  of  equally 
good  family  ;  and  I  think  that  the  influence  of  these 
early  associations  may  be  traced  in  her  writings, 
especially  in  two  particulars.  First,  that  she  is 
entirely  free  from  the  vulgarity,  which  is  so  offensive 
in  some  novels,  of  dwelling  on  the  outward  ap- 
pendages of  wealth  or  rank,  as  if  they  were  things  to 
which  the  writer  was  unaccustomed  ;  and,  secondly, 
that  she  deals  as  little  with  very  low  as  with  very 
high  stations  in  life.  She  does  not  go  lower  than  the 
Miss  Steelcs,  Mrs.  Elton,  and  John  Thorpe,  people  of 
bad  taste  and  underbred  manners,  such  as  are  actually 
found  sometimes  mingling  with  better  society.  She 
has  nothing  resembling  the  Brangtons,  or  Mr.  Dubster 
and  his  friend  Tom  Hicks,  wuth  whom  Madame 
D'Arblay  loved  to  season  her  stories,  and  to  produce 
striking  contrasts  to  her  well  bred  characters. 


tS  a  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER  11. 

Di'sci  iptio?!  of  Stevcnton — Life  at  Stevcnton — Changes   of  ITalits   and 
Ctistoms  in  the  last  Century. 

As  the  first  twenty-five  years,  more  than  half  of  tlic 
brief  hfe  of  Jane  Austen,  were  spent  in  the  parsonage 
of  Steventon,  some  description  of  that  place  ought  to 
be  given.  Steventon  is  a  small  rural  village  upon  the 
chalk  hills  of  north  Hants,  situated  in  a  winding 
valley  about  seven  miles  from  Basingstoke.  The 
South-Western  railway  crosses  it  by  a  short  embank- 
ment, and,  as  it  curves  round,  presents  a  good  view  of 
it  on  the  left  hand  to  those  who  are  travelling  down 
the  line,  about  three  miles  before  entering  the  tunnel 
under  Popham  Beacon.  It  may  be  known  to  some 
sportsmen,  as  lying  in  one  of  the  best  portions  of  the 
Vine  Hunt.  It  is  certainly  not  a  picturesque  country  ; 
it  presents  no  grand  or  extensive  views ;  but  the 
features  are  small  rather  than  plain.  The  surface 
continually  swells  and  sinks,  but  the  hills  are  not 
bold,  nor  the  valleys  deep  ;  and  though  it  is  sufficiently 
well  clothed  with  woods  and  hedgerows,  yet  the 
poverty  of  the  soil  in  most  places  prevents  the  timber 
from  attaining  a  large  size.  Still  it  has  its  beauties. 
The  lanes  wind  along  in  a  natural  curve,  continually 


Jane  Aiisicn.  tq 


fringed  with  irregular  borders  of  native  turf,  and  lead 
to  pleasant  nooks  and  corners.  One  who  knew  and 
loved  it  well  very  happily  expressed  its  quiet  charms, 
when  he  wrote 

Tnie  taste  is  not  fastidious,  nor  rejects, 
Because  they  may  not  come  within  the  nile 
Of  composition  pure  and  picturesque, 
Unnumbered  simple  scenes  which  fill  the  leaves 
Of  Nature's  sketch  book. 

Of  this  somewhat  tame  countr>^  Stcventon,  from 
the  fall  of  the  ground,  and  the  abundance  of  its  timber, 
is  certainly  one  of  the  prettiest  spots  ;  yet  one  cannot 
be  surprised  that,  when  Jane's  mother,  a  little  before 
her  marriage,  was  shown  the  scenery  of  her  future 
home,  she  should  have  thought  it  unattractive,  com- 
pared with  the  broad  river,  the  rich  valley,  and  the 
noble  hills  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  behold 
at  her  native  home  near  Henley-upon-Thames. 

The  house  itself  stood  in  a  shallow  valley,  sur- 
rounded by  sloping  meadows,  well  sprinkled  with  elm 
trees,  at  the  end  of  a  small  village  of  cottages,'  each 
well  provided  with  a  garden,  scattered  about  prettily 
on  either  side  of  the  road.  It  was  sufficiently  com- 
modious to  hold  pupils  in  addition  to  a  growing 
family,  and  was  in  those  times  considered  to  be  above 
the  average  of  parsonages ;  but  the  rooms  were 
finished  with  less  elegance  than  would  now  be  found 
in  the  most  ordinary  dwellings.  No  cornice  marked 
the  junction  of  wall  and  ceiling  ;  while  the  beams 
which  supported  the  upper  floors  projected  into  the 
rooms    below  in   all  their   naked  simplicity,   covered 


20  A  Memoir  of 


only  by  a  coat  of  paint  or  whitewash  :  accordingly 
it  has  since  been  considered  unworthy  of  being  the 
Rectory  house  of  a  family  living,  and  about  forty- 
five  years  ago  it  was  pulled  down  for  the  purpose  of 
erecting  a  new  house  in  a  far  better  situation  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  valley. 

North  of  the  house,  the  road  from  Deane  to  Pop- 
ham  Lane  ran  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  the  front 
to  allow  a  carriage  drive,  through  turf  and  trees.  On 
the  south  side  the  ground  rose  gently,  and  was  occu- 
pied by  one  of  those  old-fashioned  gardens  in  which 
vegetables  and  flowers  are  combined,  flanked  and 
protected  on  the  east  by  one  of  the  thatched  mud 
walls  common  in  that  country,  and  overshadowed  by 
fine  elms.  Along  the  upper  or  southern  side  of  this 
garden,  ran  a  terrace  of  the  finest  turf,  which  must 
have  been  in  the  writer's  thoughts  when  she  described 
Catharine  Morland's  childish  delight  in  '  rolling  down 
the  green  slope  at  the  back  of  the  house.' 

But  the  chief  beauty  of  Steventon  consisted  in  its 
hedgerows.  A  hedgerow,  in  that  country,  does  not 
mean  a  thin  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  con- 
tinuation of  the  turf  terrace,  proceeded  westward, 
forming  the  southern  boundary  of  the  horne  meadows; 


Jane  Austen.  ±1 


and  was  formed  into  a  rustic  shrubbery,  with  occa- 
sional 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  Digwced,  who  have 
for  more  than  a  century  rented  it,  together  with  the 
chief  farm  in  the  parish.  The  church  itself — I  speak 
of  it  as  it  then  was,  before  the  improvements  made 
by  the  present  rector — 


A  little  spireless  fane, 
Just  seen  above  the  woody  lane, 

might  have  appeared  mean  and  uninteresting  to  an 
ordinary  observer;  but  the  adept  in  church  architec- 
ture 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  gray  manor-house  through  its  circling  screen  of 
sycamores,  has  in  it  something  solemn  and  appro- 
priate to  the  last  resting-place  of  the  silent  dead. 
Sweet  violets,  both  purple  and  white,  grow  in  abun- 
dance 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  pro- 
trude their  rough  branches  ;  old  hawthorns  shed  their 


22  A.  Memoir  of 


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-five  years.  This  was  the  cradle  of 
her  genius.  These  were  the  first  objects  which  in- 
spired 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  as- 
sumed 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  there, 
and  consequently  the  rector  and  his  children  came  to 
be  regarded  in  the  neighbourhood  as  a  kind  of  re- 
presentatives of  the  family.  They  shared  with  the 
principal  tenant  the  command  of  an  excellent  manor, 
and  enjoyed,  in  this  reflected  way,  some  of  the  con- 
sideration usually  awarded  to  landed  proprietors. 
They  were  not  rich,  but,  aided  by  Mr.  Austen's  powers 
of  teaching,  they  had  enough  to  afford  a  good  educa- 
tion to  their  sons  and  daughters,  to  mix  in  the  best 
society  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  to  exercise  a  liberal 
hospitality  to    their   own  relations  and  friends.      A 


ihine  Atisteit.  23 


carriage  and  a  pair  of  horses  were  kept.  This  might 
imply  a  higher  style  of  hving  in  our  days  than  it  did 
in  theirs.  There  were  then  no  assessed  taxes.  The 
carriage,  once  bought,  entailed  little  further  expense  ; 
and  the  horses  probably,  like  Mr.  Bennet's,  were  often 
emplo)'ed  on  farm  work.  Moreover,  it  should  be  re- 
membered that  a  pair  of  horses  in  those  days  were 
almost  necessary,  if  ladies  were  to  move  about  at  all  ; 
for  neither  the  condition  of  the  roads  nor  the  style  of 
carriage-building  admitted  of  any  comfortable  vehicle 
being  drawn  by  a  single  horse.  When  one  looks  at 
the  few  specimens  still  remaining  of  coach-building  in 
the  last  century,  it  strikes  one  that  the  chief  object  of 
the  builders  must  have  been  to  combine  the  greatest 
possible  weight  with  the  least  possible  amount  of 
accommodation. 

The  family  lived  in  close  intimacy  with  tv/o  cousins, 
Edward  and  Jane  Cooper,  the  children  of  Mrs. 
Austen's  eldest  sister,  and  Dr.  Cooper,  the  vicar  of 
Sonning,  near  Reading.  The  Coopers  lived  for  some 
years  at  Bath,  which  seems  to  have  been  much  fre- 
quented in  those  days  by  clergymen  retiring  from 
work.  I  believe  that  Cassandra  and  Jane  sometimes 
visited  them  there,  and  that  Jane  thus  acquired  the 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  topography  and  customs 
of  Bath,  which  enabled  her  to  write  '  Northanger 
Abbey  '  long  before  she  resided  there  herself.  After 
the  death  of  their  own  parents,  the  two  young  Coopers 
paid  long  visits  at  Steventon.  Edward  Cooper  did 
not  live  undistinguished.  When  an  undergraduate  at 
Oxford,  he  f->;aine(l  the  prize  for  Latin  hexameters  on 


24  ^  Mcinoiy  of 


'  Hortus  Anglicus '  in  1791  ;  and  in  later  life  he  was 
known  by  a  work  on  prophecy,  called  '  The  Crisis/ 
and  other  religious  publications,  especially  for  several 
volumes  of  Sermons,  much  preached  in  many  pulpits 
in  my  youth.  Jane  Cooper  was  married  from  her 
uncle's  house  at  Steventon,  to  Captain,  afterwards  Sir 
Thomas  Williams,  under  whom  Charles  Austen  served 
in  several  ships.  She  was  a  dear  friend  of  her  name- 
sake, but  was  fated  to  become  a  cause  of  great  sorrow 
to  her,  for  a  few  years  after  the  marriage  she  was 
suddenly  killed  by  an  accident  to  her  carriage. 

There  was  another  cousin  closely  associated  with 
them  at  Steventon,  who  must  have  introduced  greater 
variety  into  the  family  circle.  This  was  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  Austen's  only  sister,  Mrs.  Hancock.  This 
cousin  had  been  educated  in  Paris,  and  married  to  a 
Count  de  Feuilladc,  of  whom  I  know  little  more  than 
that  he  perished  by  the  guillotine  during  the  French 
Revolution.  Perhaps  his  chief  offence  was  his  rank ; 
but  it  was  said  that  the  charge  of  *  incivism,'  under 
which  he  suffered,  rested  on  the  fact  of  his  having 
laid  down  some  arable  land  into  pasture — a  sure  sign 
of  his  intention  to  embarrass  the  Republican  Govern- 
ment by  producing  a  famine!  His  wife  escaped 
through  dangers  and  difficulties  to  P^ngland,  was  re- 
ceived for  some  time  into  her  uncle's  family,  and 
finally  married  her  cousin  Henry  Austen.  During 
the  short  peace  of  Amiens,  she  and  her  second  hus- 
band went  to  France,  in  the  hope  of  recovering  some 
of  the  Count's  property,  and  there  narrowly  escaped 
being   included   amongst    the   dctcjuts.     Orders   had 


Jane  Austen.  25 


been  given  by  Buonaparte's  government  to  detain  all 
English  travellers,  but  at  the  post-houses  Mrs.  Henry 
Austen  gave  the  necessary  orders  herself,  and  her 
French  was  so  perfect  that  she  passed  everywhere  for 
a  native,  and  her  husband  escaped  under  this  pro- 
tection. 

She  was  a  clever  woman,  and  highly  accomplished, 
after  the  French  rather  than  the  English  mode ;  and 
in  those  days,  when  intercourse  with  the  Continent 
was  long  interrupted  by  war,  such  an  element  in  the 
society  of  a  country  parsonage  must  have  been  a 
rare  acquisition.  The  sisters  may  have  been  more 
indebted  to  this  cousin  than  to  Mrs.  La  Tournelle's 
teaching  for  the  considerable  knowledge  of  French 
which  they  possessed.  She  also  took  the  principal 
parts  in  the  private  theatricals  in  which  the  family 
several  times  indulged,  having  their  summer  theatre 
in  the  barn,  and  their  winter  one  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  the  dining-room,  where  the  number  of  the 
audience  must  have  been  very  limited.  On  these 
occasions,  the  prologues  and  epilogues  were  written 
by  Jane's  eldest  brother,  and  some  of  them  are  very 
vigorous  and  r.rnusing.  Jane  was  only  twelve  years 
old  at  the  time  of  the  earliest  of  these  representa- 
tions, and  not  more  than  fifteen  when  the  last  took 
place.  She  was,  however,  an  early  observer,  and  it 
may  be  reasonably  supposed  that  some  of  the  in- 
cidents and  feelings  which  are  so  vividly  painted  in 
the  Mansfield  Park  theatricals  are  due  to  her  recol- 
lections of  these  entertainments. 

Some  time   before  they  left  Steventon,  one  great 


26  A  Memoir  of 


affliction  came  upon  the  family.  Cassandra  was  en- 
p^aged  to  be  married  to  a  young  clergyman.  He  had 
not  sufficient  private  fortune  to  permit  an  immediate 
union  ;  but  the  engagement  was  not  likely  to  be  a 
hopeless  or  a  protracted  one,  for  he  had  a  prospect 
oi  early  preferment  from  a  nobleman  with  whom  he 
was  connected  both  by  birth  and  by  personal  friend- 
ship. He  accompanied  this  friend  to  the  West  Indies, 
as  chaplain  to  his  regiment,  and  there  died  of  yellow 
fever,  to  the  great  concern  of  his  friend  and  patron, 
who  afterwards  declared  that,  if  he  had  known  cf 
the  engagement,  he  would  not  have  permitted  him 
to  go  out  to  such  a  climate.  This  little  domestic 
tragedy  caused  great  and  lasting  grief  to  the  prin- 
cipal sufferer,  and  could  not  but  cast  a  gloom  over 
the  whole  party.  The  sympathy  of  Jane  was  pro- 
bably, from  her  age,  and  her  peculiar  attachment  to 
her  sister,  the  deepest  of  all. 

Of  Jane  herself  I  know  of  no  such  definite  tale  of 
love  to  relate.  Her  reviewer  in  the  'Quarterly'  of 
January  1 82 1  observes,  concerning  the  attachment 
of  Fanny  Price  to  Edmund  Bertram  :  *  The  silence  in 
which  this  passion  is  cherished,  the  slender  hopes  and 
enjoyments  by  which  it  is  fed,  the  restlessness  and 
jealousy  with  which  it  fills  a  mind  naturally  active, 
contented,  and  unsuspicious,  the  manner  in  which 
it  tinges  every  event,  and  every  reflection,  are  painted 
with  a  vividness  and  a  detail  of  which  we  can  scarcely 
conceive  any  one  but  a  female,  and  we  should  almost 
add,  a  female  writing  from  recollection,  capable.* 
This   conjecture,  however  probable,  was  wide  of  the 


Jane  Atisten.  27 


mark.  The  picture  was  drawn  from  the  intuitive 
perceptions  of  genius,  not  from  personal  experience. 
In  no  circumstance  of  her  life  was  there  any  simi- 
larity between  herself  and  her  heroine  in  *  Mansfield 
Park.'  She  did  not  indeed  pass  through  life  without 
being  the  object  of  warm  affection.  In  her  youth 
she  had  declined  the  addresses  of  a  gentleman  who 
had  the  recommendations  of  good  character,  and  con- 
nections, and  position  in  life,  of  everything,  in  fact, 
except  the  subtle  power  of  touching  her  heart.  There 
is,  however,  one  passage  of  romance  in  her  history 
with  which  I  am  imperfectly  acquainted,  and  to 
which  I  am  unable  to  assign  name,  or  date,  or  place, 
though  I  have  it  on  sufficient  authority.  Many  years 
alter  her  death,  some  circumstances  induced  her  sister 
Cassandra  to  break  through  her  habitual  reticence, 
and  to  speak  of  it.  She  said  that,  while  staying  at 
some  seaside  place,  they  became  acquainted  with  a 
gentleman,  whose  charm  of  person,  mind,  and  man- 
ners was  such  that  Cassandra  thought  him  worthy 
to  possess  and  likely  to  win  her  sister's  love.  When 
they  parted,  he  expressed  his  intention  of  soon  seeing 
them  again  ;  and  Cassandra  felt  no  doubt  as  to  his 
motives.  But  they  never  again  met.  Within  a  short 
time  they  heard  of  his  sudden  death.  I  believe  that, 
if  Jane  ever  loved,  it  was  this  unnamed  gentleman  ; 
but  the  acquaintance  had  been  short,  and  I  am 
unable  to  say  whether  her  feelings  were  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  affect  her  happiness. 

Any  description  that  I  might  attempt  of  the  family 
life  at  Steventon,  which  closed  soon  after  I  was  born, 


28  A  Memoir  of 


could  be  little  better  than  a  fancy-piece.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  if  we  look  into  the  households  of  the 
clergy  and  the  small  gentry  of  that  period,  we  should 
see  some  things  which  would  seem  strange  to  us,  and 
should  miss  many  more  to  which  we  are  accustomed. 
Every  hundred  years,  and  especially  a  century  lii«:e 
the  last,  marked  by  an  extraordinary  advance  in 
vrcalth,  luxury,  and  refinement  of  taste,  as  well  as  in 
the  mechanical  arts  which  embellish  our  houses,  must 
produce  a  great  change  in  their  aspect.  These 
changes  are  always  at  work  ;  they  are  going  on  now, 
but  so  silently  that  we  take  no  note  of  them.  Men 
soon  forget  the  small  objects  which  they  leave  behind 
them  as  they  drift  down  the  stream  of  life.  As  Pope 
says — 

Nor  does  life's  stream  for  observation  stay ; 
It  hurries  all  too  fast  to  mark  their  way. 

Important  inventions,  such  as  the  applications  of 
steam,  gas,  and  electricity,  may  find  their  places  in 
histoiy  ;  but  not  so  the  alterations,  great  as  they  may 
be,  which  have  taken  place  in  the  appearance  of  our 
dining  and  drawing-rooms.  Who  can  now  record  the 
degrees  by  which  the  custom  prevalent  in  my  youth 
of  asking  each  other  to  take  wine  together  at  dinner 
became  obsolete  t  Who  will  be  able  to  fix,  twenty 
years  hence,  the  date  when  our  dinners  began  to  be 
carved  and  handed  round  by  servants,  instead  of 
smoking  before  our  eyes  and  noses  on  the  table }  To 
record  such  little  matters  would  indeed  be  '  to  chro- 
nicle small  beer.'     But,  in  a  slight  memoir  like  this, 


Jane  Austen.  29 


I  may  be  allowed  to  note  some  of  tliose  changes  In 
social  habits  which  give  a  colour  to  history,  but 
which  the  historian  has  the  greatest  difiiculty  in  re- 
covering. 

At  that  time  the  dinner-table  presented  a  far  less 
splendid  appearance  than  it  docs  now.  It  was  ap- 
propriated to  solid  food,  rather  than  to  flowers,  fruits, 
and  decorations.  Nor  was  there  much  glitter  of  plate 
upon  it;  for  the  early  dinner  hour  rendered  candle- 
sticks unnecessary,  and  silver  forks  had  not  come 
into  general  use:  while  the  broad  rounded  end  of  the 
knives  indicated  the  substitute  generally  used  instead 
of  them.* 

The  dinners  too  were  more  homely,  though  not 
less  plentiful  and  savoury ;  and  the  bill  of  fare  in  one 
house  would  not  be  so  like  that  in  another  as  it  is 
now,  for  family  receipts  were  held  in  high  estimation. 
A  grandmother  of  culinary  talent  could  bequeath  to 
her  descendant   fame  for  some  particular  dish,  and 

*  The  celebrated  Beau  Li-ummel,  who  was  so  intimate  with  George  W . 
as  to  be  able  to  quarrel  with  him,  was  bom  in  1771.  It  is  reported 
that  when  he  was  questioned  about  his  parents,  he  replied  that  't  was 
long  since  he  had  heard  of  them,  but  that  he  imagined  the  worthy 
couple  must  have  cut  their  own  throats  by  that  time,  because  when  he 
last  saw  them  they  were  eating  peas  with  their  knives.  Yet  Brummel's 
father  had  probably  lived  in  good  society ;  and  was  certainly  able  to 
put  his  son  into  a  fashionable  regiment,  and  to  leave  him  30,000/.' 
Raikes  believes  that  he  had  been  Secretary  to  Lord  North.  Thackeray's 
idea  that  he  had  been  a  footman  cannot  stand  against  the  authority  of 
Raikes,  who  was  intimate  with  the  son. 


Raikes's  Memoirs,  vol.  iL  p.  307. 


30  A  Memoir  of 


might  influence  the  family  dinner  for  many  gene- 
rations. 

Dos  est  magna  parentium 

Virtus. 

One  house  would  pride  itself  on  its  ham,  another  on 
its  game-pie,  and  a  third  on  its  superior  furmity,  or 
tansey-pudding.  Beer  and  home-made  wines,  espe- 
cially mead,  were  more  largely  consumed.  Veget- 
ables were  less  plentiful  and  less  various.  Potatoes 
were  used,  but  not  so  abundantly  as  now ;  and  there 
was  an  idea  that  they  were  to  be  eaten  only  with 
roast  meat.  They  were  novelties  to  a  tenant's  wife 
who  was  entertained  at  Steventon  Parsonage,  cer- 
tainly less  than  a  hundred  years  ago ;  and  when  Mrs. 
Austen  advised  her  to  plant  them  in  her  own  garden, 
she  replied,  '  No,  no ;  they  are  very  well  for  you 
gentry,  but  they  must  be  terribly  costly  to  rear! 

But  a  still  greater  difference  would  be  found  in  the 
furniture  of  the  rooms,  which  would  appear  to  us 
lamentably  scanty.  There  was  a  general  deficiency 
of  carpeting  in  sitting-rooms,  bed-rooms,  and  passages. 
A  pianoforte,  or  rather  a  spinnet  or  harpsichord,  was 
by  no  means  a  necessary  appendage.  It  was  to  be 
found  only  where  there  was  a  decided  taste  for  music, 
not  so  common  then  as  now,  or  in  such  great  houses 
as  would  probably  contain  a  billiard-table.  There 
would  often  be  but  one  sofa  in  the  house,  and  that  a 
stiff,  angular,  uncomfortable  article.  There  were  no 
deep  easy-chairs,  nor  other  appliances  for  lounging ; 
for  to  lie  down,  or  even  to  lean  back,  was  a  luxurj^ 


Jane  Austen.  '  31 


permitted  only  to  old  persons  or  invalids.  It  was 
said  of  a  nobleman,  a  personal  friend  of  George  III. 
and  a  model  gentleman  of  his  day,  that  he  would 
have  made  the  tour  of  Europe  without  ever  touching 
the  back  of  his  travelling  carriage.  But  perhaps  we 
should  be  most  struck  with  the  total  absence  of  those 
elegant  little  articles  which  now  embellish  and  en- 
cumber our  drawing-room  tables.  We  should  miss 
the  sliding  bookcases  and  picture-stands,  the  letter- 
weighing  machines  and  envelope  cases,  the  periodicals 
and  illustrated  newspapers — above  all,  the  countless 
swarm  of  photograph  books  which  now  threaten  to 
swallow  up  all  space.  A  small  writing-desk,  v/ith  a 
smaller  work-box,  or  netting-case,  was  all  that  each 
young  lady  contributed  to  occupy  the  table  ;  for  the 
large  family  work-basket,  though  often  produced  in 
the  parlour,  lived  in  the  closet. 

There  must  have  been  more  dancing  throughout 
the  country  in  those  days  than  there  is  now :  and  it 
seems  to  have  sprung  up  more  spontaneously,  as  if  it 
were  a  natural  production,  with  less  fastidiousness  as 
to  the  quality  of  music,  lights,  and  floor.  Many 
country  towns  had  a  monthly  ball  throughout  the 
winter,  in  some  of  which  the  same  apartment  served 
for  dancing  and  tea-room.  Dinner  parties  more  fre- 
quently ended  with  an  extempore  dance  on  the 
carpet,  to  the  music  q{  a  harpsichord  in  the  house,  or 
a  fiddle  from  the  village.  This  was  always  supposed 
to  be  for  the  entertainment  of  the  young  people,  but 
many,  who  had  little  pretension  to  youth,  were  very 
ready  to  join   in   it.     There   can    be  no  doubt  that 


A  Memoir  of 


Jane  herself  enjoyed  dancing,  for  she  attributes  this 
taste  to  her  favourite  heroines  ;  in  most  of  her  works, 
a  ball  or  a  private  dance  is  mentioned,  and  m.ade  of 
importance. 

Many  things  connected  with  the  ball-rooms  of 
those  days  have  now  passed  into  oblivion.  The 
barbarous  law  which  confined  the  lady  to  one  partner 
throughout  the  evening  must  indeed  have  been  abo- 
lished before  Jane  went  to  balls.  It  must  be  ob- 
served, however,  that  this  custom  was  in  one  respect 
advantageous  to  the  gentleman,  inasmuch  as  It  ren- 
dered his  duties  more  practicable.  He  was  bound  to 
call  upon  his  partner  the  next  morning,  and  it  must 
have  been  convenient  to  have  only  one  lady  for 
whom  he  was  obliged 

To  gallop  all  the  countiy  over, 
The  last  night's  partner  to  behold, 
And  humbly  hope  she  caught  no  cold. 

But  the  stately  minuet  still  reigned  supreme;  and 
every  regular  ball  commenced  with  it.  It  was  a 
slow  and  solemn  movement,  expressive  of  grace  and 
dignity,  rather  than  of  merriment.  It  abounded  in 
formal  bows  and  courtesies,  with  measured  paces, 
forwards,  backwards  and  sideways,  and  many  com- 
plicated gyrations.  It  was  executed  by  one  lady 
and  gentleman,  amidst  the  admiration,  or  the  criti- 
cism, of  surrounding  spectators.  In  its  earlier  and 
most  palmy  days,  as  when  Sir  Charles  and  Lady 
Grandison  delighted  the  company  by  dancing  it  at 
their    own   wedding,    the   gentleman    wore   a   dress 


Jane  Ajistcn.  33 


sword,  and  the  lady  was  armed  with  a  fan  of  nearly 
equal  dimensions.  Addison  observes  that  'women 
arc  armed  with  fans,  as  men  with  swords,  and  some- 
times do  more  execution  with  them.'  The  graceful 
carriage  of  each  weapon  was  considered  a  test  of 
high  breeding.  The  clownish  man  was  in  danger  of 
being  tripped  up  by  his  sword  getting  between  his 
legs  :  the  fan  held  clumsily  looked  more  of  a  burden 
than  an  ornament ;  while  in  the  hands  of  an  adept 
it  could  be  made  to  speak  a  language  of  its  own  * 
It  was  not  everyone  who  felt  qualified  to  make  this 
public  exhibition,  and  I  have  been  told  that  those 
ladies  who  intended  to  dance  minuets,  used  to  distin- 
guish themselves  from  others  by  wearing  a  particular 
kind  of  lappet  on  their  head-dress.  I  have  heard 
also  of  another  curious  proof  of  the  respect  in  which 
this  dance  was  held.  Gloves  immaculately  clean 
were  considered  requisite  for  its  due  performance, 
while  gloves  a  little  soiled  were  thought  good  enough 
for  a  country  dance;  and  accordingly  some  prudent 
ladies  provided  themselves  with  two  pairs  for  their 
several  purposes.  The  minuet  expired  with  the  last 
century :  but  long  after  it  had  ceased  to  be  danced 
publicly  it  was  taught  to  boys  and  girls,  in  order  to 
give  them  a  graceful  carriage. 

*  See  'Spectator,'  No.  102,  on  the  Fan  Exercise.  Old  gentlemen 
who  had  survived  the  fashion  of  wearing  swords  were  known  to  regret 
the  disuse  of  that  custom,  because  it  put  an  end  to  one  way  of  dis- 
tinguishing those  who  had,  from  tliose  who  had  not,  been  used  to  good 
society.  To  wear  the  sword  easily  was  an  art  which,  like  swimming 
and  skating,  required  to  be  learned  in  youth.  Children  could  practise 
it  early  with  their  toy  swords  adapted  to  their  size. 

D 


34  ^  Memoir  of 


Hornpipes,  cotillons,  and  reels,  were  occasionally 
danced  ;  but  the  chief  occupation  of  the  evening  was 
the  interminable  country  dance,  in  which  all  could 
join.  This  dance  presented  a  great  show  of  enjoy- 
ment, but  it  was  not  without  its  peculiar  troubles. 
The  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  ranged  apart  from  each 
other  in  opposite  rows,  so  that  the  facilities  for  flirta- 
tion, or  interesting  intercourse,  were  not  so  great  as 
might  have  been  desired  by  both  parties.  Much 
heart-burning  and  discontent  sometimes  arose  as  to 
who  should  stand  above  ivJioni,  and  especially  as  to 
who  was  entitled  to  the  high  privilege  of  calling  and 
leading  off  the  first  dance :  and  no  little  indignation 
was  felt  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room  when  any  of 
the  leading  couples  retired  prematurely  from  their 
duties,  and  did  not  condescend  to  dance  up  and 
down  the  whole  set.  We  may  rejoice  that  these 
causes  of  irritation  no  longer  exist ;  and  that  if  such 
feelings  as  jealousy,  rivalry,  and  discontent  ever  touch 
celestial  bosoms  in  the  modern  ball-room  they  must 
arise  from  different  and  more  recondite  sources. 

I  am  tempted  to  add  a  little  about  the  difference 
of  personal  habits.  It  may  be  asserted  as  a  general 
truth,  that  less  was  left  to  the  charge  and  discretion 
of  servants,  and  more  was  done,  or  superintended,  by 
the  masters  and  mistresses.  With  regard  to  the  mis- 
tresses, it  is,  I  believe,  generally  understood,  that  at 
the  time  to  which  I  refer,  a  hundred  years  ago,  they 
took  a  personal  part  in  the  higher  branches  of  cook- 
ery, as  well  as  in  the  concoction  of  home-made  wines, 
and  distilling  of  herbs  for  domestic  medicines,  which 
are  nearly  allied  to  the  same  art.     Ladies  did  not  dis- 


Jane  Austen.  '  35 


dain  to  spin  the  thread  of  which  the  household  Hnen 
was  woven.  Some  ladies  Hked  to  wash  with  their 
own  hands  their  choice  china  after  breakfast  or  tea. 
In  one  of  my  earliest  child's  books,  a  little  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  gentleman,  is  taught  by  her  mother  to 
make  her  own  bed  before  leaving  her  chamber.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  they  had  not  servants  to  do  all 
these  things  for  them,  as  that  they  took  an  interest  in 
such  occupations.  And  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
how  many  sources  of  interest  enjoyed  by  this  genera- 
tion were  then  closed,  or  very  scantily  opened  to 
ladies.  A  very  small  minority  of  them  cared  much 
for  literature  or  science.  Music  was  not  a  very  com- 
mon, and  drawing  was  a  still  rarer,  accomplishment  ; 
needlework,  in  some  form  or  other,  was  their  chief 
sedentary  employment. 

But  I  doubt  whether  the  rising  generation  are 
equally  aware  how  much  gentlemen  also  did  for 
themselves  in  those  times,  and  whether  some  things 
that  I  can  m.ention  will  not  be  a  surprise  to  them. 
Two  homely  proverbs  were  held  in  higher  estimation 
in  my  early  days  than  they  are  now— 'The  master's 
eye  makes  the  horse  fat  ;'  and,  '  If  you  would  be  well 
sei-ved,  serve  yourself  Some  gentlemen  took  plea- 
sure in  being  their  own  gardeners,  performing  all  the 
scientific,  and  some  of  the  manual,  work  themselves. 
Well-dressed  young  men  of  my  acquaintance,  who  had 
their  coat  from  a  London  tailor,  would  always  brush 
their  evening  suit  themselves,  rather  than  entrust 
it  to  the  carelessness  of  a  rough  servant,  and  to 
the  risks  of  dirt  and  grease  in  the  kitchen  ;   for  in 


3^  A  Memoir  of 


those  days  servants'  halls  were  not  common  in  the 
houses  of  the  clergy  and  the  smaller  country  gentry. 
It  was  quite  natural  that  Catherine  Morland  should 
have  contrasted  the  magnificence  of  the  offices  at 
Northanger  Abbey  with  the  few  shapeless  pantries 
in  her  father's  parsonage.  A  young  man  who  ex- 
pected to  have  his  things  packed  or  unpacked  for  him 
by  a  servant,  v^'hen  he  travelled,  would  have  been 
thought  exceptionally  fine,  or  exceptionally  lazy. 
When  my  uncle  undertook  to  teach  me  to  shoot,  his 
first  lesson  was  how  to  clean  my  own  gun.  It  was 
thought  meritorious  on  the  evening  of  a  hunting  day, 
to  turn  out  after  dinner,  lanthorn  in  hand,  and  visit 
the  stable,  to  ascertain  that  the  horse  had  been  well 
cared  for.  This  was  of  the  more  importance,  because, 
previous  to  the  introduction  of  clipping,  about  the 
year  1820,  it  was  a  difficult  and  tedious  work  to  make 
a  long-coated  hunter  dry  and  comfortable,  and  was 
often  very  imperfectly  done.  Of  course,  such  things 
were  not  practised  by  those  who  had  gamekeepers, 
and  stud-grooms,  and  plenty  of  well-trained  servants; 
but  they  were  practised  by  many  who  were  unequi- 
vocally gentlemen,  and  whose  grandsons,  occupying 
the  same  position  in  life,  may  perhaps  be  astonished 
at  being  told  that  ^ such  things  were' 

I  have  drawn  pictures  for  which  my  own  expe- 
rience, or  what  I  heard  from  others  in  my  youth, 
have  supplied  the  materials.  Of  course,  they  cannot 
be  universally  applicable.  Such  details  varied  in 
various  circles,  and  were  changed  very  gradually ;  nor 
can  I  pretend  to  tell  how  much  of  what  I  have  said 


Jane  Austen.  '  37 


is  descriptive  of  the  family  life  at  Stcventon  in  Jane 
Austen's  youth.  I  am  sure  that  the  ladies  there  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  mysteries  of  the  stew-pot  or 
the  preserving-pan  ;  but  it  is  probable  that  their  way 
of  life  differed  a  little  from  ours,  and  would  have  ap- 
peared to  us  more  homely.  It  may  be  that  useful 
articles,  which  would  not  now  be  produced  in  drawing- 
rooms,  were  hemmed,  and  marked,  and  darned  in  the 
old-fashioned  parlour.  But  all  this  concerned  only 
the  outer  life  ;  there  was  as  much  cultivation  and  re- 
finement  of  mind  as  now,  with  probably  more  studied 
courtesy  and  ceremony  of  manner  to  visitors  ;  whilst 
certainly  in  that  family  literary  pursuits  were  not 
neglected. 

1  remember  to  have  heard  of  only  two  little  things 
different  from  modern  customs.  One  was,  that  on 
hunting  mornings  the  young  men  usually  took  their 
hasty  breakfast  in  the  kitchen.  The  early  hour  at 
which  hounds  then  met  may  account  for  this  ;  and 
probably  the  custom  began,  if  it  did  not  end,  when 
they  were  boys  ;  for  they  hunted  at  an  early  age,  in  a 
scrambling  sort  of  way,  upon  any  pony  or  donkey 
that  they  could  procure,  or,  in  default  of  such  luxuries, 
on  foot.  I  have  been  told  that  Sir  Francis  Austen, 
when  seven  years  old,  bought  on  his  own  account,  it 
must  be  supposed  with  his  father's  permission,  a  pony 
for  a  guinea  and  a  half;  and  after  riding  him  with 
great  success  for  two  seasons,  sold  him  for  a  guinea 
more.  One  may  wonder  how  the  child  could  have  so 
much  money,  and  how  the  animal  could  have  been 
obtained  for  so   little.     The  same  authority  informs 


38  A  Memoir  of 


me  that  his  first  cloth  suit  was  made  from  a  scarlet 
habit,  which,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  times, 
had  been  his  mother's  usual  morning  dress.  If  all 
this  is  true,  the  future  admiral  of  the  British  Fleet 
must  have  cut  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the  hunting- 
field.  The  other  peculiarity  was  that,  when  the  roads 
were  dirty,  the  sisters  took  long  walks  in  pattens. 
This  defence  against  wet  and  dirt  is  now  seldom  seen. 
The  few  that  remain  are  banished  from  good  society, 
and  employed  only  in  menial  work  ;  but  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago  they  were  celebrated  in  poetry, 
and  considered  so  clever  a  contrivance  that  Gay,  in 
his  *  Trivia,'  ascribes  the  invention  to  a  god  stimulated 
by  his  passion  for  a  mortal  damsel,  and  derives  the 
name  '  Patten '  from  *  Patty.' 

The  patten  now  supports  each  frugal  dame, 
Which  from  the  blue-eyed  Patty  takes  the  name. 

But  mortal  damsels  have  long  ago  discarded  the 
clumsy  implement  First  it  dropped  its  iron  ring  and 
became  a  clog ;  afterwards  it  was  fined  down  into  the 
pliant  galoshe — lighter  to  wear  and  more  effectual  to 
protect — a  no  less  manifest  instance  of  gradual  im- 
provement than  Cowper  indicates  when  he  traces 
through  eighty  lines  of  poetry  his  'accomplished  sofa' 
back  to  the  original  three-legged  stool. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  purposes  which  a  patten 
was  intended  to  serve,  1  add  the  following  epigram, 
written  by  Jane  Austen's  uncle,  Mr.  Leigh  Perrot,  on 
reading  in  a  newspaper  the  marriage  of  Captain  Foote 
to  Miss  Patten:  — 


Jane  Austen.  '  39 

Through  the  rough  paths  of  life,  witli  a  patten  your  guard, 

May  you  safely  and  pleabantly  jog  ; 
May  the  knot  never  slip,  nor  the  ring  press  too  hard, 

Nor  the  Foot  find  the  J\itUii  a  clog. 

At  the  time  when  Jane  Austen  Hved  at  Stevcnton, 
a  work  was  carried  on  in  the  neighbouring  cottages 
which  ought  to  be  recorded,  because  it  has  long 
ceased  to  exist. 

Up  to  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  poor 
women  found  profitable  employment  in  spinning  flax 
or  wool.  This  was  a  better  occupation  for  them  than 
straw  plaiting,  inasmuch  as  it  was  carried  on  at  the 
family  hearth,  and  did  not  admit  of  gadding  and  gos- 
siping about  the  village.  The  implement  used  was  a 
long  narrow  machine  of  wood,  raised  on  legs,  fur- 
nished at  one  end  with  a  large  wheel,  and  at  the  other 
with  a  spindle  on  which  the  flax  or  wool  was  loosely 
wrapped,  connected  together  by  a  loop  of  string.  One 
hand  turned  the  wheel,  while  the  other  formed  the. 
thread.  The  outstretched  arms,  the  advanced  foot, 
the  sway  of  the  whole  figure  backwards  and  forwards, 
produced  picturesque  attitudes,  and  displayed  what- 
ever of  grace  or  beauty  the  work-woman  might  pos- 
sess.* Some  ladies  were  fond  of  spinning,  but  they 
worked  in  a  quieter  manner,  sitting  at  a  neat  little 
machine  of  varnished  wood,  like  Tunbridge  ware, 
generally  turned  by  the  foot,  with  a  basin  of  water  at 
hand  to  supply  the  moisture  required  for  forming  the 
thread,  which  the  cottager  took  by  a  more  direct  and 

*  Mrs.  Gaskell,    in  her  tale  of  '  Sylvia's  Lovers,' declares  that   this 
hund-spinning  rivalled  haq^-playing  in  its  gracefulness. 


40  A  Memoir  of 


natural  process  from  her  own  mouth.     I  remember 
two  such  elegant  little  wheels  in  our  own  family. 

It  may  be  observed  that  this  hand-spinning  is  the 
most  primitive  of  female  accomplishments,  and  can 
be  traced  back  to  the  earliest  times.  Ballad  poetry 
and  fairy  tales  are  full  of  allusions  to  it.  The  term 
*  spinster '  still  testifies  to  its  having  been  the  ordinary 
employment  of  the  English  young  woman.  It  was 
the  labour  assigned  to  the  ejected  nuns  by  the  rough 
earl  who  said,  *  Go  spin,  ye  jades,  go  spin.'  It  was 
the  employment  at  which  Roman  matrons  and  Gre- 
cian princesses  presided  amongst  their  handmaids. 
Heathen  mythology  celebrated  it  in  the  three  Fates 
spinning  and  measuring  out  the  thread  of  human 
life.  Holy  Scripture  honours  it  in  those  *  wise-hearted 
women '  who  '  did  spin  with  their  hands,  and  brought 
that  which  they  had  spun '  for  the  construction  of  the 
Tabernacle  in  the  wilderness :  and  an  old  English 
proverb  carries  it  still  farther  back  to  the  time  *  when 
Adam  delved  and  Eve  span.'  But,  at  last,  this  time- 
honoured  domestic  manufacture  is  quite  extinct 
amongst  us — crushed  by  the  power  of  steam,  over- 
borne by  a  countless  host  of  spinning  jennies,  and  I 
can  only  just  remember  some  of  its  last  struggles  for 
existence  in  the  Steventon  cottages. 


yane  Austen.  41 


CHAPTER  III. 

Early  Compositions — Friends  at  Ashe — A  very  old  Letter — Lines  on  the 
Death  of  Mrs.  l^efroy — Observations  on  Jane  Austen's  L^etter-~u<ritiug 
—  Letters. 

I  KNOW  little  of  Jane  Austen's  childhood.  Her 
mother  followed  a  custom,  not  unusual  in  those  days, 
though  it  seems  strange  to  us,  of  putting  out  her 
babies  to  be  nursed  in  a  cottage  in  the  village.  The 
infant  was  daily  visited  by  one  or  both  of  its  parents, 
and  frequently  brought  to  them  at  the  parsonage,  but 
the  cottage  w^as  its  home,  and  must  have  remained  so 
till  it  was  old  enough  to  run  about  and  talk  ;  for  I 
know  that  one  of  them,  in  after  life,  used  to  speak  of 
his  foster  mother  as  *  Movie,'  the  name  by  which  he 
had  called  her  in  his  infancy.  It  may  be  that  the 
contrast  between  the  parsonage  house  and  the  best 
class  of  cottages  was  not  quite  so  extreme  then  as  it 
would  be  now,  that  the  one  was  somewhat  less  luxuri- 
ous, and  the  other  less  squalid.  It  would  certainly 
seem  from  the  results  that  it  was  a  wholesome  and 
invigorating  system,  for  the  children  were  all  strong 
and  healthy.  Jane  was  probably  treated  like  the  rest 
in  this  respect.  In  childhood  every  available  oppor- 
tunity of  instruction  was  made  use  of.  According  to 
the  ideas  of  the  time,  she  was  well  educated,  though 


42  A  Memoir  of 


not  highly  accompHshed,  and  she  certainly  enjoyed 
that  important  element  of  mental  training,  associating 
at  home  with  persons  of  cultivated  intellect.  It  can- 
not be  doubted  that  her  early  years  were  bright  and 
happy,  living,  as  she  did,  with  indulgent  parents,  in  a 
cheerful  home,  not  without  agreeable  variety  of  society. 
To  these  sources  of  enjoyment  must  be  added  the  first 
stirrings  of  talent  within  her,  and  the  absorbing  in- 
terest of  original  composition.  It  is  impossible  to  say 
at  how  early  an  age  she  began  to  write.  There  are 
copy  books  extant  containing  tales  some  of  which 
must  have  been  composed  v/hile  she  was  a  young  girl, 
as  they  had  amounted  to  a  considerable  number  by 
the  time  she  was  sixteen.  Her  earliest  stories  are  of 
a  slight  and  flimsy  texture,  and  are  generally  intended 
to  be  nonsensical,  but  the  nonsense  has  much  spirit 
in  it.  They  are  usually  preceded  by  a  dedication  of 
mock  solemnity  to  some  one  of  her  family.  It  would 
seem  that  the  grandiloquent  dedications  prevalent  in 
those  days  had  not  escaped  her  youthful  penetration. 
Perhaps  the  most  characteristic  feature  in  these  early 
productions  is  that,  however  puerile  the  matter,  they 
are  always  composed  in  pure  simple  English,  quite 
free  from  the  over-ornamented  style  which  might  be 
expected  from  so  young  a  writer.  One  of  her  juvenile 
effusions  is  given,  as  a  specimen  of  the  kind  of  tran- 
sitory amusement  which  Jane  was  continually  sup- 
plying to  the  family  party. 


Ja7ic  Austen.  43 


THE    IMYSTERY. 

AN    UNFINISHED   COiMEUY. 

DEDICATION. 

To  THE  Rev.  George  Austen. 

Sir, — I  humbly  solicit  your  patronage  to  the  following 
Comedy,  which,  though  an  unfinished  one,  is,  I  flatter  myself, 
as  complete  a  Mystery  as  any  of  its  kind. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  Servant, 

The  Author. 

THE   MYSTERY,   A   COMEDY. 

DRAMATIS  PERSON/E. 


Men. 

Col.  Elliott. 
Old  Humbug. 
Young  Humbug. 
Sir  Edward  Spangle 
atid 

COKVDON. 


Women. 

Fanny  Ellioit. 
Mrs.  Humbug 
and 

DaI'IINK. 


ACT   I. 
Scene  I. — A  Garden. 
Ejiter  CoRYDON. 
Corydon.  But  hush  :  I  am  interrupted.      \Exit  Corydo.n 

Enter  Old  Humbug  a7id  his  Son,  talking. 
Old  Hum,  It  is  for  that  reason  that  I  wish  you  to  follo\ 
my  advice.     Are  you  convinced  of  its  propriety  ? 


44  A  Afemoir  of 


Young  Hum.  I  am,  sir,  and  will  certainly  act  in  the 
manner  you  have  pointed  out  to  me. 

Old  Hum.  Then  let  us  return  to  the  house.  \Exeunt. 

Scene  IT. — A  parlour  in  Humbug's //t?//^*^.     Mrs.  Humdug 
and  Fanny  discovered  at  work. 

Mrs.  Hum.  You  understand  me,  my  love  ? 
Fanny.  Perfectly,  ma'am  :  pray  continue  your  narration. 
Mrs.   Hum.  Alas !  it  is  nearly   concluded  \   for   I    have 
nothing  more  to  say  on  the  subject. 
Fanjiy.  Ah  !  here  is  Daphne. 

Enter  Daphne. 

Daphne.  My  dear  Mrs.  Humbug,  how  d'}e  do?  Oh  I 
Fanny,  it  is  all  over. 

Fanny.  Is  it  indeed  ! 

Afrs.  Hum.  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it. 

Fanny.  Then  'twas  to  no  purpose  that  I 

Daphne.  None  upon  earth. 

Airs.  Hum.  And  what  is  to  become  of ? 

Daphne.  Oh  !  'tis  all  setded.     (  Whispers  Mrs.  Humbug.) 

Fanny.  And  how  is  it  determined  } 

Daphne.  I'll  tell  you.     (  Whispers  Fanny.) 

Mrs.  Hum.  And  is  he  to ? 

Daphne.  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know  of  the  matter.  ( Whispers 
Mrs.  Humbug  ^;/^/ Fanny.) 

Fanny.  ^Vell,  now  I  know  everything  about  it,  I'll  go  away. 

Airs.  Hum. )     ,     ,  .„  ^  r  ,- 

^  ^,  \   And  so  will  I.  \E.\eunt. 

Daphne.      J  l 

Scene  III. — The  curtain  rises,  and  discovers  Sir   Edward 
Spangle  j-edined  in  an  elegant  attitude  on  a  sofa  fast  asleep. 

Enter  Col.  Elliott. 
Col.  E.  My  daughter  is  not  here,  I  see.     There  lies  Sir 


Jane  Austen.  '  4^ 


Edward.  Shall  I  tell  him  the  secret  ?  No,  lie'il  certainly 
blab  it.  lUit  he's  asleep,  and  won't  hear  me  ; — so  I'll  e'en 
venture.     {Goes  up  to  Sir  Edward,  ic/iispers  /lini,  and  exit.) 

END    OF   THE    FIRST   ACT. 
FINIS. 

Her  own  mature  opinion  of  the  desirableness  of 
such  an  early  habit  of  composition  is  given  in  the 
following  words  of  a  niece  :  — 

'  As  I  grew  older,  my  aunt  would  talk  to  me  more 
seriously  of  my  reading  and  my  amusements.  I  had 
taken  early  to  writing  verses  and  stories,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  think  how  I  troubled  her  with  reading  them. 
She  was  very  kind  about  it,  and  always  had  some 
praise  to  bestow,  but  at  last  she  warned  me  against 
spending  too  much  time  upon  them.  She  said — how 
well  I  recollect  it ! — that  she  knew  writing  stories  was 
a  great  amusement,  and  she  thought  a  harmless  one, 
though  many  people,  she  was  aware,  thought  other- 
wise ;  but  that  at  my  age  it  would  be  bad  for  me  to 
be  much  taken  up  with  my  own  compositions.  Later 
still — it  was  after  she  had  gone  to  Winchester — she 
sent  me  a  message  to  this  effect,  that  if  I  would  take 
her  advice  I  should  cease  writing  till  I  was  sixteen  ;  that 
she  had  herself  often  wished  she  had  read  more,  and 
written  less  in  the  corresponding  years  of  Iicr  own 
life.*  As  this  niece  was  only  twelve  years  old  at  the 
time  of  her  aunt's  death,  these  words  seem  to  imply 
that  the  juvenile  tales  to  which  I  have  referred  had, 
some  of  them  at  least,  been  written  in  her  childhood. 


46  A  Memoir  of 


But  between  these  childish  effusions,  and  the  com- 
position of  her  living  works,  there  intervened  another 
stage  of  her  progress,  during  which  she  produced 
some  stories,  not  without  merit,  but  which  she  never 
considered  worthy  of  publication.  During  this  pre- 
paratory period  her  mind  seems  to  have  been  working 
in  a  very  different  direction  from  that  into  which  it 
ultimately  settled.  Instead  of  presenting  faithful 
copies  of  nature,  these  tales  were  generally  bur- 
lesques, ridiculing  the  improbable  events  and  ex- 
aggerated sentiments  which  she  had  met  with  in 
sundry  silly  romances.  Something  of  this  fancy  is 
to  be  found  in  *  Northanger  Abbey,'  but  she  soon  left 
it  far  behind  in  her  subsequent  course.  It  would 
seem  as  if  she  were  first  taking  note  of  all  the  faults 
to  be  avoided,  and  curiously  considering  how  she 
ought  not  to  write  before  she  attempted  to  put  forth 
her  strength  in  the  right  direction.  The  family  have, 
rightly,  I  think,  declined  to  let  these  early  works  be 
published.  Mr.  Shortreed  observed  very  pithily  of 
Walter  Scott's  early  rambles  on  the  borders,  '  He  was 
makin'  himsell  a'  the  time  ;  but  he  didna  ken,  may  be, 
what  he  was  about  till  years  had  passed.  At  first  he 
thought  of  little,  I  dare  say,  but  the  queerness  and 
the  fun.'  And  so,  in  a  humbler  way,  Jane  Austen 
was  '  makin'  hersell/  little  thinking  of  future  fame, 
but  caring  only  for  '  the  queerness  and  the  fun  ; '  and 
it  would  be  as  unfair  to  expose  this  preliminary  pro- 
cess to  the  world,  as  it  would  be  to  display  all  that 
goes  on  behind  the  curtain  of  the  theatre  before  it  is 
drawn  up. 


Jane  Aiisicri.  .  47 


It  was,  however,  at  Stcventon  that  the  real  founda- 
tions of  her  fame  were  laid.  There  some  of  her  most 
successful  writing  was  composed  at  such  an  early  ag^e 
as  to  make  it  surprising  that  so  young  a  woman  could 
have  acquired  the  insight  into  character,  and  the  nice 
observation  of  manners  which  they  display.  *  Pride 
and  Prejudice,'  which  some  consider  the  most  brilliant 
of  her  novels,  was  the  first  finished,  if  not  the  first 
begun.  She  began  it  in  October  1796,  before  she  was 
twenty-one  years  old,  and  completed  it  in  about  ten 
months,  in  August  1797.  The  title  then  intended  for 
it  was  *  First  Impressions.'  '  Sense  and  Sensibility  ' 
was  begun,  in  its  present  form,  immediately  after  the 
completion  of  the  former,  in  November  1797  ;  but 
something  similar  in  story  and  character  had  been 
written  earlier  under  the  title  of  '  Elinor  and  Mari- 
anne ;  '  and  if,  as  is  probable,  a  good  deal  of  this 
earlier  production  was  retained,  it  must  form  the 
earliest  specimen  of  her  writing  that  has  been  given 
to  the  world.  '  Northanger  Abbey,'  though  not  pre- 
pared for  the  press  till  1803,  was  certainly  first  com- 
posed in  1798. 

Amongst  the  most  valuable  neighbours  of  the 
Austens  were  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Lefroy  and  their  family. 
He  was  rector  of  the  adjoining  parish  of  Ashe  ;  she 
was  sister  to  Sir  Egerton  Biydges,  to  whom  we  are 
indebted  for  the  earliest  notice  of  Jane  Austen  that 
exists.  In  his  autobiography,  speaking  of  his  visits 
at  Ashe,  he  writes  thus  :  '  The  nearest  neighbours  of 
the  Lefroys  were  the  Austens  of  Steventon.  I  re- 
member Jane  Austen,  the   novelist,  as  a  little    child. 


48  A  Memoir  of 


She  was  very  intimate  with  Mrs.  Lefroy,  and  much 
encouraged  by  her.  Her  mother  was  a  Miss  Leigh, 
whose  paternal  grandmother  was  sister  to  the  first 
Duke  of  Chandos.  Mr.  Austen  was  of  a  Kentish 
family,  of  which  several  branches  have  been  settled  in 
the  Weald  of  Kent,  and  some  are  still  remaining 
there.  When  I  knew  Jane  Austen,  I  never  suspected 
that  she  was  an  authoress ;  but  my  eyes  told  me  that 
she  was  fair  and  handsome,  slight  and  elegant,  but 
with  cheeks  a  little  too  full.'  One  may  wish  that 
Sir  Egerton  had  dwelt  rather  longer  on  the  subject 
of  these  memoirs,  instead  of  being  drawn  away  by  his 
extreme  love  for  genealogies  to  her  great-grand- 
mother and  ancestors.  That  great-grandmother  how- 
ever lives  in  the  family  records  as  Mary  Brydges, 
a  daughter  of  Lord  Chandos,  married  in  Westminster 
Abbey  to  Theophilus  Leigh  of  Addlestrop  in  1698. 
When  a  girl  she  had  received  a  curious  letter  of 
advice  and  reproof,  written  by  her  mother  from  Con- 
stantinople. Mary,  or  *  Poll,'  was  remaining  in  Eng- 
land with  her  grandmother,  Lady  Bernard,  who  seems 
to  have  been  wealthy  and  inclined  to  be  too  indul- 
gent to  her  granddaughter.  This  letter  is  given. 
Any  such  authentic  document,  two  hundred  years 
old,  dealing  with  domestic  details,  must  possess  some 
interest.  This  is  remarkable,  not  only  as  a  specimen 
of  the  homely  language  in  which  ladies  of  rank  then 
expressed  themselves,  but  from  the  sound  sense 
which  it  contains.  Forms  of  expression  vary,  but 
good  sense  and  right  principles  are  the  same  in  the 
nineteenth  that  they  were  in  the  seventeenth  century. 


Jane  Atisten.  '  49 


'  Uv  DEARES  Poll, 
*  V  letters  by  Cousin  Robbert  Serle  arrived  licrc 
not   before  the  27''*  of  Aprill,  yctt  were  they  hartily 
Wellcome  to  us,  bringing  y*^  joyful  news  which  a  great 
while  we  had  longed  for  of  my  most  dear  Mother  & 
all    other   relations    &   friends    good   health  which  I 
beseech  God  continue  to  you  all,  &  as  I  observe  in 
y"  to  y*"  Sister  Betty  y®  extraordinary  kindness  of 
(as  I  may  truly  say)  the  best  Moth""  &  G"^  Moth*"  in 
the  world  in  pinching  herself  to  make  you  fine,  so  I 
cannot    but    admire    her  great    good   Ilousewifry   in 
affording  you  so  very  plentifuU  an  allowance,  &  yett 
to    increase   her  Stock  at  the  rate  I  find  she  hath 
done  ;  &  think  I  can  never  sufficiently  mind  you  how 
very  much  it  is  y*"  d-ity  on  all  occasions  to   pay  her 
y*"  gratitude  in  all  humble  submission  &  obedience  to 
all  her  commands  soe  long  as  you  live.     I  must  tell 
)-ou  'tis  to  her  bounty  &  care  in  y^  greatest  measure 
you  are  like  to  owe  y**  well   living  in  this  world,  &  as 
you  cannot  but    be    very  sensible  you  are  an  extra- 
ordinary charge  to  her  so  it  behoves  you  to  take  par- 
ticular  heed    th*   in   y®  whole  course  of  y*"  life,  you 
render  her  a  proportionable  comfort,  especially  since 
'tis  y®  best  way  you  can  ever  hope  to  make  her  such 
amends  as  God   requires  of  y'*  hands,     but  Poll !  it 
grieves  me  a  little  &  yM  am  forced  to  take  notice  of 
&  reprove  you  for  some  vaine  expressions  in  y*"  letf' 
to  y""  Sister — you  say  concerning  y*"  allowance  "you 
aime  to  bring  y^  bread  &  cheese  even  "   in  this  I  do 
not  discommend   you,  for  a  foule  shame   indeed   it 
would  be  should  you  out  run  the  Constable  having 


50  A  Memoir  of 


soe  liberall  a  provision  made  you  for  y^  maintenance 
• — but  y®  reason  you  give  for  y^  resolution  I  cannot  at 
all  approve  for  you  say  **  to  spend  more  you  can't " 
thats  because  you  have  it  not  to  spend,  otherwise  it 
seems  you  would.  So  y'  'tis  y*"  Grandmoth'*^  discre- 
tion &  not  yours  th*  keeps  you  from  extravagancy, 
which  plainly  appears  in  y®  close  of  y^  sentence,  say- 
ing y^  you  think  it  simple  covetousness  to  save  out  of 
y^*^  but  'tis  my  opinion  if  you  lay  all  on  y'"  back  'tis 
ten  tymes  a  greater  sin  &  shame  th"  to  save  some 
what  out  of  soe  large  an  allowance  in  y""  purse  to 
help  you  at  a  dead  lift.  Child,  we  all  know  our 
beginning,  but  who  knows  his  end  }  Y®  best  use  th* 
can  be  made  of  fair  wreath*"  is  to  provide  against  foule 
&  'tis  great  discretion  &  of  noe  small  commenda- 
tions for  a  young  woman  betymes  to  shew  herself 
housewifly  &  frugal.  Y^  Mother  neither  Maide  nor 
wife  ever  yett  bestowed  forty  pounds  a  yeare  on 
herself  &  yett  if  you  never  fall  und^  a  worse  reputa- 
tion in  y®  world  th"  she  (I  thank  God  for  it)  hath 
hitherto  done,  you  need  not  repine  at  it,  &  you  can- 
not be  ignorant  of  y®  difference  th'  was  between  my 
fortune  &  what  you  are  to  expect.  You  ought  like- 
wise to  consider  th^  you  have  seven  brothers  &  sisters 
&  you  are  all  one  man's  children  &  therefore  it  is 
very  unreasonable  that  one  should  expect  to  be  pre- 
ferred in  finery  soe  much  above  all  y®  rest  for  'tis 
impossible  you  should  soe  much  mistake  y*"  ffather's 
condition  as  to  fancy  he  is  able  to  allow  every  one  of 
you  forty  pounds  a  yeare  a  piece,  for  such  an  allow- 
ance with  the  charge  of  their  diett  over  and  above 


Jane  A  listen.  5 


will  amount  to  at  least  five  hundred  pounds  a  yeare, 
a  sum  y""  poor  ffathcr  can  ill  spare,  besides  doe  but 
bethink  >'''self  what  a  ridiculous  sight  it  will  be  when 
y*"  grand  moth'"  &  you  come  to  us  to  have  noe  less  th" 
seven  waiting  gentlewomen  in  one  house,  for  what 
reason  can  you  give  why  every  one  of  y*"  Sist"  should 
not  have  every  one  of  y'"  a  Maide  as  well  as  you,  & 
though  you  may  spare  to  pay  y""  maide's  wages  out 
of  y'"  allowance  yett  you  take  no  care  of  y^  unne- 
cessary charge  you  put  y*"  ffath'"  to  in  y""  increase  of 
his  family,  whereas  if  it  were  not  a  piece  of  pride  to 
have  y®  name  of  keeping  y*'  maide  she  y'  waits  on  y"" 
good  Grandmother  might  easily  doe  as  formerly 
you  know  she  hath  done,  all  y®  business  you  have  for 
a  maide  unless  as  you  grow  old'"  you  grow  a  veryer 
Foole  which  God  forbid  ! 


'  Poll,  you  live  in  a  place  where  you  see  great 
plenty  &  splendour  but  let  not  y^  allurements  of 
earthly  pleasures  tempt  you  to  forget  or  neglect  y® 
duty  of  a  good  Christian  in  dressing  y^  bett^  part 
which  is  y^  soule,  as  will  best  please  God.  I  am  not 
against  y"^  going  decent  &  neate  as  becomes  y*" 
ffathers  daughter  but  to  clothe  y'"self  rich  &  be  run- 
ning into  every  gaudy  fashion  can  never  become  y' 
circumstances  &  instead  of  doing  you  creditt  & 
getting  you  a  good  prefer"*  it  is  y®  readiest  way  you 
can  take  to  fright  all  sober  men  from  ever  thinking  of 
matching  th'^selves  with  women  that  live  above  thy"" 
fortune,  &  if  this  be  a  wase  way  of  spending  money 
judge  you  !     &   besides,  doe  but  reflect  what  an  od 


5  2  A  Memoir  of 


sight  it  will  be  to  a  stranger  that  comes  to  our  house 
to  see  y^  Grandmoth'"  y^'  Moth''  &  all  y^  Sisters  in  a 
plane  dress  &  you  only  trick*^  up  like  a  bartlemew- 
babby — you  know  what  sort  of  people  those  are  th* 
can't  faire  well  but  they  must  cry  rost  meate  now 
what  effect  could  you  imagine  y^  writing  in  such  a 
high  straine  to  y""  Sisters  could  have  but  eithe''  to  pro- 
voke th*"  to  envy  you  or  murmur  against  us.  I  must 
tell  you  neith^  of  y^  Sisters  have  ever  had  twenty 
pounds  a  yeare  allowance  from  us  yett,  &  yett  they^ 
dress  hath  not  disparaged  neith^  th""  nor  us  &  without 
incurring  y®  censure  of  simple  covetousness  they  will 
have  some  what  to  shew  out  of  their  saving  that  will 
doe  th™  creditt  &  I  expect  y*  you  th*  are  theyr  elder 
Sister  sh*^  rather  sett  th™  examples  of  y®  like  nature 
th"  tempt  th"'  from  treading  in  y®  steps  of  their  good 
Grandmoth^  &  poor  Moth''.  This  is  not  half  what 
might  be  saide  on  this  occasion  but  believing  thee  to 
be  a  very  good  natured  duty  full  child  I  sh*^  have 
thought  it  a  great  deal  too  much  but  y*  having  in  my 
coming  hither  past  through  many  most  desperate 
dangers  I  cannot  forbear  thinking  &  preparing  my- 
self for  all  events,  &  therefore  not  know^ing  how  it 
may  please  God  to  dispose  of  us  I  conclude  it  my 
duty  to  God  &  thee  my  d''  child  to  lay  this  matter 
as  home  to  thee  as  I  could,  assuring  you  my  daily 
prayers  are  not  nor  shall  not  be  wanting  that  God 
may  give  you  grace  always  to  remember  to  make 
a  right  use  of  this  truly  affectionate  counsell  of 
y''  poor  Moth''.  &  though  I  speak  very  plaine  down- 
right english  to  you  yett  I  would  not  have  you  doubt 


Jane  Austen.  •  53 


but  that  I  love  you  as  hartily  as  any  child  I  have  & 
if  you  serve  God  and  take  good  courses  I  promise 
you  my  kindness  to  you  shall  be  according  to  y*" 
own  hart's  desire,  for  you  may  be  certain  I  can  aime 
at  nothing  in  what  I  have  now  writ  but  y'*  real  good 
which  to  promote  shall  be  y*'  study  &  care  day  &  night 
'  Of  my  dear  Poll 
'  thy  truly  affectionate  ]\Ioth^ 

'  Eliza  Ciiaxdos. 

•  Tcra  of  Galata,  May  y^  6lli  16S6. 

'  P.S.— Thy  ffath^  &  I  send  thee  our  blessing,  & 
all  thy  broth''^  &  sist"  they^  service.  Our  harty  & 
affectionate  service  to  my  broth''  &  sist*'  Childe  &  all 
my  dear  cozens.  When  you  see  my  Lady  Worster 
&  cozen  Rowlands  pray  present  th™  my  most  humble 
service.* 

This  letter  shows  that  the  wealth  acquired  by  trade 
was  already  manifesting  itself  in  contrast  with  the 
straitened  circumstances  of  some  of  the  nobility. 
Mary  Brydges's  *  poor  ffather,'  in  whose  household 
economy  was  necessary,  was  the  King  of  England's 
ambassador  at  Constantinople  ;  the  grandmother, 
who  lived  in  'great  plenty  and  splendour,'  was  the 
widow  of  a  Turkey  merchant.  But  then,  as  now, 
it  would  seem,  rank  had  the  power  of  attracting  and 
absorbing  wealth. 

At  Ashe  also  Jane  became  acquainted  with  a 
member  of  the  Lefroy  family,  who  was  still  living 
when  I  began  these  memoirs,  a  few  months  ago  ;  the 
Right   Hon.  Thomas    Lefroy,    late  Chief  Justice  of 


54  A  Memoir  of 


Ireland.  One  must  look  back  more  than  seventy 
years  to  reach  the  time  when  these  two  bright  young 
persons  were,  for  a  short  time,  intimately  acquainted 
with  each  other,  and  then  separated  on  their  several 
courses,  never  to  meet  again  ;  both  destined  to  attain 
some  distinction  in  their  different  ways,  one  to  sur- 
vive the  other  for  more  than  half  a  century,  yet  in  his 
extreme  old  age  to  remember  and  speak,  as  he  some- 
times did,  of  his  former  companion,  as  one  to  be 
much  admired,  and  not  easily  forgotten  by  those  who 
had  ever  known  her. 

Mrs.  Lefroy  herself  was  a  remarkable  person.  Her 
rare  endowments  of  goodness,  talents,  graceful  person, 
and  engaging  manners,  were  sufficient  to  secure  her  a 
prominent  place  in  any  society  into  which  she  was 
thrown ;  while  her  enthusiastic  eagerness  of  disposi- 
tion rendered  her  especially  attractive  to  a  clever  and 
lively  girl.  She  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  her  horse 
on  Jane's  birthday,  Dec.  i6,  1804.  The  following 
lines  to  her  memory  were  written  by  Jane  four  years 
afterwards,  when  she  was  thirty-three  years  old. 
They  are  given,  not  for  their  merits  as  poetry,  but  to 
show  how  deep  and  lasting  was  the  impression  made 
by  the  elder  friend  on  the  mind  of  the  younger : — 

To  THE  Memory  of  Mrs.  Lefroy. 

I. 

The  day  returns  again,  my  natal  day ; 

What  mix'd  emotions  in  my  mind  arise  ! 
Beloved  Friend ;  four  years  have  passed  away 

Since  thou  wert  snatched  for  ever  from  our  eyes. 


Jane  Austen,  .  55 


2. 

The  day  commemorative  of  my  birth, 

Bestowing  Hfe,  and  Hght,  and  hope  to  me, 

Brings  back  the  hour  which  was  thy  last  on  earth. 
O  !  bitter  pang  of  torturing  memory ! 

3- 
Angeh'c  woman  !  past  my  power  to  praise 

In  language  meet  thy  talents,  temper,  minrl, 
Thy  solid  \yorth,  thy  captivating  grace, 

Thou  friend  and  ornament  of  human  kind. 

4* 
But  come,  fond  Fancy,  thou  indulgent  power; 

Hope  is  desponding,  chill,  severe,  to  thee : 
Bless  thou  this  little  portion  of  an  hour; 

Let  me  behold  her  as  she  used  to  be. 

5- 
I  see  her  here  with  all  her  smiles  benign, 

Fler  looks  of  eager  love,  her  accents  sweet, 
That  voice  and  countenance  almost  divine, 

Expression,  harmony,  alike  complete. 

6. 

Listen  !     It  is  not  sound  alone,  'tis  sense, 
'Tis  genius,  taste,  and  tenderness  of  soul : 

'Tis  genuine  warmth  of  heart  without  pretence, 
And  purity  of  mind  that  crowns  the  whole. 

7- 
She  speaks!     'Tis  eloquence,  that  grace  of  tongue, 

So  rare,  so  lovely,  never  misapplied 
By  her,  to  palliate  vice,  or  deck  a  wrong: 

She  speaks  and  argues  but  on  virtue's  side. 


56  A  Memoir  of 


Hers  is  the  energy  of  soul  sincere ; 

Her  Christian  spirit,  ignorant  to  feign, 
Seeks  but  to  comfort,  heal,  enlighten,  cheer, 

Confer  a  pleasure  or  prevent  a  pain. 

9- 

Can  aught  enhance  such  goodness?  yes,  to  me 
Her  partial  favour  from  my  earliest  years 

Consummates  all  :  ah  1  give  me  but  to  see 
Her  smile  of  love !     The  vision  disappears. 

lO. 

'Tis  past  and  gone.     We  meet  no  more  below. 

Short  is  the  cheat  of  Fancy  o'er  the  tomb. 
Oh !  might  I  hope  to  equal  bliss  to  go, 

To  meet  thee,  angel,  in  thy  future  home. 

II. 
Fain  would  I  feel  an  union  with  thy  fate  : 

Fain  would  I  seek  to  draw  an  omen  fair 
From  this  connection  in  our  earthly  date. 

Indulge  the  harmless  weakness.     Reason,  spare. 

The  loss  of  their  first  home  is  generally  a  great 
grief  to  young  persons  of  strong  feeling  and  lively 
imagination;  and  Jane  was  exceedingly  unhappy 
when  she  was  told  that  her  father,  now  seventy  }'cars 
of  age,  had  determined  to  resign  his  duties  to  his 
eldest  son,  who  was  to  be  his  successor  in  the  Rectory 
of  Stcventon,  and  to  remove  with  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters to  Bath.  Jane  had  been  absent  from  home  when 
this  resolution  was  taken  ;    and,   as  her   father  was 


Jane  Austen.  •  57 


always  rapid  both  in  forming  his  resolutions  and  in 
acting  on  them,  she  had  little  time  to  reconcile  herself 
to  the  chancre. 


't>' 


A  wish  has  sometimes  been  expressed  that  some 
of  Jane  Austen's  letters  should  be  published.  Some 
entire  letters,  and  many  extracts,  will  be  given  in  this 
memoir  ;  but  the  reader  must  be  warned  not  to  expect 
too  much  from  them.  Witli  regard  to  accuracy  of 
language  indeed  every  word  of  them  might  be  printed 
without  correction.  TJie  st}'le  is  always  clear,  and 
generally  animated,  while  a  vein  of  humour  continu- 
ally gleams  through  the  whole  ;  but  the  materials 
may  be  thought  inferior  to  the  execution,  for  they 
treat  only  of  the  details  of  domestic  life.  There  is  in 
them  no  notice  of  politics  or  public  events  ;  scarcel)' 
any  discussions  on  literature,  or  other  subjects  of 
general  interest.  They  may  be  said  to  resemble  the 
nest  which  some  little  bird  builds  of  the  materials 
nearest  at  hand,  of  the  twigs  and  mosses  supplied  by 
the  tree  in  which  it  is  placed  ;  curiously  constructed 
out  of  the  simplest  matters. 

Her  letters  have  very  seldom  the  date  of  the  year, 
or  the  signature  of  her  christian  name  at  full  length  ; 
but  it  has  been  easy  to  ascertain  their  dates,  either 
from  the  post-mark,  or  from  their  contents. 

The  two  following  letters  are  the  earliest  that  I  have 
seen.  They  were  both  written  in  November  iSoo  ; 
before  the  family  removed  from  Steventon.  Some  of 
the  same  circumstances  are  referred  to  in  both. 


58  A  Memoir  of 


The  first  is  to  her  sister  Cassandra,  who  was  then 
staying  with  their  brother  Edward  at  Godmershani 
Park,  Kent  :— 

*  Steventon,  Saturday  evening,  Nov.  8th. 

My  dear  Cassandra, 
'  I  thank  you  for  so  speedy  a  return  to  my  two  last, 
and  particularly  thank  you  for  your  anecdote  of 
Charlotte  Graham  and  her  cousin,  Harriet  Bailey, 
which  has  very  much  amused  both  my  mother  and 
myself.  If  you  can  learn  anything  farther  of  that 
interesting  affair,  I  hope  you  will  mention  it.  I  have 
two  messages;  let  me  get  rid  of  them,  and  then  my 
paper  will  be  my  own.  Mary  fully  intended  writing 
to  you  by  Mr.  Chute's  frank,  and  only  happened  en- 
tirely to  forget  it,  but  will  write  soon ;  and  my  father 
wishes  Edward  to  send  him  a  memorandum  of  the 
price  of  the  hops.  The  tables  are  come,  and  give 
general  contentment.  I  had  not  expected  that  they 
would  so  perfectly  suit  the  fancy  of  us  all  three,  or 
that  we  should  so  well  agree  in  the  disposition  of 
them  ;  but  nothing  except  their  own  surface  can  have 
been  smoother.  The  two  ends  put  together  form  one 
constant  table  for  everything,  and  the  centre  piece 
stands  exceedingly  well  under  the  glass,  and  holds  a 
great  deal  most  commodiously,  without  looking  awk- 
wardly. They  are  both  covered  with  green  baize,  and 
send  their  best  love.  The  Pembroke  has  got  its  des- 
tination by  the  sideboard,  and  my  mother  has  great 
delight  in  keeping  her  money  and  papers  locked  up. 
The  little  table  which  used  to  stand  there  has  most 
conveniently  taken  itself  off  into  the  best  bedroom ; 


Jane  A  listen.  •  59 


and  we  are  now  in  want  only  of  the  chififonniere, 
is  neither  finished  nor  come.  So  much  for  that  sub- 
ject ;  I  now  come  to  another,  of  a  very  different 
nature,  as  other  subjects  are  very  apt  to  be.  l^^arlc 
Plarwood  has  been  again  giving  uneasiness  to  his 
family  and  talk  to  the  neighbourhood  ;  in  the  present 
instance,  however,  he  is  only  unfortunate,  and  not  in 
fault. 

'  About  ten,  days  ago,  in  cocking  a  pistol  in  the 
guard-room  at  Marcau,  he  accidentally  shot  himself 
through  the  thigh.  Two  young  Scotch  surgeons  in 
the  island  were  polite  enough  to  propose  taking  off 
the  thigh  at  once,  but  to  that  he  would  not  consent ; 
and  accordingly  in  his  wounded  state  was  put  on 
board  a  cutter  and  conveyed  to  Haslar  Hospital,  at 
Gosport,  where  the  bullet  was  extracted,  and  where 
he  now  is,  I  hope,  in  a  fair  way  of  doing  well.  The 
sur^^eon  of  the  hospital  wrote  to  the  family  on  the 
occasion,  and  John  Hanvood  went  down  to  him  im- 
mediately, attended  by  James,*  whose  object  in  going 
was  to  be  the  means  of  bringing  back  the  earliest 
intelligence  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harwood,  whose  anxious 
sufferings,  particularly  those  of  the  latter,  have  of 
course  been  dreadful.  They  went  down  on  Tuesday, 
and  James  came  back  the  next  day,  bringing  such 
favourable  accounts  as  greatly  to  lessen  the  distress  of 
the  family  at  Deane,  though  it  will  probably  be  a  long 
while  before  Mrs.  Harwood  can  be  quite  at  ease.  One 
most  material  comfort,  however,  they  have  ;  the  assur- 
ance of  its  being  really  an  accidental  wound,  which  is 
not  only  positively  declared  by  Earle  himself,  but  is 
•  James,  the  writer's  eldest  brother. 


6o  A  Memoir  of 


likewise  testified  by  the  particular  direction  of  the 
bullet.  Such  a  wound  could  not  have  been  received 
in  a  duel.  At  present  he  is  going  on  very  well,  but 
the  surgeon  will  not  declare  him  to  be  in  no  danger.* 
Mr.  Heathcote  met  with  a  genteel  little  accident  the 
other  day  in  hunting.  He  got  off  to  lead  his  horse 
over  a  hedge,  or  a  house,  or  something,  and  his  horse 
in  his  haste  trod  upon  his  leg,  or  rather  ancle,  I 
believe,  and  it  is  net  certain  w^iether  the  small  bone 
is  not  broke.  Martha  has  accepted  Mary's  invitation 
for  Lord  Portsmouth's  ball.  He  has  not  yet  sent  out 
his  own  invitations,  but  that  does  not  signify;  Martha 
comes,  and  a  ball  there  is  to  be.  I  think  it  will  be 
too  early  in  her  mother's  absence  for  me  to  return 
with  her. 

'  Sunday  Evening. — We  have  had  a  dreadful  storm 
of  wind  in  the  fore  part  of  this  day,  which  has  done  a 
great  deal  of  mischief  among  our  trees.  I  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  dining-room  when  an  odd  kind  of  crash 
startled  me — in  a  moment  afterwards  it  was  repeated. 
I  then  went  to  the  window,  which  I  reached  just  in 
time  to  see  the  last  of  our  two  highly  valued  elms 
descend  into  the  Sweep  ! ! ! ! !  The  other,  which  had 
fallen,  I  suppose,  in  the  first  crash,  and  which  was  the 
nearest  to  the  pond,  taking  a  more  easterly  direction, 
sunk  among  our  screen  of  chestnuts  and  firs,  knocking 
down  one  spruce-fir,  beating  off  the  head  of  another, 
and  stripping  the  two  corner  chestnuts  of  several 
branches  in  its  fall.  This  is  not  all.  One  large 
elm   out  of  the  two   on   the   left-hand  side    as   you 

*  The  limb  was  saved. 


I 


yane  Austell.  '  6i 


enter  what  I  call  the  ehn  walk,  was  likewise  blown 
down  ;  the  maple  bearing  the  weathercock  was  broke 
in  two,  and  what  I  regret  more  than  all  the  rest  is, 
that  all  the  three  elms  which  grew  in  Hall's  meadow, 
and  gave  such  ornament  to  it,  arc  gone  ;  two  were 
blown  down,  and  the  other  so  much  injured  that  it 
cannot  stand.  I  am  happy  to  add,  however,  that  no 
greater  evil  than  the  loss  of  trees  has  been  the  conse- 
quence of  the  storm  in  this  place,  or  in  our  imme- 
diate neighbourhood.  We  grieve,  therefore,  in  some 
comfort. 

*  I  am  yours  ever,  *  J.  A.' 

The  next  letter,  written  four  days  later  than  the 
former,  was  addressed  to  Miss  Lloyd,  an  intimate 
friend,  whose  sister  (my  mother)  was  married  to 
Jane's  eldest  brother  : — • 

*  Sleventon,  Wednesday  evening,  Nov.  121I1, 

*  Mv  DEAR  Martha, 
*  I  did  not  receive  your  note  yesterday  till  after 
Charlotte  had  left  Deane,  or  I  would  have  sent  my 
answer  by  her,  instead  of  being  the  means,  as  I  now 
must  be,  of  lessening  the  elegance  of  your  new  dress 
for  the  Hurstbournc  ball  by  the  value  of  y/.  You 
are  very  good  in  wishing  to  see  me  at  Ibthorp  so 
soon,  and  I  am  equally  good  in  wishing  to  come  to 
you.  I  believe  our  merit  in  that  respect  is  much 
upon  a  par,  our  self-denial  mutually  strong.  Having 
paid  this  tribute  of  praise  to  the  virtue  of  both,  I 
shall  here  have  done  with  panegyric,  and  proceed  to 


62  A.  Memoir  of 

plain  matter  of  fact.  In  about  a  fortnight's  time  I  hope 
to  be  with  you.  I  have  two  reasons  for  not  being 
able  to  come  before.  I  wish  so  to  arrange  my  visit 
as  to  spend  some  days  with  you  after  your  mother's 
return.  In  the  ist  place,  that  I  may  have  the  plea- 
sure of  seeing  her,  and  in  the  2nd,  that  I  may  have  a 
better  chance  of  bringing  you  back  with  me.  Your 
promise  in  my  favour  was  not  quite  absolute,  but  if 
your  will  is  not  perverse,  you  and  I  will  do  all  in  our 
power  to  overcome  your  scruples  of  conscience.  I 
hope  we  shall  meet  next  week  to  talk  all  this  over, 
till  we  have  tired  ourselves  with  the  very  idea  of  my 
visit  before  my  visit  begins.  Our  invitations  for  the 
19th  are  arrived,  and  very  curiously  are  they  worded.* 
Mary  mentioned  to  you  yesterday  poor  Earle's  unfor- 
tunate accident,  I  dare  say.  He  does  not  seem  to  be 
going  on  very  well.  The  two  or  three  last  posts  have 
brought  less  and  less  favourable  accounts  of  him. 
John  Harvvood  has  gone  to  Gosport  again  to-day. 
We  have  two  families  of  friends  now  who  are  in  a 
most  anxious  state  ;  for  though  by  a  note  from  Cathe- 
rine this  morning  there  seems  now  to  be  a  revival  of 
hope  at  Manydown,  its  continuance  may  be  too  rea- 
sonably doubted.    Mr.  Heathcote,t  however,  who  has 

*  The  invitation,  the  ball  dress,  and  some  other  things  in  this  and 
the  preceding  letter  refer  to  a  ball  annually  given  at  Hurstbourne  Park, 
on  the  anniversary  of  the  Earl  of  Portsmouth's  marriage  with  his  first 
wife.  He  was  the  Lord  Portsmouth  whose  eccentricities  afterwards  be- 
came notorious,  and  the  invitations,  as  well  as  other  arrangements  about 
these  balls,  were  of  a  peculiar  character, 

+  The  father  of  Sir  William  Heathcote,  of  Ilursley,  who  w  as  married 
to  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Bigg  Wither,  of  Manydown,  and  lived  in  the 
neighbourhood. 


Ja7ie  A  usten,  63 


broken  the  small  bone  of  his  leg,  is  so  good  as  to  be 
going  on  very  well.  It  would  be  really  too  much  to 
have  three  people  to  care  for. 

*  You  distress  me  cruelly  by  your  request  about 
books.  I  cannot  think  of  any  to  bring  with  me,  nor 
have  I  any  idea  of  our  wanting  them.  I  come  to  you 
to  be  talked  to,  not  to  read  or  hear  reading ;  I  can  do 
that  at  home ;  and  indeed  I  am  now  laying  in  a  stock 
of  intelligence  to  pour  out  on  you  as  my  share  of  the 
conversation.  I  am  reading  Henry's  History  of  Eng- 
land, which  I  will  repeat  to  you  in  any  manner  you 
may  prefer,  either  in  a  loose,  desultory,  unconnected 
stream,  or  dividing  my  recital,  as  the  historian  divides 
it  himself,  into  seven  parts  : — The  Civil  and  Military: 
Religion  :  Constitution  :  Learning  and  Learned  Men  : 
Arts  and  Sciences  :  Commerce,  Coins,  and  Shipping; 
and  Manners.  So  that  for  every  evening  in  the  week 
there  will  be  a  different  subject.  The  Friday's  lot — • 
Commerce,  Coins,  and  Shipping — you  will  find  the 
least  entertaining  ;  but  the  next  evening's  portion  will 
make  amends.  With  such  a  provision  on  my  part,  if 
}'ou  will  do  yours  by  repeating  the  French  Grammar, 
and  Mrs.  Stent*  will  now  and  then  ejaculate  some 
wonder  about  the  cocks  and  hens,  what  can  we  want  ? 
Farewell  for  a  short  time.  We  all  unite  in  best  love, 
and  I  am  your  very  affectionate 

'J.  A.' 

The  two  next  letters  must  have  been  written  early 
in  l8ci,  after  the  removal  from  Steventon   had   been 

*  A  very  dull  old  lady,  then  residing  with  Mrs.  Lloyd. 


6j\.  a  Memoir  of 


decided  on,  but  before  it  had  taken  place.  They 
refer  to  the  two  brothers  who  were  at  sea,  and  give 
some  idea  of  a  kind  of  anxieties  and  uncertainties  to 
■which  sisters  are  seldom  subject  in  these  days  of 
peace,  steamers,  and  electric  telegraphs.  At  that  time 
ships  were  often  windbound  or  becalmed,  or  driven 
\vide  of  their  destination ;  and  sometimes  they  had 
orders  to  alter  their  course  for  some  secret  service  ; 
not  to  mention  the  chance  of  conflict  with  a  vessel  of 
superior  power — no  improbable  occurrence  before  the 
battle  of  Trafalgar.  Information  about  relatives  on 
board  men-of-war  was  scarce  and  scanty,  and  often 
picked  up  by  hearsay  or  chance  means  ;  and  every 
scrap  of  intelligence  was  proportionably  valuable  :  — 

*  My  dear  Cassandra, 
*  I  should  not  have  thought  it  necessary  to  write  to 
you  so  soon,  but  for  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  Charles 
to  myself.  It  was  written  last  Saturday  from  off  the 
Start,  and  conveyed  to  Popham  Lane  by  Captain 
Boyle,  on  his  way  to  Midgham.  He  came  from  Lisbon 
in  the  "  Endymion."  I  will  copy  Charles's  account  of 
his  conjectures  about  Frank:  "lie  has  not  seen  my 
brother  lately,  nor  does  he  expect  to  find  him  arrived, 
as  he  met  Captain  Inglis  at  Rhodes,  going  up  to  take 
command  of  the  *  Petrel,'  as  he  was  coming  down  ; 
but  supposes  he  will  arrive  in  less  than  a  fortnight 
from  this  time,  in  some  ship  which  is  expected  to 
reach  England  about  that  time  with  dispatches  from 
Sir  Ralph  Abercrombie."  The  event  must  show  what 
sort  of  a  conjuror  Captain  Boyle  is.     The  "  Endy- 


janc  Aiistcn.  65 


niioii"  has  not  been  plagued  with  any  more  prizes. 
C'harles  spent  three  pleasant  da\'s  in  Lisbon. 

'  They  were  very  well  satisfied  with  their  royal 
passenger,*  whom  they  found  jolly  and  affable,  who 
talks  of  Lady  Augusta  as  his  wife,  and  seems  much 
attached  to  her. 

'When  this  letter  was  written,  the  "  End\'mion" 
was  becalmed,  but  Charles  hoped  to  reach  Ports- 
mouth by  Monday  or  Tuesday.  He  received  my 
letter,  communicating  our  plans,  before  he  left  Eng- 
land ;  was  much  surprised,  of  course,  but  is  quite 
reconciled  to  them,  and  means  to  come  to  Steventon 
once  more  while  Steventon  is  ours.' 

From  a  letter  written  later  in  the  same  year : — 
*  Charles  has  received  30/.  for  his  share  of  the  pri- 
vateer, and  expects  10/.  more  ;  but  of  what  avail  is  it 
to  take  prizes  if  he  lays  out  the  produce  in  presents 
to  his  sisters  t  He  has  been  buying  gold  chains  and 
topaze  crosses  for  us.  He  must  be  well  scolded.  The 
"  Endymion"  has  already  received  orders  for  taking 
troops  to  Egypt,  which  I  should  not  like  at  all  if  I 
did  not  trust  to  Charles  being  removed  from  her 
somehow  or  other  before  she  sails.  He  knows  nothing 
of  his  own  destination,  he  says,  but  desires  me  to 
write  directly,  as  the  "Endymion"  will  probably  sail 
in  three  or  four  days.  He  will  receive  my  yesterday's 
letter,  and  I  shall  write  again  by  this  post  to  thank 
and  reproach  him.     We  shall  be  unbearably  fine.' 

*  The  Duke  of  Sussex,  son  of  George  III.,  married,  without  rojal 
coruent,  to  the  Lady  Augusta  Murray. 


66  A  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Removal  from  Steventon — Residences  at   Bath  and  at  SotUhampLon— 
Settling  at  Chawton. 

The  family  removed  to  Bath  in  the  spring  of  i8or, 
where  they  resided  first  at  No.  4  Sydney  Terrace, 
and  afterwards  in  Green  Park  Buildings.  I  do  not 
know  whether  they  were  at  all  attracted  to  Bath  by 
the  circumstance  that  Mrs.  Austen's  only  brother, 
Mr.  Leigh  Perrot,  spent  part  of  every  year  there.  The 
name  of  Perrot,  together  with  a  small  estate  at  North- 
leigh  in  Oxfordshire,  had  been  bequeathed  to  him  by 
a  great  uncle.  I  must  devote  a  few  sentences  to  this 
very  old  and  now  extinct  branch  of  the  Perrot  family  ; 
for  one  of  the  last  survivors,  Jane  Perrot,  married  to  a 
Walker,  was  Jane  Austen's  great  grandmother,  from 
whom  she  derived  her  Christian  name.  The  Perrots 
were  settled  in  Pembrokeshire  at  least  as  early  as  the 
thirteenth  century.  They  were  probably  some  of  the 
settlers  whom  the  policy  of  our  Plantagenet  kings 
placed  in  that  county,  which  thence  acquired  the 
name  of  *  England  beyond  Wales,'  for  the  double 
purpose  of  keeping  open  a  communication  with 
Ireland  from  Milford  Haven,  and  of  overawing  the 
Welsh.     One  of  the  familv  seems  to  have  carried  out 


Jane  Austen.  6j 


this  latter  purpose  very  vigorously ;  for  it  is  recorded 
of  him  that  he  slew  twenty-six  jucn  of  Kemaes,  a  dis- 
trict of  Wales,  and  one  wolf.  The  manner  in  which 
the  two  kinds  of  game  are  classed  together,  and  the 
disproportion  of  numbers,  are  remarkable  ;  but  pro- 
bably at  that  time  the  wolves  had  been  so  closely 
killed  down,  that  liipieide  was  become  a  more  rare 
and  distinguished  exploit  than  JiouiiciJe.  The  last  of 
this  family  died  about  1778,  and  their  property  was 
divided  between  Leighs  and  Musgraves,  the  larger 
portion  going  to  the  latter.  Mr.  Leigh  Perrot  pulled 
down  the  mansion,  and  sold  the  estate  to  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough,  and  the  name  of  these  Perrots  is  now 
to  be  found  only  on  some  monuments  in  the  church 
of  Northleigh. 

Mr.  Leigh  Perrot  was  also  one  of  several  cousins  to 
whom  a  life  interest  in  the  Stoneleigh  property  in 
Wanvickshire  was  left,  after  the  extinction  of  the 
earlier  Leigh  peerage,  but  he  compromised  his  claim 
to  the  succession  in  his  lifetime.  He  married  a  niece 
of  Sir  Montague  Cholmeley  of  Lincolnshire.  He  was 
a  man  of  considerable  natural  power,  with  much  of 
the  wit  of  his  uncle,  the  Master  of  Balliol,  and  wrote 
clever  epigrams  and  riddles,  some  of  which,  though 
without  his  name,  found  their  way  into  print ;  but  he 
lived  a  very  retired  life,  dividing  his  time  between 
Bath  and  his  place  in  Berkshire  called  Scarlets. 
Jane's  letters  from  Bath  make  frequent  mention  of 
this  uncle  and  aunt. 

The  unfinished  story,  now  published  under  the  title 
of  *The   Watsons,'   must   have  been  written  during 


6S  A  Memoir  of 


the  author's  residence  in  Bath.  In  tlie  autumn  of 
1804  she  spent  some  weeks  at  Lyme,  and  became 
acquainted  with  the  Cobb,  which  she  afterwards 
made  memorable  for  the  fall  of  Lom'sa  Musgrove. 
In  February  1805,  her  father  died  at  I'^ath,  and 
was  buried  at  Walcot  Church.  The  widow  and 
daughters  went  into  lodgings  for  a  few  months,  and 
then  removed  to  Southampton.  The  only  records 
that  I  can  find  about  her  during  those  four  years  are 
the  three  following  letters  to  her  sister ;  one  from 
Lyme,  the  others  from  Bath.  They  shew  that  she 
went  a  good  deal  into  society,  in  a  quiet  way,  chiefly 
with  ladies;  and  that  her  eyes  were  always  open  to 
minute  traits  of  character  in  those  with  whom  she 
associated  : — ■ 

Extract  from  a  left,  r  from  Jane  A  21st en  to  her  Sister. 

'Lyme,  Friday,  Sept.  14  (1S04). 

*  Mv  UKAR  Cassandra,— I  take  the  first  sheet  of 
fine  striped  paper  to  thank  you  for  your  letter  from 
Weymouth,  and  express  my  hopes  of  your  being  at 
LDthorp  before  this  time.  I  expect  to  hear  that  you 
reached  it  yesterday  evening,  being  able  to  get  as  far 
as  Blandford  on  Wednesday.  Your  account  of  Wey- 
mouth contains  nothing  which  strikes  me  so  forcibly 
as  there  being  no  ice  in  the  town.  For  every  other 
vexation  I  was  in  some  mxasure  prepared,  and  par- 
ticularly for  your  disappointment  in  not  seeing  the 
Royal  Family  go  on  board  on  Tuesday,  having 
already  heard  from  Mr.  Crawford  that  he  had  seen 
you  in  the  very  act  of  being  too  late.     But  for  there 


Jaiic  A  listen.  69 


being  nu  ice,  w  hat  could  prepare  me !  You  found 
my  letter  at  i\nd(jver,  I  hope,  \-estertlay,  and  ha\'G 
now  for  many  hours  been  satisfied  that  your  kind 
anxiety  on  my  behalf  was  as  much  thrown  away  as 
kind  anxiet)'  usually  is.  I  continue  quite  \\eli ;  in 
proof  of  which  I  have  bathed  again  this  morning. 
It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  have  the 
little  fe\'cr  and  indisposition  which  I  had  :  it  has  been 
all  the  fashion  this  week  in  Lyme.  We  are  quite 
settled  in  our  lodgings  by  this  time,  as  you  may 
suppose,  and  everything  goes  on  in  the  usual  order. 
The  servants  behave  very  well,  and  make  no  diffi- 
culties, though  nothing  certainly  can  exceed  the 
inconvenience  of  the  offices,  except  the  general 
dirtiness  of  the  house  and  furniture,  and  all  its  in- 
habitants. I  endeavour,  as  far  as  I  can,  to  supply 
your  place,  and  be  useful,  and  keep  things  in  order. 
I  detect  dirt  in  the  water  decanters,  as  fast  as  I  can, 
and  keep  everything  as  it  was  under  your  adminis- 
tration. .  .  .  The  ball  last  night  was  pleasant,  but 
not  full  for  Thursday.  My  father  staid  contentedly 
till  half-past  nine  (we  went  a  little  after  eight),  and 
then  walked  home  with  James  and  a  lanthorn,  though 
I  believe  the  lanthorn  was  not  lit,  as  the  moon  was 
up ;  but  sometimes  this  lanthorn  may  be  a  great 
convenience  to  him.  My  mother  and  I  staid  about 
an  hour  later.  Nobody  asked  me  the  two  first 
dances  ;  the  two  next  I  danced  with  Mr.  Crawford, 
and  had  I  chosen  to  stay  longer  might  have  danced 
with  Mr.  Granville,  Mrs.  Granville's  son,  whom  my 
dear  friend  Miss  A.  introduced  to  me,  or  with  a  new 


yo  A  Memoir  of 


odd-looking  man  who  had  been  eyeing  me  for  some 
time,  and  at  last,  without  any  introduction,  asked  me 
if  I  meant  to  dance  again.  I  think  he  must  be  Irish 
by  his  ease,  and  because  I  imagine  him  to  belong  to 
the  hon^^  B.'s,  who  are  son,  and  son's  wife  of  an  Irish 
viscount,  bold  queer-looking  people,  just  fit  to  be 
quality  at  Lyme.  I  called  yesterday  morning  (ought 
it  not  in  strict  propriety  to  be  termed  yester-morn- 
ing  })  on  Miss  A.  and  was  introduced  to  her  father 
and  mother.  Like  other  young  ladies  she  is  con- 
siderably genteeler  than  her  parents.  Mrs.  A.  sat 
darning  a  pair  of  stockings  the  whole  of  my  visit. 
But  do  not  mention  this  at  home,  lest  a  warning 
should  act  as  an  example.  We  afterwards  walked 
together  for  an  hour  on  the  Cobb  ;  she  is  very  con- 
verseable  in  a  common  way  ;  I  do  not  perceive  wit 
or  genius,  but  she  has  sense  and  some  degree  of 
taste,  and  her  manners  are  very  engaging.  She 
seems  to  like  people  rather  too  easily. 

•  Yours  affect^y, 

'J.  k: 


Letter  from  Jane  Austen  to  her  sister  Cassandra  at 
Ibthorp,  alluding  to  the  sudden  death  of  Mrs.  Lloyd 
at  that  place  : — 

'25  Gay  Street  (Batli),  Monday, 

'  April  8,  1805. 

'My  dear  Cassandra, — Here  is  a  day  for  you. 
Did  Bath  or  Ibthorp  ever  see  such  an  8th  of  April  t 
It  is  March  and  April  together ;  the  glare  of  the  one 
and  the  warmth  of  the   other.     We  do  nothing  but 


Jane  Austen. 


walk  about.  As  far  as  your  means  will  admit,  I  hope 
you  profit  by  such  weather  too.  I  dare  say  you  are 
already  the  better  for  change  of  place.  We  were  out 
again  last  night.  Miss  Irvine  invited  us,  when  I  met 
her  in  the  Crescent,  to  drink  tea  with  them,  but  I. 
rather  declined  it,  having  no  idea  that  my  mother 
would  be  disposed  for  another  evening  visit  there  so 
soon  ;  but  when  I  gave  her  the  message,  I  found  her 
very  well  inclined  to  go  ;  and  accordingly,  on  leaving 
Chapel,  we  walked  to  Lansdown.  This  morning  we 
have  been  to  see  Miss  Chamberlaine  look  hot  on 
horseback.  Seven  years  and  four  months  ago  we 
went  to  the  same  riding-house  to  see  Miss  Lefroy's 
performance  !*  What  a  different  set  are  we  now 
moving  in  !  But  seven  >  ears,  I  suppose,  are  enough 
to  change  every  pore  of  one's  skin  and  every  feeling 
of  one's  mind.  We  did  not  walk  long  in  the  Crescent 
yesterday.  It  was  hot  and  not  crowded  enough  ;  so 
we  went  into  the  field,  and  passed  close  by  S.  T.  and 
Miss  S.f  again.  I  have  not  yet  seen  her  face,  but 
neither  her  dress  nor  air  have  anything  of  the  dash  or 
stylishness  which  the  Browns  talked  of;  quite  the 
contrary ;  indeed,  her  dress  is  not  even  smart,  and  her 
appearance  very  quiet.  Miss  Irvine  says  she  is  never 
speaking  a  word.  Poor  wretch  ;  I  am  afraid  she  is 
en  penitence.  Here  has  been  that  excellent  Mrs. 
Coulthart  calling,  while  my  mother  was  out,  and  I 
was  believed  to  be  so.     I   always  respected  her,  as  a 

*  Here  is  evidence  that  Jane  Austen  was  acquainted  with  Bath  before 
\\  became  her  residence  in  i8oi.     See  p.  23. 

+  A  gentleman  and  lady  lately  engaged  to  be  married. 


y2  A  Memoir  of 


good-hearted  friendly  woman.  And  the  Browns  have 
been  here ;  I  find  their  affidavits  on  the  table.  The 
"Ambuscade  "  reached  Gibraltar  on  the  9th  of  March, 
and  found  all  well ;  so  say  the  papers.  We  have  had 
no  letters  from  anybody,  but  we  expect  to  hear  from 
Edward  to-morrow,  and  from  you  soon  afterwards. 
How  happy  they  are  at  Godmersham  now  !  I  shall  be 
very  glad  of  a  letter  from  Ibthorp,  that  I  may  know 
how  you  all  are,  but  particularly  yourself  This  is 
nice  weather  for  Mrs.  J.  Austen's  going  to  Speen,  and 
I  hope  she  will  have  a  pleasant  visit  there.  I  expect 
a  prodigious  account  of  the  christening  dinner;  per- 
haps it  brought  you  at  last  into  the  company  of  Miss 
Dundas  again. 

*  Tuesday. — I  received  your  letter  last  night,  and 
wish  it  may  be  soon  followed  by  another  to  say  that 
all  is  over  ;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  nature 
will  struggle  again,  and  produce  a  revival.  Poor 
woman !  May  her  end  be  peaceful  and  easy  as  the 
exit  we  have  witnessed  !  And  I  dare  say  it  will.  If 
there  is  no  revival,  suftering  must  be  all  over  ;  even  the 
consciousness  of  existence,  I  suppose,  was  gone  when 
you  wrote.  The  nonsense  I  have  been  writing  in  this 
and  in  my  last  letter  seems  out  of  place  at  such  a 
time,  but  I  will  not  mind  it ;  it  will  do  you  no  harm, 
and  nobody  else  will  be  attacked  by  it.  I  am  heartily 
glad  that  you  can  speak  so  comfortably  of  your  own 
health  and  looks,  though  I  can  scarcely  comprehend 
the  latter  being  really  approved.  Could  travelling 
fifty  miles  produce  such  an  immediate  change  }  You 
were  looking  very  poorly  here,  and  everybody  seemed 


Jane  A  usiai.  '  73 


sensible  of  it.  Is  there  a  charm  in  a  hack  post- 
chaise?  But  if  tliere  were,  Mrs.  Craven's  carriage 
might  hav^e  undone  it  all.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you 
for  the  time  and  trouble  }'ou  have  bestowed  on 
Mary's  cap,  and  am  glad  it  pleases  her  ;  but  it  will 
prove  a  useless  gift  at  present,  I  suppose.  Will  not 
she  leave  Ibthorp  on  her  mother's  death  ?  As  a 
companion  you  are  all  that  Martha  can  be  supposed 
to  want,  and  in  that  light,  under  these  circumstances, 
your  visit  will  indeed  have  been  well  timed. 

*  Thursday. —  I  was  not  able  to  go  on  yesterday; 
all  my  wit  and  leisure  were  bestowed  on  letters  to 
Charles  and  Henry.  To  the  former  I  wrote  in  conse- 
quence of  my  mother's  having  seen  in  the  papers  that 
the  "  Urania "  was  waiting  at  Portsmouth  for  the 
convoy  for  Halifax.  This  is  nice,  as  it  is  only  three 
weeks  ago  that  you  wrote  by  the  "Camilla."  I  wrote 
to  Henry  because  I  had  a  letter  from  him  in  which 
he  desired  to  hear  from  me  very  soon.  His  to  me 
was  most  affectionate  and  kind,  as  well  as  entertain- 
ing; there  is  no  merit  to  him  in  tJiat  \  he  cannot  help 
being  amusing.  He  offers  to  meet  us  on  the  sea 
roast,  if  the  plan  of  which  Edward  gave  him  some 
hint  takes  place.  Will  not  this  be  making  the  exe- 
cution of  such  a  plan  more  desirable  and  delightful 
than  ever }    He  talks  of  the  rambles  we  took  together 


last  summer  with  pleasing  affection. 


Yours  cx'cr, 

'J  A.' 


74  -^  Memoir  of 


From  the  same  to  the  same. 

*  Gay  St.  Sunday  Evening, 

'  April  21  (1805). 

'My  dear  Cassandra,— I  am  much  obliged  to 
you  for  writing  to  me  again  so  soon ;  your  letter 
yesterday  was  quite  an  unexpected  pleasure.  Poor 
Mrs.  Stent  !  it  has  been  her  lot  to  be  always  in  the 
way  ;  but  we  must  be  merciful,  for  perhaps  in  time 
we  may  come  to  be  Mrs.  Stents  ourselves,  unequal 
to  anything,  and  unwelcome  to  everybody.  .  .  .  My 
morning  engagement  was  with  the  Cookes,  and  our 
party  consisted  of  George  and  Mary,  a  Mr.  L.,  Miss 
B.,  who  had  been  with  us  at  the  concert,  and  the 
youngest  Miss  W.  Not  Julia  ;  we  have  done  with 
her ;  she  is  very  ill ;  but  Mary.  Mary  W.'s  turn  is 
actually  come  to  be  grown  up,  and  have  a  fine  com- 
plexion, and  wear  great  square  muslin  shawls.  I  have 
not  expressly  enumerated  myself  among  the  party, 
but  there  I  was,  and  my  cousin  George  was  very 
kind,  and  talked  sense  to  me  every  now  and  then,  in 
the  intervals  of  his  more  animated  fooleries  with  Miss 
B.,  who  is  very  young,  and  rather  handsome,  and 
whose  gracious  manners,  ready  wit,  and  solid  remarks, 
put  me  somewhat  in  mind  of  my  old  acquaintance 
L.  L.  There  was  a  monstrous  deal  of  stupid  quizzing 
and  common-place  nonsense  talked,  but  scarcely  any 
wit ;  all  that  bordered  on  it  or  on  sense  came  from 
my  cousin  George,  whom  altogether  I  like  very  well. 
Mr.  B.  seems  nothing  more  than  a  tall  young  man. 
My  evening  engagement  and  walk  was  with  Miss  A., 


Jane  Austen.  '  75 


who  had  called  on  mc  the  day  before,  and  gently  up- 
braided me  in  her  turn  with  a  change  of  manners  to 
her  since  she  had  been  in  Bath,  or  at  least  of  late. 
Unlucky  me !  that  my  notice  should  be  of  such  con- 
sequence, and  my  manners  so  bad  !  She  was  so  well 
disposed,  and  so  reasonable,  that  I  soon  forgave  her, 
and  made  this  engagement  with  her  in  proof  of  it 
She  is  really  an  agreeable  girl,  so  I  think  I  may  like 
her ;  and  her  great  want  of  a  companion  at  home, 
which  may  well  make  any  tolerable  acquaintance  im- 
portant to  her,  gives  her  another  claim  on  my  attention. 
I  shall  endeavour  as  much  as  possible  to  keep  my 
intimacies  in  their  proper  place,  and  prevent  their 
clashing.  Among  so  many  friends,  it  will  be  well  if  I 
do  not  get  into  a  scrape  ;  and  now  here  is  Miss 
Blashford  come.  I  should  have  gone  distracted  if  the 
Bullers  had  staid.  .  .  .  When  I  tell  you  I  have  been 
visiting  a  countess  this  morning,  you  will  immediately, 
with  great  justice,  but  no  truth,  guess  it  to  be  Lady 
Roden.  No :  it  is  Lady  Leven,  the  mother  of  Lord 
Balgonie.  On  receiving  a  message  from  Lord  and 
Lady  Leven  through  the  Mackays,  declaring  their 
intention  of  waiting  on  us,  we  thought  it  right  to  go 
to  them.  I  hope  we  have  not  done  too  much,  but  the 
friends  and  admirers  of  Charles  must  be  attended  to. 
They  seem  very  reasonable,  good  sort  of  people,  very 
civil,  and  full  of  his  praise."^  We  were  shewn  at  first 
into  an  empty  drawing-room,  and   presently  in  came 

*  It  seems  that  Charles  Austen,  then  first  lieutenant  of  the  '  Endy- 
mion,'  had  had  an  opportunity  of  shewing  attention  and  kindness  to 
?ome  of  Lord  Leven' s  family. 


y6  A  Memoir  of 


his  lordship,  not  knowing-  who  \vc  were,  to  apologise 
for  the  servant's  mistake,  and  to  say  himself  what  was 
untrue,  that  Lady  Leven  was  not  within.  He  is  a 
tall  gentlemanlike  looking  man,  with  spectacles,  and 
rather  deaf.  After  sitting  with  him  ten  minutes  we 
walked  away ;  but  Lady  Leven  coming  out  of  the 
dining  parlour  as  we  passed  the  door,  we  were  obliged 
to  attend  her  back  to  it,  and  pay  our  visit  over  again. 
She  is  a  stout  woman,  with  a  very  handsome  face. 
By  this  means  we  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Charles's 
praises  twice  over.  They  think  themselves  exces- 
sively obliged  to  him,  and  estimate  him  so  highly  as 
to  wish  Lord  Balgonie,  when  he  is  quite  recovered,  to 
go  out  to  him.  There  is  a  pretty  little  Lady  Marianne 
of  the  party,  to  be  shaken  hands  with,  and  asked  if 
she  remembered  Mr.  Austen.  .  .  . 

'  I  shall  write  to  Charles  by  the  next  packet,  unless 
you  tell  me  in  the  meantime  of  your  intending  to 
do  it. 

'Believe  me,  if  you  chuse, 

*  V  aff'^  Sister.' 

Jane  did  not  estimate  too  highly  the  '  Cousin  George  ' 
mentioned  in  the  foregoing  letter;  who  might  easily 
have  been  superior  in  sense  and  wit  to  the  rest  of  the 
party.  He  was  the  Rev.  George  Leigh  Cooke,  long 
known  and  respected  at  Oxford,  where  he  held  im- 
portant offices,  and  had  the  privilege  of  helping  to 
form  the  minds  of  men  more  eminent  than  himself. 
As  Tutor  in  Corpus  Christi  College,  he  became  in- 
structor to  some  of    th'-^    most    distinguished    under- 


Jane  Aiistcn.  '  77 


graduates  of  that  time  :  amongst  others  to  Dr.  Arnold, 
the  Rev.  John  Keble,  and  Sir  John  Coleridge.  The 
latter  has  mentioned  him  in  terms  of  affectionate 
regard,  both  in  his  Memoir  of  Keble,  and  in  a  letter 
which  appears  in  Dean  Stanley's  '  Life  of  Arnold.' 
]\Ir.  Cooke  was  also  an  impressive  preacher  of  earnest 
awakening  sermons.  I  remember  to  have  heard  it 
observed  by  some  of  my  undergraduate  friends  that, 
after  all,  there  ^vas  more  good  to  be  got  from  George 
Cooke's  plain  sermons  than  from  much  of  the  more 
laboured  oratorv'  of  the  Universit}-  j)ulpit.  lie  was 
frequently  Examiner  in  the  schools,  and  occupied  the 
chair  of  the  Sedleian  Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy, 
■from  1 8 10  to  1853. 

Ikfore  tliC  end  of  1S05,  the  little  family  party 
removed  to  Southampton.  They  resided  in  a  com- 
modious old-fashioned  house  in  a  corner  of  Castle 
Square. 

I  have  no  letters  of  my  aunt,  nor  any  other  record 
of  her,  during  her  four  years'  residence  at  Southamp- 
ton ;  and  though  I  now  began  to  know,  and,  what 
was  the  same  thing,  to  love  her  myself,  yet  my 
observations  were  only  those  of  a  \'oung  boy,  and 
were  not  capable  of  penetrating  her  character,  or 
estimating  her  powers.  I  have,  however,  a  li\'c]y 
recollection  of  some  local  circumstances  at  South- 
am[)ton,  and  as  they  refer  chiefly  to  things  ^\■hich 
have  been  long  ago  swept  away,  I  will  record  them. 
My  grandmother's  house  had  a  pleasant  garden, 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  old  city  walls  ;  the  top 
of  this  wall  was  sufficiently  wide  to  afford  a  pleasant 


/S  A  Memoir  of 


walk,  with  an  extensive  view,  easily  accessible  to 
ladies  by  steps.  This  must  have  been  a  part  of  the 
identical  walls  which  witnessed  the  embarkation  of 
Henry  V.  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  and  the 
detection  of  the  conspiracy  of  Cambridge,  Scroop, 
and  Grey,  which  Shakspeare  has  made  so  picturesque ; 
when,  according  to  the  chorus  in  Henry  V.,  the  citizens 
saw 

The  well-appointed  King  at  Hampton  Pier 
Embark  his  royalty. 

Among  the  records  of  the  town  of  Southampton^ 
they  have  a  minute  and  authentic  account,  drawn  up 
at  that  time,  of  the  encampment  of  Henry  V.  near 
the  town,  before  his  embarkment  for  France.  It  is 
remarkable  that  the  place  where  the  army  was  en- 
camped, then  a  low  level  plain,  is  now  entirely  covered . 
by  the  sea,  and  is  called  Wcstport*  At  that  time 
Castle  Square  was  occupied  by  a  fantastic  edifice,  too 
large  for  the  space  in  which  it  stood,  though  too  small 
to  accord  well  with  its  castellated  style,  erected  by  the 
second  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  half-brother  to  the 
well-known  statesman,  who  succeeded  him  in  the  title. 
The  Marchioness  had  a  light  phaeton,  drawn  by  six, 
and  sometimes  by  eight  little  ponies,  each  pair  de- 
creasing in  size,  and  becoming  lighter  in  colour, 
through  all  the  grades  of  dark  brown,  light  brown, 
bay,  and  chestnut,  as  it  was  placed  farther  av/ay  from 
the  carriage.  The  two  leading  pairs  were  managed 
by  two  boyish  postilions,  the  two  pairs  nearest  to  the 

*  See  Wharton's  note  to  Johnson  and  Steevens'  Shakspeare. 


Jaiie  Austen.  79 


carriage  were  driven  in  hand.     It  was  a  delight  to  me 

to  look  down  from  the  window  and  sec  this  fairy  equi- 
page put  together;  for  the  premises  of  this  castle  were 
so  contracted  that  the  whole  process  went  on  in  the 
little  space  that  remained  of  the  open  square.  Like 
other  fairy  works,  however,  it  all  proved  evanescent 
Not  only  carriage  and  ponies,  but  castle  itself,  soon 
vanished  away,  *  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision.' 
On  the  death  of  the  Marquis  in  1809,  the  castle  was 
pulled  down.  Few  probably  remember  its  existence ; 
and  any  one  who  might  visit  the  place  now  would 
wonder  how  it  ever  could  have  stood  there. 

In  1809  Mr.  Knight  was  able  to  offer  his  mother 
the  choice  of  two  houses  on  his  property  ;  one  near 
his  usual  residence  at  Godmersham  Park  in  Kent  ; 
the  other  near  Chawton  House,  his  occasional  resi- 
dence in  Hampshire.  The  latter  was  chosen  ;  and  in 
that  year  the  mother  and  daughters,  together  with 
Miss  Lloyd,  a  near  connection  who  lived  with  them, 
settled  themselves  at  Chawton  Cottage. 

Chawton  may  be  called  the  second,  as  well  as  the 
last  home  of  Jane  Austen  ;  for  during  the  temporary 
residences  of  the  party  at  Bath  and  Southampton  she 
was  only  a  sojourner  in  a  strange  land  ;  but  here  she 
found  a  real  home  amongst  her  own  people.  It  so 
happened  that  during  her  residence  at  Chawton  cir- 
cumstances brought  several  of  her  brothers  and  their 
families  within  easy  distance  of  the  house.'  Chawton 
must  also  be  considered  the  place  most  closely  con- 
nected with  her  career  as  a  writer;  for  there  it  was 
that,  in  the  maturity  of  her  mind,  she  either  wrote  or 


8o  A  Memoir  of 


rearranged,  and  prepared  for  publication  the  books  by 
which  she  has  become  known  to  the  world.  This  was 
the  home  where,  after  a  few  years,  while  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  she  began  to  droop  and  wither  away,  and 
which  she  left  only  in  the  last  stage  of  her  illness, 
yielding  to  the  persuasion  of  friends  hoping  against 
hope. 

This  house  stood  in  the  village  of  Chawton,  about 
a  mile  from  Alton,  on  the  right  hand  side,  just  w^here 
the  road  to  Winchester  branches  off  from  that  to 
Gosport.  It  was  so  close  to  the  road  that  the  front 
door  opened  upon  it ;  while  a  very  narrow  enclosure, 
paled  in  on  each  side,  protected  the  building  from 
danger  of  collision  with  any  runaway  vehicle.  I 
believe  it  had  been  originally  built  for  an  inn,  for 
which  purpose  it  was  certainly  well  situated.  After- 
wards it  had  been  occupied  by  Mr.  Knight's  steward  ; 
but  by  some  additions  to  the  house,  and  some  judi- 
cious planting  and  skreening,  it  was  made  a  pleasant 
and  commodious  abode.  Mr.  Knight  was  experienced 
and  adroit  at  such  arrangements,  and  this  was  a 
labour  of  love  to  him.  A  good-sized  entrance  and 
two  sitting-rooms  made  the  lenirth  of  the  house,  all 
intended  originally  to  look  upon  the  road,  but  the 
large  drawing-room  window  was  blocked  up  and 
turned  into  a  book-case,  and  another  opened  at  the 
side  which  gave  to  view  only  turf  and  trees,  as  a  high 
wooden  fence  and  hornbeam  hedge  shut  out  the  Win- 
chester road,  which  skirted  the  whole  length  of  the 
little  domain.  Trees  were  planted  each  side  to  form 
a  shrubbery  walk,  carried  round  the  enclosure,  which 


Jane  Austen.  8 1 


gave  a  sufficient  space  for  ladies'  exercise.  There 
was  a  ]:)lcasant  irrcL^ular  mixture  of  Iiedi^emw,  and 
gravel  walk,  and  orchard,  and  long  grass  for  mowing, 
arising  from  two  or  three  little  enclosures  having  been 
thrown  together.  The  house  itself  was  quite  as  good 
as  the  generality  of  parsonage-houses  then  were,  and 
much  in  the  same  style  ;  and  was  capable  of  receiv- 
ing other  members  of  the  family  as  frequent  \'isitors. 
It  was  sufficiently  well  furnished  ;  everything  inside 
and  out  was  kept  in  good  repair,  and  it  was  altO' 
gcthcr  a  comfortable  and  lad\like  establishment, 
though  the  means  which  supj^orted  it  were  not  large. 
I  give  this  description  because  some  interest  is 
generally  taken  in  the  residence  of  a  popular  writer. 
Cowper's  unattractive  house  in  the  street  of  Olney 
lias  been  pointed  out  to  visitors,  and  has  even  at- 
tained the  honour  of  an  engraxing  in  Southey's 
edition  of  his  works  :  but  I  cannot  recommend  any 
admirer  of  Jane  Austen  to  undertake  a  pilgrimage 
to  this  spot.  The  building  indeed  still  stands,  but  it 
has  lost  all  that  gave  it  its  character.  After  the  death 
of  ?klrs.  Cassandra  Austen,  in  1845,  it  was  divided 
into  tenements  for  labourers,  and  the  grounds  re- 
verted to  ordinary  uses. 


82  A  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER  V. 

Description  of  Jane  Austell's  person,  character,  and  taster. 

As  my  memoir  has  now  reached  the  period  when  1 
saw  a  great  deal  of  my  aunt,  and  was  old  enough  to 
understand  something  of  her  value,  I  will  here  at- 
tempt a  description  of  her  person,  mind,  and  habits. 
In  person  she  was  very  attractive ;  her  figure  was 
rather  tall  and  slender,  her  step  light  and  firm,  and 
her  whole  appearance  expressive  of  health  and  ani- 
mation. In  complexion  she  was  a  clear  brunette 
with  a  rich  colour ;  she  had  full  round  cheeks,  with 
mouth  and  nose  small  and  well  formed,  bright  hazel 
eyes,  and  brown  hair  forming  natural  curls  close 
round  her  face.  If  not  so  regularly  handsome  as  her 
sister,  yet  her  countenance  had  a  peculiar  charm  of 
its  own  to  the  eyes  of  most  beholders.  At  the  time 
of  which  I  am  now  writing,  she  never  was  seen,  either 
morning  or  evening,  without  a  cap ;  I  believe  that 
she  and  her  sister  were  generally  thought  to  have 
taken  to  the  garb  of  middle  age  earlier  than  their 
years  or  their  looks  required  ;  and  that,  though  re- 
markably neat  in  their  dress  as  in  all  their  ways,  they 
were  scarcely  sufficiently  regardful  of  the  fashionable, 
or  the  becoming. 


Jane  A  listen.  83 


She  was  not  highly  accomplished  according  to  the 
present  standard.  Her  sister  drew  well,  and  it  is 
from  a  drawing  of  hers  that  the  likeness  prefixed  to 
this  volume  has  been  taken.  Jane  herself  was  fond 
of  music,  and  had  a  sweet  voice,  both  in  singing  and 
in  conversation  ;  in  her  youth  she  had  received  some 
instruction  on  the  pianoforte ;  and  at  Chawton  she 
practised  daily,  chiefly  before  breakfast.  I  believe 
she  did  so  partly  that  she  might  not  disturb  the  rest 
of  the  party  who  were  less  fond  of  music.  In  the 
evening  she  would  sometimes  sing,  to  her  own  ac- 
companiment, some  simple  old  songs,  the  words  and 
airs  of  which,  now  never  heard,  still  linger  in  my 
memory. 

She  read  French  with  facility,  and  knew  something 
of  Italian.  In  those  days  German  was  no  more 
thought  of  than  Hindostanee,  as  part  of  a  lady's 
education.  In  history  she  followed  the  old  guides — • 
Goldsmith,  Hume,  and  Robertson.  Critical  enquiry 
into  the  usually  received  statements  of  the  old  his- 
torians was  scarcely  begun.  The  history  of  the  early 
kings  of  Rome  had  not  yet  been  dissolved  into 
legend.  Historic  characters  lay  before  the  reader's 
eyes  in  broad  light  or  shade,  not  much  broken  up  by 
details.  The  virtues  of  King  Henry  VIII.  were  yet 
undiscovered,  nor  had  much  light  been  thrown  on  the 
inconsistencies  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  the  one  was  held 
to  be  an  unmitigated  tyrant,  and  an  embodied  Blue 
Beard  ;  the  other  a  perfect  model  of  wisdom  and 
policy.  Jane,  when  a  girl,  had  strong  political 
opinions,  especially  about  the  affairs  of  the  sixteenth 


84        .  A  Memoir  of 


and  seventeenth  centuries.  She  was  a  vehement  de- 
fender of  Charles  I.  and  his  grandmother  Mary;  but 
I  think  it  was  rather  from  an  impulse  of  feehng  than 
from  any  enquiry  into  the  evidences  by  whicli  they 
must  be  condemned  or  acquitted.  As  she  grew  up, 
the  politics  of  the  day  occupied  very  little  of  her 
attention,  but  she  probably  shared  the  feeling  of 
moderate  Toryism  which  prevailed  in  her  family. 
She  was  well  acquainted  with  the  old  periodicals 
from  the  'Spectator'  downwards.  Her  knowledge 
of  Richardson's  works  was  such  as  no  one  is  likely 
again  to  acquire,  now  that  the  multitude  and  the 
merits  of  our  light  literature  have  called  off  the 
attention  of  readers  from  that  great  master.  Every 
circumstance  narrated  in  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  all 
that  was  ever  said  or  done  in  the  cedar  parlour,  was 
familiar  to  her ;  and  the  wedding  days  of  Lady  L. 
and  Lady  G.  were  as  well  remembered  as  if  they  had 
been  living  friends.  Amongst  her  favourite  writers, 
Johnson  in  prose,  Crabbe  in  verse,  and  Covvper  in 
both,  stood  high.  It  is  well  that  the  native  good 
taste  of  herself  and  of  those  with  whom  she  lived, 
saved  her  from  the  snare  into  which  a  sister  novelist 
had  fallen,  of  imitating  the  grandiloquent  style  of 
Johnson.  She  thoroughly  enjoyed  Crabbe;  perhaps 
on  account  of  a  certain  resemblance  to  herself  in 
minute  and  highly  fmished  detail  ;  and  would  some- 
times say,  in  jest,  that,  if  she  ever  married  at  all, 
she  could  fancy  being  Mrs.  Crabbe  ;  looking  on  the 
author  quite  as  an  abstiact  idea,  and  ignorant  and 
regardless  what  manner  of  man  he  might  be.     Scott's 


Jane  Ausicn.  85 


poetry  gave  her  great  pleasure  ;  she  did  not  hve  to 
make  much  acquaintance  with  his  novels.  Only  three 
of  them  were  published  before  her  death  ;  but  it  will 
be  seen  by  the  following  extract  from  one  of  her 
letters,  that  she  was  quite  prepared  to  admit  the 
merits  of  *  Waverley';  and  it  is  remarkable  that,  living, 
as  she  did,  far  apart  from  the  gossip  of  the  literary 
world,  she  should  e\'en  then  have  spoken  so  confi- 
dently of  his  being  the  author  of  it  : — 

•  Walter  Scott  has  no  business  to  write  novels ; 
especially  good  ones.  It  is  not  fair.  He  has  fame 
and  profit  enough  as  a  poet,  and  ought  not  to  be 
taking  the  bread  out  of  other  people's  mouths.  I  do 
not  mean  to  like  "  Waverley,"  if  I  can  help  it,  but  I 
fear  I  must,     I  am  quite  determined,  however,  not  to 

be  pleased  with  Mrs. 's,  should  I  ever  meet  w^ith 

it,  which  I  hope  I  may  not.  I  think  I  can  be  stout 
against  anything  written  by  her.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  like  no  novels  really,  but  Miss  Edgeworth's, 
K.'s,  and  my  own.* 

It  was  not,  however,  what  she  knciv,  but  what  she 
xvas,  that  distinguished  her  from  others.  I  cannot 
better  describe  the  fascination  which  she  exercised 
over  children  than  by  quoting  the  words  of  two  of 
lier  nieces.     One  says  : — • 

'As  a  very  little  girl  I  was  always  creeping  up  to 
aunt  Jane,  and  following  her  whenever  I  could,  in  the 
liouse  and  out  of  it.  I  might  not  huve  remembered 
this  but  for  the  recollection  of  my  mother's  telling  me 
privately,  that  I  niust  not  be  troublesome  to  my  aunt. 
Her  first  charm  to  children  was  great  sweetness  of 


S6  A  Memoir  of 


manner.  She  seemed  to  love  ycu,  and  you  loved  her 
in  return.  This,  as  well  as  I  can  now  recollect,  was 
what  I  felt  in  my  early  days,  before  I  was  old  enough 
to  be  amused  by  her  cleverness.  But  soon  came 
the  delight  of  her  playful  talk.  She  could  make 
everything  amusing  to  a  child.  Then,  as  I  got  older, 
when  cousins  came  to  share  the  entertainment,  she 
would  tell  us  the  most  delightful  stories,  chiefly  of 
Fairyland,  and  her  fairies  had  all  characters  of  their 
own.  The  tale  was  invented,  I  am  sure,  at  the  mo- 
ment, and  was  continued  for  two  or  three  days,  if 
occasion  served.' 

Again  :  *  When  staying  at  Chawton,  with  two  of 
her  other  nieces,  we  often  had  amusements  in  which 
my  aunt  was  very  helpful.  She  was  the  one  to  whom 
we  always  looked  for  help.  She  would  furnish  us  with 
what  we  wanted  from  her  wardrobe  ;  and  she  would 
be  the  entertaining  visitor  in  our  make-believe  house. 
She  amused  us  in  various  ways.  Once,  I  remember, 
in  giving  a  conversation  as  between  myself  and  my 
two  cousins,  supposing  we  were  all  grown  up,  the  day 
after  a  ball' 

Very  similar  is  the  testimony  of  another  niece  : — 
*  Aunt  Jane  was  the  general  favourite  with  children  ; 
her  ways  with  them  being  so  playful,  and  her  long 
circumstantial  stories  so  delightful.  These  were  con- 
tinued from  time  to  time,  and  were  begged  for  on  all 
possible  and  impossible  occasions ;  woven,  as  she  pro- 
ceeded, out  of  nothing  but  her  own  happy  talent  for 
invention.  Ah  !  if  but  one  of  them  could  be  reco- 
vered !     And  again,  as  I  grew  older,  when  the  ori- 


yane  Austen.  Z*] 


ginal  seventeen  years  between  our  ages  seemed  to 
shrink  to  seven,  or  to  nothing,  it  comes  back  to  me 
now  how  strangely  I  missed  her.  It  had  become  so 
much  a  habit  with  me  to  put  by  things  in  my  mind 
with  a  reference  to  her,  and  to  say  to  myself,  I  shall 
keep  this  for  aunt  Jane.' 

A  nephew  of  hers  used  to  observe  that  his  visits  to 
Chawton,  after  the  death  of  his  aunt  Jane,  were  always 
a  disappointment  to  him.  From  old  associations  he 
could  not  help  expecting  to  be  particularly  happy  in 
that  house ;  and  never  till  he  got  there  could  he  rea- 
lise to  himself  how  all  its  peculiar  charm  was  gone. 
It  was  not  only  that  the  chief  light  in  the  house  was 
quenched,  but  that  the  loss  of  it  had  cast  a  shade  over 
the  spirits  of  the  survivors.  Enough  has  been  said  to 
show  her  love  for  children,  and  her  wonderful  power 
of  entertaining  them  ;  but  her  friends  of  all  ages  felt 
her  enlivening  influence.  Her  unusually  quick  sense 
of  the  ridiculous  led  her  to  play  with  all  the  common- 
places of  everyday  life,  whether  as  regarded  persons 
or  things  ;  but  she  never  played  with  its  serious  duties 
or  responsibilities,  nor  did  she  ever  turn  individuals 
into  ridicule.  With  all  her  neighbours  in  the  village 
she  was  on  friendly,  though  not  on  intimate,  terms. 
She  took  a  kindly  interest  in  all  their  proceedings, 
and  liked  to  hear  about  them.  They  often  served  for 
her  amusement ;  but  it  was  her  own  nonsense  that 
gave  zest  to  the  gossip.  She  was  as  f:ir  as  possible 
from  being  censorious  or  satirical.  She  never  abused 
them  or  quizzed  them  — ///^/  was  the  word  of  the  day  ; 
an   ugly  word,  now  obsolete ;   and  the   ugly  practice 


SS  A  Memoir  of 


which  it  expressed  is  much  less  prevalent  now  than  it 
was  then.  The  laugh  which  she  occasionally  raised 
was  by  imagining  for  her  neighbours,  as  she  was 
equally  ready  to  imagine  for  her  friends  or  herself, 
impossible  contingencies,  or  by  relating  in  prose  or 
verse  some  trifling  anecdote  coloured  to  her  own 
fancy,  or  in  writing  a  fictitious  history  of  what  they 
were  supposed  to  have  said  or  done,  which  could 
deceive  nobody. 

The  following  specimens  may  be  given  of  the  live- 
liness of  mind  which  imparted  an  agreeable  flavour 
both  to  her  correspondence  and  her  conversation  : — 

On  reading  in  the  newspapers  the  marriage  of 
]Mr.  Gei.l  to  Miss  Gill,  of  Eastbournr^. 

At  Eastbourne  Mr.  Cell,  From  being  perfectly  well, 
Became  dreadfully  ill,  For  love  of  Miss  Gill. 
So  he  said,  with  some  sighs,  Fm  the  slave  of  your  iis  ; 
Oh,  restore,  if  you  please,  Uy  accepting  my  c^f 

On  the  marriage  of  a  middle-aged  Flirt  with  a 
Mr.  Wake,  whom,  it  was  supposed,  she  y/ould 
scarcely  have  accepted  in  her  youth. 

Maria,  good-humoured,  and  handsome,  and  tall, 
For  a  husband  was  at  her  last  stake  ; 

And  having  in  vain  danced  at  many  a  ball, 
Is  now  hdp[)y  toy//////'  a/  a  Wake. 

*  We  were  all  at  the  play  last  night  to  sec  Miss 
O'Neil  in  Isabella.  I  do  not  think  she  was  quite 
equal  to  my  expectation.  I  fancy  I  w^ant  something 
more   than   can  be.     Actincr  seldom  satisfies  me.     1 


Jane  Ajistcn.  89 


took  two  pockcthandkcrchicfs,  but  liad  very  little 
occiLsion  for  citlicr.  She  is  an  cIcL^ant  creature,  how- 
ever, and  luic^s  Mr.  Young  delightfullv'.' 

'  So,  Misr  \\.  is  actually  married,  but  I  ha\c  never 
seen  it  in  the  papers  ;  and  one  nia\'  as  well  be  single 
if  the  wedding  is  not  to  be  in  print.' 

Once,  too,  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  write  the 
following  mock  panegyric  on  a  }'Oung  friend,  uho 
really  was  cle\'er  and  handsome  : — 

I. 

\w  nieasurcd  verse  I'll  now  rehearse 

The  charms  of  lovely  Anna: 
And,  first,  her  mind  is  unconfmcd 

Like  any  vast  sa\'aiinah. 

2. 

Ontario's  lake  may  fitly  speak 

Her  fancy's  ample  bound  : 
Its  circuit  may,  on  strict  survey 

Five  hundred  miles  be  found. 

3- 

Her  wit  descends  on  foes  and  friends 

Like  famed  Niagara's  Fall  ; 
And  travellers  gaze  in  wild  amaze, 

And  listen,  one  and  all. 

4- 

Her  judgment  sound,  thick,  black,  profound, 

Like  transatlantic  groves, 
Dispenses  aid,  and  friendly  shade 

To  all  that  in  it  roves. 


90  A  Memoir  of 


5. 
If  thus  her  mind  to  be  defined 

America  exhausts, 
And  all  that's  grand  in  that  great  lai\d 

In  similes  it  costs — 

6. 

Oh  how  can  I  her  person  try 

To  image  and  portray  ? 
How  paint  the  face,  the  form  how  trace 

In  which  those  virtues  lay  ? 

7- 
Another  world  must  be  unfurled, 

Another  language  known, 
Ere  tongue  or  sound  can  publish  round 

Her  charms  of  flesh  and  bone. 

I  believe  that  all  this  nonsense  was  nearly  extem- 
pore, and  that  the  fancy  of  drawing  the  images  from 
America  arose  at  the  moment  from  the  obvious  rhyme 
which  presented  itself  in  the  first  stanza. 

The  following  extracts  are  from  letters  addressed 
to  a  niece  who  was  at  that  time  amusing  herself  by 
attempting  a  novel,  probably  never  finished,  certainly 
never  published,  and  of  which  I  know  nothing  but 
what  these  extracts  tell.  They  show  the  good-natured 
sympathy  and  encouragement  which  the  aunt,  then 
herself  occupied  in  writing  *  Emma,'  could  give  to  the 
less  matured  powers  of  the  niece.  They  bring  out 
incidentally  some  of  her  opinions  concerning  compo- 
sitions of  that  kind  : — 


Jaiie  Atisten.  91 


Extracts, 

*  Chawton,  Aug.  lo,  1 8 14. 

*  Your  aunt  C.  does  not  like  desultory  novels,  and 
is  rather  fearful  that  yours  will  be  too  much  so  ;  that 
there  will  be  too  frequent  a  change  from  one  set  of 
people  to  another,  and  that  circumstances  will  be 
sometimes  introduced,  of  apparent  consequence,  which 
will  lead  to  nothing.  It  will  not  be  so  great  an  objec- 
tion to  me.  I  allow  much  more  latitude  than  she 
does,  and  think  nature  and  spirit  cover  many  sins  of 
a  wandering  story.  And  people  in  general  do  not 
care  much  about  it,  for  your  comfort.  .  .  .' 

*  Sept.  9. 

'  You  are  now  collecting  your  people  delightfully, 
getting  theni  exactly  into  such  a  spot  as  is  the  delight 
of  my  life.  Three  or  four  families  in  a  country  vil- 
lage is  the  very  thing  to  work  on  ;  and  I  hope  you 
will  write  a  great  deal  more,  and  make  full  use  of 
them  while  they  are  so  very  favourably  arranged.* 

'  Sept.  28. 

'  Devereux  Forrester  being  ruined  by  his  vanity  is 
very  good  :  but  I  wish  you  would  not  let  him  plunge 
into  a  "  vortex  of  dissipation."  I  do  not  object  to  the 
thing,  but  I  cannot  bear  the  expression :  it  is  such 
thorough  novel  slang  ;  and  so  old  that  I  dare  say 
Adam  met  with  it  in  the  first  novel  that  he  opened.' 


92  A  Memoir  of 

'  Hans  Place  (Nov.  i8[4). 

*  I  have  been  very  far  from  finding  your  book  an 
evil,  I  assure  you,  I  read  it  immediately,  and  with 
great  pleasure.  Indeed,  I  do  think  you  get  on  very 
fast.  I  wish  other  people  of  my  acquaintance  could 
compose  as  rapidly.  Julian's  history  was  quite  a 
surprise  to  me.  You  had  not  very  long  known  it 
yourself,  I  suspect ;  but  I  have  no  objection  to  make 
to  the  circumstance  ;  it  is  very  well  told,  and  his 
having  been  in  love  with  the  aunt  gives  Cecilia  an 
additional  interest  with  him.  I  like  the  idea  ;  a  very 
proper  compliment  to  an  aunt !  I  rather  imagine, 
indeed,  that  nieces  are  seldom  chosen  but  in  compli- 
ment to  some  aunt  or  other.  I  daresay  your  husband 
was  in  love  with  me  once,  and  would  never  have 
thought  of  you  if  he  had  not  supposed  me  dead  of  a 
scarlet  fever.' 

Jane  Austen  was  successful  in  everything  that  she 
attempted  with  her  fingers.  None  of  us  could  throw 
spilikins  in  so  perfect  a  circle,  or  take  them  off  with 
so  steady  a  hand.  Her  performances  with  cup  and 
ball  were  marvellous.  The  one  used  at  Chawton  w^as 
an  easy  one,  and  she  has  been  known  to  catch  it  on 
the  point  above  an  hundred  times  in  succession,  till  her 
hand  was  weary.  She  sometimes  found  a  resource  in 
that  simple  game,  when  unable,  from  weakness  in  her 
eyes,  to  read  or  write  long  together.  A  specimen  of  her 
clear  strong  handwriting  is  here  given.  Happy  would 
the  compositors  for  the  press  be  if  they  had  always  so 
legible  a  manuscript  to  work  from.     But  the  writing 


Jauc  Austen.  93 

was  not  the  only  part  of  her  letters  which  showed 
superior  lianch'work.  In  those  days  there  was  an  art 
in  folding  and  sealing.  No  adhesive  envelopes  made 
all  easy.  Some  people's  letters  always  looked  loose 
and  untidy ;  but  her  paper  was  sure  to  take  the  right 
folds,  and  her  sealing-wax  to  drop  into  tlie  right  place. 
Her  needlework  both  plain  and  ornamental  was  ex- 
cellent, and  might  almost  have  put  a  sewing  machine 
to  shame.  She  was  considered  especially  great  in 
satin  stitch.  She  spent  much  time  in  these  occupations, 
and  some  of  her  merriest  talk  was  over  clothes  which 
she  and  her  companions  were  making,  sometimes  for 
themselves,  and  sometimes  for  the  poor.  There  still 
remains  a  curious  specimen  of  her  needlework  made 
for  a  sister-in-law,  my  mother.  In  a  very  small  bag 
is  deposited  a  little  rolled  up  housewife,  furnished  with 
minikin  needles  and  fine  thread.  In  the  housewife  is 
a  tiny  pocket,  and  in  the  pocket  is  enclosed  a  slip  of 
paper,  on  which,  written  as  with  a  crow  quill,  are  these 
h'nes : — 

This  little  bag,  I  hope,,  will  prove 

To  be  not  vainly  made  ; 
For  should  you  thread  and  needles  want, 

It  will  afford  you  aid. 

And,  as  wc  are  about  to  part, 

'T  will  serve  another  end  : 
For,  when  you  look  ui)on  this  bag, 

You'll  recollect  your  friend. 

It  is  the  kind  of  article  that  some  benevolent  fairy 
might  be  supposed  to  give   as  a    reward    to   a  dili- 


94  A  Memoir  of 


[^^cnt  little  girl.  The  whole  is  of  flowered  silk,  and 
having  been  never  used  and  carefully  preserved,  it  is 
as  fresh  and  bright  as  when  it  was  first  made  seventy 
years  ago  ;  and  shows  that  the  same  hand  which 
painted  so  exquisitely  with  the  pen  could  work  as 
delicately  with  the  needle. 

I  have  collected  some  of  the  bright  qualities  which 
shone,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface  of  Jane  Austen's 
character,  and  attracted  most  notice  ;  but  underneath 
them  there  lay  the  strong  foundations  of  sound  sense 
and  judgment,  rectitude  of  principle,  and  delicacy  of 
feeling,  qualifying  her  equally  to  advise,  assist,  or 
amuse.  She  was,  in  fact,  as  ready  to  comfort  the 
unhappy,  or  to  nurse  the  sick,  as  she  was  to  laugh 
and  jest  with  the  light-hearted.  Two  of  her  nieces 
were  grown  up,  and  one  of  them  was  married,  before 
she  was  taken  away  from  them.  As  their  minds  be- 
came more  matured,  they  were  admitted  into  closer 
intimacy  with  her,  and  learned  more  of  her  graver 
thoughts  ;  they  know  what  a  sympathising  friend  and 
judicious  adviser  they  found  her  to  be  in  many  little 
difficulties  and  doubts  of  early  womanhood. 

I  do  not  venture  to  speak  of  her  religious  prin- 
ciples :  that  is  a  subject  on  which  she  herself  was 
more  inclined  to  think  and  act  than  to  talk,  and  I  shall 
imitate  her  reserve  ;  satisfied  to  have  shown  how  much 
of  Christian  love  and  humility  abounded  in  her  heart, 
without  presuming  to  lay  bare  the  roots  whence  those 
graces  grew.  Some  little  insight,  however,  into  these 
deeper  recesses  of  the  heart  must  be  given,  when  we 
come  to  speak  of  her  death. 


Jane  Austen.  95 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Habits  of  CoviposittOH  resioned  after  a  long  itttei-'al — First  publication — 
The  ifiterest  taken  by  the  Author  in  the  success  of  her  IVorks. 

It  may  seem  extraordinary  that  Jane  Austen  should 
have  written  so  little  during  the  years  that  elapsed 
between  leaving  Steventon  and  settling  at  Chawton ; 
especially  when  this  cessation  from  work  is  contrasted 
with  her  literary  activity  both  before  and  after  that 
period.  It  might  rather  have  been  expected  that  fresh 
scenes  and  new  acquaintance  would  have  called  forth 
her  powers  ;  while  the  quiet  life  which  the  family  led 
both  at  Bath  and  Southampton  must  have  afforded 
abundant  leisure  for  composition ;  but  so  it  was  that 
nothing  which  I  know  of,  certainly  nothing  which  the 
public  have  seen,  was  completed  in  either  of  those 
places.  I  can  only  state  the  fact,  without  assigning  any 
cause  for  it ;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  fixed  in  her  second 
home,  she  resumed  the  habits  of  composition  which 
had  been  formed  in  her  first,  and  continued  them  to 
the  end  of  her  life.  The  first  year  of  her  residence 
at  Chawton  seems  to  have  been  devoted  to  revising 
and  preparing  for  the  press  '  Sense  and  Sensibility,* 
and  'Pride  and  Prejudice';  but  between  Februaiy 
181 1  and  August  18 16,  she  began  and  completed 
*  Mansfield  Park,'  '  Emma,'  and  '  Persuasion,'  so  that 
the   last   five  years   of   her    life    produced   the   same 


96  A  Memoir  cf 


number  of  novels  witli  those  wliich  liad  been  written 
in  lier  early  youth.  How  she  v/as  able  to  effect  all 
this  is  surprising,  for  she  had  no  separate  study  to 
retire  to,  and  most  of  the  work  m.ust  have  been  done 
in  the  general  sitting-room,  subject  to  all  kinds  of 
casual  interruptions.  She  was  careful  that  her  occu- 
pation should  not  be  suspected  by  servants,  or  visitors, 
or  any  persons  beyond  her  own  family  part}^  She 
wrote  upon  small  sheets  of  paper  \\hich  could  easily 
be  put  away,  or  covered  with  a  piece  of  blotting 
paper.  There  was,  between  the  front  door  and  the 
offices,  a  swing  door  which  creaked  when  it  was 
opened  ;  but  she  objected  to  having  this  little  incon- 
venience remedied,  because  it  gave  her  notice  when 
anyone  was  coming.  She  was  not,  however,  troubled 
with  companions  like  her  own  Mrs.  Allen  in  *  North- 
anger  Abbey,'  whose  '  vacancy  of  mind  and  incapacity 
for  thinking  were  such  that,  as  she  never  talked  a 
great  deal,  so  she  could  never  be  entirely  silent ;  and 
therefore,  while  she  sat  at  work,  if  she  lost  her  needle, 
or  broke  her  thread,  or  saw  a  speck  of  dirt  on  her 
gown,  she  must  observe  it,  whether  there  ^\•cre  any 
one  at  leisure  to  answer  her  or  not.'  In  that  well 
occupied  female  party  there  must  have  been  many 
precious  hours  of  silence  during  which  the  pen  v\as 
busy  at  the  little  mahogany  writing-desk,*  while 
Fanny  Price,  or  Emma  Woodhousc,  or  Anne  Elliott 
was  growing  into  beauty  and  interest.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  I,  and  my  sisters  and  cousins,  in  our  visits 

*  This  mahogany  desk,  which  has  done  good  service  to  tlic  public,  is 
now  in  the  possession  of  my  sister,  Miss  Austen. 


Jane  Austen.  97 


to  Chawton,  frequently  disturbed  this  mystic  process, 
without  having  any  idea  oi  the  mischief  that  we  were 
doing ;  certainly  we  never  should  have  guessed  it  by 
any  signs  of  impatience  or  irritability  in  the  writer. 

As  so  much  had  been  previously  prepared,  when 
once  she  began  to  publish,  her  works  came  out  in 
quick  succession.  *  Sense  and  Sensibility '  was  pub- 
lished in  181 1,  'Pride  and  Prejudice'  at  the  beginning 
of  1813,  'Mansfield  Park'  in  1814,  'Emma'  early  in 
i8i6  ;  '  Northanger  Abbey'  and  '  Persuasion  '  did  not 
appear  till,  after  her  death,  in  18 18.  It  will  be  shown 
farther  on  why  '  Northanger  Abbey,'  though  amongst 
the  first  written,  was  one  of  the  last  published.  Hei 
first  three  novels  were  published  by  Egerton,  her  last 
three  by  Murray.  The  profits  of  the  four  which  had 
been  printed  before  her  death  had  not  at  that  time 
amounted  to  seven  hundred  pounds. 

I  have  no  record  of  the  publication  of  '  Sense  and 
SiMi^ibility,'  nor  of  the  author's  feelings  at  this  her  first 
appearance  before  the  public ;  but  the  following  ex- 
tracts from  three  letters  to  her  sister  give  a  lively 
picture  of  the  interest  with  which  she  watched  the 
reception  of  '  Pride  and  Prejudice,'  and  show  the 
carefulness  with  which  she  corrected  her  compositions, 
and  rejected  much  that  had  been  written  : — 

'  Chawlon,  Friday,  January  29  (1S13). 

*  I  hope  you  received  my  little  parcel  by  J.  Bond  on 
Wednesday  evening,  my  dear  Cassandra,  and  that  you 
will  be  ready  to  hear  from  me  again  on  Sunday,  for  I 
feel  that  I  must  write  to  you  to-day.     I  want  to  tell 

H 


98  A  Memoir  of 


you  that  I  have  got  my  own  darh'ng  child  from 
London.  On  Wednesday  I  received  one  copy  sent 
down  by  Falkener,  with  three  Hnes  from  Henry  to  say 
that  he  had  given  another  to  Charles  and  sent  a  third 
by  the  coach  to  Godmersham.  .  .  .  The  advertise- 
ment is  in  our  paper  to-day  for  the  first  time  :  \^s. 
He  shall  ask  i/.  is.  for  my  two  next,  and  iL  8x  for 
my  stupidest  of  all.  Miss  B.  dined  with  us  on  th.e 
very  day  of  the  book's  coming,  and  in  the  evening  we 
fairly  set  at  it,  and  read  half  the  first  vol.  to  her,  pre- 
facing that,  having  intelligence  from  Henry  that  such 
a  work  would  soon  appear,  we  had  desired  him  to 
send  it  whenever  it  came  out,  and  I  believe  it  passed 
with  her  unsuspected.  She  was  amused,  poor  soul! 
T/iat  she  could  not  help,  }'ou  know,  with  two  such 
people  to  lead  the  wa}^  but  she  really  does  seem  to 
admire  Elizabeth.  I  must  confess  that  I  think  her  as 
delightful  a  creature  as  ever  appeared  in  print,  and 
how  I  shall  be  able  to  tolerate  those  who  do  not  like 
her  at  least  I  do  not  know.  There  are  a  few  typical 
errors  ;  and  a  "  said  he,"  or  a  "  said  she,"  would  some- 
times make  the  dialogue  more  immediately  clear  ;  but 
"  I  do  not  write  for  such  dull  elves "  as  have  not  a 
great  deal  of  ingenuity  themselv^es.  The  second  vo- 
lume is  shorter  than  I  could  wish,  but  the  difference 
is  not  so  much  in  reality  as  in  look,  there  being  a  larger 
proportion  of  narrative  in  that  part.  I  have  lop't  and 
crop't  so  successfully,  however,  that  I  imagine  it 
must  be  rather  shorter  than  "  Sense  and  Sensibility" 
altogether.  Now  I  will  try  and  write  of  sometliing 
else.' 


Jane  Auste?t.  '  99 


'Chawton,  Thursday,  February  4  (1813). 

'Mv  DEAR  Cassandra, — Your  letter  was  truly 
welcome,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  }'0u  for  all  your 
praise ;  it  came  at  a  right  time,  for  I  had  had  some  fits  of 
disgust.  Our  second  evening's  reading  to  I\Iiss  B.  had 
not  pleased  mc  so  well,  but  I  believe  something  must 
be  attributed  to  my  mother's  too  rapid  way  of  getting 
on  :  though  she  perfectly  understands  the  characters 
herself,  she  cannot  speak  as  they  ought.  Upon  the 
whole,  however,  I  am  quite  vain  enough  and  well  satis- 
fied enough.  The  v\ork  is  rather  too  light,  and  bright, 
and  sparkling ;  it  wants  shade ;  it  wants  to  be  stretched 
out  here  and  there  with  a  long  chapter  of  sense,  if  it 
could  be  had  ;  if  not,  of  solemn  specious  nonsense, 
about  something  unconn'ected  with  the  story ;  an 
essay  on  writing,  a  critique  on  Walter  Scott,  or  the 
history  of  Buonaparte,  or  something  that  would  form 
a  contrast,  and  bring  the  reader  with  increased  delight 
to  the  pla)-fulness  and  epigrammatism  of  the  general 
style.  .  .  .  The  greatest  blunder  in  the  printing  that  I 
have  met  with  is  in  page  220,  v.  3,  where  two  speeches 
are  made  into  one.  There  might  as  w^ell  be  no  sup- 
pers at  Longbourn ;  but  I  suppose  it  was  the  remains 
of  Mrs.  Bennett's  old  iMeryton  habits.' 

The  following  letter  seems  to  have  been  written 
soon  after  the  last  two  :  in  February  18 13  : — 

'  This  will  be  a  quid:  return  for  yours,  my  dear 
Cassandra  ;  I  doubt  its  having  much  else  to  recom- 
mend it ;  but  there  is  no  saying  ;  it  may  turn  out  to 
be  a  very  long  and  delightful  letter.    I  am  exceedingly 

ii  2 


lOO  A  Memoir  of 


pleased  that  you  can  say  what  you  do,  after  having 
gone  through  the  whole  work,  and  Fanny's  praise  is 
very  gratifying.  My  hopes  were  tolerably  strong  of 
her^  but  nothing  like  a  certainty.  Her  liking  Darcy 
and  Elizabeth  is  enough.  She  might  hate  all  the 
others,  if  she  would.  I  have  her  opinion  under  her 
own  hand  this  morning,  but  your  transcript  of  it, 
which  I  read  first,  was  not,  and  is  not,  the  less  accept- 
able.  To  me  it  is  of  course  all  praise,  but  the  more  exact 

truth  which  she  sends  jf^//  is  good  enough Our 

party  on  Wednesday  was  not  unagreeable,  though  we 
wanted  a  master  of  the  house  less  anxious  and  fidgety, 

and  more  conversible.     Upon  Mrs.  's  mentioning 

that  she  had  sent  the  rejected  addresses  to  Mrs.  H.,  I 
began  talking  to  her  a  little  about  them,  and  expressed 
my  hope  of  their  having  amused  her.  Her  answer 
was,  *'  Oh  dear  yes,  very  much,  very  droll  indeed,  the 
opening  of  the  house,  and  the  striking  up  of  the 
fiddles  ! "  What  she  meant,  poor  woman,  who  shall 
say  }  I  sought  no  farther.  As  soon  as  a  whist  party 
was  formed,  and  a  round  table  threatened,  I  made 
my  mother  an  excuse  and  came  away,  leaving  just  as 
many  for  tJieir  round  table  as  there  were  at  Mrs. 
Grant's."^  I  wish  they  might  be  as  agreeable  a  set. 
My  mother  is  very  well,  and  finds  great  amusement 
in  glove-knitting,  and  at  present  wants  no  other  work. 
We  quite  run  over  with  books.  She  has  got  Sir 
John  Carr's  **  Travels  in  Spain,"  and  I  am  reading  a 
Society  octavo,  an  "  Essay  on  the  MiHtary  Police  and 
Institutions  of  the  British  Empire,"  by  Capt.  Pasley  of 

*  At  this  time,  P'ebiuary  1 813,  'Mansfield  Park  '  was  nearly  finished. 


yanfn  Jlfyen..  '  lOt 

the  Engineers,  a  book  which  I  protested  against  at 
first,  but  which  upon  trial  I  find  dehghtfully  written 
and  highly  entertaining.  I  am  as  much  in  love  with 
the  author  as  I  ever  was  with  Clarkson  or  Buchanan, 
or  even  the  two  Mr.  Smiths  of  the  city.  The  first 
soldier  I  ever  sighed  for;  but  he  does  write  with  ex- 
traordinary force  and  spirit.  Yesterday,  moreover, 
brought  us  "Mrs.  Grant's  Letters,"  with  Mr.  White's 
compliments ;  but  I  have  disposed  of  them,  compli- 
ments and  all,  to  Miss  P.,  and  amongst  so  many 
readers  or  retainers  of  books  as  we  have  in  Chawton, 
I  dare  say  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  getting  rid 
of  them  for  another  fortnight,  if  necessary.  I  have 
disposed  of  Mrs.  Grant  for  the  second  fortnight  to 

Mrs.  .     It  can  make  no  difference  to  her  which,  of 

the  twenty-six  fortnights  in  the  year  the  3  vols,  lie  on 
her  table.  I  have  been  applied  to  for  information  as 
to  the  oath  taken  in  former  times  of  Bell,  Book,  and 
Candle,  but  have  none  to  give.  Perhaps  you  may  be 
able  to  learn  something  of  its  origin  where  you  now 
are.  Ladies  who  read  those  enormous  great  stupid 
thick  quarto  volumes  which  one  always  sees  in  the 
breakfast  parlour  there  must  be  acquainted  with  every- 
thing in  the  world.  I  detest  a  quarto.  Capt.  Pasley's 
book  is  too  good  for  their  society.  They  will  not 
understand  a  man  who  condenses  his  thoughts  into 
an  octavo.  I  have  learned  from  Sir  J.  Carr  that  there 
is  no  Government  House  at  Gibraltar.  I  must  alter 
it  to  the  Commissioner's.' 

The  following  letter  belongs  to  the  same  year,  but 


102  A  Mcmcir  of 


treats  of  a  different  subject.  It  describes  a  journey 
from  Chawton  to  London,  in  her  brother's  curricle, 
and  shows  how  much  could  be  seen  and  enjoyed  in 
course  of  a  long  summer's  day  by  leisurely  travelling 
amongst  scenery  which  the  traveller  In  an  express 
train  now  rushes  through  in  little  more  than  an  hour, 
but  scarcely  sees  at  all : — 

'Sloane  Street,  Thursday,  May  20  (1S13). 

*Mv  DEAR  Cassandra, 
*  Before  I  say  anything  else,  I  claim  a  paper  full  of 
halfpence  on  the  drawing-room  mantel-piece  ;  I  put 
them  there  myself,  and  forgot  to  bring  them  with  me. 
I  cannot  say  that  I  have  yet  been  in  any  distress  for 
money,  but  I  chuse  to  have  my  due,  as  well  as  the 
Devil.  How  lucky  we  were  in  our  weather  yesterday! 
This  wet  morning  makes  one  more  sensible  of  it.  We 
had  no  rain  of  any  consequence.  The  head  of  the 
curricle  was  put  half  up  three  or  four  times,  but  our 
share  of  the  showers  was  very  trifling,  though  they 
seemed  to  be  heavy  all  round  us,  when  we  were  on 
the  Hog's-back,  and  I  fancied  it  might  then  be  raining 
so  hard  at  Chawton  as  to  make  yotvx  feel  for  us  much 
more  than  we  deserved.  Three  hours  and  a  quarter 
took  us  to  Guildford,  where  we  staid  barely  two  hours, 
and  had  only  just  time  enough  for  all  we  had  to  do 
there ;  that  is,  eating  a  long  and  comfortable  breakfast, 
watching  the  carriages,  paying  Mr.  Harrington,  and 
taking  a  little  stroll  afterwards.  From  some  views 
which  that  stroll  gave  us,  I  think  most  highly  of  the 
situation  of  Guildford.     Wc  wanted  all  our  brothers 


Jane  Austen.  103 

aiid  sisters  to  be  standing  with  us  in  the  bowlir.g- 
green,  and  looking  towards  Horsham.  I  was  very 
lucky  in  my  gloves — got  them  at  the  first  shop  I 
went  to,  though  I  went  into  it  rather  because  it  w^as 
near  than  because  it  looked  at  all  like  a  glove  shop, 
and  gave  only  four  shillings  for  them  ;  after  which 
everybody  at  Chawton  will  be  hoping  and  predicting 
that  they  cannot  be  good  for  anything,  and  their 
worth  certainly  remains  to  be  proved  ;  but  I  think  they 
look  very  Avell.  We  left  Guildford  at  twenty  minutes 
before  twelve  (I  hope  somebody  cares  for  these 
minutiae),  and  were  at  Esher  in  about  two  hours  more. 
I  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  country  in  general. 
Between  Guildford  and  Ripley  I  thought  it  particularly 
prett}',  also  about  Painshill  ;  and  from:  a  ]\Ir.  Spicer's 
grounds  at  Esher,  which  we  walked  into  before  dinner, 
the  views  were  beautiful.  I  cannot  say  what  we  did 
not  see,  but  I  should  think  there  could  not  be  a 
wood,  or  a  meadow,  or  palace,  or  remarkable  spot  in 
I^2ngland  that  was  not  spread  out  before  us  on  one 
side  or  other.  Claremont  is  cfoincr  to  be  sold  :  a  Mr. 
KUis  has  it  now.  It  is  a  house  that  seems  never  to 
have  prospered.  After  dinner  we  walked  forward 
to  be  overtaken  at  the  coachman's  time,  and  before 
he  did  overtake  us  we  were  very  near  Kingston.  I 
fancy  it  was  about  half-past  six  when  we  reached  this 
house — a  twelve  hours'  business,  and  the  horses  did  not 
appear  more  than  reasonably  tired.  I  was  very  tired 
too.  and  glad  to  get  to  bed  early,  but  am  quite  well 
to-day.  I  am  very  snug  in  the  front  drawing-room 
all    to  myself,  and   would  not  say  "  thank  you "  for 


r04  A  Memoir  of 


any  company  but  you.  The  quietness  of  it  does  me 
good.  I  have  contrived  to  pay  my  two  visits,  though 
the  weather  made  me  a  great  while  about  it,  and  left 
me  only  a  few  minutes  to  sit  with  Charlotte  Craven.* 
She  looks  very  well,  and  her  hair  is  done  up  with 
an  elegance  to  do  credit  to  any  education.  Her 
manners  are  as  unaffected  and  pleasing  as  ever.  She 
had  heard  from  her  mother  to-day.  Mrs.  Craven 
spends  another  fortnight  at  Chilton.  I  saw  nobody 
but  Charlotte,  which  pleased  me  best.  I  was  shewn 
upstairs  into  a  drawing-room,  where  she  came  to  me, 
and  the  appearance  of  the  room,  so  totally  unschool- 
like,  amused  me  very  much ;  it  was  full  of  modern 
elegancies. 

'  Yours  very  affec*'^',  '  J.  A.' 

The  next  letter,  written  in  the  following  year, 
contains  an  account  of  another  journey  to  London, 
with  her  brother  Henry,  and  reading  with  him  the 
manuscript  of  '  Mansfield  Park  ' : — 

'  Henrietta  Street,  Wednesday,  March  2  (1814). 

'  Mv  DEAR  Cassandra, 
*You  were  wrong  in  thinking  of  us  at  Gruildford 
last  night :  we  were  at  Cobham.  On  reaching  G. 
we  found  that  John  and  the  horses  were  gone  on. 
We  therefore  did  no  more  than  we  had  done  at 
Farnham — sit  in  the  carriage  while  fresh  horses  were 
put  in,  and  proceeded  directly  to  Cobham,  which  we 

*  The  present  Lady  Pollen,  of  Redenham,  near  Andover,  then  ai  a 
school  in  T^ondon. 


Jane  Austen.  105 


reached  by  seven,  and  about  eight  were  sitting  down 
to  a  very  nice  roast  fowl,  &c.  We  had  altogether  a  very 
good  journey,  and  everything  at  Cobham  was  comfort- 
able. I  could  not  pay  Mr.  Harrington  !  That  was  the 
only  alas  !  of  the  business.  I  shall  therefore  return 
his  bill,  and  my  mother's  2/.,  that  you  may  tr>'  your 
luck.  We  did  not  begin  reading  till  Bentley  Green. 
Henry's  approbation  is  hitherto  even  equal  to  my 
wishes.  He  says  it  is  different  from  the  other  two, 
but  does  not  appear  to  think  it  at  all  inferior.  He 
has  only  married  Mrs.  R.  I  am  afraid  he  has  gone 
through  the  most  entertaining  part.  He  took  to 
Lady  B.  and  Mrs.  N.  most  kindly,  and  gives  great 
praise  to  the  drawing  of  the  characters.  He  under- 
stands them  all,  likes  Fanny,  and,  I  think,  foresees  how 
it  will  all  be.  I  finished  the  "  Heroine  "  last  night,  and 
was  very  much  amused  by  it.  I  wonder  James  did 
not  like  it  better.  It  diverted  me  exceedingly.  We 
went  to  bed  at  ten.  I  was  very  tired,  but  slept  to  a 
miracle,  and  am  lovely  to-day,  and  at  present  Henry 
seems  to  have  no  complaint.  We  left  Cobham  at 
half-past  eight,  stopped  to  bait  and  breakfast  at  King- 
ston, and  were  in  this  house  considerably  before  two. 
Nice  smiling  Mr.  Barlowe  met  us  at  the  door  and,  in 
reply  to  enquiries  after  news,  said  that  peace  was 
generally  expected.  I  have  taken  possession  of  my 
bedroom,  unpacked  my  bandbox,  sent  Miss  P.'s  two 
letters  to  the  twopenny  post,  been  visited  by  M"^*  B., 
and  am  now  writing  by  myself  at  the  new  table  in 
the  front  room.  It  is  snowing.  W^e  had  some  snow- 
storms yesterday,  and  a  smart  frost  at  night,  which 


io6  A  Memoir  of 


gave  us  a  hard  road  from  Cobham  to  Kingston  ;  but 
as  it  was  then  getting  dirty  and  heavy,  Henry  had  a 
pair  of  leaders  put  on  to  the  bottom  of  Sloane  St. 
His  own  horses,  therefore,  cannot  have  had  hard  work. 
I  watched  for  veils  as  we  drove  through  the  streets, 
and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  several  upon  vulgar 
heads.  And  now,  how  do  you  all  do  .-^ — you  in  par- 
ticular, after  the  worry  of  yesterday  and  the  day 
before.  I  hope  Martha  had  a  pleasant  visit  again, 
and  that  you  and  my  mother  could  eat  your  beef- 
pudding.  Depend  upon  my  thinking  of  the  chimney- 
sweeper as  soon  as  I  wake  to-morrow.  Places  are 
secured  at  Drury  Lane  for  Saturday,  but  so  great  is 
the  rage  for  seeing  Kean  that  only  a  third  and  fourth 
row  could  be  got ;  as  it  is  in  a  front  box,  however,  I 
hope  we  shall  do  pretty  well— Shylock,  a  good  play 
for  Fanny — she  cannot  be  much  affected,  I  think 
Mrs.  Perigord  has  just  been  here.  She  tells  me  that 
we  owe  her  master  for  the  silk-dyeing.  My  poor 
old  muslin  has  never  been  dyed  yet.  It  has  been 
promised  to  be  done  several  times.  What  wicked 
people  dyers  are.  They  begin  with  dipping  their 
own  souls  in  scarlet  sin.  It  is  evening.  We  have 
drank  tea,  and  I  have  torn  through  the  third  vol.  of 
the  "  Heroine."  I  do  not  think  it  falls  off.  It  is  a 
delightful  burlesque,  particularly  on  the  Radcliffe 
style,  tienry  is  going  on  with  ''Mansfield  Park."  He 
admires  H.  Crawford  :  I  mean  properly,  as  a  clever, 
pleasant  man.  I  tell  you  all  the  good  I  can,  as  I 
know  how  much  you  will  enjoy  it.  We  hear  that 
Mr.  Kean  is  more  admired  than  ever.     There  are  no 


Jane  Austen.  107 


£^ood  places  to  be  got  in  Driiry  Lane  for  the  next 
fortnii^lit,  but  Henry  means  to  secure  some  for  Satur- 
day fortniglit,  when  you  are  reckoned  upon.  Give 
my  love  to  little  Cass.  I  hope  she  found  my  bed 
comfortable  last  night.  I  have  seen  nobody  in  Lon- 
don yet  with  such  a  long  chin  as  Dr.  Syntax,  \\:>x 
an>l^ody  quite  so  large  as  Gogmagolicus. 

'Yours  aff'y., 

*J.  Austen.* 


1 08  A  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER   VTI. 

Seclusion  from  the  literary  7vorld — Notice  from  the  Prince  Regent — 
Correspondence  with  Mr.  Clarke — Suggestions  to  alter  her  style  of 
writing. 

Jane  Austen  lived  in  entire  seclusion  from  the 
literary  world :  neither  by  correspondence,  nor  by 
personal  intercourse  was  she  known  to  any  contem- 
porary authors.  It  is  probable  that  she  never  was  in 
company  with  any  person  whose  talents  or  whose 
celebrity  equalled  her  own  ;  so  that  her  powers  never 
could  have  been  sharpened  by  collision  with  superior 
intellects,  nor  her  imagination  aided  by  their  casual 
suggestions.  Whatever  she  produced  was  a  genuine 
home-made  article.  Even  during  the  last  two  or 
three  years  of  her  life,  when  her  works  were  rising  in 
the  estimation  of  the  public,  they  did  not  enlarge 
the  circle  of  her  acquaintance.  Few  of  her  readers 
knew  even  her  name,  and  none  knew  more  of  her 
than  her  name.  I  doubt  whether  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  mention  any  other  author  of  note,  whose 
personal  obscurity  was  so  complete.  I  can  think  of 
none  like  her,  but  of  many  to  contrast  with  her  in 
that  respect.  Fanny  Burney,  afterwards  Madame 
D'Arblay,  was  at  an  early  age  petted  by  Dr.  Johnson, 


Jane  Austen.  109 


and  introduced  to  the  wits  and  scholars  of  the  day 
at  the  tables  of  Mrs.  Thrale  and  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds. Anna  Seward,  in  her  self-constituted  shrine 
at  Lichfield,  would  have  been  miserable,  had  she  not 
trusted  that  the  e\'es  of  all  lovers  of  poetry  were 
devoutly  fixed  on  her.  Joanna  Baillie  and  Maria 
Edgeworth  were  indeed  far  from  courting  publicity ; 
they  loved  the  privacy  of  their  own  families,  one  with 
her  brother  and  sister  in  their  Hampstead  villa,  the 
other  in  her  more  distant  retreat  in  Ireland ;  but 
fame  pursued  them,  and  they  were  the  favourite  cor- 
respondents of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Crabbe,  who  was 
usually  buried  in  a  country  parish,  yet  sometimes 
visited  London,  and  dined  at  Holland  House,  and  was 
received  as  a  fellow-poet  by  Campbell,  M^ore,  and 
Rogers;  and  on  one  memorable  occasion  he  was 
Scott's  guest  at  Edinburgh,  and  gazed  with  wonder- 
ing eyes  on  the  incongruous  pageantry  with  which 
George  IV.  was  entertained  in  that  city.  Even  those 
great  writers  who  hid  themselves  amongst  lakes  and 
mountains  associated  with  each  other;  and  though 
little  seen  by  the  world  were  so  much  in  its  thoughts 
that  a  new  term,  *  Lakers,'  was  coined  to  designate 
them.  The  chief  part  of  Charlotte  Bronte's  life  was 
spent  in  a  wild  solitude  compared  with  which  Ste- 
venton  and  Chawton  might  be  considered  to  be  in 
the  gay  world ;  and  yet  she  attained  to  personal 
distinction  which  never  fell  to  Jane's  lot.  When  she 
visited  her  kind  publisher  in  London,  literaiy  men 
and  women  were  invited  purposely  to  meet  her : 
Thackeray    bestowed    upon   her   the   honour   of   his 


1 10  A  Memoir  of 


notice ;  and  once  in  Willis's  Rooms,*  she  had  to 
walk  shy  and  trembling  through  an  avenue  of  lords 
and  ladies,  drawn  up  for  the  purpose  of  gazing  at 
the  author  of  'Jane  Eyre.'  JMiss  Pslitford,  too,  lived 
quietly  in  *  Our  Village,'  devoting  her  time  and  talents 
to  the  benefit  of  a  father  scarcely  worth  of  her ;  but 
she  did  not  live  there  unknown.  Her  tragedies  gave 
her  a  name  in  London.  She  numbered  Milman  and 
Talfourd  amongst  her  correspondents  ;  and  her  works 
v.cre  a  passport  to  the  society  of  many  who  would 
not  otherwise  have  sought  her.  Hundreds  admired 
Miss  Mitford  on  account  of  her  writings  for  one  v.'ho 
ever  connected  the  idea  of  Miss  Austen  with  the 
press.  A  few  years  ago,  a  gentleman  \'isiting  Win- 
chester Cathedral  desired  to  be  shown  Miss  Austen's 
grave.  The  verger,  as  he  pointed  it  out,  asked, 
'  Pray,  sir,  can  you  tell  me  whether  there  was  any- 
thing particular  about  that  lady ;  so  many  people 
want  to  know  where  she  was  buried  .'' '  During  her 
life  the  ignorance  of  the  verger  was  shared  by  most 
people ;  few  knew  that  '  there  was  an\'thing  par- 
ticular about  that  lady.' 

It  was  not  till  towards  the  close  of  her  life,  when 
the  last  of  the  works  that  she  saw  published  was  in 
the  press,  that  she  received  the  only  mark  of  dis- 
tinction ever  bestowed  upon  her ;  and  that  was  re- 
markable for  the  high  quarter  whence  it  emanated 
rather  than  for  any  actual  increase  of  fame  that  it 
conferred.  It  happened  thus.  In  the  autumn  of 
1815  she  nursed  her  brother  Henry  through  a  daa- 
*  Sec  Mrs.  Gaskell's  'Life  of  ]Mi.ss  Lronte,'  vol.  ii.  p.  215. 


Jane  Austen.  '  m 


p^croiis  fever  and  slow  convalescence  at  his  house  in 
Hans  Place.  He  was  attended  by  one  of  the  Prince 
Regent's  physicians.  All  attempts  to  keep  her  name 
secret  had  at  this  time  ceased,  and  though  it  had 
never  appeared  on  a  title-page,  all  who  cared  to 
know  might  easily  learn  it :  and  the  friendly  phy- 
sician was  aware  that  his  patient's  nurse  was  the 
author  of  'Pride  and  Prejudice.'  Accordingly  he 
informed  her  one  day  that  the  Prince  was  a  great 
admirer  of  her  novels  ;  that  he  read  them  often,  and 
kept  a  set  in  every  one  of  his  residences  ;  that  he 
himself  therefore  had  thought  it  right  to  inform  his 
Royal  Highness  that  IMiss  Austen  was  staying  in 
London,  and  that  the  Prince  had  desired  Mr.  Clarke, 
the  librarian  of  Carlton  House,  to  wait  upon  her. 
The  next  day  Mr.  Clarke  made  his  appearance,  and 
invited  her  to  Carlton  House,  saying  that  he  had 
the  Prince's  instructions  to  shovv-  her  the  library  and 
other  apartments,  and  to  pay  her  every  possible  atten- 
tion. The  invitation  was  of  course  accepted,  and 
during  tlic  visit  to  Carlton  House  Mr.  Clarke  de- 
clared himself  commissioned  to  say  that  if  Miss 
Austen  had  any  other  novel  forthcoming  she  was  at 
liberty  to  dedicate  it  to  the  Prince.  Accordingly  such 
a  dedication  was  immediately  prefixed  to  *  Emma,' 
which  was  at  that  time  in  the  press. 

Mr.  Clarke  was  the  brother  of  Dr.  Clarke,  the 
traveller  and  mineralogist,  whose  life  has  been  written 
by  Bishop  Otter.  Jane  found  in  him  not  only  a  very 
courteous  gentleman,  but  also  a  warm  admirer  of  her 
talents  ;  though  it  v/ill  be  seen  by  his  letters  that  he 


T  T  2  A  Alemoir  of 

did  not  clearly  apprehend  the  limits  of  her  powers, 
or  the  proper  field  for  their  exercise.  The  following 
correspondence  took  place  between  them. 

Feeling  some  apprehension  lest  she  should  make  a 
mistake  in  acting  on  the  verbal  permission  which  she 
had  received  from  the  Prince,  Jane  addressed  the 
following  letter  to  Mr.  Clarke  : — 

'Nov.  15,  1815. 

*  Sir, — I  must  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  a 
question.  Among  the  many  flattering  attentions 
which  I  received  from  you  at  Carlton  House  on 
Monday  last  was  the  information  of  my  being  at 
liberty  to  dedicate  any  future  work  to  His  Royal 
Highness  the  Prince  Regent,  without  the  necessity 
of  any  solicitation  on  my  part.  Such,  at  least,  I 
believed  to  be  your  words ;  but  as  I  am  very  anxious 
to  be  quite  certain  of  what  was  intended,  I  entreat 
you  to  have  the  goodness  to  inform  me  how  such  a 
permission  is  to  be  understood,  and  whether  it  is 
incumbent  on  me  to  show  my  sense  of  the  honour  by 
inscribing  the  work  now  in  the  press  to  His  Royal 
Highness  ;  I  should  be  equally  concerned  to  appear 
either  presumptuous  or  ungrateful.' 

The  following  gracious  answer  was  returned  by 
Mr.  Clarke,  together  with  a  suggestion  which  must 
have  been  received  with  some  surprise  : — 

'Carlton  House,  Nov.  16,  1815. 

*  Dear  Madam, — It  is  certainly  not  iiiainibcnt  on 
you  to  dedicate  your  work  now  in  the  press  to  His 


Jane  Austen.  '  113 


Royal  Highness  ;  but  if  you  wish  to  do  the  Regent 
that  honour  either  now  or  at  any  future  period  I  am 
happy  to  send  you  that  permission,  which  need  not 
require  any  more  trouble  or  solicitation  on  your  part. 

*  Your  late  works,  Madam,  and  in  particular  "  Mans- 
field Park,"  reflect  the  highest  honour  on  your  genius 
and  your  principles.  In  every  new  work  your  mind 
seems  to  increase  its  energy  and  power  of  discrimi- 
nation. The  Regent  has  read  and  admired  all  your 
publications. 

*  Accept  my  best  thanks  for  the  pleasure  your 
volumes  have  given  me.  In  the  perusal  of  them  I 
felt  a  great  inclination  to  write  and  say  so.  And  I 
also,  dear  Madam,  wished  to  be  allowed  to  ask  you 
to  delineate  in  some  future  work  the  habits  of  life, 
and  character,  and  enthusiasm  of  a  clergyman,  who 
should  pass  his  time  between  the  metropolis  and  the 
country,  who  should  be  something  like  Beattie's 
Minstrel — 

Silent  when  glad,  affectionate  tho'  shy, 

And  in  his  looks  was  most  demurely  sad  ; 
And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why. 

Neither  Goldsmith,  nor  La  Fontaine  in  his  "  Tableau 
de  Famille,"  have  in  my  mind  quite  delineated  an 
English  clergyman,  at  least  of  the  present  day,  fond 
of  and  entirely  engaged  in  literature,  no  man's  enemy 
but  his  own.  Pray,  dear  Madam,  think  of  these 
thingcs. 

*  Beheve  me  at  all  times  with  sincerity  and 
respect,  your  faithful  and  obliged  servant. 
*J.  S.  Clarke,  Librarian.' 
I 


■t>' 


1 14  A  Memoir  of 


The  following  letter,  written  in  reply,  will  show 
how  unequal  the  author  of  'Pride  and  Prejudice' 
felt  herself  to  delineating  an  enthusiastic  clergyman 
of  the  present  day,  who  should  resemble  Beattie's 
Minstrel : — 

*Dec.  II. 

*  Dear  Sir, — My  "  Emma  "  is  now  so  near  pub- 
lication that  I  feel  it  right  to  assure  you  of  my  not 
having  forgotten  your  kind  recommendation  of  an 
early  copy  for  Carlton  House,  and  that  I  have  Mr. 
Murray's  promise  of  its  being  sent  to  His  Royal 
Highness,  under  cover  to  you,  three  days  previous  to 
the  work  being  really  out.  I  must  make  use  of  this 
opportunity  to  thank  you,  dear  Sir,  for  the  very  high 
praise  you  bestow  on  my  other  novels.  I  am  too 
vain  to  wish  to  convince  you  that  you  have  praised 
them  beyond  their  merits.  My  greatest  anxiety  at 
present  is  that  this  fourth  work  should  not  disgrace 
what  was  good  in  the  others.  But  on  this  point  I 
will  do  myself  the  justice  to  declare  that,  whatever 
may  be  my  wishes  for  its  success,  I  am  strongly 
haunted  with  the  idea  that  to  those  readers  who  have 
preferred  "  Pride  and  Prejudice "  it  will  appear  in- 
ferior in  wit,  and  to  those  who  have  preferred  "  Mans- 
field Park "  inferior  in  good  sense.  Such  as  it  is, 
however,  I  hope  you  will  do  me  the  favour  of  accept- 
ing a  copy.  Mr.  Murray  will  have  directions  for 
sending  one.  I  am  quite  honoured  by  your  thinking 
me  capable  of  drawing  such  a  clergyman  as  you  gave 
the   sketch  of  in   your   note  of   Nov.    i6th.     But   I 


Jane  Austen.  '  115 


assure  you  I  am  not.  The  comic  part  of  the  cha- 
racter I  miglit  be  equal  to,  but  not  the  good,  the 
enthusiastic,  the  Hterary.  Such  a  man's  conversation 
must  at  times  be  on  subjects  of  science  and  philoso- 
phy, of  wliich  I  know  nothing;  or  at  least  be  occa- 
sionally abundant  in  quotations  and  allusions  which 
a  woman  who,  like  me,  knows  only  her  own  mother 
tongue,  and  has  read  little  in  that,  would  be  totally 
without  the  power  of  giv^ing.  A  classical  education, 
or  at  any  rate  a  very  extensive  acquaintance  with 
English  literature,  ancient  and  modern,  appears  to 
me  quite  indispensable  for  the  person  who  would  do 
any  justice  to  your  clergyman  ;  and  I  think  I  may 
boast  myself  to  be,  with  all  possible  vanity,  the  most 
unlearned  and  uninformed  female  wlio  ever  dared  to 
be  an  authoress. 

*  Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 
'  Your  obliged  and  faithful  hunV'^  Ser^ 

'Jane  Austex.'* 

Mr.  Clarke,  however,  was  not  to  be  discouraged 
from  proposing  another  subject.  He  had  recently 
been  appointed  chaplain  and  private  English  secro- 
taiy  to  Prince  Leopold,  who  was  then  about  to 
be  united  to  the  Princess  Charlotte  ;  and  when  he 
again  wrote  to  express  the  gracious  thanks  of  the 
Prince  Regent  for  the  copy  of  'Emma*  which  had 
been  presented,  he  suggests    that  *  an  historical    ro- 

*  It  was  licr  pleasure  to  boast  of  greater  ignorance  tlian  ^he  had  any 
just  claim  to.  She  knew  more  than  her  mother  tongue,  for  she  knew  a 
good  fleal  of  French  and  a  Utile  of  Italian. 

I  2 


Ii6  A  Memoir  of 


mance  illustrative  of  the  august  House  of  Cobourg 
would  just  now  be  very  interesting,'  and  might  very 
properly  be  dedicated  to  Prince  Leopold.  This  was 
much  as  if  Sir  William  Ross  had  been  set  to  paint 
a  great  battle-piece  ;  and  it  is  amusing  to  see  with 
what  grave  civility  she  declined  a  proposal  which 
must  have  struck  her  as  ludicrous,  in  the  following 
letter  :— 

'  My  dear  Sir, — I  am  honoured  by  the  Prince's 
thanks  and  veiy  much  obliged  to  yourself  for  the 
kind  manner  in  which  you  mention  the  work.  I 
have  also  to  acknowledge  a  former  letter  forwarded 
to  me  from  Hans  Place.  I  assure  you  I  felt  very 
grateful  for  the  friendly  tenor  of  it,  and  hope  my 
silence  will  have  been  considered,  as  it  was  truly 
meant,  to  proceed  only  from  an  unwillingness  to  tax 
your  time  with  idle  thanks.  Under  every  interesting 
circumstance  which  your  own  talents  and  literary 
labours  have  placed  you  in,  or  the  favour  of  the 
Regent  bestowed,  you  have  my  best  wishes.  Your 
recent  appointments  I  hope  are  a  step  to  something 
still  better.  In  my  opinion,  the  service  of  a  court 
can  hardly  be  too  well  paid,  for  immense  must  be  the 
sacrifice  of  time  and  feeling  required  by  it. 

'  You  are  very  kind  in  your  hints  as  to  the  sort  of 
composition  which  might  recommend  me  at  present, 
and  I  am  fully  sensible  that  an  historical  romance, 
founded  on  the  House  of  Saxe  Cobourg,  might  be 
much  more  to  the  purpose  of  profit  or  popularity 
than  such  pictures  of  domestic  life  in  countr}^  vilhjges 


Jane  A  usteri.  '  1 1 7 


as  I  deal  in.  But  I  could  no  more  write  a  romance 
than  an  epic  poem.  I  could  not  sit  seriously  down 
to  write  a  serious  romance  under  any  other  motive 
than  to  save  my  life ;  and  if  it  were  indispensable  foi 
me  to  keep  it  up  and  never  relax  into  laughing  at 
myself  or  at  other  people,  I  am  sure  I  should  be 
hung  before  I  had  finished  the  first  chapter.  No, 
I  must  keep  to  my  own  style  and  go  on  in  my  own 
way  ;  and  though  I  may  nex'cr  succeed  again  in  that, 
I  am  convinced  that  I  should  totally  fail  in  any  other. 
'  I  remain,  my  dear  Sir, 
'  Your  very  much  obliged,  and  sincere  friend, 

'  J.  Austen. 

'Chawton,  near  Alton,  April  I,  i8i6.' 

Mr.  Clarke  should  have  recollected  the  warning  of 
the  wise  man,  *  Force  not  the  course  of  the  river.' 
If  you  divert  it  from  the  channel  in  which  nature 
taught  it  to  flow,  and  force  it  into  one  arbitrarily  cut 
by  yourself,  you  will  lose  its  grace  and  beauty. 

But  when  his  free  course  is  not  hindered, 

He  makes  sweet  music  with  the  enamelled  stones, 

Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 

He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  : 

And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays 

With  willing  sport. 

All  writers  of  fiction,  who  have  genius  strong 
enough  to  work  out  a  course  of  their  own,  resist  every 
attempt  to  interfere  with  its  direction.  No  two 
writers  could  be  more  unlike  each  other  than  Jane 
Austen  and  Charlotte  Bronte  ;  so  much  so  that  the 
latter  was  unable  to  understand  why  the  former  was 


ii8  A  Memotf  uj 


admired,  and  confessed  that  she  herself  '  should  hardly 
like  to  live  with  her  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  their 
elegant  but  confined  houses  ;'  but  each  writer  equally 
resisted  interference  with  her  own  natural  style  of 
composition.  Miss  Bronte,  in  reply  to  a  friendly 
critic,  who  had  warned  her  against  being  too  melo- 
dramatic, and  had  ventured  to  propose  Miss  Austen's 
works  to  her  as  a  study,  writes  thus  : — 

'Whenever  I  do  write  another  book,  I  think  I  will 
have  nothing  of  what  you  call  "melodrama."  I  tJiiiik 
so,  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  tluiik,  too,  I  will  endeavour 
to  follow  the  counsel  which  shines  out  of  Miss  Aus- 
ten's "mild  eyes,"  to  finish  more,  and  be  more  sub- 
dued ;  but  neither  am  I  sure  of  that.  When  authors 
write  best,  or,  at  least,  when  they  write  most  fluently, 
an  influence  seems  to  waken  in  them  which  becomes 
their  master — which  will  have  its  way — putting  out 
of  view  all  behests  but  its  own,  dictating  certain 
words,  and  Insisting  on  their  being  used,  whether 
vehement  or  measured  in  their  nature,  new  moulding 
characters,  giving  unthought  of  turns  to  incidents, 
rejecting  carefully  elaborated  old  ideas,  and  suddenly 
creating  and  adopting  new  ones.  Is  it  not  so )  And 
should  we  try  to  counteract  this  influence  }  Can  we 
indeed  counteract  it  V  * 

The  playful  raillery  with  which  the  one  parries  an 
attack  on  her  liberty,  and  the  vehement  eloquence  of 
the  other  in  pleading  the  same  cause  and  maintaining 
the  independence  of  genius,  arc  very  characteristic  of 
the  minds  of  the  respective  writers, 

'^  Mrs.  GaskcU's  '  Life  of  Miss  Crontc,'  vol.  ii.  p.  53. 


Jane  Aiisicn.  '  119 


The  suggestions  which  Jane  received  as  to  the  sort 
of  story  that  she  ought  to  write  were,  however,  an 
amusement  to  her,  though  they  were  not  hkely  to 
prove  useful  ;  and  she  has  left  amongst  her  papers 
one  entitled,  *  Plan  of  a  novel  according  to  hints  from 
various  quarters.'  The  names  of  some  of  those  ad- 
visers are  written  on  the  margin  of  the  manuscript 
opposite  to  their  respective  suggestions. 

'  Heroine  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  who 
after  having  lived  much  in  the  world  had  retired  from 
it,  and  settled  on  a  curacy  with  a  very  small  fortune 
of  his  own.  The  most  excellent  man  that  can  be 
imagined,  perfect  in  character,  temper,  and  manner, 
without  the  smallest  drawback  or  peculiarity  to  pre- 
vent his  being  the  most  delightful  companion  to  his 
daughter  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  Hcvoine 
faultless  In  character,  beautiful  in  person,  and  pos- 
sessing every  possible  accomplishment.  Book  to  open 
with  father  and  daughter  conversing  in  long  speeches, 
elegant  language,  and  a  tone  of  high  serious  senti- 
ment. The  father  induced,  at  his  daughter's  earnest 
request,  to  relate  to  her  the  past  events  of  his  life. 
Narrative  to  reach  through  the  greater  part  of  the 
first  volume  ;  as  besides  all  the  circumstances  of  his 
attachment  to  her  mother,  and  their  marriage,  it  will 
comprehend  his  going  to  sea  as  chaplain  to  a  distin- 
guished naval  character  about  the  court  ;  and  his 
going  afterwards  to  court  himself,  which  involved  him 
in  many  interesting  situations,  concluding  with  his 
opinion  of  the  benefits  of  tithes  being  done  away  v/Ith. 
,  .  .  FroTii  this  outset  the  stor}'  will  proceed,  and  con- 


£20  A  Memoir  of 


tain  a  striking  variety  of  adventures.  Father  an  ex- 
emplary parish  priest,  and  devoted  to  Hterature ;  but 
heroine  and  father  never  above  a  fortnight  in  one 
place  :  he  being  driven  from  his  curacy  by  the  vile 
arts  of  some  totally  unprincipled  and  heartless  young 
man,  desperately  in  love  with  the  heroine,  and  pur- 
suing her  with  unrelenting  passion.  No  sooner  set- 
tled in  one  country  of  Europe,  than  they  are  compelled 
to  quit  it,  and  retire  to  another,  always  leaking  new 
acquaintance,  and  always  obliged  to  leave  them  This 
will  of  course  exhibit  a  wide  variety  of  character. 
The  scene  will  be  for  ever  shifting  from  one  set  of 
people  to  another,  but  there  will  be  no  mixture,  all 
the  good  will  be  unexceptionable  in  every  respect. 
There  will  be  no  foibles  or  weaknesses  but  with  the 
wicked,  who  will  be  completely  depraved  and  in- 
famous, hardly  a  resemblance  of  humanity  left  in 
ihem.  Early  in  her  career,  the  heroine  must  meet 
with  the  hero  :  all  perfection,  of  course,  and  only  pre- 
vented from  paying  his  addresses  to  her  by  some 
excess  of  refinement.  Wherever  she  goes,  somebody 
falls  in  love  with  her,  and  she  receives  repeated  offers 
of  marriage,  which  she  refers  wholly  to  her  father, 
exceedingly  angry  that  he  should  not  be  the  first 
applied  to.  Often  carried  away  by  the  anti-hero,  but 
rescued  either  by  her  father  or  the  hero.  Often  re- 
duced to  support  herself  and  her  father  by  her  talents, 
and  work  for  her  bread  ;  continually  cheated,  and 
defrauded  of  her  hire  ;  worn  down  to  a  skeleton,  and 
now  and  then  starved  to  death.  At  last,  hunted  out 
of  civilised  society,  denied  the  poor  shelter  of  the 


Jane  Austen.  '  I21 


humblest  cottage,  they  are  compelled  to  retreat  into 
Kamtschatka,  where  the  poor  father  quite  worn  down, 
finding  his  end  approaching,  throws  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  after  four  or  five  hours  of  tender  advice 
and  parental  admonition  to  his  miserable  child,  ex- 
pires in  a  fine  burst  of  literary  enthusiasm,  inter- 
mingled with  invectives  against  the  holders  of  tithes. 
Heroine  inconsolable  for  some  time,  but  afterwards 
crawls  back  towards  her  former  country,  having  at 
least  twenty  narrow  escapes  of  falling  into  the  hands 
of  anti-hero  ;  and  at  last,  in  the  very  nick  of  time, 
turning  a  corner  to  avoid  him,  runs  into  the  arms  of 
the  hero  himself,  who,  having  just  shaken  off  the 
scruples  which  fettered  him  before,  was  at  the  very 
moment  setting  off  in  pursuit  of  her.  The  tenderest 
and  completest  ^claircissevieiit  takes  place,  and  they 
are  happily  united.  Throughout  the  whole  work 
heroine  to  be  in  the  most  elegant  society,  and  living 
in  high  style.' 

Since  the  first  publication  of  this  memoir.  Air. 
Murray  of  Albemarle  Street  has  very  kindly  sent  to 
me  copies  of  the  following  letters,  which  his  father 
received  from  Jane  Austen,  when  engaged  in  the 
publication  of  '  Emma.'  The  increasing  cordiality  of 
the  letters  shows  that  the  author  felt  that  her  inte- 
rests were  duly  cared  for,  and  was  glad  to  find  herself 
in  the  hands  of  a  publisher  whom  she  could  consider 
as  a  friend. 

Her  brother  had  addressed  to  Mr.  Murray  a  strong 
complaint  of  the  tardiness  of  a  printer  : — 


122  A  Memoir  of 


'23  Hans  Place,  Thursday,  November  23  (1815). 

i  SlR^ — My  brother's  note  last  Monday  has  been  so 
fruitless,  that  I  am  afraid  there  can  be  but  little 
chance  of  my  writing  to  any  good  effect ;  but  yet  I 
am  so  very  much  disappointed  and  vexed  by  tiie 
delays  of  the  printers,  that  I  cannot  help  begging  to 
know  whether  there  is  no  hope  of  their  being  quick- 
ened. Instead  of  the  work  being  ready  by  the  end 
of  the  present  month,  it  will  hardly,  at  the  rate  we 
now  proceed,  be  finished  by  the  end  of  the  next ;  and 
as  I  expect  to  leave  London  early  in  December,  it  is 
of  consequence  that  no  more  time  should  be  lost.  Is 
it  likely  that  the  printers  will  be  influenced  to  greater 
dispatch  and  punctuality  by  knowing  that  the  work 
is  to  be  dedicated,  by  permission,  to  the  Prince 
Re""ent .''  If  you  can  make  that  circumstance  operate, 
I  shall  be  very  glad.  My  brother  returns  *  Waterloo' 
with  many  thanks  for  the  loan  of  it.  We  have  heard 
much  of  Scott's  account  of  Paris.*-  If  it  be  not 
incompatible  with  other  arrangements,  would  you 
favour  us  with  it,  supposing  you  have  any  set  already 
opened  }     You  may  depend  upon  its  being  in  careful 

hands. 

*  I  remani,  Sir,  your  ob*'  humble  Se** 

*J.  Austen.' 

'Hans  Place,  December  ii  (1S15). 
'Dear  Sir, — As  I  find  that  "Emma"  is  advertised 
for  publication  as  early  as  Saturday  next,  I  think  it 
best  to  lose  no  time  in  settling  all  that  remains  to  be 

*  This  must  have  been  *  Paul's  LeUers  to  his  Kinsfollv.' 


Jane  Aiisfcn.  '  123 


settled  on  the  subject,  and  adopt   this  method  as  in- 
volving the  smallest  tax  on  your  time. 

*  In  the  first  place,  I  bc^^  you  to  understand  that  I 
leave  the  terms  on  which  the  trade  should  be  sup- 
ph'ed  with  the  work  entirely  to  your  judgment,  en- 
treating you  to  be  guided  in  every  such  arrangement 
by  your  own  experience  of  what  is  most  likely  to 
clear  off  the  edition  rapidly.  I  shall  be  satisfied 
with  whatever  you  feel  to  be  best.  The  title-page 
must  be  "Emma,  dedicated  by  permission  to  H.R.}I. 
the  Prince  Regent."  And  it  is  my  particular  wish  that 
one  set  should  be  completed  and  sent  to  H.R.I  I.  two 
or  three  days  before  the  work  is  generally  public.  It 
should  be  sent  under  cover  to  the  Rev.  J.  S.  Clarke, 
Librarian,  Carlton  House.  I  shall  subjoin  a  list  of 
those  persons  to  whom  I  must  trouble  you  to  forward 
also  a  set  each,  when  the  work  is  out  ;  all  unbound, 
with  "  From  the  Authoress  "  in  the  first  page. 

*  I  return  you,  with  very  many  thanks,  the  books 
you  liave  so  obligingly  supplied  me  with.  I  am  veiy 
sensible,  I  assure  you,  of  the  attention  you  have  paid 
to  my  convenience  and  amusement.  I  return  also 
"  Mansfield  Park,"  as  ready  for  a  second  edition,  I 
believe,  as  I  can  make  it.  I  am  in  Hans  Place  till 
the  iCth.  From  that  day  inclusive,  my  direction  will 
be  Chawton,  Alton,  Hants. 

*  I  remain,  dear  Sir, 

•  V  faithful  humb.  Serv*- 

•J.  Austen. 

*  I  wish  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  send  a  line 


124  A  Memoir  of 


by  the  bearer,  stating  the  day  on  which  the  set  will  be 
ready  for  the  Prince  Regent.' 

'Hans  Place,  December  ii  (1815). 

'  Dear  Sir, — I  am  much  obHged  by  yours,  and 
very  happy  to  feel  everything  arranged  to  our  mutual 
satisfaction.  As  to  my  direction  about  the  title-page, 
it  was  arising  from  my  ignorance  only,  and  from  my 
having  never  noticed  the  proper  place  for  a  dedication. 
I  thank  you  for  putting  me  right.  Any  deviation 
from  what  is  usually  done  in  such  cases  is  the  last 
thing  I  should  wish  for.  I  feel  happy  in  having  a 
friend  to  save  me  from  the  ill  effect  of  my  own 
blunder. 

*  Yours,  dear  Sir,  &c. 

'J.  Austen.' 

*  Chawton,  April  i,  1816. 

'Dear  Sir, — I  return  you  the  "Quarterly  Review" 
with  many  thanks.  The  Authoress  of  "  Emma  "  has 
no  reason,  I  think,  to  complain  of  her  treatment  in  it, 
except  in  the  total  omission  of  "  Mansfield  Park."  1 
cannot  but  be  sorry  that  so  clever  a  man  as  the 
Reviewer  of  "  Emma  "  should  consider  it  as  unworthy 
of  being  noticed.  You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I 
have  received  the  Prince's  thanks  for  the  Juindsovie 
copy  I  sent  him  of  "  Emma."  Whatever  he  may  think 
of  my  share  of  the  work,  yours  seems  to  have  been 
quite  right. 

*  In  consequence  of  the  late  event  in  Henrietta 
Street,  I  must  request  that  if  you  should  at  any  time 


Jane  Austen.  '  125 


have  anything  to  communicate  by  letter,  you  will  be 
so  good  as  to  write  by  the  post,  directing  to  me  (Miss 
J.  Austen),  Chawton,  near  Alton  ;  and  that  for  any- 
thing of  a  larger  bulk,  you  will  add  to  the  same 
direction,  by  Collier  s  SoutJiaiupioi  coach. 
'  I  remain,  dear  Sir, 

'Yours  very  faithfully, 

•  J.  Austen.' 

About  the  same  time  the  following  letters  passed 
between  the  Countess  of  Morley  and  the  writer  of 
*  Emma.'  I  do  not  know  whether  they  were  personally 
acquainted  with  each  other,  nor  in  what  this  inter- 
change of  civilities  originated  : — 

The  Co7 111  less  of  Morley  to  Miss  J.  Austen. 

*  Saltram,  December  27  (1815;. 

'  Madam, — I  have  been  most  anxiously  waiting  for 
an  introduction  to  "Emma,"  and  am  infinitely  obliged 
to  you  for  your  kind  recollection  of  me,  which  will 
procure  me  the  pleasure  of  her  acquaintance  some 
days  sooner  than  I  should  otherwise  have  had  it.  I 
am  already  become  intimate  with  the  Woodhouse 
family,  and  feel  that  they  will  not  amuse  and  interest 
me  less  than  the  Bennetts,  Bertrams,  Norrises,  and 
all  their  admirable  predecessors.  I  can  give  them  no 
higher  praise. 

*  I  am.  Madam,  your  much  obliged 

'  F.  Morley.* 


126  A  Memoir  of 


Miss  y.  A  ustcn  to  the  Countess  of  Morley. 

*  Madam, — Accept  my  thanks  for  the  honour  of 
your  note,  and  for  }'our  kind  disposition  in  favour  of 
"Emma."  In  my  present  state  of  doubt  as  to  her  re- 
ception in  tlie  world,  it  is  particuLarly  gratifying  to 
me  to  receive  so  early  an  assurance  of  your  Lady- 
ship's approbation.  It  encourages  me  to  depend  on  the 
same  share  of  general  good  opinion  which  "Emma's" 
predecessors  have  experienced,  and  to  bclicn^e  that  1 
have  not  yet,  as  almost  every  writer  of  fancy  docs 
sooner  or  later,  overwritten  myself 
*  I  am.  Madam, 
'Your  obliged  and  faithful  Serv*' 

'  J.  Austen. 

*Dv.ccmber  31,  1S15,' 


Jane  Austen,  •  12/ 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Slow  groii'lJi  of  her  fame — ///  success  of  first  at  Ion  pis  at  puUicaiiOTi  — 
T-lCO  Rcvmi's  of  her  ivorks  contrasted. 

Seldom  has  any  litcrar>'  reputation  been  of  such 
slow  growth  as  that  of  Jane  Austen.  Readers  of  the 
present  day  know  thic  rank  that  is  generally  assigned 
to  her.  They  have  been  told  by  Archbisliop  Whately, 
in  his  review  of  her  works,  and  by  Lord  iMacaulay,  in 
his  review  of  IMadame  D'Arblay's,  the  reason  why 
the  highest  place  is  to  be  awarded  to  Jane  Austen,  us 
a  truthful  drawer  of  character,  and  \\hy  she  is  to  be 
classed  with  those  who  have  approached  nearest,  in 
that  respect,  to  the  great  master  Shakspcare.  1  hey 
see  her  safely  placed,  by  such  authorities,  in  her  niche, 
not  indeed  amongst  the  highest  orders  of  genius,  but 
in  one  confessedly  her  own,  in  our  British  temple  of 
literary  fame;  and  it  may  be  difficult  to  make  them 
believe  how  coldly  her  works  were  at  first  received, 
and  how  few  readers  had  any  appreciation  of  their 
peculiar  merits.  Sometimes  a  friend  or  neighbour, 
who  chanced  to  know  of  our  connection  with  the 
author,  would  condescend  to  speak  with  moderate 
approbation  of  *  Sense  and  Sensibility,'  or  '  Pride  and 
Prejudice';  but  if  they  had  known  that  we,  in  our 
secret  thoughts,  classed  her  with  Madame  D'Arblay 


lo^S  A  Memoir  of 


or  Miss  Edgeworth,  or  even  with  some  other  novel 
writers  of  the  day  whose  names  are  now  scarcely 
remembered,  they  would  have  considered  it  an 
amusing  instance  of  family  conceit  To  the  multi- 
tude her  works  appeared  tame  and  commonplace,* 
poor  in  colouring,  and  sadly  deficient  in  incident  and 
interest.  It  is  true  that  we  were  sometimes  cheered 
by  hearing  that  a  different  verdict  had  been  pro- 
nounced by  more  competent  judges  :  we  were  told 
how  some  great  statesman  or  distinguished  poet  held 
these  works  in  high  estimation  ;  we  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  believing  that  they  were  most  admired  by  the 
best  judges,  and  comforted  ourselves  with  Horace's 
*  satis  est  Equitem  mihi  plaudere.'  So  much  was  this 
the  case,  that  one  of  the  ablest  men  of  my  acquaint- 
ance t  said,  in  that  kind  of  jest  which  has  much 
earnest  in  it,  that  he  had  established  it  in  his  own 
mind,  as  a  new  test  of  ability,  whether  people  coiild 
or  could  not  appreciate  Miss  Austen's  merits. 

But  though  such  golden  opinions  were  now  and 
then  gathered  in,  yet  the  wide  field   of  public  taste 

*  A  greater  genius  than  my  aunt  shared  with  her  the  imputation  of 
being  commonplace.  Lockhart,  speaking  of  the  low  estimation  in  which 
Scott's  conversational  powers  were  held  in  the  literary  and  scientific 
society  of  Edinburgh,  says  :  '  I  think  the  epithet  most  in  vogue  con- 
cerning it  was  "commonplace."'  He  adds,  however,  that  one  of  the 
most  eminent  of  that  society  was  of  a  different  opinion,  *  who,  when 
some  glib  youth  chanced  to  echo  in  his  hearing  the  consolatory  tenet  of 
local  mediocrity,  answered  quietly,  "  I  have  the  misfortune  to  think 
differently  from  you — ir  my  humble  opinion  Walter  Scott's  sense  is  a 
still  more  wonderful  thing  than  his  genius."  ' — Lockhart's  Life  of  ScM^ 
vol.  iv.  chap,  v, 

t  The  late  Mr.  R.  H.  Cheney. 


Jane  Austen.  129 

yielded  no  adequate  return  cither  in  praise  or  profit. 
Her  reward  was  not  to  be  the  quick  return  of  the 
cornfield,  but  the  slow  growth  of  the  tree  which  is  to 
endure  to  another  generation.  Her  first  attempts  at 
publication  were  very  discouraging.  In  November, 
1797,  her  father  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Mr. 
Cadell  :— 

'  Sir, — I  have  in.  my  possession  a  manuscript  novel, 
comprising  3  vols.,  about  the  length  of  Miss  Burney's 
"  Evelina."  As  I  am  well  aware  of  what  consequence 
it  is  that  a  work  of  this  sort  sh"^  make  its  first  appear- 
ance under  a  respectable  name,  I  apply  to  you.  I 
shall  be  much  obliged  therefore  if  you  will  inform  me 
whether  you  choose  to  be  concerned  in  it,  what  will 
be  the  expense  of  publishing  it  at  the  author's  risk, 
and  what  )-ou  will  venture  to  advance  for  the  property 
of  it,  if  on  perusal  it  is  approved  of  Should  you 
give  any  encouragement,  I  will  send  you  the  work. 
*  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  Ser\^ant, 

'George  Austen.' 

'  Stcventon,  near  Overton,  Hants, 
'  1st  Nov.  1797.' 

This  proposal  was  declined  by  return  of  post !  The 
work  thus  summarily  rejected  must  have  been  'Pride 
and  Prejudice.' 

The  fate  of  '  Northangcr  Abbey '  was  still  more 
humiliating.  It  was  sold,  in  1803,  to  a  publisher  in 
Bath,  for  ten  pounds,  but  it  found  so  little  favour  in 
his  eyes,  that  he  chose  to  abide  by  his  first  loss  rather 

K 


1 30  A  Memoir  of 


than  risk  farther  expense  by  publishing  such  a  work. 
It  seems  to  have  lain  for  many  years  unnoticed  in  his 
drawers  ;  somewhat  as  the  first  chapters  of  *  Waverley' 
lurked  forgotten  amongst  the  old  fishing-tackle  in 
Scott's  cabinet.  Tilneys,  Thorpes,  and  Morlands 
consigned  apparently  to  eternal  obHvion  !  But 
when  four  novels  of  steadily  increasing  success  had 
given  the  writer  some  confidence  in  herself,  she 
wished  to  recover  the  copyright  of  this  early  work. 
One  of  her  brothers  undertook  the  negotiation.  He 
found  the  purchaser  very  willing  to  receive  back  his 
money,  and  to  resign  all  claim  to  the  copyright. 
When  the  bargain  was  concluded  and  the  money 
paid,  but  not  till  then,  the  negotiator  had  the  satis- 
faction of  informing  him  that  the  work  which  had 
been  so  lightly  esteemed  was  by  the  author  of  '  Pride 
and  Prejudice.'  I  do  not  think  that  she  was  herself 
much  mortified  by  the  want  of  early  success.  She 
wrote  for  her  own  amusement.  Money,  though  ac- 
ceptable, was  not  necessary  for  the  moderate  expenses 
of  her  quiet  home.  Above  all,  she  was  blessed  with 
a  cheerful  contented  disposition,  and  an  humble  mind  ; 
and  so  lowly  did  she  esteem  her  own  claims,  that 
when  she  received  150/.  from  the  sale  of  'Sense  and 
Sensibility,'  she  considered  it  a  prodigious  recompense 
for  that  which  had  cost  her  nothing.  It  cannot  be 
supposed,  however,  that  she  was  altogether  insensible 
to  the  superiority  of  her  own  workmanship  over  that 
of  some  contemporaries  who  were  then  enjoying  a 
brief  popularity.  Indeed  a  few  touches  in  the  follow- 
ing extracts  from  two  of  her  letters  show  that  she 


Jane  Austefi.  13  T 


w^as  as  quicksighted  to  absurdities  in  composition  as 
to  those  in  living  persons. 

'  Mr.  C.'s  opinion  is  gone  down  in  my  list ;  but  as 
my  paper  relates  only  to  "  Mansfield  Park,"  I  may 
fortunately  excuse  myself  from  entering  Mr.  D.'s.  I 
will  redeem  my  credit  with  him  by  writing  a  close 
imitation  of  *'  Self-Control,"  as  soon  as  I  can.  I  will 
improve  upon  it.  My  heroine  shall  not  only  be  wafted 
down  an  American  river  in  a  boat  by  herself.  She 
shall  cross  the  Atlantic  in  the  same  way  ;  and  never 
stop  till  she  reaches  Gravesend.' 

'We  have  got  "  Rosanne  "  in  our  Society,  and  find 
it  much  as  you  describe  it ;  very  good  and  clever,  but 
tedious.  Mrs.  Hawkins'  great  excellence  is  on  serious 
subjects.  There  are  some  very  delightful  conver- 
sations and  reflections  on  religion  :  but  on  lighter 
topics  I  think  she  falls  into  many  absurdities  ;  and, 
as  to  love,  her  heroine  has  very  comical  feelings. 
There  are  a  thousand  improbabilities  in  the  story. 
Do  you  remember  the  two  Miss  Ormsdens  introduced 
just  at  last  "^  Very  flat  and  unnatural.  Mad®"®* 
Cossart  is  rather  my  passion.'    • 

Two  notices  of  her  works  appeared  in  the  '  Quarterly 
Review.'  One  in  October  18 15,  and  another,  more 
than  three  years  after  her  death,  in  January  182 1. 
The  latter  article  is  known  to  have  been  from  the 
pen  of  Whately,  afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin.* 

*  Lockhart  had  supposed  that  this  article  had  been  written  by  Scott, 
because  it  exactly  accorded  with  the  opinions  which  Scott  had  often 
bi.en  heard  to  express,  but  he  learned  afterwards  that  it  had  been  written 
by  Wlmlely  ;  and  Lockhart,  who  became  the  Editor  of  the  Quarterly, 

K  2 


132  A  Memoir  of 


They  differ  much  from  each  other  in  the  degree  of 
praise  which  they  award,  and  I  think  also  it  may  be 
said,    in    the    abiUty   with   which    they   are   written. 
The  first  bestows  some  approval,  but  the  other  ex- 
presses the  warmest  admiration.     One   can  scarcely 
be  satisfied  with  the  critical  acumen  of  the  former 
writer,  who,  in   treating  of  '  Sense   and   Sensibilit}%' 
takes  no  notice  whatever  of  the  vigour  with  which 
many  of  the  characters  are  drawn,  but  declares  that 
'  the  interest  and  vicrit  of  the  piece  depends  altogether 
upon  the  behaviour  of  the  elder  sister!'     Nor  is  he 
fair   when,   in   *  Pride  and    Prejudice,'   he   represents 
Elizabeth's  change  of  sentiments  towards  Darcy  as 
caused  by  the  sight  of  his  house  and  grounds.     But 
the  chief  discrepancy  between  the  two  reviewers   is 
to  be  found   in   their  appreciation   of  the  common- 
place and  silly  characters  to  be  found  in  these  novels. 
On  this   point  the   difference   almost   amounts  to  a 
contradiction,  such  as  one  sometimes  sees  drawn  up 
in  parallel    columns,  when    it    is    desired  to  convict 
some   writer   or   some    statesman    of    inconsistency. 
The  Reviewer,  in   18 15,  says:  'The  faults  of  these 
works  arise  from  the  minute  detail  which  the  author's 
plan  comprehends.     Characters  of  folly  or  simplicity, 
such  as  those  of  old    Woodhouse   and   Miss  Bates, 
are  ridiculous  when  first  presented,  but  if  too  often 
brought  forward,  or  too  long  dwelt  on,  their  prosing 

must  liavc  had  the  means  of  knowing  the  truth.  (See  Lochhart's  Lift 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  voh  v.  p.  158.)  I  remember  that,  at  tlie  time  when 
the  review  came  out,  it  was  reported  in  Oxford  that  Whately  had  written 
the  article  at  the  request  of  the  lady  whom  he  afterwards  married. 


Jane  Austen.  133 


is  apt  to  become  as  tiresome  In  fiction  as  In  real 
society.'  The  Reviewer,  in  1821,  on  the  contrary, 
singles  out  the  fools  as  especial  instances  of  the 
writer's  abilities,  and  declares  that  in  this  respect  she 
shows  a  rci^ard  to  character  hardly  exceeded  by 
Shakspeare  himself  These  are  his  words :  *  Like 
him  (Shakspeare)  she  shows  as  admirable  a  discrimi- 
nation in  the  character  of  fools  as  of  people  of  sense  ; 
a  merit  which  is  far  from  common.  To  invent  indeed 
a  conversation  full  of  wisdom  or  of  wit  requires  that 
the  writer  should  himself  possess  ability ;  but  the 
converse  does  not  hold  good,  it  is  no  fool  that  can 
describe  fools  well ;  and  many  who  have  succeeded 
pretty  well  in  painting  superior  characters  have  failed 
in  giving  individuality  to  those  weaker  ones  which  it 
is  necessary  to  introduce  in  order  to  give  a  faithful 
representation  of  real  life  :  they  exhibit  to  us  mere 
folly  In  the  abstract,  forgetting  that  to  the  eye  of  the 
skilful  naturalist  the  insects  on  a  leaf  present  as 
wide  differences  as  exist  between  the  lion  and  the 
elephant.  Slender,  and  Shallow,  and  Aguecheek,  as 
Shakspeare  has  painted  them,  though  equally  fools, 
resemble  one  another  no  more  than  Richard,  and 
IMacbcth,  and  Julius  Caesar;  and  Miss  Austen's* 
Mrs.  Bennet,  Mr.  Rushworth,  and  Miss  Bates  arc  no 
more  alike  than  her  Darcy,  Knightley,  and  Edmund 
Bertram.  Some  have  complained  indeed  of  finding 
lier  fools  too  much  like  nature,  and  consequently 
tiresome.     There  is  no  disputing  about  tastes  ;  all  we 

*  In  transcribing  this  passage  I  have  taken  tlie  liberty  so  far  to  cor- 
rect it  as  to  spell  her  name  property  with  an  *  e.' 


134  -^  Memoir  of 


can  say  is,  that  such  critics  must  (whatever  deference 
they  may  outwardly  pay  to  received  opinions)  find 
the  *'  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  "  and  "  Twelfth  Night" 
very  tiresome  ;  and  that  those  who  look  with  pleasure 
at  Wilkie's  picture,  or  those  of  the  Dutch  school, 
must  admit  that  excellence  of  imitation  may  confer 
attraction  on  that  which  would  be  insipid  or  disagree- 
able in  the  reality.  Her  minuteness  of  detail  has 
also  been  found  fault  with  ;  but  even  where  it  pro- 
duces, at  the  time,  a  degree  of  tediousness,  we  know 
not  whether  that  can  justly  be  reckoned  a  blemish, 
which  is  absolutely  essential  to  a  very  high  excellence. 
Now  it  is  absolutely  impossible,  without  this,  to  pro- 
duce that  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  characters 
which  is  necessary  to  make  the  reader  heartily  in- 
terested in  them.  Let  any  one  cut  out  from  the 
"  Iliad  "  or  from  Shakspeare's  plays  everything  (we 
are  far  from  saying  that  either  might  not  lose  some 
parts  with  advantage,  but  let  him  reject  everything) 
which  is  absolutely  devoid  of  importance  and  interest 
in  itself  \  and  he  will  find  that  what  is  left  will  have 
lost  more  than  half  its  charms.  We  are  convinced 
that  some  writers  have  diminished  the  effect  of  their 
works  by  being  scrupulous  to  admit  nothing  into 
them  which  had  not  some  absolute  and  independent 
merit.  They  have  acted  like  those  who  strip  off  the 
leaves  of  a  fruit  tree,  as  being  of  themselves  good  for 
nothing,  with  the  view  of  securing  more  nourishment 
to  the  fruit,  which  in  fact  cannot  attain  its  full  matu- 
rity and  flavour  without  them.' 

The  world,  I  think,  has  endorsed  the  opinion  of 


Jaiie  A  usteii.  •  135 


the  later  writer ;  but  it  would  not  be  fair  to  set  down 
the  discrepancy  between  the  two  entirely  to  the  dis- 
credit of  the  former.  The  fact  is  that,  in  the  course 
of  the  intervening  five  years,  these  works  had  been 
read  and  reread  by  many  leaders  in  the  literary 
world.  The  public  taste  was  forming  itself  all  this 
time,  and  'grew  by  what  it  fed  on.'  These  novels 
belong  to  a  class  which  gain  rather  than  lose  by  fre- 
quent perusals,  and  it  is  probable  that  each  Reviewei 
represented  fairly  enough  the  prevailing  opinions  ot 
readers  in  the  year  when  each  wrote. 

Since  that  time,  the  testimonies  in  favour  of  Jane 
Austen's  works  have  been  continual  and  almost  un- 
animous. They  are  frequently  referred  to  as  models  ; 
nor  have  they  lost  their  first  distinction  of  being 
especially  acceptable  to  minds  of  the  highest  order. 
I  shall  indulge  myself  by  collecting  into  the  next 
chapter  instances  of  the  homage  paid  to  her  by  such 
persons. 


136  A  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Opinions  expressed  by  eminent  persons — Opinions  of  clliers  of  less 
eminence — Opinion  of  Ajnerican  readers. 

Into  this  list  of  the  admirers  of  my  Aunt's  works,  I 
admit  those  only  whose  eminence  will  be  universally 
acknowledged.  No  doubt  the  number  might  ha\'e 
been  increased. 

Southey,  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Egerton  Brydgcs,  says  : 
'You  mention  Miss  Austen.  Her  novels  are  more 
true  to  nature,  and  have,  for  my  sympathies,  passages 
of  finer  feeling  than  any  others  of  this  age.  She  was 
a  person  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  well  and  think  so 
highly,  that  I  regret  not  having  had  an  opportunity 
of  testifying  to  her  the  respect  which  I  felt  for  her.' 

It  may  be  observed  that  Southey  had  probably 
heard  from  his  own  family  connections  of  the  charm  of 
her  private  character.  A  friend  of  hers,  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  Bigge  Wither,  of  Manydown  Park  near  Basing- 
stoke, was  married  to  Southey's-  uncle,  the  Rev.  Her- 
bert Hill,  who  had  been  useful  to  his  nephew  in  many 
ways,  and  especially  in  supplying  him  with  the  means 
of  attaining  his  extensive  knowledge  of  Spanish  and 
Portuguese  literature.  ]\Ir.  Hill  had  been  Chaplain  to 
the  British  Factory  at  Lisbon,  where  Southey  visited 


Jane  Austen.  '  137 


him  and  had  the  use  of  a  Hbraiy  In  those  languages 
which  his  uncle  had  collected.  Southcy  himself  con- 
tinually mentions  his  uncle  Hill  in  terms  of  respect 
and  gratitude. 

S.  T.  Coleridge  would  sometimes  burst  out  into  higli 
encomiums  of  ^liss  Austen's  novels  as  being,  *  in  their 
way,  perfectly  genuine  and  individual  productions.' 

I  remember  Miss  Mitford's  saying  to  me  :  *  I  would 
almost  cut  oft"  one  of  my  hands,  if  it  would  enable  me 
to  write  like  your  aunt  wit4i  the  other.' 

The  biographer  of  Sir  J.  Mackintosh  says  :  'Some- 
thing recalled  to  his  mind  the  traits  of  character  which 
are  so  delicately  touched  in  Miss  Austen's  novels.  .  . 
lie  said  that  there  was  genius  in  sketching  out  that 
new  kind  of  novel.  .  .  He  was  vexed  for  the  credit  of 
the  "Edinburgh  Review"  that  it  had  left  her  un- 
noticed.'^ .  .  The  "  Quarterly "  had  done  her  more 
justice.  .  .  It  w^as  impossible  for  a  foreigner  to  under- 
stand fully  the  merit  of  her  works.  Madame  de  Stacl, 
to  whom  he  had  recommended  one  of  her  novels,  found 
no  interest  in  it ;  and  in  her  note  to  him  in  reply  said 
it  was  "vulgaire"  :  and  yet,  he  said,  nothing  could  be 
more  true  than  what  he  wrote  in  answer:  "  There  is 
no  book  which  that  word  would  so  little  suit."  .  .  . 
Every  village  could  furnish  matter  for  a  no\'el  to  Miss 
Austen.  She  did  not  need  the  common  materials  for 
a  novel,  strong  emotions,  or  strong  incidents.'  f 

It  was  not,  however,  quite  impossible  for  a  foreigner 

*  Incidentally  she  had   received  high   praise    in    Lord    Macaulay's 
Review  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  Works  in  the  '  Edinburgh.' 
+  Li/e  of  Sir  J.  Mac/cinfos/i,  vol.  ii.  p.  472. 


138  A  Memoir  of 


to  appreciate  these  works ;  for  Mons.  Guizot  writes 
thus  :  ^  I  am  a  great  novel  reader,  but  I  seldom  read 
German  or  French  novels.  The  characters  are  too 
artificial.  My  delight  is  to  read  English  novels,  par- 
ticularly those  written  by  women.  "  C'est  toute  une 
ecole  de  n^.orale."  Miss  Austen,  Miss  Ferrier,  &c., 
form  a  school  which  in  the  excellence  and  profusion 
of  its  productions  resembles  the  cloud  of  dramatic 
poets  of  the  great  Athenian  age.' 

In  the  'Keepsake'  of  1825  the  following  hues  ap- 
peared, written  by  Lord  Morpeth,  afterwards  seventh 
Earl  of  Carlisle,  and  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland, 
accompanying  an  illustration  of  a  lady  reading  a 
novel. 

Beats  thy  quick  pulse  o'er  Inchbald's  thrilling  leaf, 
Brunton's  high  moral,  Opie's  deep  wrought  grief? 
Has  the  mild  chaperon  claimed  thy  yielding  heart, 
Carroll's  dark  page,  Trevelyan's  gentle  art  ? 
Or  is  it  thou,  all  perfect  Austen  ?     Here 
Let  one  poor  wreath  adorn  thy  early  bier. 
That  scarce  allowed  thy  modest  youth  to  claim 
Its  living  portion  of  thy  certain  fame  ! 
Oh !  Mrs.  Bennet !  Mrs.  Norris  too ! 
While  memory  survives  we'll  dream  of  you. 
And  Mr.  Woodhouse,  whose  abstemious  lip 
Must  thin,  but  not  too  thin,  his  gruel  sip. 
Miss  Bates,  our  idol,  though  the  village  bore ; 
And  Mrs.  Elton,  ardent  to  explore. 
While  the  dear  style  flows  on  without  pretence, 
With  unstained  purity,  and  unmatched  sense  : 
Or,  if  a  sister  e'er  approached  the  throne. 
She  called  the  rich  '  inheritance '  her  own. 

The  admiration  felt  by  Lord  Macaulay  would 
probably  have  taken  a  very  practical  form,  if  his  life 


Jane  A  listen.  •  1 39 


had  been  prolonged.  I  have  the  authority  of  his 
sister,  Lady  Trevelyan,  for  stating  that  he  had  in- 
tended to  undertake  the  task  upon  which  I  have 
ventured.  He  purposed  to  write  a  memoir  of  Miss 
Austen,  with  criticisms  on  her  works,  to  prefix  it  to  a 
new  edition  of  her  novels,  and  from  the  proceeds  of 
the  sale  to  erect  a  monument  to  her  memory  in 
Winchester  Cathedral.  Oh !  that  such  an  idea  had 
been  realised  !  That  portion  of  the  plan  in  which 
Lord  Macaulay's  success  would  have  been  most  certain 
might  have  been  almost  sufficient  for  his  object.  A 
memoir  written  by  him  would  have  been  a  monument. 
I  am  kindly  permitted  by  Sir  Henry  Holland  to 
give  the  following  quotation  from  his  printed  but 
unpublished  recollections  of  his  past  life  : — 

*  I  have  the  picture  still  before  me  of  Lord  Holland 
lying  on  his  bed,  when  attacked  with  gout,  his  ad- 
mirable sister.  Miss  Fox,  beside  him  reading  aloud,  as 
she  always  did  on  these  occasions,  some  one  of  Miss 
Austen's  novels,  of  which  he  was  never  wearied.  I 
well  recollect  the  time  when  these  charming  novels, 
almost  unique  in  their  style  of  humour,  burst  suddenly 
on  the  world.  It  was  sad  that  their  writer  did  not 
live  to  witness  the  growth  of  her  fame.' 

My  brother-in-law,  Sir  Denis  Le  Marchant,  has 
supplied  me  with  the  following  anecdotes  from  his 
own  recollections: — 

*  When  I  was  a  student  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, Mr.  Whewell,  then  a  Fellow  and  afterwards 
Master  of  the  College,  often  spoke  to   me  with  ad- 


140  A  Memoir  of 


miration  of  Miss  Austen's  nov^els.  On  one  occasion 
I  said  that  I  had  found  "  Persuasion "  rather  dull. 
He  quite  fired  up  in  defence  of  it,  insisting  that  it  was 
the  most  beautiful  of  her  works.  This  accomplished 
philosopher  was  deeply  versed  in  works  of  fiction.  I 
recollect  his  wTiting  to  me  from  Caernai'von,  where  he 
had  the  charge  of  some  pupils,  that  he  was  weary  of 
Jiis  stay,  for  he  had  read  the  circulating  library  twice 
through. 

*  During  a  visit  I  paid  to  Lord  Lansdowne,  at 
Bowood,  in  1 846,  one  of  Miss  Austen's  novels  became 
the  subject  of  conversation  and  of  praise,  especially 
from  Lord  Lansdowne,  w4io  observed  that  one  of  the 
circumstances  of  his  life  which  he  looked  back  upon 
with  vexation  w^as  that  Miss  Austen  should  once  have 
been  living  some  weeks  in  his  neighbourhood  without 
his  knowing  it. 

'  I  have  heard  Sydney  Smith,  more  than  once,  dwell 
with  eloquence  on  the  merits  of  Miss  Austen's  novels. 
lie  told  me  he  should  have  enjoyed  giving  her  the 
pleasure  of  reading  her  praises  in  the  "  Edinburgh 
Review."  "  Fanny  Price "  was  one  of  his  prime 
favourites.' 

I  close  this  list  of  testimonies,  this  long  '  Catena 
Patrum,'  with  the  remarkable  words  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  taken  from  his  diary  for  March  14,  icS26:* 
*  Read  again,  for  the  third  time  at  least,  Miss  Austen's 
finely  w^ritten  novel  of  ''  Pride  and  Prejudice."  That 
young  lady  had  a  talent  for  describing  the  involve- 
ments  and    feelings  and    characters  of  ordinary  hfe, 

*  Lockhart's  Life  0/ Scoll,  vol.  vi.  chap.  vii. 


Jane  Atistcn.  '  141 


which  is  to  mc  the  most  wonderful  I  ever  met  with. 
The  big  Bow-Wow  strain  I  can  do  myself  like  any- 
new  going ;  but  the  exquisite  touch  which  renders 
ordinary  common-place  things  and  characters  in- 
teresting from  the  truth  of  the  description  and  the 
sentiment  is  denied  to  mc.  What  a  pity  such  a 
gifted  creature  died  so  earl}- ! '  The  well-worn  con- 
dition of  Scott's  own  copy  of  these  works  attests  that 
they  were  much  read  in  his  family.  When  I  visited 
Abbotsford,  a  few  years  after  Scott's  death,  I  was 
permitted,  as  an  unusual  favour,  to  take  one  of  these 
volumes  in  my  hands.  One  cannot  suppress  the  wish 
that  she  had  lived  to  know  what  such  men  thought 
of  her  powers,  and  how  gladly  they  would  have 
cultivated  a  personal  acquaintance  with  her.  I  do 
not  think  that  it  would  at  all  have  impaired  the 
modest  simplicity  of  her  character  ;  or  that  we  should 
have  lost  our  own  dear  'Aunt  Jane'  in  the  blaze  of 
literary  fame. 

It  may  be  amusing  to  contrast  with  these  testi- 
monies from  the  great,  the  opinions  expressed  by 
other  readers  of  more  ordinary  intellect.  The  author 
herself  has  left  a  list  of  criticisms  which  it  had  been 
her  amusement  to  collect,  through  means  of  her 
friends.  This  list  contains  much  of  warm-hearted 
sympathising  praise,  interspersed  with  some  opinions 
which  may  be  considered  surprising. 

One  lady  could  say  nothing  better  of  '  Mansfield 
Park,'  than  that  it  was  '  a  mere  novel' 

Another  owned  that  she  thought  '  Sense  and  Sensi- 
bility'    and  'Pride   and    Prejudice'    downright  non- 


142  A  Memoir  of 


sense ;  but  expected  to  like  '  Mansfield  Park '  better, 
and  having  finished  the  first  volume,  hoped  that  she 
had  got  through  the  worst. 

Another  did  not  like  'Mansfield  Park.'  Nothing 
interesting  in  the  characters.     Language  poor. 

One  gentleman  read  the  first  and  last  chapters  of 
*  Emma,'  but  did  not  look  at  the  rest,  because  he  had 
been  told  that  it  was  not  interesting. 

The  opinions  of  another  gentleman  about  *  Emma ' 
were  so  bad  that  they  could  not  be  reported  to  the 
author. 

'  Quot  homines,  tot  sententiae.' 

Thirty-five  years  after  her  death  there  came  also  a 
voice  of  praise  from  across  the  Atlantic.  In  1852 
the  following  letter  was  received  by  her  brother  Sir 
Francis  Austen : — 

*  Boston,  Massachusetts,  U.  S.  A. 
6lh  Jan.  1852. 

*  Since  high  critical  authority  has  pronounced  the 
delineations  of  character  in  the  works  of  Jane  Austen 
second  only  to  those  of  Shakspeare,  transatlantic 
admiration  appears  superfluous  ;  yet  it  may  not  be 
uninteresting  to  her  family  to  receive  an  assurance 
that  the  influence  of  her  genius  is  extensively  recog- 
nised in  the  American  Republic,  even  by  the  highest 
judicial  authorities.  The  late  Mr.  Chief  Justice  Mar- 
shall, of  the  supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  and 
his  associate  Mr.  Justice  Story,  highly  estimated  and 
admired  Miss  Austen,  and  to  them  we  owe  our  intro- 
duction to  her  society.  For  many  years  her  talents 
have  brightened  our  daily  path,  and  her  name  and 


Jane  A  usten.  1 4  3 


those  of  her  characters  are  famihar  to  us  as  "  house- 
hold words."  We  have  long  wished  to  express  to 
some  of  her  family  the  sentiments  of  gratitude  and 
affection  she  has  inspired,  and  request  more  infor- 
mation relative  to  her  life  than  is  given  in  the  brief 
memoir  prefixed  to  her  works. 

*  Having  accidentally  heard  that  a  brother  of  Jane 
Austen  held  a  high  rank  in  the  British  Navy,  we 
hav^e  obtained  his  address  from  our  friend  Admiral 
Wormley,  now  resident  in  Boston,  and  we  trust  this 
expression  of  our  feeling  will  be  received  by  her 
relations  with  the  kindness  and  urbanity  characte- 
ristic of  Admirals  of  Iter  creatioji.  Sir  Francis  Austen, 
or  one  of  his  family,  would  confer  a  great  favour  by 
complying  with  our  request.  The  autograph  of  his 
sister,  or  a  few  lines  in  her  handwriting,  would  be 
placed  among  our  chief  treasures. 

*  The  family  who  delight  in  the  companionship  of 
Jane  Austen,  and  who  present  this  petition,  are  of 
English  origin.  Their  ancestor  held  a  high  rank 
among  the  first  emigrants  to  New  England,  and 
his  name  and  character  have  been  ably  represented 
by  his  descendants  in  various  public  stations  of  trust 
and  responsibility  to  the  present  time  in  the  colony 
and  state  of  Massachusetts.  A  letter  addressed  to 
Miss  Quinccy,  care  of  the  Hon'''''  Josiah  Ouincey, 
Boston,  Massachusetts,  would  reach  its  destination.' 

Sir  Francis  Austen  returned  a  suitable  reply  to 
this  application  ;  and  sent  a  long  letter  of  his  sister's, 
which,  no  doubt,  still  occupies  the  place  of  honour 
promised  by  the  Quincey  family. 


144  ^  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER   X. 

ObscrvatioJis  on  tJie  N'cn.'ds. 

It  Is  not  the  object  of  these  memoirs  to  attempt  a 
criticism  on  Jane  Austen's  novels.  Those  particulars 
only  have  been  noticed  which  could  be  illustrated  by 
the  circumstances  of  her  own  life  ;  but  I  now  desire  to 
offer  a  few  observations  on  them,  and  especially  on 
one  point,  on  which  my  age  renders  me  a  competent 
witness — the  fidelity  with  which  they  represent  the 
opinions  and  manners  of  the  class  of  society  in  which 
the  author  lived  early  in  this  century.  They  do  this 
the  more  faithfully  on  account  of  the  very  deficiency 
with  which  they  have  been  sometimes  charged — 
namely,  that  they  make  no  attempt  to  raise  the 
standard  of  human  life,  but  merely  represent  it  as  It 
was.  They  certainly  were  not  written  to  support  any 
theory  or  inculcate  any  particular  moral,  except  in- 
deed the  great  moral  which  is  to  be  equally  gathered 
from  an  observation  of  the  course  of  actual  life  — 
namely,  the  superiority  of  high  over  low  principles, 
and  of  greatness  over  littleness  of  mind.  These 
writings  are  like  photographs,  in  which  no  feature  is 
softened  ;  no  Ideal  expression  Is  Introduced,  all  is  the 
unadorned  reflection  of  the  natural  object ;  and  the 


Jane  Atisicn.  '  145 


value  of  such  a  faithful  Hkcncss  must  increase  as 
time  gradually  works  more  and  more  changes  in  the 
face  of  society  itself  A  remarkable  instance  of  this 
is  to  be  found  in  her  portraiture  of  the  clergy.  She 
was  the  daughter  and  the  sister  of  clergymen,  who 
certainly  were  not  low  specimens  of  their  order :  and 
she  has  chosen  three  of  her  heroes  from  that  pro- 
fession ;  but  no  one  in  these  days  can  think  that 
either  Edmund  Bertram  or  Henry  Tilncy  had  ade- 
quate ideas  of  the  duties  of  a  parish  minister.  Such, 
however,  were  the  opinions  and  practice  then  pre- 
walcnt  among  respectable  and  conscientious  clergy- 
men before  their  minds  had  been  stirred,  first  by  the 
Evangelical,  and  afterwards  by  the  High  Church 
movement  which  this  century  has  witnessed.  The 
country  may  be  congratulated  which,  on  looking 
back  to  such  a  fixed  landmark,  can  find  that  it  has 
been  advancing  instead  of  receding  from  it. 

The  long  interval  that  elapsed  between  the  com- 
pletion of  '  Northanger  Abbey'  in  179-8,  and  the 
commencement  of  'Mansfield  Park'  in  181 1,  may 
sufficiently  account  for  any  difference  of  style  which 
may  be  perceived  between  her  three  earlier  and  her 
three  later  productions.  If  the  former  showed  quite 
as  much  originality  and  genius,  they  may  perhaps  be 
thought  to  have  less  of  the  faultless  finish  and  high 
polish  which  distinguish  the  latter.  The  characters 
of  the  John  Dashwoods,  Mr.  Collins,  and  the  Thorpes 
stand  out  from  the  canvas  with  a  vigour  and  origi- 
nality which  cannot  be  surpassed  ;  but  I  think  that 
in    her   last  three  works    are  to  be   found  a  greater 


146  A  Memoir  of 


refinement  of  taste,  a  more  nice  sense  of  propriety, 
and  a  deeper  insight  into  the  deHcate  anatomy  of 
the  human  heart,  marking  the  difference  between 
the  brilHant  ^irl  and  the  mature  woman.  Far  from 
being  one  of  those  who  have  over-written  themselves, 
it  may  be  affirmed  that  her  fame  would  have  stood 
on  a  narrower  and  less  firm  basis,  if  she  had  not  lived 
to  resume  her  pen  at  Chawton. 

Some  persons  have  surmised  that  she  took  her 
characters  from  individuals  with  whom  she  had  been 
acquainted.  They  were  so  life-like  that  it  was  as- 
sumed that  they  must  once  have  lived,  and  have 
been  transferred  bodily,  as  it  were,  into  her  pages. 
But  surely  such  a  supposition  betrays  an  ignorance 
of  the  high  prerogative  of  genius  to  create  out  of  its 
own  resources  imaginary  characters,  who  shall  be 
true  to  nature  and  consistent  in  themselves.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  distinction  between  keeping  true  to 
nature  and  servilely  copying  any  one  specimen  of  it 
is  not  always  clearly  apprehended.  It  is  indeed 
true,  both  of  the  writer  and  of  the  painter,  that  he 
can  use  only  such  lineaments  as  exist,  and  as  he 
has  obsei-ved  to  exist,  in  living  objects ;  othenvise  he 
would  produce  monsters  instead  of  human  beings  ; 
but  in  both  it  is  the  office  of  high  art  to  mould  these 
features  into  new  combinations,  and  to  place  them  in 
the  attitudes,  and  impart  to  them  the  expressions 
which  may  suit  the  purposes  of  the  artist ;  so  that 
they  are  nature,  but  not  exactly  the  same  nature 
which  had  come  before  his  eyes  ;  just  as  honey  can 
be  obtained  only  from  the  natural  flowers  which  the 


Jane  Austefi.  '  147 


bee  has  sucked  ;  yet  it  is  not  a  reproduction  of  the 
odour  or  flavour  of  any  particular  flower,  but  becomes 
something  difi"erent  when  it   has  gone    through  the 
process  of  transformation  which  that  Httle  insect  is 
able  to  efi"cct.     Hence,  in  the  case  of  painters,  arises 
the  superiority  of  original  compositions  over  portrait 
painting.     Reynolds  was  exercising  a  higher  faculty 
when  he  designed  Comedy  and  Tragedy  contending 
for  Garrick,  than  when  he  merely  took  a  likeness  of 
that  actor.     The  same  difference    exists    in  writings 
between  the  original  conceptions  of  Shakspeare  and 
some  other   creative    geniuses,   and    such   full-length 
likenesses  of  individual  persons,  '  The  Talking  Gentle- 
man '  for  instance,  as  are  admirably  drawn  by  Miss 
Mitford.     Jane    Austen's    powers,    whatever  may  be 
the   degree  in  which  she  possessed  them,  were  cer- 
tainly   of   that    higher    order.      She    did    not    copy 
individuals,    but    she    invested    her    own    creations 
with  individuality  of  character.     A  reviewer  in    the 
*  Quarterly'   speaks    of  an    acquaintance   who,   ever 
since  the  publication  of  *  Pride  and  Prejudice,'  had 
been  called  by  his  friends  Mr.  Bennet,  but  the  author 
did  not  know  him.     Her  own  relations  never  recog- 
nised any  individual   in  her    characters  ;    and   I  can 
call  to  mind  several  of  her  acquaintance  whose  pecu- 
liarities were  very  tempting    and  easy  to  be  carica- 
tured of  whom  there  are  no  traces  in  her  pages.      She 
herself,  when  questioned  on  the  subject  by  a  friend, 
expressed  a  dread  of  what  she  called  such  an  '  inva- 
sion of  social  proprieties.'     She  said  that  she  thought 
it  quite  fair  to  note  peculiarities  and  weaknesses,  but 


148  A  Memoir  of 


that  it  was  her  desire  to  create,  not  to  reproduce  ; 
*  besides/  she  added,  '  I  am  too  proud  of  my  gentle- 
men to  admit  that  they  were  only  Mr.  A.  or  Colonel 
B.'  She  did  not,  however,  suppose  that  her  imagi- 
nary characters  were  of  a  higher  order  than  are  to  be 
found  in  nature  ;  for  she  said,  when  speaking  of  two 
of  her  great  favourites,  Edmund  Bertram  and  Mr. 
Knightley  :  '  They  are  very  far  from  being  what  I  know 
English  gentlemen  often  are.' 

She  certainly  took  a  kind  of  parental  interest  in 
the  beings  whom  she  had  created,  and  did  not  dis- 
miss them  from  her  thoughts  when  she  had  finished 
her  last  chapter.  We  have  seen,  in  one  of  her  letters, 
her  personal  affection  for  Darcy  and  Elizabeth  ;  and 
when  sending  a  copy  of  *  Emma '  to  a  friend  whose 
daughter  had  been  lately  born,  she  wrote  thus :  '  I 
trust  you  will  be  as  glad  to  see  my  "  Emma,"  as  I 
shall  be  to  see  your  Jemima.'  She  was  very  fond  of 
Emma,  but  did  not  reckon  on  her  being  a  general 
favourite  ;  for,  when  commencing  that  work,  she  said, 
'I  am  going  to  take  a  heroine  whom  no  one  but 
myself  will  much  like.'  She  would,  if  asked,  tell  us 
many  little  particulars  about  the  subsequent  career 
of  some  of  her  people.  In  this  traditionary  way  we 
learned  that  Miss  Steele  never  succeeded  in  catch- 
ing the  Doctor ;  that  Kitty  Bennet  was  satisfactorily 
married  to  a  clergyman  near  Pemberley,  while  Mary 
obtained  nothing  higher  than  one  of  her  uncle  Philips' 
clerks,  and  was  content  to  be  considered  a  star  in 
the  society  of  Meriton  ;  that  the  *  considerable  sum ' 
given   by   Mrs.    Norris   to   William    Price   was   one 


yanc  Austen.  ,  149 


J 


pound ;  that  ]\Ir.  Woodhouse  survived  his  daughter's 
marriage,  and  kept  her  and  Mr.  Knightley  from 
settling  at  Donwell,  about  two  >ears;  and  that  the 
letters  placed  by  Frank  Churchill  before  Jane  Fairfax, 
which  she  swept  away  unread,  contained  the  word 
*  pardon.'  Of  the  good  people  in  '  Northanger  Abbey' 
and  '  Persuasion  '  we  know  nothing  more  than  what  is 
written  :  for  before  those  works  were  published  their 
author  had  been  taken  away  from  us,  and  all  such 
amusing  communications  had  ceased  for  ever. 


1 50  A  Memoir  of 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Declining  health  of  Jane  Austen — Elasticity  of  her  spirits — Her 
resignation  and  htiviility — Her  death. 

Early  in  the  year  1816  some  family  troubles  dis- 
turbed the  usually  tranquil  course  of  Jane  Austen's 
life ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the  inward  malady, 
which  was  to  prove  ultimately  fatal,  was  already  felt 
by  her  ;  for  some  distant  friends,*  whom  she  visited 
in  the  spring  of  that  year,  thought  that  her  health 
was  somewhat  impaired,  and  observed  that  she  went 
about  her  old  haunts,  and  recalled  old  recollections 
connected  with  them  in  a  particular  manner,  as  if  she 
did  not  expect  ever  to  see  them  again.  It  is  not 
surprising  that,  under  these  circumstances,  some  of 
her  letters  were  of  a  graver  tone  than  had  been 
customary  with  her,  and  expressed  resignation  rather 
than  cheerfulness.  In  reference  to  these  troubles  in 
a  letter  to  her  brother  Charles,  after  mentioning  that 
she  had  been  laid  up  with  an  attack  of  bilious  fever, 
she  says  :  '  I  live  up  stairs  for  the  present  and  am 
coddled.  I  am  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  has 
been  so  silly,  but  a  weak  body  must  excuse  weak 
nerves.'     And  again,  to  another  correspondent :  *  But 

*  The  Fowles,  of  Kintbury,  in  Berkshire. 


Jane  Austen.  ^  151 


I  am  getting  too  near  complaint  ;  it  has  been  the 
appointment  of  God,  however  secondary  causes  may- 
have  operated.'  But  the  elasticity  of  lier  spirits  soon 
recovered  their  tone.  It  was  in  the  latter  half  of  that 
year  that  she  addressed  the  two  following  lively 
letters  to  a  nephew,  one  while  he  was  at  Winchester 
School,  the  other  soon  after  he  had  left  it  : — 

'  Chawton,  July  9,  1816. 

'  My  Dear  E. — Many  thanks.  A  thank  for  every 
line,  and  as  many  to  Mr.  W.  Digweed  for  coming. 
We  have  been  wanting  very  much  to  hear  of  your 
mother,  and  are  happy  to  find  she  continues  to  mend, 
but  her  illness  must  have  been  a  very  serious  one 
indeed.  When  she  is  really  recovered,  she  ought  to 
try  change  of  air,  and  come  over  to  us.  Tell  your 
father  that  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  his 
share  of  your  letter,  and  most  sincerely  join  in  the 
hope  of  her  being  eventually  much  the  better  for  her 
present  discipline.  She  has  the  comfort  moreover  of 
being  confined  in  such  weather  as  gives  one  little 
temptation  to  be  out.  It  is  really  too  bad,  and  has 
been  too  bad  for  a  long  time,  much  worse  than  any 
one  can  bear,  and  I  begin  to  think  it  will  never  be 
fine  again.  This  is  2^  finesse  of  mine,  for  I  have  often 
observed  that  if  one  writes  about  the  weather,  it  is 
generally  completely  changed  before  the  letter  is 
read.  I  wish  it  may  prove  so  now,  and  that  when 
Mr,  W.  Digweed  reaches  Steventon  to-morrow,  he 
may  find  you  have  had  a  long  series  of  hot  dry 
weather.     We   are    a   small    party  at    present,    only 


152  A  Memoir  of 


grandmamma,  Mary  Jane,  and  myself.  Yalden's 
coach  cleared  off  the  rest  yesterday.  I  am  glad  you 
recollected  to  mention  your  being  come  home.*  My 
heart  began  to  sink  within  me  when  I  had  got  so  far 
through  your  letter  without  its  being  mentioned.  I 
was  dreadfully  afraid  that  you  might  be  detained  at 
Winchester  by  severe  illness,  confined  to  your  bed 
perhaps,  and  quite  unable  to  hold  a  pen,  and  only 
dating  from  Steventon  in  order,  with  a  mistaken  sort 
of  tenderness,  to  deceive  me.  But  now  I  have  no 
doubt  of  your  being  at  home.  I  am  sure  you  would 
not  say  it  so  seriously  unless  it  actually  -were  so. 
We  saw  a  countless  number  of  post-chaises  full  of 
boys  pass  by  yesterday  morning-]- — full  of  future 
heroes,  legislators,  fools,  and  villains.  You  have 
never  thanked  me  for  my  last  letter,  which  went  by 
the  cheese.  I  cannot  bear  not  to  be  thanked.  You 
will  not  pay  us  a  visit  yet  of  course  ;  we  must  not 
think  of  it.  Your  mother  must  get  well  first,  and 
you  must  go  to  Oxford  and  not  be  elected  ;  after  that 
a  little  change  of  scene  may  be  good  for  you,  and 
your  physicians  I  hope  will  order  you  to  the  sea,  or 
to  a  house  by  the  side  of  a  very  considerable  pond.| 
Oh !  it  rains  again.  It  beats  against  the  window. 
Mary  Jane  and  I  have  been  wet  through  once  already 

*  It  seems  that  her  young  correspondent,  after  dathig  from  liis  heme, 
had  been  so  superfluous  as  to  state  in  his  letter  that  he  was  returned 
home,  and  thus  to  liave  drawn  on  himself  this  banter. 

+  I'he  road  by  A\hich  many  Winchester  boys  reluriied  home  ran  close 
to  Chawton  Cottage, 

X  There  was,  though  it  exists  no  longer,  a  pond  close  to  Chawton 
Cottage,  at  the  junction  of  the  Winchester  and  Gosport  roads. 


Jane  A  listen.  ,  153 


to-day ;  wc  set  off  in  tlie  donkcy-carriagc  for  Far- 
ringdon,  as  I  wanted  to  sec  the  improvement  IMr. 
Woolls  is  making,  but  wc  were  obliged  to  turn  back 
before  we  got  there,  but  not  soon  enough  to  avoid  a 
pelter  all  the  way  home.  We  met  IMr.  Woolls.  I 
talked  of  its  being  bad  weather  for  the  hay,  and  he 
returned  me  the  comfort  of  its  being  much  worse 
for  the  wheat.  We  hear  that  Mrs.  S.  does  not  quit 
Tangier :  why  and  wherefore  1  Do  you  know  that 
our  Browning  is  gone  .^  You  must  prepare  for  a 
William  when  you  come,  a  good-looking  lad,  ci\il 
and  quiet,  and  seeming  likely  to  do.  Good  bye.  I 
am  sure  Mr.  W.  D.*  will  be  astonished  at  my  writing 
so  much,  for  the  paper  is  so  thin  that  he  will  be  able 
to  count  the  lines  if  not  to  read  them. 
*  Yours  affcc'-^ 

'  Jane  Austen.' 

In  the  next  letter  will  be  found  her  description  of 
her  own  style  of  composition,  which  has  already  ap- 
peared in  the  notice  prefixed  to  '  Northanger  Abbey' 
and  *  Persuasion  ' : — 

'Chawton,  INIonday,  Dec.  i6th  (1S16). 

*Mv  Dear  E., — One  reason  for  my  writing  to  you 
now  is,  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  directing  to 
you  Esq'"'^*  I  give  you  joy  of  having  left  Winchester. 
Now  you  may  own  how  miserable  you  were  there  ; 
now  it  will  gradually  all  come  out,  your  crimes  and 

*  Mr.  Digweed,  who  conveyed  the  leUers  to  and  from  Chawlon, 
was  the  gentleman  named  in  page  21,  as  renting  the  old  manor-huuse 
and  the  large  farm  at  Ste^-enton. 


1 54  -^  Memoir  of 


your  miseries — how  often  you  went  up  by  the  Mail 
to  London  and  threw  away  fifty  guineas  at  a  tavern, 
and  how  often  you  were  on  the  point  of  hanging 
yourself,  restrained  only,  as  some  ill-natured  aspersion 
upon  poor  old  Winton  has  it,  by  the  want  of  a  tree 
within  some  miles  of  the  city.  Charles  Knight  and 
his  companions  passed  through  Chawton  about  9 
this  morning ;  later  than  it  used  to  be.  Uncle 
Henry  and  I  had  a  glimpse  of  his  handsome  face, 
looking  all  health  and  good  humour.  I  wonder 
when  you  will  come  and  see  us.  I  know  what  I 
rather  speculate  upon,  but  shall  say  nothing.  We 
think  uncle  Henry  in  excellent  looks.  Look  at  him 
this  moment,  and  think  so  too,  if  you  have  not  done 
it  before ;  and  we  have  the  great  comfort  of  seeing 
decided  improvement  in  uncle  Charles,  both  as  to 
health,  spirits,  and  appearance.  And  they  are  each 
of  them  so  agreeable  in  their  different  way,  and 
harmonise  so  well,  that  their  visit  is  thorough  enjoy- 
ment. Uncle  Henry  writes  very  superior  sermons. 
You  and  I  must  try  to  get  hold'  of  one  or  two,  and 
put  them  into  our  novels:  it  would  be  a  fine  help  to 
a  volume  ;  and  we  could  make  our  heroine  read  it 
aloud  on  a  Sunday  evening,  just  as  well  as  Isabella 
Wardour,  in  the  "  Antiquary,"  is  made  to  read  the 
"  History  of  the  Hartz  Demon  "  in  the  ruins  of  St. 
Ruth,  though  I  believe,  on  recollection,  Lovell  is  the 
reader.  By  the  bye,  my  dear  E.,  I  am  quite  con- 
cerned for  the  loss  your  mother  mentions  in  her 
letter.  Two  chapters  and  a  half  to  be  missing  is 
monstrous !      It   is    well    that   /  have    not   been    at 


Jane  Austen.  ,  155 


Steventon  lately,  and  therefore  cannot  be  suspected 
of  purloining  them  :  two  strong  twigs  and  a  half 
towards  a  nest  of  my  own  would  have  been  some- 
thing. I  do  not  think,  however,  that  any  theft  of  that 
sort  would  be  really  very  useful  to  me.  What  should 
I  do  with  your  strong,  manly,  vigorous  sketches,  full 
of  variety  and  glow  .-^  How  could  I  possibly  join 
them  on  to  the  little  bit  (two  inches  wide)  of  ivory 
on  which  I  work  with  so  fine  a  brush,  as  produces 
little  effect  after  much  labour  t 

*  You  will  hear  from  uncle  Heniy  how  well  Anna 
is.  She  seems  perfectly  recovered.  Ben  was  here  on 
Saturday,  to  ask  uncle  Charles  and  me  to  dine  with 
them,  as  to-morrow,  but  I  was  forced  to  decline  it, 
the  walk  is  beyond  my  strength  (though  I  am  other- 
wise very  well),  and  this  is  not  a  season  for  donkey- 
carriages  ;  and  as  we  do  not  like  to  spare  uncle 
Charles,  he  has  declined  it  too.  Tuesday.  Ah,  ah  ! 
Mr.  E.  I  doubt  your  seeing  uncle  Henry  at  Steven- 
ton  to-day.  The  weather  will  prevent  your  expecting 
him,  I  think.  Tell  your  father,  with  aunt  Cass's  love 
and  mine,  that  the  pickled  cucumbers  are  extremely 
good,  and  tell  him  also^ — "tell  him  what  you  will." 
No,  don't  tell  him  what  you  will,  but  tell  him  that 
grandmamma  begs  him  to  make  Joseph  Hall  pay 
his  rent,  if  he  can. 

*  You  must  not  be  tired  of  reading  the  word  uncle., 
for  I  have  not  done  with  it.  Uncle  Charles  thanks 
your  mother  for  her  letter  ;  it  was  a  great  pleasure 
to  him  to  know  that  the  parcel  was  received  and 
ga\'e  so  much  satisfaction,  and  he  begs  her  to  be  so 


156  A  Memoir  of 


good  as  to  give  three  shillings  for  him  to  Dame 
Staples,  which  shall  be  allowed  for  in  the  payment 
of  her  debt  here. 

'  Adieu,  Amiable  !  I  hope  Caroline  behaves  well 
to  you. 

'  Yours  affec'^, 

*J.  Austen.' 

I  cannot  tell  how  soon  she  was  aware  of  the  serious 
nature  of  her  malady.  By  God's  mercy  it  was  not 
attended  with  much  suffering  ;  so  that  she  was  able 
to  tell  her  friends  as  in  the  foregoing  letter,  and 
perhaps  sometimes  to  persuade  herself  that,  except- 
ing want  of  strength,  she  was  '  othenvise  veiy  well  ;' 
but  the  progress  of  the  disease  became  more  and 
more  manifest  as  the  year  advanced.  The  usual 
walk  was  at  first  shortened,  and  then  discontinued  ; 
and  air  was  sought  in  a  donkey-carriage.  Gradually, 
too,  her  habits  of  activity  within  the  house  ceased, 
and  she  was  obliged  to  lie  down  much.  The  sitting- 
room  contained  only  one  sofa,  which  was  fre- 
quently occupied  by  her  mother,  who  was  more  than 
seventy  years  old.  Jane  would  never  use  it,  even  in 
her  mother's  absence  ;  but  she  contrived  a  sort  of 
couch  for  herself  with  two  or  three  chairs,  and  was 
pleased  to  say  that  this  arrangement  was  more  com- 
fortable to  her  than  a  real  sofa.  Her  reasons  for  this 
might  have  been  left  to  be  guessed,  but  for  the  im- 
portunities of  a  little  niece,  which  obliged  her  to 
explain  that  if  she  herself  had  shown  any  inclination 
to  use  the  sofa,  her  mother  might  have  scrupled 
being  on  it  so  much  as  was  good  for  her. 


Jane  Austen.  .  157 


It  is  certain,  however,  that  the  mind  did  not  share 
in  this   decay  of  the  bodily  strength.     '  Persuasion ' 
was  not  finished  before  the  middle  of  August  in  that 
year ;    and    the   manner   in  which  it  was  tlicn  com- 
pleted  affords  proof  that  neither  the  critical  nor  the 
creative  powers  of  the  author  were  at  all  impaired. 
The  book  had  been  brought  to  an  end  in  July  ;  and 
the  re-engagement  of  the  hero  and  heroine  effected 
in  a  totally  diftcrcnt  manner  \\\  a  scene  laid  at  Ad- 
miral Croft's  lodgings.     But  her  performance  did  not 
satisfy  her.     She  thought  it  tame  and  flat,  and  was 
desirous  of  producing  something  better.    This  weighed 
upon  her  mind,  the  more  so  probably  on  account  of 
the  weak  state  of  her  health  ;  so  that  one  night  she 
retired  to   rest  in  very  low  spirits.     But  such  depres- 
sion was   little   in    accordance   with    her    nature,  and 
was  soon  shaken  off.     The  next  morning  she  awoke 
to  more  cheerful  views  and  brighter  inspirations  :  the 
sense  of  power  revived ;  and  imagination  resumed  its 
course.     She  cancelled  the  condemned  chapter,  and 
wrote  two  other.^  entirely  different,  in  its  stead.    The 
result   is  that  we  possess  the  visit  of  the  I\Iusgro\'e 
party  to  Bath  ;  the  crowded  and  animated  scenes  at 
the  White  Hart  Hotel  ;  and  the  charming  conversa- 
tion between  Capt.  Harville  and  Anne  Elliot,  over- 
heard by  Capt.  Wentworth,  by  which  the  two  faithful 
lovers  were   at  last  led  to    understand  each   other's 
feelings.     The  tenth  and  eleventh   chapters  of  *  Per- 
suasion '  then,  rather  than  the  actual  winding-up  of  the 
story,  contain  the  latest  of  her  printed  compositions, 
her   last    contribution   to    the    entertainment    of  the 


158  A  Memoir  of 


public.  Perhaps  it  may  be  thought  that  she  has 
seldom  written  anything  more  brilliant;  and  that, 
independent  of  the  original  manner  in  which  the 
denouement  is  brought  about,  the  pictures  of  Charles 
Musgrove's  goodnatured  boyishness  and  of  his  wife's 
jealous  selfishness  would  have  been  incomplete  without 
these  finishing  strokes.  The  cancelled  chapter  exists 
in  manuscript.  It  is  certainly  inferior  to  the  two 
which  were  substituted  for  it:  but  it  was  such  as 
some  writers  and  some  readers  might  have  been  con- 
tented with  ;  and  it  contained  touches  which  scarcely 
any  other  hand  could  have  given,  the  suppression  of 
which  may  be  almost  a  matter  of  regret* 

The  following  letter  was  addressed  to  her  friend 
Miss  Bigg,  then  staying  at  Streatham  with  her 
sister,  the  wife  of  the  Reverend  Herbert  Hill,  uncle 
of  Robert  Southey.  It  appears  to  have  been  written 
three  days  before  she  began  her  last  Avork,  which  will 
be  noticed  in  another  chapter ;  and  shows  that  she 
was  not  at  that  time  aware  of  the  serious  nature  of 
her  malady : — 

*  Chawton,  January  24,  181 7. 

'  My  dear  Alethea, — I  think  it  time  there 
should  be  a  little  writing  between  us,  though  I  be- 
lieve the  epistolary  debt  is  on  yottr  side,  and  I  hope 
this  will  find  all  the  Streatham  party  well,  neither 
carried  away  by  the  flood,  nor  rheumatic  through 
the    damps.     Such   mild    weather  is,  you  know,  de- 

*  This  cancelled  chapter  is  now  printed,  in  compliance  with  the 
requests  addressed  to  me  from  several  quarters. 


ya7ie  Atisten,  .  159 


lii^htful  to  us,  and  though  we  have  a  great  many 
ponds,  and  a  fine  running  stream  through  the  mea- 
dows on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  it  is  nothing  but 
what  beautifies  us  and  docs  to  talk  of.  /  have  cer- 
tainly gained  strength  through  the  winter  and  am  not 
far  from  being  well ;  and  I  think  I  understand  my 
own  case  now  so  much  better  than  I  did,  as  to  be 
able  by  care  to  keep  off  any  serious  return  of  illness. 
I  am  convinced ,  that  bile  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  I 
have  suffered,  which  makes  it  easy  to  know  how  to 
treat  myself  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  thus  much  of 
me,  I  am  sure.  We  have  just  had  a  few  days'  visit 
from  Edward,  who  brought  us  a  good  account  of  his 
father,  and  the  very  circumstance  of  his  coming  at 
all,  of  his  father's  being  able  to  spare  him,  is  itself  a 
good  account.  He  grows  still,  and  still  improves  in 
appearance,  at  least  in  the  estimation  of  his  aunts, 
who  love  him  better  and  better,  as  they  see  the  sweet 
temper  and  warm  affections  of  the  boy  confirmed  in  the 
young  man  :  I  tried  hard  to  persuade  him  that  he  must 
have  some  message  for  William,*  but  in  vain.  .  .  . 
This  is  not  a  time  of  year  for  donkey-carriages,  and 
our  donkeys  are  necessarily  having  so  long  a  run  of 
luxurious  idleness  that  I  suppose  we  shall  find  they 
have  forgotten  much  of  their  education  when  we  use 
them  again.  We  do  not  use  two  at  once  however ; 
don't  imagine  such  excesses.  .  .  Our  own  new  clergy- 
man t  is  expected  here  very  soon,  perhaps  in  time  to 

*  Miss  Bigg's   nephew,    the    present    Sir   William    HeathcC^^e,    of 
Hursley. 

+  Her  brother  Henry,  who  had  been  ordained  late  in  life. 


i6o  A  Memoir  of 


assist  Mr.  Papillon  on  Sunday.  I  shall  be  very  glad 
when  the  first  hearing  is  over.  It  will  be  a  nervous 
hour  for  our  pew,  though  we  hear  that  he  acquits  him- 
self with  as  much  ease  and  collectedness,  as  if  he  had 
been  used  to  it  all  his  life.  We  have  no  chance  we 
know  of  seeing  you  between  Streatham  and  Win- 
chester :  you  go  the  other  road  and  are  engaged  to 
two  or  three  houses  ;  if  there  should  be  any  change, 
however,  you  know  how  welcome  you  w^ould  be.  .  .  . 
We  have  been  reading  the  "Poet's  Pilgrimage  to 
Waterloo,"  and  generally  with  much  approbation. 
Nothing  will  please  all  the  world,  you  know  ;  but 
parts  of  it  suit  me  better  than  much  that  he  has 
written  before.  The  opening — tJic  proem  I  believe 
he  calls  it — is  very  beautiful.  Poor  man  !  one  can- 
not but  grieve  for  the  loss  of  the  son  so  fondly  de- 
scribed. Has  he  at  all  recovered  it  t  What  do  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hill  know  about  his  present  state  t 
'  Yours  aff^^, 

'  J.  Austen. 

'  The  real  object  of  this  letter  is  to  ask  you  for  a 
receipt,  but  I  thought  it  genteel  not  to  let  it  appear 
early.  We  remember  some  excellent  orange  wine  at 
Manydown,  made  from  Seville  oranges,  entirely  or 
chiefly.  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
the  receipt,  if  you  can  command  it  within  a  few 
weeks.' 

On  the  day  before,  January  23rd,  she  had  written 
to  her  niece  in  the  same  hopeful  tone :  '  I  feel  myself 
getting  stronger  than  I  was,  and  can  so  perfectly  walk 


Jane  Austen.  •  i6i 

to  Alton,  or  back  again  without  fatigue,  tliat  I  hope 
to  be  able  to  do  boiJi  when  summer  comes.' 

Alas  !  summer  came  to  her  only  on  her  death- 
bed. March  17th  is  the  last  date  to  be  found  in  the 
manuscript  on  which  she  was  engaged ;  and  as  the 
watch  of  the  drowned  man  indicates  the  time  of  his 
death,  so  does  this  fmal  date  seem  to  fix  the  period 
when  her  mind  could  no  longer  pursue  its  accustomed 
course. 

And  here  I  cannot  do  better  than  quote  the  words 
of  the  niece  to  whose  private  records  of  her  aunt's 
life  and  character  I  have  been  so  often  indebted : — 
'  I  do  not  know  how  early  the  alarming  symptoms  of 
her  malady  came  on.  It  was  in  the  following  March 
that  I  had  the  first  idea  of  her  being  seriously  ill.  It 
had  been  settled  that  about  the  end  of  that  month,  or 
the  beginning  of  April,  I  should  spend  a  few  days  at 
Chawton,  in  the  absence  of  my  father  and  mother, 
who  were  just  then  engaged  with  Mrs.  Leigh  Perrot  in 
arranging  her  late  husband's  affairs  ;  but  Aunt  Jane 
became  too  ill  to  have  me  in  the  house,  and  so  I 
went  instead  to  my  sister  Mrs.  Lefroy  at  Wyards'. 
The  next  day  we  walked  over  to  Chawton  to  make 
enquiries  after  our  aunt.  She  was  then  keeping  her 
room,  but  said  she  would  see  us,  and  we  went  up  to 
her.  She  was  in  her  dressing  gown,  and  was  sitting 
quite  like  an  invalid  in  an  arm-chair,  but  she  got  up 
and  kindly  greeted  us,  and  then,  pointing  to  seats 
which  had  been  arranged  for  us  by  the  fire,  she  said, 
"  There  is  a  chair  for  the  married  lady,  and  a  little 

M 


1 62  A  Memoir  of 


stool  for  you,  Caroline."  *  It  is  strange,  but  those 
trifling  words  were  the  last  of  hers  that  I  can  re- 
member, for  I  retain  no  recollection  of  what  was  said 
by  anyone  in  the  conversation  that  ensued.  I  was 
struck  by  the  alteration  in  herself.  She  was  very 
pale,  her  voice  was  weak  and  low,  and  there  was 
about  her  a  general  appearance  of  debility  and  suffer- 
ing ;  but  I  have  been  told  that  she  never  had  much 
acute  pain.  She  was  not  equal  to  the  exertion  of 
talking  to  us,  and  our  visit  to  the  sick  room  was  a 
very  short  one,  Aunt  Cassandra  soon  taking  us  away. 
I  do  not  suppose  we  stayed  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  and 
I  never  saw  Aunt  Jane  again.' 

In  May  1817  she  was  persuaded  to  remove  to 
Winchester,  for  the  sake  of  medical  advice  from  Mr. 
Lyford.  The  Lyfords  have,  for  some  generations, 
maintained  a  high  character  in  Winchester  for  medical 
skill,  and  the  Mr.  Lyford  of  that  day  was  a  man  of 
more  than  provincial  reputation,  in  whom  great 
London  practitioners  expressed  confidence.  Mr. 
Lyford  spoke  encouragingly.  It  was  not,  of  course, 
his  business  to  extinguish  hope  in  his  patient,  but  I 
believe  that  he  had,  from  the  first,  very  little  expec- 
tation of  a  permanent  cure.  All  that  was  gained  by 
the  removal  from  home  was  the  satisfaction  of  having 
done  the  best  that  could  be  done,  together  with  such 
alleviations  of  suffering  as  superior  medical  skill  could 
afford. 

Jane  and  her  sister  Cassandra  took  lodgings  in 
College   Street.     They  had   two  kind   friends  living 

*  The  writer  was  at  that  time  under  twelve  years  old. 


J aiie  Austen.  •  1G3 


in  the  Close,  Mrs.  Heathcote  and  Miss  Bigg,  the 
mother  and  aunt  of  the  present  Sir  Wm.  Heathcote 
of  Hursley,  between  whose  family  and  ours  a  close 
friendship  has  existed  for  several  generations.  These 
friends  did  all  that  they  could  to  promote  the  comfort 
of  the  sisters,  during  that  sad  sojourn  in  Winchester, 
both  by  their  society,  and  by  supplying  those  little 
conveniences  in  which  a  lodging-house  was  likely  to 
be  deficient.  It  was  shortly  after  settling  in  these 
lodgings  that  she  wrote  to  a  nephew  the  following 
characteristic  letter,  no  longer,  alas  !  in  her  former 
strong,  clear  hand. 

'Mrs.  David's,  College  St.,  Winton, 

Tuesday,  May  27th. 

*  There  is  no  better  way,  my  dearest  E.,  of  thank- 
ing you  for  your  affectionate  concern  for  me  during 
my  illness  than  by  telling  you  myself,  as  soon  as 
possible,  that  I  continue  to  get  better.  I  will  not 
boast  of  my  handwriting ;  neither  that  nor  my  face 
have  yet  recovered  their  proper  beauty,  but  in  other 
respects  I  gain  strength  very  fast.  I  am  now  out  of 
bed  from  9  in  the  morning  to  10  at  night:  upon 
the  sofa,  it  is  true,  but  I  eat  my  meals  with  aunt 
Cassandra  in  a  rational  way,  and  can  employ  myself, 
and  walk  from  one  room  to  another.  Mr.  Lyford 
says  he  will  cure  me,  and  if  he  fails,  I  shall  draw  up 
a  memorial  and  lay  it  before  the  Dean  and  Chapter, 
and  have  no  doubt  of  redress  from  that  pious, 
learned,  and  disinterested  body.  Our  lodgings  are 
very  comfortable.  We  have  a  neat  little  drawing- 
room  with  a  bow  window  overlooking   Dr.   GabcU's 

M  2 


l54  A  Memoir  of 


garden.*  Thanks  to  the  kindness  of  your  father  and 
mother  in  sending  me  their  carriage,  my  journey 
hither  on  Saturday  was  performed  with  very  Httle 
fatigue,  and  had  it  been  a  fine  day,  I  think  I  should 
have  felt  none ;  but  it  distressed  me  to  see  uncle 
Henry  and  Wm.  Knight,  who  kindly  attended  us  on 
horseback,  riding  in  the  rain  almost  the  whole  way. 
W^c  expect  a  visit  from  them  to-morrow,  and  hope 
they  will  stay  the  night ;  and  on  Thursday,  which  is 
a  confirmation  and  a  holiday,  we  are  to  get  Charles 
out  to  breakfast.  We  have  had  but  one  visit  from 
h'nn,  poor  fellow,  as  he  is  in  sick-room,  but  he  hopes 
to  be  out  to-night.  We  see  Mrs.  Heathcote  every 
day,  and  W^illiam  is  to  call  upon  us  soon.  God  bless 
you,  my  dear  E.  If  ever  you  are  ill,  may  you  be 
as  tenderly  nursed  as  I  have  been.  May  the  same 
blessed  alleviations  of  anxious,  sympathising  friends 
be  yours  :  and  may  you  possess,  as  I  dare  say  you 
will,  the  greatest  blessing  of  all  in  the  consciousness 
of  not  being  unworthy  of  their  love.  /  could  not 
feel  this. 

*  Your  very  affec*®  Aunt, 

'  J.  A.' 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  which  has  been 
before  printed,  written  soon  after  the  former,  breathes 
the  same  spirit  of  humility  and  thankfulness  :— 

*  I  will  only  say  further  that  my  dearest  sister,  my 
tender,  watchful,  indefatigable  nurse,  has   not   been 

*  It  was  the  comer  house  in  College  Street,   at  the   entrance  to 
Commoners. 


Jane  Austen.  .  165 


made  ill  by  her  exertions  As  to  what  I  owe  her, 
and  the  anxious  affection  of  all  my  beloved  family 
on  this  occasion,  I  can  only  cry  o\'er  it,  and  pray 
God  to  bless  them  more  and  more.' 

Throughout  her  illness  she  was  nursed  by  her 
sister,  often  assisted  by  her  sister-in-law,  my  mother. 
Both  were  with  her  when  she  died.  Two  of  her 
brothers,  who  were  clergymen,  lived  near  enough  to 
Winchester  to  be  in  frequent  attendance,  and  to  ad- 
minister the  services  suitable  for  a  Christian's  death- 
bed. While  she  used  the  language  of  hope  to  her 
correspondents,  she  w^as  fully  aware  of  her  danger, 
though  not  appalled  by  it.  It  is  true  that  there  was 
much  to  attach  her  to  life.  She  was  happy  in  her 
family ;  she  was  just  beginning  to  feel  confidence  in 
her  own  success  ;  and,  no  doubt,  the  exercise  of  her 
great  talents  was  an  enjoyment  in  itself.  We  may 
well  believe  that  she  would  gladly  have  lived  longer ; 
but  she  was  enabled  without  dismay  or  complaint  to 
prepare  for  death.  She  was  a  humble,  believing 
Christian.  Her  life  had  been  passed  in  the  perform- 
ance of  home  duties,  and  the  cultivation  of  domestic 
affections,  without  any  self-seeking  or  craving  after 
applause.  She  had  always  sought,  as  it  were  by 
instinct,  to  promote  the  happiness  of  all  who  came 
within  her  influence,  and  doubtless  she  had  her  re- 
ward in  the  peace  of  mind  vvhich  was  granted  her  in 
her  last  days.  Her  sweetness  of  temper  never  failed. 
She  was  ever  considerate  and  grateful  to  those  who 
attended  on  her.  At  times,  when  she  felt  rather 
better,   her   playfulness    of    spirit    re\ivcd,    and    she 


1 66  A  Memoir  of 


amused  them  even  in  their  sadness.  Once,  when 
she  thought  herself  near  her  end,  she  said  what  she 
imagined  might  be  her  last  words  to  those  around 
her,  and  particularly  thanked  her  sister-in-law  for 
being  with  her,  saying:  'You  have  always  been  a 
kind  sister  to  me,  Mary.'  When  the  end  at  last 
came,  she  sank  rapidly,  and  on  being  asked  by  her 
attendants  whether  there  was  anything  that  she 
wanted,  her  reply  was,  *  NotJiing  but  death!  These 
were  her  last  words.  In  quietness  and  peace  she 
breathed  her  last  on  the  morning  of  July  i8,  1817. 

On  the  24th  of  that  month  she  was  buried  in 
Winchester  Cathedral,  near  the  centre  of  the  north 
aisle,  almost  opposite  to  the  beautiful  chantry  tomb 
of  William  of  Wykeham.  A  large  slab  of  black 
marble  in  the  pavement  marks  the  place.  Her  own 
family  only  attended  the  funeral.  Her  sister  re- 
turned to  her  desolated  home,  there  to  devote  herself, 
for  ten  years,  to  the  care  of  her  aged  mother ;  and  to 
live  much  on  the  memory  of  her  lost  sister,  till  called 
many  years  later  to  rejoin  her.  Her  brothers  went 
back  sorrowing  to  their  several  homes.  They  were 
ver}'  fond  and  very  proud  of  her.  They  were  at- 
tached to  her  by  her  talents,  her  virtues,  and  her 
engaging  manners ;  and  each  loved  afterwards  to 
fancy  a  resemblance  in  some  niece  or  daughter  of 
his  own  to  the  dear  sister  Jane,  whose  perfect  equal 
they  yet  never  expected  to  see. 


^^ane  Austen,  ,  167 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Cancelled  Chapter  {Chap.  X.)  of  '■  PcrsKasionJ* 

With  all  this  knowledge  of  Mr.  Elliot  and  this 
authority  to  impart  it,  Anne  left  Westgate  Buildings, 
her  mind  deeply  busy  in  revolving  what  she  had 
heard,  feeling,  thinking,  recalling,  and  foreseeing 
everything,  shocked  at  Mi.  Elliot,  sighing  over  future 
Kellynch,  and  pained  for  Lady  Russell,  whose  con- 
fidence in  him  had  been  entire.  The  embarrassment 
which  must  be  felt  from  this  hour  in  his  presence ! 
How  to  behave  to  him  ?  How  to  get  rid  of  him  "i 
What  to  do  by  any  of  the  party  at  home  }  Where 
to  be  blind  .''  Where  to  be  active  ?  It  was  altogether 
a  confusion  of  images  and  doubts — a  perplexity,  an 
agitation  which  she  could  not  see  the  end  of.  And 
she  was  in  Gay  Street,  and  still  so  much  engrossed 
that  she  started  on  being  addressed  by  Admiral 
Croft,  as  if  he  were  a  person  unlikely  to  be  met 
there.     It  was  within  a  few  steps  of  his  own  door. 

'  You  are  going  to  call  upon  my  wife,'  said  he.  *  She 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  you.' 

Anne  denied  it. 

*  No !  she  really  had  not  time,  she  was  in  her  way 
home  ;'  but  while  she  spoke  the  Admiral  had  stepped 
back  and  knocked  at  the  door,  calling  out, 


1 68  A  Memoir  of 


*  Yes,  yes ;  do  go  in  ;  she  is  all  alone ;  go  in  and  rest 
yourself.* 

Anne  felt  so  little  disposed  at  this  time  to  be  in 
company  of  any  sort,  that  it  vexed  her  to  be  thus 
constrained,  but  she  was  obliged  to  stop. 

'Since  you  are  so  very  kind,'  said  she,  'I  will  just 
ask  Mrs.  Croft  how  she  does,  but  I  really  cannot  stay 
five  minutes.     You  are  sure  she  is  quite  alone?' 

The  possibility  of  Captain  Wentworth  had  oc- 
curred ;  and  most  fearfully  anxious  was  she  to  be 
assured — either  that  he  was  within,  or  that  he  was 
not — ivhich  might  have  been  a  question. 

'  Oh  yes !  quite  alone,  nobody  but  her  mantua- 
maker  with  her,  and  they  have  been  shut  up  together 
this  half-hour,  so  it  must  be  over  soon.' 

'Her  mantuamaker!  Then  I  am  sure  my  calling 
now  would  be  most  inconvenient.  Indeed  you  must 
allow  me  to  leave  my  card  and  be  so  good  as  to 
explain  it  afterwards  to  Mrs.  Croft.' 

'  No,  no,  not  at  all — not  at  all — she  will  be  very 
happy  to  see  you.  Mind,  I  will  not  swear  that  she 
has  not  something  particular  to  say  to  you,  but  that 
will  all  come  out  in  the  right  place.  I  give  no  hints. 
Why,  Miss  Elliot,  we  begin  to  hear  strange  things  of 
you  (smiling  in  her  face).  But  you  have  not  mucli 
the  look  of  it,  as  grave  as  a  little  judge  !' 

Anne  blushed. 

*  Aye,  aye,  that  will  do  now,  it  is  all  right.  I 
thought  we  were  not  mistaken.' 

She  was  left  to  guess  at  the  direction  of  his  sus- 
picions;  the  first  wild   idea   had   been  of  some  dis- 


Jane  A  listen.  .  169 


closure  from  his  brother-in-law,  but  she  was  ashamed 
the  next  moment,  and  felt  how  far  more  probable  it 
was  that  he  should  be  meaning  Mr.  Elliot.  The  door 
was  opened,  and  the  man  evidently  beginning  to  dcfiy 
his  mistress,  when  the  sight  of  his  master  stopped 
him.  The  Admiral  enjoyed  the  joke  exceedingly, 
Anne  thought  his  triumph  over  Stephen  rather  too 
long.  At  last,  however,  he  was  able  to  invite  her  up 
stairs,  and  stepping  before  her  said,  '  I  will  just  go 
up  with  you  myself  and  show  you  in.  I  cannot  stay, 
because  I  must  go  to  the  Post-Office,  but  if  you  will 
only  sit  down  for  five  minutes  I  am  sure  Sophy  will 
come,  and  you  will  find  nobody  to  disturb  you — there 
is  nobody  but  Frederick  here,'  opening  the  door  as 
he  spoke.  Such  a  person  to  be  passed  over  as  no- 
body to  her !  After  being  allowed  to  feel  quite 
secure,  indifferent,  at  her  ease,  to  have  it  burst  on 
her  that  she  was  to  be  the  next  moment  in  the  same 
room  with  him  !  No  time  for  recollection  !  for  plan- 
ning behaviour  or  regulating  manners !  There  was 
time  only  to  turn  pale  before  she  had  passed  through 
the  door,  and  met  the  astonished  eyes  of  Captain 
Wentworth,  who  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  pretending 
to  read,  and  prepared  for  no  greater  surprise  than 
the  Admiral's  hasty  return. 

Equally  unexpected  was  the  meeting  on  each  side. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  however,  but  to  stifle 
feelings,  and  to  be  quietly  polite,  and  the  Admiral 
was  too  much  on  the  alert  to  leave  any  troublesome 
pause.  He  repeated  again  what  he  had  said  before 
about   his  wife   and    everybody,  insisted    on  Anne's 


170  A  Me7noir  of 


sitting  down  and  being  perfectly  comfortable — was 
sorry  he  must  leave  her  himself,  but  was  sure  Mrs. 
Croft  would  be  down  very  soon,  and  would  go  up- 
stairs and  give  her  notice  directly.  Anne  ivas  sitting 
down,  but  now  she  arose,  again  to  entreat  him  not  to 
interrupt  Mrs.  Croft  and  re-urge  the  wish  of  going 
away  and  calling  another  time.  But  the  Admiral 
would  not  hear  of  it ;  and  if  she  did  not  return  to  the 
charge  with  unconquerable  perseverance,  or  did  not 
with  a  more  passive  determination  walk  quietly  out 
of  the  room  (as  certainly  she  might  have  done), 
may  she  not  be  pardoned  }  If  she  Jiad  no  horror  of 
a  few  minutes'  tete-a-tete  with  Captain  Wentworth, 
may  she  not  be  pardoned  for  not  wishing  to  give 
him  the  idea  that  she  had  t  She  reseated  herself, 
and  the  Admiral  took  leave,  but  on  reaching  the 
door,  said — 

'  Frederick,  a  word  with  you  if  you  please.' 

Captain  Wentworth  went  to  him,  and  instantly, 
before  they  were  well  out  of  the  room,  the  Admiral 
continued — 

'As  I  am  going  to  leave  you  together,  it  is  but 
fair  I  should  give  you  something  to  talk  of;  and  so, 
if  you  please ' 

Here  the  door  was  very  firmly  closed,  she  could 
guess  by  which  of  the  two — and  she  lost  entirely 
what  immediately  followed,  but  it  was  impossible 
for  her  not  to  distinguish  parts  of  the  rest,  for  the 
Admiral,  on  the  strength  of  the  door's  being  shut, 
was  speaking  without  any  management  of  voice, 
though  she  could  hear  his  companion  trying  to  check 


Jane  Atisten.  ,  171 


him.  She  could  not  doubt  their  being  speaking  of 
her.  Slie  heard  her  own  name  and  Kelly nch  re- 
peatedly. She  was  very  much  disturbed.  She 
knew  not  what  to  do,  or  what  to  expect,  and  among 
other  agonies  felt  the  possibility  of  Captain  Went- 
worth's  not  returning  into  the  room  at  all,  which, 
after  her  consenting  to  stay,  would  have  been — too 
bad  for  language.  They  seemed  to  be  talking  of 
the  Admiral's  lease  of  Kellynch.  She  heard  him 
say  something  of  the  lease  being  signed — or  not 
signed — t/iat  was  not  likely  to  be  a  very  agitatincT 
subject,  but  then  followed — 

*  I  hate  to  be  at  an  uncertainty.  I  must  know  at 
once.     Sophy  thinks  the  same.' 

Then  in  a  lower  tone  Captain  Wentworth  seemed 
remonstrating,  wanting  to  be  excused,  wanting  to  put 
something  off. 

*  Phoo,  phoo,'  answered  the  Admiral,  '  now  is  the 
time ;  if  you  will  not  speak,  I  will  stop  and  speak 
myself 

*  Very  well,  sir,  very  well,  sir,'  followed  with  some 
impatience  from  his  companion,  opening  the  door  as 
he  spoke — 

*  You  will  then,  you  promise  you  v/ill .''  *  replied 
the  Admiral  in  all  the  power  of  his  natural  voice, 
unbroken  even  by  one  thin  door. 

*  Yes,  sir,  yes.'  And  the  Admiral  was  hastily  left, 
the  door  was  closed,  and  the  moment  arrived  in  which 
Anne  was  alone  with  Captain  Wentworth. 

She  could  not  attempt  to  see  how  he  looked,  but 
he  walked  immediately  to  a  window  as  if  irresolute 


1/2  A  Memoir  of 


and  embarrassed,  and  for  about  the  space  of  five 
seconds  she  repented  what  she  had  done — censured 
it  as  unwise,  blushed  over  it  as  indelicate.  She 
longed  to  be  able  to  speak  of  the  weather  or  the 
concert,  but  could  only  compass  the  relief  of  taking  a 
newspaper  in  her  hand.  The  distressing  pause  was 
over,  however  ;  he  turned  round  in  half  a  minute,  and 
coming  towards  the  table  where  she  sat,  said  in  a  voice 
of  effort  and  constraint — 

'  You  must  have  heard  too  much  already.  Madam, 
to  be  in  any  doubt  of  my  having  promised  Admiral 
Croft  to  speak  to  you  on  a  particular  subject,  and 
this  conviction  determines  me  to  do  so,  however  re- 
pugnant to  my— to  all  my  sense  of  propriety  to  be 
taking  so  great  a  liberty !  You  will  acquit  me  of 
impertinence  I  trust,  by  considering  me  as  speaking 
only  for  another,  and  speaking  by  necessity ;  and  the 
Admiral  is  a  man  who  can  never  be  thought  imperti-' 
nent  by  one  who  knows  him  as  you  do.  His  inten- 
tions are  always  the  kindest  and  the  best,  and  you 
will  perceive  he  is  actuated  by  none  other  in  the 
application  which  I  am  now,  with — with  very  pe- 
culiar feelings— obliged  to  make.'  He  stopped,  but 
merely  to  recover  breath,  not  seeming  to  expect  any 
answer.  Anne  listened  as  if  her  life  depended  on  the 
issue  of  his  speech.  He  proceeded  with  a  forced 
alacrity :  — 

'  The  Admiral,  Madam,  was  this  morning  confi- 
dently informed  that  you  were — upon  my  soul,  I  am 
quite  at  a  loss,  ashamed  (breathing  and  speaking 
quickly) — the  awkwardness  of  giving'  information  of 


Jane  Austen.  •  173 


tills  kind  to  one  of  the  parties — you  can  be  at  no  loss 
to  understand  me.  It  was  very  confidently  said  that 
I\Ir.  Elliot — that  everything  was  settled  in  the  family 
for  a  union  between  I\Ir,  Elliot  and  yourself.  It  was 
added  that  you  were  to  live  at  Kellynch — that 
K  el  lynch  was  to  be  given  up.  This  the  Admiral 
knew  could  not  be  correct.  But  it  occurred  to 
him  that  it  might  be  the  ivisJi  of  the  parties.  And 
my  commission  from  him,  Madam,  is  to  say,  that 
if  the  family  wish  is  such,  his  lease  of  Kellynch 
shall  be  cancelled,  and  he  and  my  sister  will  provide 
themselves  with  another  home,  without  imaq-ininn- 
themselves  to  be  doing  anything  which  under  similar 
circumstances  would  not  be  done  for  tJuin.  This  is 
all,  Madam.  A  veiy  few  words  in  reply  from  you 
will  be  sufficient.  That  /  should  be  the  person 
commissioned  on  this  subject  is  extraordinary  !  and 
believe  me,  Madam,  it  is  no  less  painful.  A  very 
few  words,  however,  will  put  an  end  to  the  awkward- 
ness and  distress  we  may  both  be  feeling.' 

Anne  spoke  a  word  or  two,  but  they  were  unintel- 
ligible ;  and  before  she  could  command  herself,  he 
added,  'If  you  will  only  tell  me  that  the  Admiral 
may  address  a  line  to  Sir  Walter,  it  will  be  enough. 
Pronounce  only  the  words,  he  may,  and  I  shall  imme- 
diately follow  him  with  your  message.' 

*  No,  Sir,'  said  Anne  ;  *  there  is  no  message.  You 
are  misin — the  Admiral  is  misinformed.  I  do  justice 
to  the  kindness  of  his  intentions,  but  he  is  quite  mis- 
taken.    There  is  no  truth  in  any  such  report.' 

He  was  a  moment  silent.     She  turned  her  eyes 


1/4  ^  Memoir  of 

towards  him  for  the  first  time  since  his  re-entering  the 
room.  His  colour  was  varying,  and  he  was  looking 
at  her  with  all  the  power  and  keenness  which  she 
believed  no  other  eyes  than  his  possessed. 

'No  truth  in  any  such  report .'"'  he  repeated.  *  No 
truth  in  ^ny  part  of  it  .''' 

*  None.' 

He  had  been  standing  by  a  chair,  enjoying  the 
relief  of  leaning  on  it,  or  of  playing  with  it.  He  now 
sat  down,  drew  it  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  looked 
with  an  expression  which  had  something  more  than 
penetration  in  it — something  softer.  Her  countenance 
did  not  discourage.  It  was  a  silent  but  a  very  power- 
ful dialogue  ;  on  his  supplication,  on  hers  acceptance. 
Still  a  little  nearer,  and  a  hand  taken  and  pressed  ; 
and  '  Anne,  my  own  dear  Anne !'  bursting  forth  in  all 
the  fulness  of  exquisite  feeling, — and  all  suspense  and 
indecision  were  over.  They  were  re-united.  They 
were  restored  to  all  that  had  been  lost.  They  were 
carried  back  to  the  past  with  only  an  increase  of  at- 
tachment and  confidence,  and  only  such  a  flutter  of 
present  delight  as  made  them  little  fit  for  the  inter- 
ruption of  Mrs.  Croft  when  she  joined  them  not  long 
afterwards.  She,  probably,  in  the  observations  of  the 
next  ten  minutes  saw  something  to  suspect  ;  and 
though  it  was  hardly  possible  for  a  woman  of  her 
description  to  wish  the  mantuamaker  had  imprisoned 
her  longer,  she  might  be  very  likely  wishing  for  some 
excuse  to  run  about  the  house,  some  storm  to  break 
the  windows  above,  or  a  summons  to  the  Admiral's 
shoemaker  below.     Fortune  favoured  them  all,  how- 


Jane  Austen.  ,  175 


ever,  in  another  way,  in  a  gentle,  steady  rain,  just  hap- 
pily set  in  as  the  Admiral  returned  and  Anne  rose  to 
go.  She  was  earnestly  invited  to  stay  dinner.  A 
note  was  despatched  to  Camden  Place,  and  she  staid — 
staid  till  ten  at  night  ;  and  during  that  time  the  hus- 
band and  wife,  either  by  the  wife's  contrivance,  or  by 
simply  going  on  in  their  usual  way,  were  frequently 
out  of  the  room  together — gone  upstairs  to  hear  a 
noise,  or  downstairs  to  settle  their  accounts,  or  upon 
the  landing  to  trim  the  lamp.  And  these  precious 
moments  were  turned  to  so  good  an  account  that  all  the 
most  anxious  feelings  of  the  past  were  gone  through. 
Before  they  parted  at  night,  Anne  had  the  felicity 
of  being  assured  that  in  the  first  place  (so  far  from 
being  altered  for  the  worse),  she  had  gained  inexpres- 
sibly in  personal  loveliness  ;  and  that  as  to  character, 
hers  was  now  fixed  on  his  mind  as  perfection  itself, 
maintaining  the  just  medium  of  fortitude  and  gentle- 
ness— that  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  and  prefer 
her,  though  it  had  been  only  at  Uppercross  that  he 
had  learnt  to  do  her  justice,  and  only  at  Lyme  that 
he  had  begun  to  understand  his  own»feelings  ;  that  at 
Lyme  he  had  received  lessons  of  more  than  one  kind — 
the  passing  admiration  of  Mr.  Elliot  had  at  least 
roused  him,  and  the  scene  on  the  Cobb,  and  at  Captain 
Harville's,  had  fixed  her  superiority.  In  his  preced- 
ing attempts  to  attach  himself  to  Louisa  Musgrove 
(the  attempts  of  anger  and  pique),  he  protested  that 
he  had  continually  felt  the  impossibility  of  really 
caring  for  Louisa,  though  till  that  day,  till  the  leisure 
for  reflection  which   followed   it,  he  had   not  under- 


1 76  A  Monoir  of 


stood  the  perfect  excellence  of  the  mliul  with  which 
Louisa's  could  so  ill  bear  comparison  ;  or  the  perfect, 
the  unrivalled  hold  it  possessed  over  his  own.  There 
he  had  learnt  to  distinguish  between  the  steadiness  of 
principle  and  the  obstinacy  of  self-will,  between  the 
darings  of  heedlessness  and  the  resolution  of  a  col- 
lected mind ;  there  he  had  seen  everything  to  exalt  in 
his  estimation  the  woman  he  had  lost,  and  there  had 
begun  to  deplore  the  pride,  the  folly,  the  madness  of 
resentment,  which  had  kept  him  from  trying  to  regain 
her  when  thrown  in  his  way.  From  that  period  to  the 
present  had  his  penance  been  the  most  severe.  He 
had  no  sooner  been  free  from  the  horror  and  remorse 
attending  the  first  {q\n  days  of  Louisa's  accident,  no 
sooner  had  begun  to  feel  himself  alive  again,  than  he 
had  begun  to  feel  himself,  though  alive,  not  at  liberty. 
He  found  that  he  w^as  considered  by  his  friend  Har- 
ville  an  engaged  man.  The  Harvilles  entertained 
not  a  doubt  of  a  mutual  attachment  between  him  and 
Louisa;  and  though  this  to  a  degree  was  contradicted 
instantly,  it  yet  made  him  feel  that  perhaps  by  her 
family,  by  everybody,  by  Jicrsdf  even,  the  same  idea 
might  be  held,  and  that  he  was  not  free  in  honour, 
though  if  such  were  to  be  the  conclusion,  too  free  alas  ! 
in  heart.  Pie  had  never  thought  justly  on  this  sub- 
ject before,  and  he  had  not  sufficiently  considered 
that  his  excessive  intimacy  at  Uppercross  must  have 
its  danger  of  ill  consequence  in  many  ways  ;  and  that 
while  trying  whether  he  could  attach  himself  to  either 
of  the  girls,  he  might  be  exciting  unpleasant  reports 
if  not  raising  unrequited  regard. 


jaiic  Austen.  .  177 


lie  found  too  late  that  he  had  entangled  himself, 
and  that  precisely  as  he  became  thorouy,hly  satisfied 
of  his  not  caring  for  Louisa  at  all,  he  must  regard 
himself  as  bound  to  her  if  her  feelings  for  him  were 
what  the  Harvilles  supposed.  It  determined  him  to 
leave  Lyme,  and  await  her  perfect  recovery  elsewhere. 
He  would  gladly  weaken  by  any  fair  means  what- 
ever sentiment  or  speculations  concerning  them  might 
exist;  and  he  went  therefore  into  Shropshire,  meaning 
after  a  while  to  return  to  the  Crofts  at  Kellynch,  and 
act  as  he  found  requisite. 

He  had  remained  in  Shropshire,  lamenting  the 
blindness  of  his  own  pride  and  the  blunders  of  his 
own  calculations,  till  at  once  released  from  Louisa 
by  the  astonishing  felicity  of  her  engagement  with 
Benwick. 

Bath — Bath  had  instantly  followed  in  thougJit,  and 
not  long  after  in  fact.  To  Bath — to  arrive  with  hope, 
to  be  torn  by  jealousy  at  the  first  sight  of  Mr.  Elliot; 
to  experience  all  the  changes  of  each  at  the  concert ; 
to  be  miserable  by  the  morning's  circumstantial  re- 
port, to  be  now  more  happy  than  language  could  ex- 
press, or  any  heart  but  his  own  be  capable  of 

He  was  very  eager  and  very  delightful  in  the  de- 
scription of  what  he  had  felt  at  the  concert ;  the  evening 
seemed  to  have  been  made  up  of  exquisite  moments. 
The  moment  of  her  stepping  forward  in  the  octagon 
room  to  speak  to  him,  the  moment  of  Mr.  Elliot's 
appearing  and  tearing  her  away,  and  one  or  two  sub- 
sequent moments,  marked  by  returning  hope  or  in- 
creasing despondency,  were  dwelt  on  with  energy. 

N 


1/8  A  Memoir  of 

*  To  see  you,'  cried  he,  '  in  the  midst  of  those  who 
could  not  be  my  well-wishers;  to  see  your  cousin 
close  by  you,  conversing  and  smiling,  and  feel  all  the 
horrible  eligibilities  and  proprieties  of  the  match  !  To 
consider  it  as  the  certain  wish  of  every  being  who 
could  hope  to  influence  you  !  Even  if  your  own  feel- 
ings were  reluctant  or  indifferent,  to  consider  what 
powerful  support  would  be  his  !  Was  it  not  enough 
to  make  the  fool  of  me  which  I  appeared  ?  How 
could  I  look  on  without  agony  ?  Was  not  the  very 
sight  of  the  friend  who  sat  behind  you  ;  was  not  the 
recollection  of  what  had  been,  the  knowledge  of  her 
influence,  the  indelible,  immovable  impression  of  what 
persuasion  had  once  done — was  it  not  all  against 
me  ?' 

*  You  should  have  distinguished/  replied  Anne. 
*  You  should  not  have  suspected  me  now ;  the  case  so 
different,  and  my  age  so  different.  If  I  was  wrong  in 
yielding  to  persuasion  once,  remember  it  was  to  per- 
suasion exerted  on  the  side  of  safety,  not  of  risk. 
When  I  yielded,  I  thought  it  was  to  duty  ;  but  no 
duty  could  be  called  in  aid  here.  In  marrying  a  man 
indifferent  to  me,  all  risk  would  have  been  incurred, 
and  all  duty  violated.' 

*  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  reasoned  thus,'  he  re- 
plied ;  '  but  I  could  not.  I  could  not  derive  benefit 
from  the  late  knowledge  I  had  acquired  of  your  cha- 
racter. I  could  not  bring  it  into  play ;  it  was  over- 
whelmed, buried,  lost  in  those  earlier  feelings  which  I 
had  been  smiarting  under  year  after  year.  I  could 
think  of  you  only  as  one  who  had  yielded,  who  had 


Jane  Austen.  ^  179 


given  me  up,  who  had  been  influenced  by  anyone 
rather  than  by  me.  I  saw  you  with  the  very  person 
who  had  guided  you  in  that  year  of  misery.  I  had 
no  reason  to  bcheve  her  of  less  authority  now.  The 
force  of  habit  was  to  be  added.' 

*  I  should  have  thought,'  said  Anne,  '  that  my  man- 
ner to  yourself  might  have  spared  you  much  or  all 
of  this.' 

*  No,  no!  Your  manner  might  be  only  the  ease 
which  your  engagement  to  another  man  would  give. 
I  left  you  in  this  belief;  and  yet — I  was  determined 
to  see  you  again.  My  spirits  rallied  with  the  morn- 
ins:,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  still  a  motive  for  remaininf'' 
here.  The  Admiral's  nevv^s,  indeed,  was  a  revulsion  ; 
since  that  moment  I  have  been  divided  what  to  do, 
and  had  it  been  confirmed,  this  would  have  been  my 
last  day  in  Bath.' 

There  was  time  for  all  this  to  pass,  with  such  inter- 
ruptions only  as  enhanced  the  charm  of  the  commu- 
nication, and  Bath  could  hardly  contain  any  other 
two  beings  at  once  so  rationally  and  so  rapturously 
happy  as  during  that  evening  occupied  the  sofa  of 
Mrs.  Croft's  drawing-room  in  Gay  Street. 

Captain  Wentworth  had  taken  care  to  meet  the 
Admiral  as  he  returned  into  the  house,  to  satisfy  him 
as  to  Mr.  Elliot  and  Kellynch  ;  and  the  delicacy  of 
the  Admiral's  good-nature  kept  him  from  saying 
another  word  on  the  subject  to  Anne.  He  was  quite 
concerned  lest  he  might  have  been  giving  her  pain  by 
touching  on  a  tender  part — who  could  say  }  She 
might  be  liking  her  cousin  better  than  he  liked  her ; 

N  2 


i8o  A  Memoir  of 


and,  upon  recollection,  if  they  had  been  to  marry  at 
all,  why  should  they  have  waited  so  long  ?  When  the 
evening  closed,  it  is  probable  that  the  Admiral  re- 
ceived some  new  ideas  from  his  wife,  whose  particu- 
larly friendly  manner  in  parting  with  her  gave  Anne 
the  gratifying  persuasion  of  lier  seeing  and  approving. 
It  had  been  such  a  day  to  Anne  ;  the  hours  which 
had  passed  since  her  leaving  Camden  Place  had  done 
so  much  !  She  was  almost  bewildered — almost  too 
happy  in  looking  back.  It  was  necessary  to  sit  up 
half  the  night,  and  lie  awake  the  remainder,  to  com- 
prehend with  composure  her  present  state,  and  pay 
for  the  overplus  of  bliss  by  headache  and  fatigue. 

Then   follows   Chapter  XL,  i.c,  XII.  in    the  pub- 
lished book  and  at  the  end  is  written — 

Finis y  July  i8,  i8i6. 


Jane  Austen.  i8l 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  List  Work. 

Jane  Austen  was  taken  from  us  :  how  much  un- 
exhausted talent  perished  with  her,  how  largely  she 
mi<rht  yet  have  contributed  to  the  entertainment  of 
her  readers,  if  her  life  had  been  prolonged,  cannot 
be  known  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  mine  at  which 
she  had  so  long  laboured  was  not  worked  out,  and 
that  she  was  still  diligently  employed  in  collect- 
ing fresh  materials  from  it.  *  Persuasian '  had  been 
finished  in  August  i8i6;  some  time  was  probably 
given  to  correcting  it  for  the  press  ;  but  on  the  27th 
of  the  following  January,  according  to  the  date  on 
her  own  manuscript,  she  began  a  new  novel,  and 
worked  at  it  up  to  the  17th  of  March.  The  chief 
part  of  this  manuscript  is  written  in  her  usual  firm 
and  neat  hand,  but  some  of  the  latter  pages  seem  to 
have  been  first  traced  in  pencil,  probably  when  she 
was  too  weak  to  sit  long  at  her  desk,  and  written 
over  in  ink  afterwards.  The  quantity  produced  does 
not  indicate  any  decline  of  power  or  industry,  for  in 
those  seven  weeks  twelve  chapters  had  been  com- 
pleted. It  is  more  difficult  to  judge  of  the  quality 
of  a  work  so  little  advanced.  It  had  received  no 
name ;  there  was  scarcely  any  indication   what   the 


1 82  A  Memoir  of 


course  of  the  story  was  to  be,  nor  was  any  heroine 
yet  perceptible,  who,  like  Fanny  Frice,  or  Anne 
Elliot,  might  draw  round  her  the  sympathies  of  the 
reader.  Such  an  unfinished  fragment  cannot  be  pre- 
sented to  the  public ;  but  I  am  persuaded  that  some 
of  Jane  Austen's  admirers  will  be  glad  to  learn  some- 
thing about  the  latest  creations  whicn  were  forming 
themselves  in  her  mind  ;  and  therefore,  as  some  of 
the  principal  characters  were  already  sketched  in 
with  a  vigorous  hand,  I  will  try  to  give  an  idea  of 
them,  illustrated  by  extracts  from  the  work. 

The  scene  is  laid  at  Sanditon,  a  village  on  the 
Sussex  coast,  just  struggling  into  notoriety  as  a 
bathing-place,  under  the  patronage  of  the  two  prin- 
cipal proprietors  of  the  parish,  Mr.  Parker  and  Lady 
Denham. 

Mr.  Parker  was  an  amiable  man,  with  more  en- 
thusiasm than  judgment,  whose  somewhat  shallow 
mind  overflowed  with  the  one  idea  of  the  prosperity 
of  Sanditon,  together  with  a  jealous  contempt  of  the 
rival  village  of  Brinshore,  where  a  similar  attempt 
was  going  on.  To  the  regret  of  his  much-enduring 
wife,  he  had  left  his  family  mansion,  with  all  its  an- 
cestral comforts  of  gardens,  shrubberies,  and  shelter, 
situated  in  a  valley  some  miles  inland,  and  had  built 
a  new  residence — a  Trafalgar  House — on  the  bare 
brow  of  the  hill  overlooking  Sanditon  and  the  sea, 
exposed  to  every  wind  that  blows  ;  but  he  will  con- 
fess to  no  discomforts,  nor  sufl*er  his  family  to  feel 
any  from  the  change.  The  following  extract  brings 
him  before  the  reader,  mounted  on  his  hobby : — 


Jane  Austen.  183 

*  He  wanted  to  secure  the  promise  of  a  visit,  and 
to  get  as  many  of  the  family  as  his  own  house  would 
liold  to  follow  him  to  Sanditon  as  soon  as  possible  ; 
and,  healthy  as  all  the  Heywoods  undeniably  were, 
he  foresaw  that  every  one  of  them  would  be  bene- 
fitted by  the  sea.  He  held  it  indeed  as  certain  that 
no  person,  however  upheld  for  the  present  by  for- 
tuitous aids  of  exercise  and  spirit  in  a  semblance  of 
health,  could  be  really  in  a  state  of  secure  and  per- 
manent health  without  spending  at  least  six  weeks 
by  the  sea  every  year.  The  sea  air  and  sea-bathing 
together  were  nearly  infallible  ;  one  or  other  of  them 
being  a  match  for  every  disorder  of  the  stomach,  the 
lungs,  or  the  blood.  They  were  anti-spasmodic,  anti- 
pulmonary,  anti-bilious,  and  anti-rheumatic.  Nobody 
could  catch  cold  by  the  sea  ;  nobody  wanted  appe- 
tite by  the  sea ;  nobody  wanted  spirits ;  nobody 
wanted  strength.  They  were  healing,  softening,  re- 
laxing, fortifying,  and  bracing,  seemingly  just  as  was 
wanted ;  sometimes  one,  sometimes  the  other.  If 
the  sea  breeze  failed,  the  sea-bath  was  the  certain 
corrective ;  and  when  bathing  disagreed,  the  sea 
breeze  was  evidently  designed  by  nature  for  the  cure. 
His  eloquence,  however,  could  not  prevail.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hey  wood  never  left  home The  mainten- 
ance, education,  and  fitting  out  of  fourteen  children 
demanded  a  very  quiet,  settled,  careful  course  of  life ; 
and  obliged  them  to  be  stationary  and  healthy  at 
Willingden.  What  prudence  had  at  first  enjoined 
was  now  rendered  pleasant  by  habit.  They  never 
left  home,  and  they  had  a  gratification  in  saying  so.* 


1 84  A  Memoir  of 


Lady  Denham's  was  a  very  different  character. 
She  was  a  rich  vulgar  widow,  with  a  sharp  but  narrow 
mind,  who  cared  for  the  prosperity  of  Sanditon  only 
so  far  as  it  might  increase  the  value  of  her  own 
property.     She  is  thus  described  : — 

*  Lady  Denham  had  been  a  rich  Miss  Brereton, 
born  to  wealth,  but  not  to  education.  Her  first 
husband  had  been  a  Mr.  Hollis,  a  man  of  consider- 
able property  in  the  country,  of  which  a  large  share 
of  the  parish  of  Sanditon,  with  manor  and  mansion- 
house,  formed  a  part.  He  had  been  an  elderly  man 
when  she  married  him  ;  her  own  age  about  thirty. 
Her  motives  for  such  a  match  could  be  little  under- 
stood at  the  distance  of  forty  years,  but  she  had  so 
well  nursed  and  pleased  Mr.  Hollis  that  at  his  death 
he  left  her  everything — all  his  estates,  and  all  at  her 
disposal.  After  a  widowhood  of  some  years  she  had 
been  induced  to  marry  again.  The  late  Sir  Harry 
Denham,  of  Denham  Park,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Sanditon,  succeeded  in  removing  her  and  her  large 
income  to  his  own  domains  ;  but  he  could  not  suc- 
ceed in  the  views  of  permanently  enriching  his  family 
which  were  attributed  to  him.  She  had  been  too 
wary  to  put  anything  out  of  her  own  power,  and 
when,  on  Sir  Harry's  death,  she  returned  again  to 
her  own  house  at  Sanditon,  she  was  said  to  have 
made  this  boast,  "  that  though  she  had  got  nothing 
but  her  title  from  the  family,  yet  she  had  giveji 
nothing  for  it."  For  the  title  it  was  to  be  supposed 
that  she  married. 
'Lady  Denham  was  indeed  a  great  lady,  beyond  the 


Jane  A  list  en.  185 


common  wants  of  society ;  for  she  had  many  thousands 
a  year  to  bequeath,  and  three  distinct  sets  of  people 
to  be  courted  by  :  —  her  own  relations,  who  might  very 
reasonably  wish  for  her  original  thirty  thousand  pounds 
among  them  ;  the  legal  heirs  of  Mr.  Mollis,  who  might 
hope  to  be  more  indebted  to  Jicr  sense  of  justice  than 
he  had  allowed  them  to  be  to  Jiis ;  and  those  members 
of  the  Denham  family  for  whom  her  second  husband 
had  hoped  to  make  a  good  bargain.  By  all  these,  or 
by  branches  of  them,  she  had,  no  doubt,  been  long 
and  still  continued  to  be  well  attacked  ;  and  of  these 
three  divisions  I\Ir.  Parker  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
Mr.  Hollis's  kindred  were  the  least  in  favour,  and  Sir 
Harr>'  Denhani's  the  most.  The  former,  he  believed, 
had  done  themselves  irremediable  harm  by  expres- 
sions of  very  unwise  resentment  at  the  time  of  Mr. 
Hollis's  death:  the  latter,  to  the  advantage  of  being 
the  remnant  of  a  connection  which  she  certainly 
valued,  joined  those  of  having  been  known  to  her 
from  their  childhood,  and  of  being  always  at  hand  to 
pursue  their  interests  by  seasonable  attentions.  But 
another  claimant  was  now  to  be  taken  into  account : 
a  young  female  relation  whom  Lady  Denham  had 
been  induced  to  receive  into  her  family.  After  having 
always  protested  against  any  such  addition,  and  often 
enjoyed  the  repeated  defeat  she  had  given  to  every 
attempt  of  her  own  relations  to  introduce  '  this  young 
lady,  or  that  young  lady,'  as  a  companion  at  Sanditon 
House,  she  had  brought  back  with  her  from  London 
last  Michaelmas  a  Miss  Clara  Brereton,  who  bid  fair 
to  vie  in  favour  with  Sir  Edward   Denham,  and  to 


iS6  A  Memoir  of 


secure  for  herself  and  her  family  that  share  of  the 
accumulated  property  which  they  had  certainly  the 
best  right  to  inherit' 

Lady  Denham's  character  comes  out  in  a  conversa- 
tion which  takes  place  at  Mr.  Parker's  tea-table. 

*  The  conversation  turned  entirely  upon  Sanditon,  its 
present  number  of  visitants,  and  the  chances  of  a  good 
season.  It  was  evident  that  Lady  Denham  had  more 
anxiety,  more  fears  of  loss  than  her  coadjutor.  She 
wanted  to  have  the  place  fill  faster,  and  seemed  to 
have  many  harassing  apprehensions  of  the  lodgings 
being  in  some  instances  underlet.  To  a  report  that  a 
large  boarding-school  was  expected  she  replies,  '  Ah, 
well,  no  harm  in  that.  They  will  stay  their  six  weeks, 
and  out  of  such  a  number  who  knows  but  some  may 
be  consumptive,  and  want  asses'  milk ;  and  1  have  two 
milch  asses  at  this  very  time.  But  perhaps  the  little 
Misses  may  hurt  the  furniture.  I  hope  they  will  have 
a  good  sharp  governess  to  look  after  them.'  But  she 
wholly  disapproved  of  Mr.  Parker's  wish  to  secure  the 
residence  of  a  medical  man  amongst  them.  'Why, 
what  should  we  do  with  a  doctor  here.^  It  would  only 
be  encouraging  our  servants  and  the  poor  to  fancy 
them.selves  ill,  if  there  was  a  doctor  at  hand.  Oh, 
pray  let  us  have  none  of  that  tribe  at  Sanditon :  we 
go  on  very  well  as  we  are.  There  is  the  sea,  and  the 
downs,  and  my  milch  asses:  and  I  have  told  Mrs. 
Whitby  that  if  anybody  enquires  for  a  chamber  horse, 
they  may  be  supplied  at  a  fair  rate  (poor  Mr.  HoUis's 
chamber  horse,  as  good  as  new);  and  what  can  people 
want  more.'*     I  have  lived  seventy  good  years  in   the 


Jane  Aiiste7i.  iS/ 


world,  and  never  took  physic,  except  twice:  and  never 
saw  the  face  of  a  doctor  in  all  my  life  on  my  own 
account;  and  I  really  believe  if  my  poor  dear  Sir 
Harry  had  never  seen  one  neither,  he  would  have  been 
alive  now.  Ten  fees,  one  after  another,  did  the  men 
take  who  sent  him  out  of  the  world.  I  beseech  you, 
Mr.  Parker,  no  doctors  here.' 

This  lady's  character  comes  out  more  strongly  in  a 
conversation  with  Mr.  Parker's  guest,  Miss  Charlotte 
Heywood.  Sir  Edward  Denham  with  his  sister 
Esther  and  Clara  Brereton  have  just  left  them. 

*  Charlotte  accepted  an  invitation  from  Lady  Den- 
ham to  remain  with  her  on  the  terrace,  when  the  others 
adjourned  to  the  library.  Lady  Denham,  like  a  true 
great  lady,  talked,  and  talked  only  of  her  own 
concerns,  and  Charlotte  listened.  Taking  hold  of 
Charlotte's  arm  with  the  ease  of  one  who  felt  that 
any  notice  from  her  was  a  favour,  and  communicative 
from  the  same  sense  of  importance,  or  from  a  natural 
love  of  talking,  she  immediately  said  in  a  tone  of 
great  satisfaction,  and  with  a  look  of  arch  sagacity  : — 

*■  Miss  Esther  wants  me  to  invite  her  and  her  brother 
to  spend  a  week  with  me  at  Sanditon  House,  as  I  did 
last  summer,  but  I  shan't.  She  has  been  trying  to  get 
round  me  every  way  with  her  praise  of  this  and  her 
praise  of  that ;  but  I  saw  what  she  was  about.  I  saw 
through  it  all.     I  am  not  very  easily  taken  in,  my  dear.* 

Charlotte  could  think  of  nothing  more  harmless  to 
be  said  than  the  simple  enquiry  of,  *  Sir  Edward  and 
Miss  Denham.?' 

*  Yes,  my  dear ;  my  young  folks,   as   I   call  them, 


1 88  A  Memoir  of 


sometimes:  for  I  take  them  very  much  by  the  hand, 
and  had  them  with  me  last  summer,  about  this  time, 
for  a  week — from  Monday  to  Monday — and  very 
dehghted  and  thankful  they  were.  For  they  arc  very 
good  young  people,  my  dear.  I  would  not  have  you 
think  that  I  only  notice  them  for  poor  dear  Sir  Harry's 
sake.  No,  no;  they  are  very  deserving  themselves, 
or,  trust  me,  they  w^ould  not  be  so  much  in  my 
company.  I  am  not  the  woman  to  help  anybody 
blindfold.  I  ahva}'S  take  care  to  know  what  I  am 
about,  and  who  I  have  to  deal  with  before  I  stir  a 
finger.  I  do  not  think  I  was  ever  overreached  in  my 
life  ;  and  that  is  a  good  deal  for  a  woman  to  say  that 
has  been  twice  married.  Poor  dear  Sir  Harry  (between 
ourselves)  thought  at  first  to  have  got  more,  but  (with 
a  bit  of  a  sigh)  he  is  gone,  and  we  must  not  find  fault 
with  the  dead.  Nobody  could  live  happier  together 
than  us:  and  he  was  a  very  honourable  man,  quite 
the  gentleman,  of  ancient  family  ;  and  when  he  died  I 
gave  Sir  Edward  his  gold  watch.' 

This  was  said  with  a  look  at  her  companion  which 
implied  its  right  to  produce  a  great  impression  ;  and 
seeing  no  rapturous  astonishment  in  Charlotte's  coun- 
tenance, she  added  quickly, 

*He  did  not  bequeath  it  to  his  nephew,  my  dear; 
it  was  no  bequest  ;  it  was  not  in  the  w^ill.  He  only 
told  me,  and  that  but  ojicc^  that  he  should  wish  his 
nephew  to  have  his  watch  ;  but  it  need  not  have  been 
binding,  if  I  had  not  chose  it.' 

'  Very  kind  indeed,  very  handsome  ! '  said  Char- 
lotte, absolutely  forced  to  affect  admiration. 


Jaiic  A  listen.  1 89 


*  Yes,  my  dear;  and  it  is  not  the  only  kind  thing  I 
have  done  by  him.  I  have  been  a  very  Hberal  friend 
to  Sir  Edward  ;  and,  poor  young  man,  he  needs  it 
bad  enough.  For,  though  I  am  only  the  dowager, 
my  dear,  and  he  is  the  heir,  things  do  not  stand 
between  us  in  tlie  way  they  usually  do  between  those 
two  parties.  Not  a  shilling  do  I  receive  from  the 
Dcnham  estate.  Sir  Edward  has  no  payments  to 
make  inc.  He  don't  stand  uppermost,  believe  me ;  it 
is  /  that  help  him! 

'  Indeed  !  lie  is  a  very  fine  young  man,  and  par- 
ticularl}'  elegant  in  his  address.' 

This  was  said  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  saying  some- 
thing ;  but  Charlotte  directly  saw  that  it  was  laying 
her  open  to  suspicion,  by  Lady  Denham's  giving  a 
shrewd  glance  at  her,  and  replying, 

'  Yes,  yes  ;  he's  very  well  to  look  at  ;  and  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  somebody  of  large  fortune  will  think 
so ;  for  Sir  Edward  must  marry  for  money.  He  and 
I  often  talk  that  matter  over.  A  handsome  young 
man  like  him  will  go  smirking  and  smiling  about, 
and  paying  girls  compliments,  but  he  knows  he  must 
marry  for  money.  And  Sir  Edward  is  a  very  steady 
young  man,  in  the  main,  and  has  got  very  good 
notions.' 

'  Sir  Edward  Denham,'  said  Charlotte,  *  with  such 
personal  advantages,  may  be  alniost  sure  of  getting  a 
woman  of  fortune,  if  he  chooses  i^..* 

This  glorious  sentiment  seemed  quite  to  remove 
suspicion. 

'  Aye,    my  dear,  that    is  very  sensibly  said  ;   and 


190  A  Memoir  of 


if  we  could  but  get  a  young  heiress  to  Sanditon  ! 
But  heiresses  are  monstrous  scarce  !  I  do  not  think 
we  have  had  an  heiress  here,  nor  ev^en  a  Co.,  since 
Sanditon  has  been  a  public  place.  Families  come 
after  families,  but,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  it  is  not  one 
in  a  hundred  of  them  that  have  any  real  property, 
landed  or  funded.  An  income,  perhaps,  but  no  pro- 
perty. Clergymen,  may  be,  or  lawyers  from  town, 
or  half-pay  officers,  or  widows  with  only  a  jointure ; 
and  what  good  can  such  people  do  to  anybody  ? 
Except  just  as  they  take  our  empty  houses,  and 
(between  ourselves)  I  think  they  are  great  fools  for 
not  staying  at  home.  Now,  if  we  could  get  a  young 
heiress  to  be  sent  here  for  her  health,  and,  as  soon  as 
she  got  well,  have  her  fall  in  love  with  Sir  Edward ! 
And  Miss  Esther  must  marry  somebody  of  fortune, 
too.  She  must  get  a  rich  husband.  Ah!  young 
ladies  that  have  no  money  are  very  much  to  be 
pitied.'  After  a  short  pause :  '  If  Miss  Esther  thinks 
to  talk  me  into  inviting  them  to  come  and  stay 
at  Sanditon  House,  she  will  find  herself  mistaken. 
Matters  are  altered  with  me  since  last  summer,  you 
know  :  I  have  Miss  Clara  with  me  now,  which  makes 
a  great  difference.  I  should  not  choose  to  have  my 
two  housemaids'  time  taken  up  all  the  morning  in 
dusting  out  bedrooms.  They  have  Miss  Clara's  room 
to  put  to  rights,  as  well  as  mine,  every  day.  If  they 
had  hard  work,  they  would  want  higher  wages.* 

Charlotte's  feelings  were  divided  between  amuse- 
ment and  indignation.  She  kept  her  countenance, 
and  kept  a  civil  silence ;  but  without  attempting  to 


Jane  Aiisteii.  191 

listen  any  longer,  and  only  conscious  that  Lady 
Denham  was  still  talking  in  the  same  way,  allowed 
her  own  thoughts  to  form  themselves  into  such 
meditation  as  this  : — '  She  is  thoroughly  mean  ;  I  had 
no  expectation  of  anything  so  bad.  Mr.  Parker  spoke 
too  mildly  of  her.  He  is  too  kind-hearted  to  see 
clearly,  and  their  v^ry  connection  misleads  him.  He 
has  persuaded  her  to  engage  in  the  same  speculation, 
and  because  they  have  so  far  the  same  object  in 
view,  he  fancies  that  she  feels  like  him  in  other 
things  ;  but  she  is  very,  very  mean.  I  can  see  no 
good  in  her.  Poor  Miss  Brereton  !  And  it  makes 
everybody  mean  about  her.  This  poor  Sir  Edward 
and  his  sister !  how  far  nature  meant  them  to  be 
respectable  I  cannot  tell ;  but  they  are  obliged  to  be 
mean  in  their  servility  to  her;  and  I  am  mean,  too, 
in  giving  her  my  attention  with  the  appearance  of 
coinciding  with  her.  Thus  it  is  when  rich  people  are 
sordid.' 

Mr.  Parker  has  two  unmarried  sisters  of  singular 
character.  They  live  together  ;  Diana,  the  younger, 
always  takes  the  lead,  and  the  elder  follows  in  the 
same  track.  It  is  their  pleasure  to  fancy  themselves 
invalids  to  a  degree  and  in  a  manner  never  expe- 
rienced by  others  ;  but,  from  a  state  of  exquisite  pain 
and  utter  prostration,  Diana  Parker  can  always  rise  to 
be  officious  in  the  concerns  of  all  her  acquaintance, 
and  to  make  incredible  exertions  where  they  are  not 
wanted. 

It  would  seem  that  they  must  be  always  either 
very  busy  for  the  good  of  others,  or  else  extremely 


192  A  Memoir  of 


ill  themselves.  Some  natural  delicacy  of  constitu- 
tion, in  fact,  with  an  unfortunate  turn  for  medicine, 
especially  quack  medicine,  had  given  them  an  early 
tendency  at  various  times  to  various  disorders.  The 
rest  of  their  suffering  was  from  their  own  fancy,  the 
love  of  distinction,  and  the  love  of  the  wonderful. 
They  had  charitable  hearts  and  many  amiable  feel- 
ings ;  but  a  spirit  of  restless  activity,  and  the  glory  of 
doing  more  than  anybody  else,  had  a  share  in  every 
exertion  of  benevolence,  and  there  was  vanity  in  all 
they  did,  as  well  as  in  all  they  endured. 

Tliese  peculiarities  come  out  in  the  following  letter 
of  Diana  Parker  to  her  brother  : — 

'  Mv  DEAR  Tom, — We  were  much  grieved  at  your 
accident,  and  if  you  had  not  described  yourself  as 
having  fallen  into  such  very  good  hands,  I  should  have 
been  with  you  at  all  hazards  the  day  after  receipt 
of  your  letter,  though  it  found  me  suffering  under  a 
mpre  severe  attack  than  usual  of  my  old  grievance, 
spasmodic  bile,  and  hardly  able  to  crawl  from  my 
bed  to  the  sofa.  But  how  were  you  treated  }  Send 
me  more  particulars  in  your  next.  If  indeed  a 
simple  sprain,  as  you  denominate  it,  nothing  would 
have  been  so  judicious  as  friction — friction  by  the 
hand  alone,  supposing  it  could  be  applied  imme- 
diately. Two  years  ago  I  happened  to  be  calling  on 
Mrs.  Sheldon,  when  her  coachman  sprained  his  foot, 
as  he  was  cleaning  the  carriage,  and  could  hardly 
limp  into  the  house ;  but  by  the  immediate  use  of 
friction  alone,  steadily  persevered    in   (I  rubbed  his 


Jane  Austen.  193 


ancle  with  my  own  hands  for  four  hours  without 
intermission),  he  was  well  in  three  days.  .  .  .  Pray 
never  run  into  peril  again  in  looking  for  an  apothe- 
cary on  our  account ;  for  had  you  the  most  ex- 
perienced man  in  his  line  settled  at  Sanditon,  it 
would  be  no  recommendation  to  us.  We  have  en- 
tirely done  with  the  whole  medical  tribe.  We  have 
consulted  physician  after  physician  in  vain,  till  we 
are  quite  convinced  that  they  can  do  nothing  for  us, 
and  that  we  must  trust  to  our  knowledge  of  our 
own  wretched  constitutions  for  any  relief;  but  if  you 
think  it  advisable  for  the  interests  of  the  place  to  get 
a  medical  man  there,  I  will  undertake  the  com- 
mission with  pleasure,  and  have  no  doubt  of  succeed- 
ing. I  could  soon  put  the  necessary  irons  in  the 
fire.  As  for  getting  to  Sanditon  myself,  it  is  an 
impossibility.  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  cannot  attempt 
it,  but  my  feelings  tell  me  too  plainly  that  in  my 
present  state  the  sea-air  would  probably  be  the  deatli 
of  me  ;  and  in  truth  I  doubt  whether  Susan's  nerves 
would  be  equal  to  the  effort.  She  has  been  suffer- 
ing much  from  headache,  and  six  leeches  a  day,  for 
ten  days  together,  relieved  her  so  little  that  we 
thought  it  right  to  change  our  measures  ;  and  being 
convinced  on  examination  that  much  of  the  evil  lay 
in  her  gums,  I  persuaded  her  to  attack  the  disorder 
there.  She  has  accordingly  had  three  teeth  drawn, 
and  is  decidedly  better ;  but  her  nerves  are  a  good 
deal  deranged,  she  can  only  speak  in  a  whisper,  and 
fainted  away  this  morning  on  poor  Arthur's  trying  to 
suppress  a  cough.' 

O 


194  A  Memoir  of 

Within  a  week  of  the  date  of  this  letter,  in  spite 
of  the  impossibility  of  moving,  and  of  the  fatal  effects 
to  be  apprehended  from  the  sea-air,  Diana  Parker 
was  at  Sanditon  with  her  sister.  She  had  flattered 
herself  that  by  her  own  indefatigable  exertions,  and 
by  setting  at  work  the  agency  of  many  friends,  she 
had  induced  two  large  families  to  take  houses  at 
Sanditon.  It  was  to  expedite  these  politic  views  that 
she  came ;  and  though  she  met  with  some  disappoint- 
ment of  her  expectation,  yet  she  did  not  suffer  in 
health. 

Such  were  some  of  the  dramatis  personcB,  ready 
dressed  and  prepared  for  their  parts.  They  are  at 
least  original  and  unlike  any  that  the  author  had 
produced  before.  The  success  of  the  piece  must 
have  depended  on  the  skill  with  which  these  parts 
might  be  played  ;  but  few  will  be  inclined  to  dis- 
trust the  skill  of  one  who  had  so  often  succeeded. 
If  the  author  had  lived  to  complete  her  work,  it  is 
probable  that  these  personages  might  have  grown 
into  as  mature  an  individuality  of  character,  and 
have  taken  as  permanent  a  place  amongst  our  familiar 
acquaintance,  as  Mr.  Bennet,  or  John  Thorp,  Mary 
Musgrove,  or  Aunt  Norris  herself. 


Jane  Austen,  195 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Postscript, 

When  first  I  was  asked  to  put  together  a  memoir  of 
my  aunt,  I  saw  reasons  for  declining  the  attempt. 
It  was  not  only  that,  having  passed  the  three  score 
}'ears  and  ten  usually  allotted  to  man's  strength, 
and  being  unaccustomed  to  write  for  publication,  I 
might  well  distrust  my  ability  to  complete  the  work, 
but  that  I  also  knew  the  extreme  scantiness  of  the 
materials  out  of  which  it  must  be  constructed.  The 
grave  closed  over  my  aunt  fifty-two  years  ago  ;  and 
during  that  long  period  no  idea  of  writing  her  life 
had  been  entertained  by  any  of  her  family.  Her 
nearest  relatives,  far  from  making  provision  for  such 
a  purpose,  had  actually  destroyed  many  of  the  letters 
and  papers  by  which  it  might  have  been  facilitated. 
They  were  influenced,  I  believe,  partly  by  an  ex- 
treme dislike  to  publishing  private  details,  and  partly 
by  never  having  assumed  that  the  world  would  take 
so  strong  and  abiding  an  interest  in  her  works  as  to 
claim  her  name  as  public  property.  It  was  therefore 
necessary  for  me  to  draw  upon  recollections  rather 
than  on  written  documents  for  my  materials  ;  while 
the  subject  itself  supplied  me  with  nothing  striking 

o  2 


ig6  A  Memoir  of 


or  prominent  with  which  to  arrest  the  attention  of 
the  reader.  It  has  been  said  that  the  happiest  in- 
dividuals, hke  nations  during  their  happiest  periods, 
have  no  history.  In  the  case  of  my  aunt,  it  was  not 
only  that  her  course  of  hfe  was  unvaried,  but  that 
lier  own  disposition  was  remarkably  calm  and  even. 
There  was  in  her  nothing  eccentric  or  angular;  no 
ruggedncss  of  temper;  no  singularity  of  manner; 
none  of  the  morbid  sensibility  or  exaggeration  of 
feeling,  which  not  unfrequently  accompanies  great 
talents,  to  be  worked  up  into  a  picture.  Hers  was 
a  mind  well  balanced  on  a  basis  (jf  good  sense, 
sweetened  by  an  affectionate  heart,  and  regulated  by 
fixed  principles  ;  so  that  she  was  to  be  distinguished 
from  many  other  amiable  and  sensible  women  only 
by  that  peculiar  genius  which  shines  out  clearly 
enough  in  her  works,  but  of  which  a  biographer  can 
make  little  use.  The  motive  which  at  last  induced 
me  to  make  the  attempt  is  exactly  expressed  in  the 
passage  prefixed  to  these  pages.  I  thought  that  I 
saw  something  to  be  done  :  knew  of  no  one  who 
could  do  it  but  m}\self,  and  so  w\as  driven  to  the 
enterprise.  I  am  glad  that  I  have  been  able  to 
finish  my  work.  As  a  family  record  it  can  scarcely 
fail  to  be  interesting  to  those  relatives  who  must 
ever  set  a  high  value  on  their  connection  wath  Jane 
Austen,  and  to  them  I  especially  dedicate  it ;  but  as 
I  have  been  asked  to  do  so,  I  also  submit  it  to  the 
censure  of  the  public,  with  all  its  faults  both  of 
deficiency  and  redundancy.  I  know  that  its  value  \\\ 
their  eyes  must  depend,   not  on   any  merits   of  its 


Jane  AiisiLii.  .  T97 


own,  but  on  the  degree  of  estimation  in  which  my 
aunt's  v.'orks  may  still  be  held  ;  and  indeed  I  shall 
esteem  it  one  of  the  strongest  testimonies  ever  borne 
to  her  talents,  if  for  her  sake  an  interest  can  be  taken 
in  so  poor  a  sketch  as  I  have  been  able  to  draw. 


Bray  Vicarage  : 
Sept.  7,  iF/jQ. 


LADY     SUSAN. 


PREFACE, 


I  HAVE  lately  received  permission  to  print  tlie 
following  talc  from  the  author's  niece,  Lady  K natch- 
bull,  of  Provender,  in  Kent,  to  whom  the  autograph 
copy  was  given.  I  am  not  able  to  ascertain  when  it 
was  composed.  Her  family  have  always  believed  it 
to  be  an  early  production.  Perhaps  she  wrote  it  as 
an  experiment  in  conducting  a  story  by  means  of 
letters.  It  was  not,  however,  her  only  attempt  of 
that  kind;  for  'Sense  and  Sensibility'  was  first 
written  in  letters ;  but  as  she  afterwards  re-wrote  one 
of  these  works  and  never  published  the  other,  it  is 
probable  that  she  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  the 
result.  The  tale  itself  is  scarcely  one  on  which  a 
literary  reputation  could  have  been  founded  :  but 
though,  like  some  plants,  it  may  be  too  slight  to 
stand  alone,  it  may,  perhaps,  be  supported  by  the 
strength  of  her  more  firmly  rooted  works.  At  any 
rate,  it  cannot  diminish  Jane  Austen's  reputation  as 
a  writer ;  for  even  if  it  should  be  judged  unworthy  of 
the  publicity  now  given  to  it,  the  censure  must  fall  on 
him  who  has  put  it  forth,  not  on  her  who  kept  it 
locked  up  in  her  desk. 


LADY    SUSAN. 


Lady  Susan  Vernon  to  Mr,  Vernon. 

Langford,  Dec. 

Y  DEAR  Brother, — I  can  no  longer  re- 
fuse myself  the  pleasure  of  profiting  by 
your  kind  invitation  when  we  last  parted 
of  spending  some  weeks  with  you  at 
Churchhill,  and,  therefore,  if  quite  convenient  to  you 
and  Mrs.  Vernon  to  receive  me'  at  present,  I  shall 
hope  within  a  few  days  to  be  introduced  to  a 
si.ster  whom  I  have  so  long  desired  to  be  acquainted 
with.  My  kind  friends  here  are  most  affectionately 
urgent  with  me  to  prolong  my  stay,  but  their  hos- 
pitable and  cheerful  dispositions  lead  them  too  much 
into  society  for  my  present  situation  and  state  of 
mind  ;  and  I  impatiently  look  forward  to  the  hour 
when  I  shall  be  admitted  into  your  delightful  re- 
tirement. 

I  long  to  be  made  known  to  your  dear  little  children, 
in  whose  hearts  I  shall  be  very  eager  to  secure  an 
interest.     I  shall  soon  have  need  for  all  my  fortitude. 


204  Lady  St  is  an. 


as  I  am  on  the  point  of  separation  from  my  own 
daughter.  The  long  illness  of  her  dear  father  pre- 
vented my  paying  her  that  attention  which  duty  and 
affection  equally  dictated,  and  I  have  too  much  reason 
to  fear  that  the  governess  to  whose  care  I  consigned 
her  was  unequal  to  the  charge.  I  have  therefore 
resolved  on  placing  her  at  one  of  the  best  private 
schools  in  town,  where  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of 
leaving  her  myself  in  my  way  to  you.  I  am  deter- 
mined, you  see,  not  to  be  denied  admittance  at 
Churchhill.  It  would  indeed  give  me  most  painful 
sensations  to  know  that  it  were  not  in  your  power  to 
receive  me. 

Your  most  obliged  and  affectionate  Sister, 

S.  Vernon. 

II. 

Lady  Susan  Vernon  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Langford. 

You  were  mistaken,  my  dear  Alicia,  in  supposing 
mo  fixed  at  this  place  for  the  rest  of  the  winter :  it 
grieves  me  to  say  how  greatly  you  were  mistaken, 
for  I  have  seldom  spent  three  months  more  agreeably 
than  those  which  have  just  flown  away.  At  present, 
nothing  goes  smoothly  ;  the  females  of  the  family 
are  united  against  me.  You  foretold  how  it  would  be 
when  I  flrst  came  to  Langford,  and  Mainwaring  Is  so 
uncommonly  pleasing  that  I  was  not  without  appre- 
hensions for  myself  I  remember  saying  to  myself, 
as    I    drove   to   the   house,   '  I    like   this   man,  pray 


Lady  Susan.  205 


Heaven  no  liarm  come  of  it !  *  But  I  was  determined 
to  be  discreet,  to  bear  in  mind  my  being  only  four 
months  a  widow,  and  to  be  as  quiet  as  possible  :  and 
I  have  been  so,  my  dear  creature  ;  I  have  admittea 
no  one's  attentions  but  IMainwarin^^'s.  I  have  avoided 
all  general  flirtation  whatever  ;  I  have  distinguished 
no  creature  besides,  of  all  the  numbers  resorting 
hither,  except  Sir  James  Martin,  on  whom  I  bestowed 
a  little  notice,  in  order  to  detach  him  from  Miss 
Mainwaring  ;  but,  if  the  world  could  know  my  motive 
iJicrc  they  would  honour  me.  I  have  been  called  an 
unkind  mother,  but  it  was  the  sacred  impulse  of 
maternal  affection,  it  was  the  advantage  of  my 
daughter  that  led  me  on;  and  if  that  daughter  were 
not  the  greatest  simpleton  on  earth,  I  might  have 
been  rewarded  for  my  exertions  as  I  ought. 

Sir  James  did  make  proposals  to  me  for  Frederica  ; 
but  Frederica,  who  was  born  to  be  the  torment  of  my 
life,  chose  to  set  herself  so  violently  against  the  match 
that  I  thought  it  better  to  lay  aside  the  scheme  for 
the  present.  I  have  more  than  once  repented  that  I 
did  not  marry  him  myself;  and  were  he  but  one 
degree  less  contemptibly  weak  I  certainly  should : 
but  I  must  own  myself  rather  romantic  in  that 
respect,  and  that  riches  only  will  not  satisfy  me. 
The  event  of  all  this  is  very  provoking  :  Sir  James  is 
gone,  Maria  highly  incensed,  and  Mrs.  Mainwaring 
insupportably  jealous  ;  so  jealous,  in  short,  and  so 
enraged  against  me,  tiiat,  in  the  fury  of  her  temper,  I 
should  not  be  surprised  at  her  appealing  toher  guardian, 
if  she  had  the  liberty  of  addressing  him :  but  there 


2o6  Lady  Susan. 


your  husband  stands  my  friend  ;  and  the  kindest, 
most  amiable  action  of  his  life  was  his  throwing  her 
off  for  ever  on  her  marriage.  Keep  up  his  resent- 
ment, therefore,  I  charge  you.  We  are  now  in  a  sad 
state  ;  no  house  was  ever  more  altered  ;  the  whole 
party  are  at  war,  and  Mainwaring  scarcely  dares 
speak  to  me.  It  is  time  for  me  to  be  gone ;  I  have 
therefore  determined  on  leaving  them,  and  shall 
spend,  I  hope,  a  comfortable  day  with  you  in  town 
within  this  week.  If  I  am  as  little  in  favour  with 
Mr.  Johnson  as  ever,  you  must  come  to  me  at  lO 
Wigmore  Street;  but  I  hope  this  may  not  be  the 
case,  for  as  Mr.  Johnson,  with  all  his  faults,  is  a  man 
to  whom  that  great  word  '  respectable'  is  always  given, 
and  I  am  known  to  be  so  intimate  with  his  wife,  his 
slighting  me  has  an  awkward  look. 

I  take  London  in  my  way  to  that  insupportable 
spot,  a  country  village  ;  for  I  am  really  going  to 
Churchhill.  Forgive  me,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  my 
last  resource.  Were  there  another  place  in  England 
open  to  me  I  would  prefer  it.  Charles  Vernon  is  my 
aversion,  and  I  am  afraid  of  his  wife.  At  Churchhill, 
however,  I  must  remain  till  I  have  something  better 
in  view.  My  young  lady  accompanies  me  to  town, 
where  I  shall  deposit  her  under  the  care  of  Miss 
Summers,  in  Wigmore  Street,  till  she  becomes  a  little 
more  reasonable.  She  will  make  good  connections 
there  as  the  giils  are  all  of  the  best  families.  The 
price  is  immense,  and  much  beyond  what  I  can  ever 
attempt  to  pay. 


Lady  Susan.  207 


Adieu,  I  will  send  you  a  line  as  soon  as  I  arrive 
in  town. 

Yours  ever,- 

S.  Vernon. 

III. 

Mrs.  Vcrnoji  to  Lady  De  Convey. 

Churchhill. 

My  dear  Mother, — I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  that 
it  will  not  be  in  our  power  to  keep  our  promise  of 
spending  our  Christmas  with  you  ;  and  we  are  pre- 
vented that  happiness  by  a  circumstance  which  is  not 
likely  to  make  us  any  amends.  Lady  Susan,  in  a 
letter  to  her  brother-in-law,  has  declared  her  intention 
of  visiting  us  almost  immediately  ;  and  as  such  a  visit 
is  in  all  probability  merely  an  affair  of  convenience,  it 
is  impossible  to  conjecture  its  length.  I  was  by  no 
means  prepared  for  such  an  event,  nor  can  I  now  ac- 
count for  her  ladyship's  conduct ;  Langford  appeared 
so  exactly  the  place  for  her  in  every  respect,  as  well 
from  the  elegant  and  expensive  style  of  living  there, 
as  from  her  particular  attachment  to  Mr.  Mainwaring, 
that  I  w^as  very  far  from  expecting  so  speedy  a  dis- 
tinction, though  I  always  imagined  from  her  increasing 
friendship  for  us  since  her  husband's  death  that  we 
should,  at  some  future  period,  be  obliged  to  receive  her. 
Mr.  Vernon,  I  think,  was  a  great  deal  too  kind  to  her 
when  he  was  in  Staffordshire  ;  her  behaviour  to  him, 
independent  of  her  general  character,  has  been  so  in- 
excusably artful  and  ungenerous  since   our  marriage 


2o8  Lady  Susan. 


was  first  in  agitation  that  no  one  less  amiable  and 
mild  than  himself  could  have  overlooked  it  all ;  and 
though,  as  his  brother's  widow,  and  in  narrow  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  proper  to  render  her  pecuniary 
assistance,  I  cannot  help  thinking  his  pressing  invi- 
tation to  her  to  visit  us  at  Churchhill  perfectly 
unnecessary.  Disposed,  however,  as  he  always  is  to 
think  the  best  of  everyone,  her  display  of  grief,  and 
professions  of  regret,  and  general  resolutions  ot 
j)rudence,  were  sufficient  to  soften  his  heart  and  make 
him  really  confide  in  her  sincerity;  but,  as  for  myself, 
I  am  still  unconvinced,  and  plausibly  as  her  ladyship 
has  now  written,  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  till  I 
better  understand  her  real  meaning  In  coming  to  us. 
You  may  guess,  therefore,  my  dear  madam,  with  what 
feelings  I  look  forward  to  her  arrival.  She  will  have 
occasion  for  all  those  attractive  powers  for  which  she 
is  celebrated  to  gain  any  share  of  my  regard  ;  and  I 
shall  certainly  endeavour  to  guard  myself  against  their 
influence,  if  not  accompanied  by  something  more  sub- 
stantial. She  expresses  a  most  eager  desire  of  being 
acquainted  with  me,  and  makes  very  gracious  mention 
of  my  children,  but  I  am  not  quite  weak  enough  to 
suppose  a  woman  who  has  behaved  with  inattention, 
if  not  with  unkindness  to  her  own  child,  should  be 
attached  to  any  of  mine.  Miss  Vernon  is  to  be  placed 
at  a  school  In  London  before  her  mother  comes  to  us, 
which  I  am  glad  of,  for  her  sake  and  my  own.  It 
must  be  to  her  advantage  to  be  separated  from  her 
mother,  and  a  girl  of  sixteen  who  has  received  so 
wretched  an  education,  could  not  be  a  very  desirable 


Lady  Susan.  209 


companion  here.  Reginald  has  long  wished,  I  know, 
to  see  the  captivating  Lady  Susan,  and  we  shall 
depend  on  his  joining  our  party  soon.  I  am  glad  to 
hear  that  my  fiither  continues  so  well ;  and  am,  with 

best  love,  S:c, 

Catherine  Vernon. 

IV. 

Mr.  Dc  Convey  to  Mrs.  Vernon. 

Parklands. 

]\Iy  dear  Sister, — I  congratulate  you  and  Mr.  Vernon 
on  being  about  to  receive  into  your  family  the  most 
accomplished  coquette  in  England.  As  a  very  dis- 
tinguished flirt  I  have  always  been  taught  to  consider 
lier,  but  it  has  lately  fallen  in  my  way  to  hear  some 
particulars  of  her  conduct  at  Langford,  which  prove 
that  she  does  not  confine  herself  to  that  sort  of  honest 
flirtation  which  satisfies  most  people,  but  aspires  to 
the  more  delicious  grr^tification  of  making  a  whole 
family  miserable.  By  her  behaviour  to  Mr.  Main- 
waring  she  gave  jealousy  and  wretchedness  to  his 
wife,  and  by  her  attentions  to  a  young  man  previously 
attached  to  Mr.  Mainwaring's  sister  deprived  an 
amiable  girl  of  her  lover. 

I  learnt  all  this  from  Mr.  Smith,  now  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood (I  have  dined  with  him,  at  Hurst  and 
Wilford),  who  is  just  come  from  Langford  where  he 
was  a  fortnight  with  her  ladyship,  and  who  is  there- 
fore well  qualified  to  make  the  communication. 

What  a  woman  she  must  be  !  I  long  to  see  her,  and 
P 


210  Lady  Susan. 


shall  certainly  accept  your  kind  invitation,  that  I  may 
form  some  idea  of  those  bewitching  powers  which  can 
do  so  much — engaging  at  the  same  time,  and  in  the 
same  house,  the  affections  of  two  men,  who  were 
neither  of  them  at  liberty  to  bestow  them — and  all 
this  without  the  charm  of  youth  !  I  am  glad  to  find 
Miss  Vernon  does  not  accompany  her  mother  to 
Churchhill,  as  she  has  not  even  manners  to  recom- 
mend her ;  and,  according  to  Mr.  Smith's  account,  is 
equally  dull  and  proud.  Where  pride  and  stupidity 
unite  there  can  be  no  dissimulation  worthy  notice,  and 
Miss  Vernon  shall  be  consigned  to  unrelenting  con- 
tempt ;  but  by  all  that  I  can  gather  Lady  Susan 
possesses  a  degree  of  captivating  deceit  which  it  must 
be  pleasing  to  witness  and  detect.  I  shall  be  with 
you  very  soon,  and  am  ever, 

Your  affectionate  Brother, 
R.  DE  COURCY. 

V. 

Lady  Susan  Vernon  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

ChurchhilL 
I  received  your  note,  my  dear  Alicia,  just  before  I 
left  town,  and  rejoice  to  be  assured  that  Mr.  Johnson 
suspected  nothing  of  your  engagement  the  evening 
before.  It  is  undoubtedly  better  to  deceive  him 
entirely,  and  since  he  will  be  stubborn  he  must  be 
tricked.  I  arrived  here  in  safety,  and  have  no  reason 
to  complain  of  my  reception  from  Mr.  Vernon  ;  but  I 
confess  myself  not  equally  satisfied  with  the  behaviour 


Lady  Susan.  •  211 


of  his  lady.  She  is  perfectly  well-bred,  indeed,  and 
has  the  air  of  a  woman  of  fashion,  but  her  manners 
are  not  such  as  can  persuade  me  of  her  being  pre- 
possessed in  my  fav'our.  I  wanted  her  to  be  delighted 
at  seeing  me.  I  was  as  amiable  as  possible  on  the 
occasion,  but  all  in  vain.  She  does  not  like  me.  To 
be  sure  when  we  consider  that  I  did  take  some  pains 
to  prevent  my  brother-in-law's  marrying  her,  this  want 
of  cordiality  is  not  very  surprising,  and  yet  it  shows 
an  illiberal  and  vindictive  spirit  to  resent  a  project 
which  influenced  me  six  years  ago,  and  which  never 
succeeded  at  last. 

I  am  sometimes  disposed  to  repent  that  I  did  not 
let  Charles  buy  Vernon  Castle,  when  we  were  obliged 
to  sell  it ;  but  it  was  a  trying  circumstance,  especially 
as  the  sale  took  place  exactly  at  the  time  of  his 
marriage ;  and  everybody  ought  to  respect  the  delicacy 
of  those  feelings  which  could  not  endure  that  my 
husband's  dignity  should  be  lessened  by  his  younger 
brother's  having  possession  of  the  family  estate. 
Could  matters  have  been  so  arranged  as  to  prevent 
the  necessity  of  our  leaving  the  castle,  could  we  have 
lived  with  Charles  and  kept  him  single,  I  should  have 
been  very  far  from  persuading  my  husband  to  dispose 
of  it  elsewhere  ;  but  Charles  was  on  the  point  of 
marrying  Miss  De  Courcy,  and  the  event  has  justified 
me.  Here  are  children  in  abundance,  and  what 
benefit  could  have  accrued  to  me  from  his  purchasing 
Vernon  .^  My  having  prevented  it  may  perhaps  have 
given  his  wife  an  unfavourable  impression,  but  where 
there  is  a  disposition  to  dislike,  a  motive  will  never  be 

p  2 


212  Lady  Susan. 


wanting;  and  as  to  money  matters  it  has  not  withheld 
him  from  being  very  useful  to  me.  I  really  have  a 
regard  for  him,  he  is  so  easily  imposed  upon  !  The 
house  is  a  good  one,  the  furniture  fashionable,  and 
everything  announces  plenty  and  elegance.  Charles 
is  very  rich  I  am  sure  ;  when  a  man  has  once  got  his 
name  in  a  banking-house  he  rolls  in  money  ;  but  they 
do  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  keep  very  little 
compan}',  and  never  go  to  London  but  on  business. 
We  shall  be  as  stupid  as  possible.  I  mean  to  win  my 
sister-in-law's  heart  through  the  children  ;  I  know  all 
their  names  already,  and  am  going  to  attach  myself 
with  the  greatest  sensibility  to  one  in  particular,  a 
young  Frederic,  whom  I  take  on  my  lap  and  sigh 
over  for  his  dear  uncle's  sake. 

Poor  Mainwaring  !  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  I 
miss  him,  how  perpetually  he  is  in  my  thoughts.  I 
found  a  dismal  letter  from  him  on  my  arrival  here, 
full  of  complaints  of  his  wife  and  sister,  and  lamenta- 
tions on  the  cruelty  of  his  fate.  I  passed  off  the 
letter  as  his  wife's,  to  the  Vernons,  and  when  I  w^rite 
to  him  it  must  be  under  cover  to  you. 

Ever  yours, 

S.  Vernon. 
VI. 
Mrs.  Vernon  to  Mr.  De  Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

Well,  my  dear  Reginald,  I  have  seen  this  danger- 
ous creature,  and  must  give  you  some  description  of 
her,  though  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  able  to  form  your 
own  judgment.     She    is    really   excessively   pretty ; 


Lady  Susan.  213 


however  you  may  choose  to  question  the  aUurements 
of  a  lady  no  longer  youngs,  I  must,  for  my  own  part, 
declare  that  I  ha\'e  seldom  seen  so  lovely  a  woman 
as  Lady  Susan.  She  is  delicately  fair,  with  fine  grey 
eyes  and  dark  eyelashes ;  and  from  her  appearance 
one  would  not  suppose  her  more  than  five  and  twenty, 
though  she  must  in  fact  be  ten  years  older.  I  was  cer- 
tainly not  disposed  to  admire  her,  though  always  hear- 
ing she  was  beautiful ;  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that 
she  possesses  an  uncommon  union  of  symmetry,  bril- 
liancy, and  grace.  Her  address  to  me  was  so  gentle, 
frank,  and  even  affectionate,  that,  if  I  had  not  known 
how  much  she  has  always  disliked  me  for  marrying 
Mr.  Vernon,  and  that  we  had  never  met  before,  I 
should  have  imagined  her  an  attached  friend.  One  is 
ai)t,  I  believe,  to  connect  assurance  of  manner  with 
coquetry,  and  to  expect  that  an  impudent  address 
will  naturally  attend  an  impudent  mind  ;  at  least  I 
was  myself  prepared  for  an  improper  degree  of  confi- 
dence in  Lady  Susan  ;  but  her  countenance  is  abso- 
lutely sweet,  and  her  voice  and  manner  winningly 
mild.  I  am  sorry  it  is  so,  for  v/hat  is  this  but  deceit.-* 
Unfortunately,  one  knows  her  too  well.  She  is  clever 
and  agreeable,  has  all  that  knowledge  of  the  world 
which  makes  conversation  easy,  and  talks  very  well, 
with  a  happy  command  of  language,  which  is  too 
often  used,  I  believe,  to  make  black  appear  white. 
She  has  already  almost  persuaded  me  of  her  being 
warmly  attached  to  her  daughter,  though  I  ha\e  been 
so  long  convinced  to  the  contrary.  She  speaks  of  her 
with  so  much  tenderness  and  anxiety,  lamenting  so 


214  Lady  Susan. 


bitterly  the  neglect  of  her  education,  which  she  repre- 
sents however  as  wholly  unavoidable,  that  I  am  forced 
to  recollect  how  many  successive  springs  her  ladyship 
spent  in  town,  while  her  daughter  was  left  in  Stafford- 
shire to  the  care  of  servants,  or  a  governess  very  little 
better,  to  prevent  my  believing  what  she  says. 

If  her  manners  have  so  great  an  influence  on  my 
resentful  heart,  you  may  judge  how  much  more 
strongly  they  operate  on  Mr.  Vernon's  generous  tem- 
per. I  wish  I  could  be  as  well  satisfied  as  he  is,  that 
it  was  really  her  choice  to  leave  Langford  for  Church- 
hill  ;  and  if  she  had  not  stayed  there  for  months 
before  she  discovered  that  her  friend's  manner  of 
living  did  not  suit  her  situation  or  feelings,  I  might 
have  believed  that  concern  for  the  loss  of  such  a  hus- 
band as  Mr.  Vernon,  to  whom  her  own  behaviour  was 
far  from  unexceptionable,  might  for  a  time  make  her 
wish  for  retirement.  But  I  cannot  forget  the  length 
of  her  visit  to  the  Mainwarings,  and  when  I  reflect  on 
the  different  mode  of  life  which  she  led  with  them 
from  that  to  which  she  must  now  submit,  I  can  only 
suppose  that  the  wish  of  establishing  her  reputation 
by  following  though  late  the  path  of  propriety,  occa- 
sioned her  removal  from  a  family  where  she  must  in 
reality  have  been  particularly  happy.  Your  friend 
Mr.  Smith's  story,  however,  cannot  be  quite  correct, 
as  she  corresponds  regularly  with  Mrs.  Mainwaring. 
At  any  rate  it  must  be  exaggerated.  It  is  scarcely 
possible  that  two  men  should  be  so  grossly  deceived 
by  her  at  once. 

Yours,  &C.,.        Catherine  Vernon. 


Lady  Susan.  2 1 5 


VII. 
Lady  Susan  Vcruon  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

My  dear  Alicia, — You  are  very  good  in  taking 
notice  of  Frederica,  and  I  am  grateful  for  it  as  a  mark 
of  your  friendship ;  but  as  I  cannot  have  any  doubt 
of  the  warmth  of  your  affection,  I  am  far  from  exact- 
ing so  heavy  a  sacrifice.  She  is  a  stupid  girl,  and  has 
nothing  to  recomimend  her.  I  would  not,  therefore, 
on  my  account,  have  you  encumber  one  moment  of 
your  precious  time  by  sending  for  her  to  Edward 
Street,  especially  as  every  visit  is  so  much  deducted 
from  the  grand  affair  of  education,  which  I  really 
wish  to  have  attended  to  while  she  remains  at  Miss 
Summers'.  I  want  her  to  play  and  sing  with  some 
portion  of  taste  and  a  good  deal  of  assurance,  as  she 
has  my  hand  and  arm  and  a  tolerable  voice.  I  was 
so  much  indulged  in  my  infant  years  that  I  was  never 
obliged  to  attend  to  anything,  and  consequently  am 
without  the  accomplishments  which  are  now  necessary 
to  finish  a  pretty  woman.  Not  that  I  am  an  advo- 
cate for  the  prevailing  fashion  of  acquiring  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  all  languages,  arts,  and  sciences.  It  is 
throwing  time  away  to  be  mistress  of  French,  Italian, 
and  German :  music,  singing,  and  drawing,  &c.,  will  gain 
a  woman  some  applause,  but  will  not  add  one  lover  to 
her  list — grace  and  manner,  after  all,  are  of  the  great- 
est importance.  I  do  not  mean,  therefore,  that  Frede- 
rica's  acquirements  should  be  more  than  superficial. 


2i6  Lady  Susan. 


and  I  flatter  myself  that  she  will  not  remain  long 
enough  at  school  to  understand  anything  thoroughly. 
I  hope  to  see  her  the  wife  of  Sir  James  within  a 
twelvemonth.  You  know  on  what  I  ground  my  hope, 
and  it  is  certainly  a  good  foundation,  for  school 
must  be  very  humiliating  to  a  girl  of  Frederica's  age. 
And,  by-the-by,  you  had  better  not  invite  her  any 
more  on  that  account,  as  I  wish  her  to  find  her  situa- 
tion as  unpleasant  as  possible.  I  am  sure  of  Sir 
James  at  any  time,  and  could  make  him  renew  his 
application  by  a  line.  I  shall  trouble  you  meanwhile 
to  prevent  his  forming  any  other  attachment  when  he 
comes  to  town.  Ask  him  to  your  house  occasionally, 
and  talk  to  him  of  Frederica,  that  he  may  not  forget 
her.  Upon  the  whole,  I  commend  my  own  conduct 
in  this  affair  extremely,  and  regard  it  as  a  very  happy 
instance  of  circumspection  and  tenderness.  Some 
mothers  would  have  insisted  on  their  daughter's  ac- 
cepting so  good  an  offer  on  the  first  overture ;  but  I 
could  not  reconcile  it  to  myself  to  force  Frederica  into 
a  marriage  from  which  her  heart  revolted,  and  instead 
of  adopting  so  harsh  a  measure  merely  propose  to 
make  it  her  own  choice,  by  rendering  her  thoroughly 
uncomfortable  till  she  does  accept  him — but  enough 
of  this  tiresome  girl.  You  may  well  wonder  how  I 
contrive  to  pass  my  time  here,  and  for  the  first  week 
it  was  insufferably  dull.  Now,  however,  we  begin  to 
mend,  our  party  is  enlarged  by  Mrs.  Vernon's  brother, 
a  handsome  young  man,  who  promises  me  some 
amusement.  There  is  something  about  him  which 
rather  interests  me,  a  sort  of  saucine^s  and  familiarity 


Lady  Susan.  217 


which  I  shall  teach  him  to  correct.  He  is  Hvely,  and 
seems  clever,  and  when  I  have  inspired  him  with 
greater  respect  for  me  than  his  sister's  kind  ofilces 
have  implanted,  he  may  be  an  agreeable  flirt.  There 
is  exquisite  pleasure  in  subduing  an  insolent  spirit, 
in  making  a  person  predetermined  to  dislike  acknow- 
ledge one's  superiority.  I  have  disconcerted  him 
already  by  my  calm  reserve,  and  it  shall  be  my  en- 
deavour to  humble  the  pride  of  these  self-important 
De  Courcys  still  low^er,  to  convince  Mrs.  Vernon  that 
her  sisterly  cautions  have  been  bestowed  in  vain,  and 
to  persuade  Reginald  that  she  has  scandalously  belied 
me.  This  project  will  serve  at  least  to  amuse  me,  and 
prevent  my  feeling  so  acutely  this  dreadful  separation 
from  you  and  all  whom  I  love. 

Yours  ever, 

S.  Vernon 

VIII. 
Mrs.  Vernon  to  Lady  Dc  Courcy. 

Clnirchliill. 

My  dear  Mother, — You  must  not  expect  Reginald 
back  again  for  some  time.  lie  desires *me  to  tell  you 
that  the  present  open  weather  induces  him  to  accept 
I\Ir.  Vernon's  invitation  to  prolong  his  stay  in  Sussex, 
that  they  may  have  some  hunting  together,  lie 
means  to  send  for  his  horses  immediately,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  say  when  you  may  sec  him  in  Kent.  I 
will  not  disguise  my  sentiments  on  this  change  from 
you,  my  dear  mother,  though  I  think  you  had  better 


2i8  Lady  Susan. 


not  communicate  them  to  my  father,  whose  excessive 
anxiety  about  Reginald  would  subject  him  to  an 
alarm  which  might  seriously  affect  his  health  and 
spirits.  Lady  Susan  has  certainly  contrived,  in  the 
space  of  a  fortnight,  to  make  my  brother  like  her.  In 
short,  I  am  persuaded  that  his  continuing  here  beyond 
the  time  originally  fixed  for  his  return  is  occasioned 
as  much  by  a  degree  of  fascination  towards  her,  as  by 
the  wish  of  hunting  with  Mr.  Vernon,  and  of  course  1 
cannot  receive  that  pleasure  from  the  length  of  his 
visit  which  my  brother's  company  would  otherwise  give 
me.  I  am,  indeed,  provoked  at  the  artifice  of  this 
unprincipled  woman ;  what  stronger  proof  of  her  dan- 
gerous abilities  can  be  given  than  this  perversion  of 
Reginald's  judgment,  which  when  he  entered  the 
house  was  so  decidedly  against  her }  In  his  last  letter 
he  actually  gave  me  some  particulars  of  her  behaviour 
at  Langford,  such  as  he  received  from  a  gentleman 
who  knew  her  perfectly  well,  which,  if  true,  must  raise 
abhorrence  against  her,  and  which  Reginald  himself 
was  entirely  disposed  to  credit.  His  opinion  of  her, 
I  am  sure,  was  as  low  as  of  any  woman  in  England ; 
and  when  he  first  came  it  was  evident  that  he  consi- 
dered her  as  one  entitled  neither  to  delicacy  nor  re- 
spect, and  that  he  felt  she  would  be  delighted  with 
the  attentions  of  any  man  inclined  to  flirt  with  her. 
Her  behaviour,  I  confess,  has  been  calculated  to  do 
away  with  such  an  idea  ;  I  have  not  detected  the 
smallest  impropriety  in  it — nothing  of  vanity,  of  pre- 
tension, of  levity ;  and  she  is  altogether  so  attractive 
that  I  should  not  wonder  at  his  being  delighted  with 


Lady  Susan.  2 1 9 


her,  had  he  known  nothing  of  her  previous  to  this 
personal  acquaintance ;  but,  against  reason,  against 
conviction,  to  be  so  well  pleased  with  her,  as  I  am 
sure  he  is,  does  really  astonish  me.  His  admiration 
was  at  first  very  strong,  but  no  more  than  was  natural, 
and  I  did  not  wonder  at  his  being  much  struck  by  the 
gentleness  and  delicacy  of  her  manners ;  but  when  he 
has  mentioned  her  of  late  it  has  been  in  terms  of  more 
extraordinary  praise  ;  and  yesterday  he  actually  said 
that  he  could  not  be  surprised  at  any  effect  produced 
on  the  heart  of  man  by  such  loveliness  and  such  abi- 
lities ;  and  when  I  lamented,  in  reply,  the  badness  of 
her  disposition,  he  observed  that  whatever  might  have 
been  her  errors  they  were  to  be  imputed  to  her  neg- 
lected education  and  early  marriage,  and  that  she 
was  altogether  a  wonderful  woman.  This  tendency 
to  excuse  her  conduct,  or  to  forget  it,  in  the  warmth 
of  admiration,  vexes  me  ;  and  if  I  did  not  know  that 
Reginald  is  too  much  at  home  at  Churchhill  to  need 
an  invitation  for  lengthening  his  visit,  I  should  regret 
Mr.  Vernon's  giving  him  any.  Lady  Susan's  inten- 
tions are  of  course  those  of  absolute  coquetry,  or  a 
desire  of  universal  admiration  ;  I  cannot  for  a  moment 
imagine  that  she  has  anything  more  serious  in  view  ; 
but  it  mortifies  me  to  see  a  young  man  of  Reginald's 
eense  duped  by  her  at  all. 

I  am,  &c., 

Catherine  Vernon. 


220  Lady  Susan. 


IX. 

]\Irs.  Johnson  to  Lady  S,  Vernon, 

Edward  Street. 

My  dearest  Friend, — I  congratulate  )'ou  on  Mr.  De 
Courcy's  arrival,  and  I  advise  }'ou  by  all  means  to 
marry  him  ;  his  father's  estate  is,  we  know,  consider- 
able, and  I  believe  certainly  entailed.  Sir  Reginald 
is  very  infirm,  and  not  likely  to  stand  in  your  way 
long.  I  hear  the  young  man  well  spoken  of ;  and 
though  no  one  can  really  deserve  you,  my  dearest 
Susan,  Mr.  De  Courcy  may  be  worth  having.  Main- 
waring  will  storm  of  course,  but  you  may  easily  pacify 
him  ;  besides,  the  most  scrupulous  point  of  honour 
could  not  require  you  to  wait  for  Jus  emancipation.  I 
have  seen  Sir  James ;  he  came  to  town  for  a  few  days 
last  week,  and  called  several  times  in  Edward  Street. 
I  talked  to  him  about  you  and  your  daughter,  and  he 
is  so  far  from  having  forgotten  you,  that  I  am  sure  he 
would  marry  either  of  you  with  pleasure.  I  gave  him 
hopes  of  Frederica's  relenting,  and  told  him  a  great 
deal  of  her  improvements.  I  scolded  him  for  making 
love  to  Maria  Mainwaring ;  he  protested  that  he  had 
been  only  in  joke,  and  v/e  both  laughed  heartily  at 
her  disappointment  ;  and,  in  short,  were  very  agree- 
able.    He  is  as  silly  as  ever. 

Yours  faithfully, 

Alicia. 


Lady  Susan.  ,  22 1 


X. 

Lady  Susan  Vernon  to  Mrs.  JoJuison. 

CliurchliilL 

I  am  nuich  oblii^cd  to  yon,  my  dear  friend,  for 
your  advice  respecting  Mr.  Dc  Courcy,  which  I  know 
was  given  with  the  full  conviction  of  its  expediency, 
though  I  am  not  quite  determined  on  following  it. 
I  cannot  easily  resolve  on  anything  so  serious  as 
marriage  ;  especially  as  I  am  not  at  present  in  want 
of  money,  and  might  perhaps,  till  the  old  gentleman's 
death,  be  very  little  benefited  by  the  match.  It  is  true 
that  I  am  vain  enough  to  believe  it  within  my  reach. 
I  have  made  him  sensible  of  my  power,  and  can  now 
enjoy  the  pleasure  of  triumphing  over  a  mind  pre- 
pared to  dislike  me,  and  prejudiced  against  all  my 
past  actions.  His  sister,  too,  is,  I  hope,  convinced 
how  little  the  ungenerous  representations  of  anyone 
to  the  disadvantage  of  another  will  avail  when  op- 
posed by  the  immediate  influence  of  intellect  and 
manner.  I  see  plainly  that  she  is  uneasy  at  my 
progress  in  the  good  opinion  of  her  brother,  and 
conclude  that  nothing  will  be  wanting  on  her  part  to 
counteract  me ;  but  having  once  made  him  doubt 
the  justice  of  her  opinion  of  me,  I  think  I  may  defy 
her.  It  has  been  delightful  to  me  to  watch  his  ad- 
vances towards  intimacy,  especially  to  observe  his 
altered  manner  in  consequence  of  my  repressing  by 
the  cool  dignity  of  my  deportment  his  insolent  ap- 
proach to  direct  familiarity.     My  conduct  has   been 


222  Lady  Susan. 


equally  guarded  from  the  first,  and  I  never  behaved 
less  like  a  coquette  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life, 
though  perhaps  my  desire  of  dominion  was  never 
more  decided.  I  have  subdued  him  entirely  by 
sentiment  and  serious  conversation,  and  made  him, 
I  may  venture  to  say,  at  least  half  in  love  with  me, 
without  the  semblance  of  the  most  commonplace 
flirtation.  Mrs.  Vernon's  consciousness  of  deservino; 
every  sort  of  revenge  that  it  can  be  in  my  power  to 
inflict  for  her  ill-offices  could  alone  enable  her  to 
perceive  that  I  am  actuated  by  any  design  in  be- 
haviour so  gentle  and  unpretending.  Let  her  think 
and  act  as  she  chooses,  however.  I  have  never  yet 
found  that  the  advice  of  a  sister  could  prevent  a 
young  man's  being  in  love  if  he  chose.  We  are 
advancing  now  to  some  kind  of  confidence,  and  in 
short  are  likely  to  be  engaged  in  a  sort  of  platonic 
friendship.  On  my  side  you  may  be  sure  of  its  never 
being  more,  for  if  I  were  not  attached  to  another 
person  as  much  as  I  can  be  to  anyone,  I  should 
make  a  point  of  not  bestowing  my  affection  on  a 
man  who  had  dared  to  think  so  meanly  of  me. 
Reginald  has  a  good  figure  and  is  not  unworthy 
the  praise  you  have  heard  given  him,  but  is  still 
greatly  inferior  to  our  friend  at  Langford.  He  is  less 
polished,  less  insinuating  than  Mainwaring,  and  is 
comparatively  deficient  in  the  power  of  saying  those 
delightful  things  which  put  one  in  good  humour  with 
oneself  and  all  the  world.  He  is  quite  agreeable 
enough,  however,  to  afford  me  amusement,  and  to 
make    many   of    those   hours    pass   very   pleasantly 


Lady  Susan.  •  223 


which  would  otherwise  be  spent  in  endeavouring  to 
overcome  my  sister-in-law's  reserve,  and  listening  to 
the  insipid  talk  of  her  husband.  Your  account  of 
Sir  James  is  most  satisfactory,  and  I  mean  to  give 
Miss  Frederica  a  hint  of  my  intentions  very  soon. 

Yours,  &c., 

S.  Vernon. 

XL 

Mrs.  Ver 71071  to  Lady  De  Coiircy. 

Churchhill, 

I  really  grow  quite  uneasy,  my  dearest  mother,  about 
Reginald,  from  witnessing  the  very  rapid  increase  of 
Lady  Susan's  influence.  They  are  now  on  terms  of 
the  most  particular  friendship,  frequently  engaged  in 
long  conversations  together;  and  she  has  contrived 
by  the  most  artful  coquetry  to  subdue  his  judgment 
to  her  own  purposes.  It  is  impossible  to  see  the 
intimacy  between  them  so  very  soon  established 
without  some  alarm,  though  I  can  hardly  suppose 
that  Lady  Susan's  plans  extend  to  marriage.  I  wish 
you  could  get  Reginald  home  again  on  any  plausible 
pretence  ;  he  is  not  at  all  disposed  to  leave  us,  and  I 
have  given  him  as  many  hints  of  my  father's  pre- 
carious state  of  health  as  comm.on  decency  will  allow 
me  to  do  in  my  own  house.  Her  power  over  him 
must  now  be  boundless,  as  she  has  entirely  effaced  all 
his  former  ill-opinion,  and  persuaded  him  not  merely 
to  forget  but  to  justify  her  conduct.  Mr.  Smith's 
account  of  her  proceedings  at  Langford,    where  he 


224  Lady  Susan. 


accused  her  of  having  made  Mr.  Malnwaring  and  a 
young  man  engaged  to  Miss  Mainwaring  distractedly 
in  love  with  her,  which  Reginald  firmly  believed 
when  he  came  here,  is  now,  he  is  persuaded,  only  a 
scandalous  invention.  He  has  told  me  so  with  a 
warmth  of  manner  which  spoke  his  regret  at  having 
believed  the  contrary  himself.  How  sincerely  do  I 
grieve  that  she  ever  entered  this  house !  I  always 
looked  forward  to  her  coming  with  uneasiness  ;  but 
very  far  was  it  from  originating  in  anxiety  for  Regi- 
nald. I  expected  a  most  disagreeable  companion 
for  myself,  but  could  not  imagine  that  my  brother 
would  be  in  the  smallest  danger  of  being  captivated 
by  a  woman  with  whose  principles  he  was  so  well  ac- 
quainted, and  whose  character  he  so  heartily  despised 
If  you  can  get  him  away  it  will  be  a  good  thing. 
Yours,  &c., 

Catherine  Vernon. 

XII. 

Sir  Reginald  Dc  Convey  to  his  Son. 

Parklands. 

I  know  that  young  men  in  general  do  not  admit 
of  any  enquiry  even  from  their  nearest  relations  into 
affairs  of  the  heart,  but  I  hope,  my  dear  Reginald, 
that  you  will  be  superior  to  such  as  allow  nothing  for 
a  father's  anxiety,  and  think  themselves  privileged 
to  refuse  him  their  confidence  and  slight  his  advice. 
You  must  be  sensible  that  as  an  only  son,  and  the 
representative  of  an  ancient  family,  your  conduct  in 


Lady  Susan,  •  225 


life  is  most  interesting  to  your  connections ;  and  in 
the  very  important  concern  of  marriage  especially, 
there  is  everything  at  stake — }-our  own  liappiness, 
that  of  your  parents,  and  the  credit  of  }'our  name.  I 
do  not  suppose  that  you  would  deliberately  form  an 
absolute  engagement  of  that  nature  without  acquaint- 
ing your  mother  and  myself,  or  at  least,  without 
being  convinced  that  we  should  approve  of  your 
choice  ;  but  I  cannot  help  fearing  that  you  may  be 
drawn  in,  by  the  lady  who  has  lately  attached  you, 
to  a  marriage  which  the  whole  of  }'our  family,  far 
and  near,  must  highly  reprobate.  Lady  Susan's  age 
is  itself  a  material  objection,  but  her  want  of  cha- 
racter is  one  so  much  more  serious,  that  the  difference 
of  even  twelve  years  becomes  in  comparison  of  small 
amount.  Were  you  not  blinded  by  a  sort  of  fasci- 
nation, it  would  be  ridiculous  in  me  to  repeat  the 
instances  of  great  misconduct  on  her  side  so  very 
generally  known. 

Her  neglect  of  her  husband,  her  encouragement 
of  other  men,  her  extravagance  and  dissipation,  were 
so  gross  and  notorious  that  no  one  could  be  ignorant 
of  them  at  the  time,  nor  can  now  have  forgotten 
them.  To  our  family  she  has  always  been  repre- 
sented in  softened  colours  by  the  benevolence  of  Mr. 
Charles  Vernon,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  his  generous  en- 
deavours to  excuse  her,  we  know  that  she  did,  from 
the  most  selfish  motives,  take  all  possible  pains  to 
prevent  his  marriage  with  Catherine. 

My  years  and  increasing  infirmities  make  me  very 
desirous  of  seeing  you  settled  in  the  world.     To  the 

Q 


226  Lady  Susan, 


fortune  of  a  wife,  the  goodness  of  my  own  will  make 
me  indifferent,  but  her  family  and  character  must  be 
equally  unexceptionable.  When  your  choice  is  fixed 
so  that  no  objection  can  be  made  to  it,  then  I  can 
promise  you  a  ready  and  cheerful  consent ;  but  it  is 
my  duty  to  oppose  a  match  which  deep  art  only 
could  render  possible,  and  must  in  the  end  make 
wretched.  It  is  possible  her  behaviour  may  arise  only 
from  vanity,  or  the  wish  of  gaining  the  admiration  ot 
a  man  whom  she  must  imagine  to  be  particularly 
prejudiced  against  her;  but  it  is  more  likely  that  she 
should  aim  at  something  further.  She  is  poor,  and 
may  naturally  seek  an  alliance  which  must  be  ad- 
vantageous to  herself;  you  know  your  own  rights, 
and  that  it  is  out  of  my  power  to  prevent  your 
inheriting  the  family  estate.  My  ability  of  distress- 
ing you  during  my  life  would  be  a  species  of  revenge 
to  which  I  could  hardly  stoop  under  any  circum- 
stances. 

I  honestly  tell  you  my  sentiments  and  intentions : 
I  do  not  wish  to  work  on  your  fears,  but  on  your 
.sense  and  affection.  It  would  destroy  every  comfort 
of  my  life  to  know  that  you  were  married  to  Lady 
Susan  Vernon  ;  it  would  be  the  death  of  that  honest 
pride  with  which  I  have  hitherto  considered  my  son  ; 
I  should  blush  to  see  him,  to  hear  of  him,  to  think  of 
him.  I  may  perhaps  do  no  good  but  that  of  reliev- 
ing my  own  mind  by  this  letter,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty 
to  tell  you  that  your  partiality  for  Lady  Susan  is  no 
secret  to  your  friends,  and  to  warn  you  against  her. 
I  should  be  glad  to  hear  your  reasons  for  disbelieving 


Lady  Susan.  ^  227 


Mr.  Smith's  intelligence ;  you  had  no  doubt  of  it? 
authenticity  a  month  ago.  If  you  can  give  me  your 
assurance  of  having  no  design  beyond  enjoying  the 
conversation  of  a  clever  woman  for  a  short  period, 
and  of  yielding  admiration  only  to  her  beauty  and 
abilities,  without  being  blinded  by  them  to  her  faults, 
you  will  restore  me  to  happiness ;  but,  if  you  cannot 
do  this,  explain  to  me,  at  least,  what  has  occasioned 
so  great  an  alteration  in  your  opinion  of  her 
I  am,  &c.,  &c., 

Reginald  De  Courcy. 

XIII. 
Lady  De  Courcy  to  Mj's.  Vernon. 

Parklando. 

My  dear  Catherine, — Unluckily  I  was  confined  to 
my  room  when  your  last  letter  came,  by  a  cold  which 
affected  my  eyes  so  much  as  to  prevent  my  reading 
it  myself,  so  I  could  not  refuse  your  father  when  he 
offered  to  read  it  to  me,  by  which  means  he  became 
acquainted,  to  my  great  vexation,  with  all  your 
fears  about  your  brother.  I  had  intended  to  write 
to  Reginald  myself  as  soon  as  my  eyes  would  let 
me,  to  point  out,  as  well  as  I  could,  the  danger  of  an 
intimate  acquaintance,  with  so  artful  a  woman  as 
Lady  Susan,  to  a  young  man  of  his  age,  and  high 
expectations.  I  meant,  moreover,  to  have  reminded 
him  of  our  being  quite  alone  now,  and  very  much  in 
need  of  him  to  keep  up  our  spirits  these  long  winter 
evenings.     Whether  it  would    have   done   any  good 

Q  2 


228  Lady  Susan. 


can  never  be  settled  now,  but  I  am  excessively  vexed 
that  Sir  Reginald  should  know  anything  of  a  matter 
which  we  foresaw  would  make  him  so  uneasy.  He 
caught  all  your  fears  the  moment  he  had  read  your 
letter,  and  I  am  sure  he  has  not  had  the  business 
out  of  his  head  since.  He  wrote  by  the  same  post 
to  Reginald  a  long  letter  full  of  it  all,  and  particu- 
larly asking  an  explanation  of  what  he  may  have 
heard  from  Lady  Susan  to  contradict  the  late  shock- 
ing reports.  His  answer  came  this  morning,  which  I 
shall  enclose  to  you,  as  I  think  you  will  like  to  see 
it.  I  wish  it  was  more  satisfactory  ;  but  it  seems 
written  with  such  a  determination  to  think  well  of 
Lady  Susan,  that  his  assurances  as  to  marriage,  &c., 
do  not  set  my  heart  at  ease.  I  say  all  I  can,  how- 
ever, to  satisfy  your  father,  and  he  is  certainly  less 
uneasy  since  Reginald's  letter.  How  provoking  it 
is,  my  dear  Catherine,  that  this  unwelcome  guest  of 
yours  should  not  only  prevent  our  meeting  this 
Christmas,  but  be  the  occasion  of  so  much  vexation 
and  trouble  !  Kiss  the  dear  children  for  me. 
Your  affectionate  mother, 

C.  De  Courcy. 


XIV. 

Mr.  Dc  Courcy  to  Sir  Reginald, 

ChurJihiil. 

My  dear  Sir, — I  have  this  moment  leceived  your 
letter,  which  has  given  me  more  astonishment  than  I 


Lady  Susan.  ,  229 


ever  felt  before.  I  am  to  thank  my  sister,  I  suppose, 
for  having  represented  me  in  such  a  h'ght  as  to  injure 
me  in  your  opinion,  and  gi\'e  you  all  this  alarm.  I 
know  not  why  she  should  choose  to  make  herself  and 
her  family  uneasy  by  apprehending  an  event  which 
no  one  but  herself,  I  can  affirm,  would  ever  have 
thought  possible.  To  impute  such  a  design  to  Lady 
Susan  would  be  taking  from  her  every  claim  to  that 
excellent  understanding  which  her  bitterest  enemies 
have  never  denied  her;  and  equally  low  must  sink 
my  pretensions  to  common  sense  if  I  am  suspected 
of  matrimonial  views  in  my  behaviour  to  her.  Our 
difference  of  age  must  be  an  insuperable  objection, 
and  I  entreat  you,  my  dear  father,  to  quiet  your 
mind,  and  no  longer  harbour  a  suspicion  which  can- 
not be  more  injurious  to  your  own  peace  than  to  our 
understandings.  I  can  have  no  other  view  in  re- 
maining with  Lady  Susan,  than  to  enjoy  for  a  short 
time  (as  you  have  yourself  expressed  it)  the  con- 
versation of  a  woman  of  high  intellectual  powers.  If 
Mrs.  Vernon  would  allow  something  to  my  affection 
for  herself  and  her  husband  in  the  length  of  my  visit, 
she  would  do  more  justice  to  us  all ;  but  my  sister  is 
unhappily  prejudiced  beyond  the  hope  of  conviction 
against  Lady  Susan.  From  an  attachment  to  her 
husband,  which  in  itself  docs  honour  to  both,  she 
cannot  forgive  the  endeavours  at  preventing  their 
union,  which  have  been  attributed  to  selfishness  in 
Lady  Susan  ;  but  in  this  case,  as  well  as  in  many 
others,  the  world  has  most  grossly  injured  that  lady, 
by  supposing   the  worst  where  the   motives   of  her 


2,30  Lady  Susan. 


conduct  have  been  doubtful.  Lady  Susan  had  heard 
something  so  materially  to  the  disadvantage  of  my 
sister  as  to  persuade  her  that  the  happiness  of  Mr. 
Vernon,  to  whom  she  was  always  much  attached, 
would  be  wholly  destroyed  by  the  marriage.  And 
this  circumstance,  while  it  explains  the  true  motives 
of  Lady  Susan's  conduct,  and  removes  all  the  blame 
which  has  been  so  lavished  on  her,  may  also  con- 
vince us  how  little  the  general  report  of  anyone 
ought  to  be  credited  ;  since  no  character,  however 
upright,  can  escape  the  malevolence  of  slander.  If 
my  sister,  in  the  security  of  retirement,  with  as  little 
opportunity  as  inclination  to  do  evil,  could  not  avoid 
censure,  we  must  not  rashly  condemn  those  who, 
living  in  the  world  and  surrounded  with  temptations, 
should  be  accused  of  errors  which  they  are  known  to 
have  the  power  of  committing. 

I  blame  myself  severely  for  having  so  easily  be- 
lieved the  slanderous  tales  invented  by  Charles  Smith 
to  the  prejudice  of  Lady  Susan,  as  I  am  now  con- 
vinced how  greatly  they  have  traduced  her.  As  to 
Mrs.  Mainwaring's  jealousy  it  was  totally  his  own 
invention,  and  his  account  of  her  attaching  Miss 
Mainwaring's  lover  was  scarcely  better  founded.  Sir 
James  Martin  had  been  drawn  in  by  that  young  lady 
to  pay  her  some  attention ;  and  as  he  is  a  man  of 
fortune,  it  was  easy  to  see  her  views  extended  to 
marriage.  It  is  well  known  that  Miss  M.  is  absolutely 
on  the  catch  for  a  husband,  and  no  one  therefore 
can  pity  her  for  losing,  by  the  superior  attractions  of 
another  woman,  the  chance  of  being  able  to  make  a 


Lady  Susan.  .  231 


worthy  man  completely  wretched.  Lady  Susan  was 
far  from  intending  such  a  conquest,  and  on  finding 
how  warml)'  Miss  Mainwaring  resented  her  lover's 
defection,  determined,  in  spite  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Main- 
waring's  most  urgent  entreaties,  to  leave  the  family. 
I  have  reason  to  imagine  she  did  receive  serious  pro- 
posals from  Sir  James,  but  her  removing  to  Langford 
immediately  on  the  discovery  of  his  attachment,  must 
acquit  her  on  that  article  with  any  mind  of  common 
candour.  You  will,  I  am  sure,  my  dear  Sir,  feel  the 
truth  of  this,  and  will  hereby  learn  to  do  justice  to 
the  character  of  a  very  injured  woman.  I  know  that 
Lady  Susan  in  coming  to  Churchhill  was  governed 
only  by  the  most  honourable  and  amiable  intentions  ; 
her  prudence  and  economy  are  exemplary,  her  regard 
for  Mr.  Vernon  equal  even  to  his  deserts  ;  and  her 
wish  of  obtaining  my  sister's  good  opinion  merits  a 
better  return  than  it  has  received.  As  a  mother  she 
is  unexceptionable ;  her  solid  affection  for  her  child 
is  shown  by  placing  her  in  hands  where  her  education 
will  be  properly  attended  to  ;  but  because  she  has 
not  the  blind  and  weak  partiality  of  most  mothers, 
she  is  accused  of  wanting  maternal  tenderness.  Every 
person  of  sense,  however,  will  know  how  to  value  and 
commend  her  well-directed  affection,  and  will  join 
me  in  wishing  that  Frederica  Vernon  may  prove 
more  worthy  than  she  has  yet  done  of  her  mother's 
tender  care.  I  have  now,  my  dear  father,  written  my 
real  sentiments  of  Lady  Susan  ;  you  will  know  from 
this  letter  how  highly  I  admire  her  abilities,  and 
esteem  her  character;  but    if  you    are    not    equally 


232  Lady  Susan. 


convinced  by  my  full  and  solemn  assurance  that 
your  fears  have  been  most  idly  created,  you  will 
deeply  mortify  and  distress  me. 

I  am,  Sec,  &c., 

R.  De  Courcy. 

XV. 

Mrs.  Vcruon  to  Lady  De  Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

My  dear  Mother, — I  return  you  Reginald's  letter, 
and  rejoice  with  all  my  heart  that  my  father  is  made 
easy  by  it  :  tell  him  so,  with  my  congratulations  ; 
but,  between  ourselves,  I  must  own  it  has  only  con- 
vinced me  of  my  brother's  having  no  present  in- 
tention of  marrying  Lady  Susan,  not  that  he  is  in 
no  danger  of  doing  so  three  months  hence.  He 
gives  a  very  plausible  account  of  her  behaviour  at 
Langford  ;  I  wish  it  may  be  true,  but  his  intelli- 
gence must  come  from  herself,  and  I  am  less  disposed 
to  believe  it  than  to  lament  the  degree  of  intimacy 
subsisting  between  them  implied  by  the  discussion  of 
such  a  subject.  I  am  sorry  to  have  incurred  his  dis- 
pleasure, but  can  expect  nothing  better  while  he  is  so 
very  eager  in  Lady  Susan's  justification.  Pie  is  very 
severe  against  me  indeed,  and  yet  I  hope  I  have  not 
been  hasty  in  my  judgment  of  her.  Poor  woman  ! 
though  I  have  reasons  enough  for  my  dislike,  I  can- 
not help  pitying  her  at  present,  as  she  is  in  real 
distress,  and  with  too  much  cause.  She  had  this 
morning  a  letter  from  the  lady  with  whom  she  has 


Lady  Sitsan.  233 

placed  her  daughter,  to  request  that  Miss  Vernon 
might  be  immediately  remo\'ed,  as  she  had  been  de- 
tected in  an  attempt  to  run  away.  Why,  or  wliither 
she  intended  to  go,  does  not  appear;  but,  as  her  situ- 
ation seems  to  have  been  unexceptionable,  it  is  a  sad 
thing,  and  of  course  highly  distressing  to  Lady  Susan. 
Frederica  must  be  as  much  as  sixteen,  and  ought  to 
know  better ;  but  from  what  her  mother  insinuates, 
I  am  afraid  she  is  a  perverse  girl.  She  has  been 
sadly  neglected,  however,  and  her  mother  ought  to 
remember  it.  ]\Ir.  Vernon  set  off  for  London  as 
soon  as  she  had  determined  what  should  be  done. 
lie  is,  if  possible,  to  prevail  on  Miss  Summers  to  let 
Frederica  continue  with  her  ;  and  if  he  cannot  succeed, 
to  bring  her  to  Churchhill  for  the  present,  till  some 
other  situation  can  be  found  for  her.  Her  ladyship  is 
comforting  herself  meanwhile  by  strolling  along  the 
shrubbery  with  Reginald,  calling  forth  all  his  tender 
feelings,  I  suppose,  on  this  distressing  occasion.  She 
has  been  talking  a  great  deal  about  it  to  me.  She 
talks  vastly  well ;  I  am  afraid  of  being  ungenerous,  or 
I  should  say,  too  well  to  feel  so  very  deeply  ;  but  I 
will  not  look  for  faults ;  she  may  be  Reginald's  wife  ! 
Heaven  forbid  it !  but  why  should  I  be  quicker-sighted 
than  anyone  else  .'*  Mr.  Vernon  declares  that  he  never 
saw  deeper  distress  than  hers,  on  the  receipt  of  the 
letter;  and  is  his  judgment  inferior  to  mine  .-^  She 
was  very  unwilling  that  Frederica  should  be  allowed 
to  come  to  Churchhill,  and  justly  enough,  as  it  seems 
a  sort  of  reward  to  behaviour  deserving  very  differ- 
ently ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  take  her  anywheie 


234  Lady  Susan, 


else,  and  she  is  not  to  remain  here  long.  *  It  will  be 
absolutely  necessary,'  said  she,  *  as  you,  my  dear  sister, 
must  be  sensible,  to  treat  my  daughter  with  some 
severity  while  she  is  here  ;  a  most  painful  necessity, 
but  I  will  endeavour  to  submit  to  it.  I  am  afraid  I 
have  often  been  too  indulgent,  but  my  poor  Fre- 
derica's  temper  could  never  bear  opposition  well :  you 
must  support  and  encourage  me ;  you  must  urge  the 
necessity  of  reproof  if  you  see  me  too  lenient'  All 
this  sounds  very  reasonably.  Reginald  is  so  incensed 
against  the  poor  silly  girl !  Surely  it  is  not  to  Lady 
Susan's  credit  that  he  should  be  so  bitter  against  her 
daughter ;  his  idea  of  her  must  be  drawn  from  the 
mother's  description.  Well,  whatever  may  be  his 
fate,  we  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  we  have 
done  our  utmost  to  save  him.  We  must  commit  the 
event  to  a  higher  power. 

Yours  ever,  &c. 

Catherine  Vernon. 

XVI. 

Lady  Siisan  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

Never,  my  dearest  Alicia,  was  I  so  provoked  in  my 
life  as  by  a  letter  this  morning  from  Miss  Summers. 
That  horrid  girl  of  mine  has  been  trying  to  run  away. 
I  had  not  a  notion  of  her  being  such  a  little  devil 
before,  she  seemed  to  have  all  the  Vernon  milkiness  ; 
but  on  receiving  the  letter  in  which  I  declared  my 
intention  about  Sir  James,  she  actually  attempted  to 


Lady  Susan.  ,  235 


elope  ;  at  least,  I  cannot  otherwise  account  for  her 
doing  it.  She  meant,  I  suppose,  to  go  to  tlie  Clarks 
in  Staffordshire,  for  she  has  no  other  acquaintances. 
But  she  shall  be  punished,  she  sJiall  have  him.  I 
have  sent  Charles  to  town  to  make  matters  up  if  he 
can,  for  I  do  not  by  any  means  want  her  here.  If 
Miss  Summers  will  not  keep  her,  you  must  find  me 
out  another  school,  unless  we  can  get  her  married 
immediately.  Miss  S.  writes  word  that  she  could 
not  get  the  young  lady  to  assign  any  cause  for  her 
extraordinary  conduct,  which  confirms  me  in  my  own 
previous  explanation  of  it.  Frederica  is  too  shy,  I 
think,  and  too  much  in  awe  of  me  to  tell  tales,  but  if 
the  mildness  of  her  uncle  should  get  anything  out  of 
her,  I  am  not  afraid.  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  make 
my  story  as  good  as  hers.  If  I  am  vain  of  anything, 
it  is  of  my  eloquence.  Consideration  and  esteem  as 
surely  follow  command  of  language  as  admiration 
waits  on  beauty,  and  here  I  have  opportunity  enough 
for  the  exercise  of  my  talent,  as  the  chief  of  my  time 
is  spent  in  conversation. 

Reginald  is  never  easy  unless  we  are  by  ourselves, 
and  when  the  weather  is  tolerable,  we  pace  the  shrub- 
beiy  for  hours  together.  I  like  him  on  the  whole 
very  well ;  he  is  clever  and  has  a  good  deal  to  say, 
but  he  is  sometimes  impertinent  and  troublesome. 
There  is  a  sort  of  ridiculous  delicacy  about  him 
which  requires  the  fullest  explanation  of  whatever  he 
may  have  heard  to  my  disadvantage,  and  is  never 
satisfied  till  he  thinks  he  has  ascertained  the  begin- 
ning and  end  of  everything.     This  is  one  sort  of  love, 


236  Lady  Susan. 


but  I  confess  it  docs  not  particularly  recommend 
itself  to  me.  I  infinitely  prefer  the  tender  and  liberal 
spirit  of  Mainwaring,  which,  impressed  with  the 
deepest  conviction  of  my  merit,  is  satisfied  that  what- 
ever I  do  must  be  right  ;  and  look  with  a  degree  of 
contempt  on  the  inquisitive  and  doubtful  fancies  of 
that  heart  which  seems  always  debating  on  the  rea- 
sonableness of  its  emotions.  Mainwaring  is  indeed, 
beyond  all  compare,  superior  to  Reginald — superior 
in  everything  but  the  power  of  being  with  me  !  Poor 
fellow !  he  is  much  distracted  by  jealousy,  which  I 
am  not  sorry  for,  as  I  know  no  better  support  of  love. 
He  has  been  teazing  me  to  allow  of  his  coming  into 
this  country,  and  lodging  somewhere  near  incog. ;  but 
I  forbade  everything  of  the  kind.  Those  women  are 
inexcusable  who  forget  what  is  due  to  themselves,  and 
the  opinion  of  the  world. 

Yours  ever, 

S.  Vernon. 

XVII. 

Mrs.  V^crnon  to  Lady  Dc  Convey . 

Churclihill. 

My  dear  Mother, — Mr.  Vernon  returned  on  Thurs- 
day night,  bringing  his  niece  with  him.  Lady  Susan 
had  received  a  line  from  him  by  that  day's  post, 
informing  her  that  Miss  Summers  had  absolutely 
refused  to  allow  of  Miss  Vernon's  continuance  in  her 
academy ;  we  were  therefore  prepared  for  her  arrival, 
and  expected   them  impatiently  the  whole  evening. 


Lady  Susan.  237 


They  came  "while  we  were  at  tea,  and  I  never  saw 
any  creature  look  so  frightened  as  Frederica  when 
she  entered  the  room.  Lady  Susan,  who  had  been 
shedding  tears  before,  and  showing  great  agitation 
at  the  idea  of  the  meeting,  received  her  with  perfect 
self-command,  and  without  betraying  the  least  tender- 
ness of  spirit.  She  hardly  spoke  to  her,  and  on 
Frederica's  bursting  into  tears  as  soon  as  we  were 
seated,  took  her  out  of  the  room,  and  did  not  return 
for  some  time.  When  she  did,  her  eyes  looked 
very  red,  and  she  was  as  much  agitated  as  before. 
W'e  saw  no  more  of  her  daughter.  Poor  Reginald 
was  beyond  measure  concerned  to  see  his  fair  friend 
in  such  distress,  and  watched  her  with  so  much  tender 
solicitude,  that  I,  who  occasionally  caught  her  observ- 
ing his  countenance  v/ith  exultation,  was  quite  out 
of  patience.  This  pathetic  representation  lasted  the 
whole  evening,  and  so  ostentatious  and  artful  a  display 
has  entirely  convinced  me  that  she  did  in  fact  feel 
nothing.  I  am  more  angry  with  her  than  e\'er  since  I 
have  seen  her  daughter  ;  the  poor  girl  looks  so  unhappy 
that  my  heart  aches  for  her.  Lady  Susan  is  surely 
too  severe,  for  Frederica  does  not  seem  to  have  the 
sort  of  temper  to  make  severity  necessar\'.  She  looks 
perfectly  timid,  dejected,  and  penitent.  She  is  very 
pretty,  though  not  so  handsome  as  her  mother,  nor  at 
all  like  her.  Her  complexion  is  delicate,  but  neither 
so  fair  nor  so  blooming  as  Lady  Susan's,  and  she  has 
quite  the  Vernon  cast  of  countenance,  the  o\'al  face 
and  mild  dark  eyes,  and  there  is  peculiar  sweetness 
in  her  look  when  she  speaks  either  to  her  uncle  or 


238  Lady  Susan. 


me,  for  as  we  behave  kindly  to  her  we  have  of  course 
engaged  her  gratitude. 

Her  mother  has  insinuated  that  her  temper  is  in- 
tractable, but  I  never  saw  a  face  less  indicative  of 
any  evil  disposition  than  hers  ;  and  from  what  I  can 
see  of  the  behaviour  of  each  to  the  other,  the  invariable 
severity  of  Lady  Susan  and  the  silent  dejection  of 
Frederica,  I  am  led  to  believe  as  heretofore  that  the 
former  has  no  real  love  for  her  daughter,  and  has 
never  done  her  justice  or  treated  her  affectionately.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  have  any  conversation  with  my 
niece  ;  she  is  shy,  and  I  think  I  can  see  that  some 
pains  are  taken  to  prevent  her  being  much  with  me. 
Nothing  satisfactory  transpires  as  to  her  reason  for 
running  away.  Her  kind-hearted  uncle,  you  may  be 
sure,  was  too  fearful  of  distressing  her  to  ask  many 
questions  as  they  travelled.  I  wish  it  had  been  pos- 
sible for  me  to  fetch  her  instead  of  him.  I  think  I 
should  have  discovered  the  truth  in  the  course  of  a 
thirty-mile  journey.  The  small  pianoforte  has  been 
removed  within  these  few  days,  at  Lady  Susan's  re- 
quest, into  her  dressing-room,  and  Frederica  spends 
great  part  of  the  day  there,  practising  as  it  is  called  ; 
but  I  seldom  hear  any  noise  when  I  pass  that  way  ; 
what  she  does  with  herself  there  I  do  not  know. 
There  are  plenty  of  books,  but  it  is  not  every  girl 
who  has  been  running  wild  the  first  fifteen  years  of 
her  life,  that  can  or  will  read.  Poor  creature!  the 
prospect  from  her  window  is  not  very  instructive,  for 
that  room  overlooks  the  lawn,  you  know,  with  the 
shrubbery  on  one  side,  where  she  may  see  her  mother 


Lady  Susan.  239 


walking  for  an  hour  together  in  earnest  conversation 
with  Reginald.  A  girl  of  Frederica's  age  must  be 
childish  indeed,  if  such  things  do  not  strike  her.  Is 
it  not  inexcusable  to  give  such  an  example  to  a 
daughter  ?  Yet  Reginald  still  thinks  Lady  Susan  the 
best  of  mothers,  and  still  condenms  Frederica  as  a 
worthless  girl !  He  is  convinced  that  her  attempt  to 
run  away  proceeded  from  no  justifiable  cause,  and  had 
no  piovocation.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  say  that  it  Jiad, 
but  while  Miss  Summers  declares  that  Miss  Vernon 
showed  no  signs  of  obstinacy  or  perverscness  during 
her  whole  stay  in  Wigmore  Street,  till  she  was  de- 
tected in  this  scheme,  I  cannot  so  readily  credit 
what  Lady  Susan  has  made  him,  and  wants  to  make 
me  believe,  that  it  was  merely  an  impatience  of 
restraint  and  a  desire  of  escaping  from  the  tuition  of 
masters  which  brought  on  the  plan  of  an  elopement. 
O  Reginald,  how  is  your  judgment  enslaved  !  He 
scarcely  dares  even  allow  her  to  be  handsome,  and 
when  I  speak  of  her  beauty,  replies  only  that  her 
eyes  have  no  brilliancy !  Sometimes  he  is  sure  she 
is  deficient  in  understanding,  and  at  others  that  her 
temper  only  is  in  fault.  In  short,  when  a  person  is 
always  to  deceive,  it  is  impossible  to  be  consistent. 
Lady  Susan  finds  it  necessary  that  P^-ederica  should 
be  to  blame,  and  probably  has  sometimes  judged  it 
expedient  to  excuse  her  of  ill-nature  and  sometimes 
to  lament  her  want  of  sense.  Reginald  is  only  re- 
peating after  her  ladyship. 

I  remain,  &c.,  &c., 

Catherine  Vernon. 


240  Lady  Susan, 


XVIII. 

From  the  same  to  the  same. 

Cliurchhill. 

My  dear  Mother, — I  am  very  glad  to  find  that  my 
description  of  Frederica  Vernon  lias  interested  you, 
for  I  do  bclie\'e  her  truly  deserving  of  your  regard  ; 
and  when  I  have  conmiunicated  a  notion  which  has 
recently  struck  me,  your  kind  impressions  in  her 
favour  will,  I  am  sure,  be  heightened.  I  cannot  help 
fancying  that  she  is  growing  partial  to  my  brother. 
I  so  very  often  see  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face  with 
a  remarkable  expression  of  pensive  admiration.  He 
is  certainly  very  handsome ;  and  yet  more,  there  is 
an  openness  in  his  manner  that  must  be  highly  pre- 
possessing, and  I  am  sure  she  feels  it  so.  Thought- 
ful and  pensive  in  general,  her  countenance  always 
brightens  into  a  smile  when  Reginald  says  anything 
amusing ;  and,  let  the  subject  be  ever  so  serious  that 
he  may  be  conversing  on,  I  am  much  mistaken  if  a 
syllable  of  his  uttering  escapes  her.  I  want  to  make 
him  sensible  of  all  this,  for  we  know  the  power  of 
gratitude  on  such  a  heart  as  his  ;  and  could  Frederica's 
artless  affection  detach  him  from  her  mother,  we 
might  bless  the  day  which  brought  her  to  Churchhill. 
I  think,  my  dear  mother,  you  would  not  disapprove 
of  her  as  a  daughter.  She  is  extremely  young,  to  be 
sure,  has  had  a  wretched  education,  and  a  dreadful 
example  of  levity  in  her  mother ;  but  yet  I  can  pro- 
nounce her  disposition  to  be  excellent,  and  her  natural 
abilities  ver^^  good.     Though  totally  without  accom- 


Lady  Susan.  ,  241 

plishnicnts,  she  is  by  no  means  so  ignorant  as  one 
might  expect  to  find  lier,  being  fond  of  books  and 
spending  the  chief  of  lier  time  in  reading.  Her 
mother  leaves  her  more  to  herself  than  she  did,  and 
I  have  her  with  me  as  much  as  possible,  and  have 
taken  great  pains  to  overcome  her  timidity'.  We  are 
very  good  friends,  and  though  she  never  opens  her 
lips  before  her  mother,  she  talks  enough  when  alone 
with  me  to  make  it  clear  that,  if  properly  treated  by 
Lady  Susan,  she  would  always  appear  to  much  greater 
advantage.  There  cannot  be  a  more  gentle,  affec- 
tionate heart ;  or  more  obliging  manners,  when  acting 
without  restraint ;  and  her  little  cousins  are  all  very 
fond  of  her. 

Your  affectionate  Daughter, 

C.  Vernon. 

XIX. 

Lady  Susan  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

You  will  be  eager,  I  know,  to  hear  something 
further  of  Frederica,  and  perhaps  may  think  me 
negligent  for  not  writing  before.  She  arrived  with  her 
uncle  last  Thursday  fortnight,  when,  of  course,  I  lost 
no  time  in  demanding  the  cause  of  her  behaviour ; 
and  soon  found  myself  to  have  been  perfectly  right 
in  attributing  it  to  my  own  letter.  The  prospect  of 
it  frightened  her  so  thoroughly,  that,  with  a  mixture  of 
true  girlish  perverseness  and  folly,  she  resolved  on 
getting  out  of  the  house  and  proceeding  directly  by 
the  stai^e  to  her  friends,  the  Clarkes ;  and  had  really 

R 


242  Lady  Stisan. 


got  as  far  as  the  length  of  two  streets  in  her  journey 
when  she  was  fortunately  missed,  pursued,  and  over- 
taken. Such  was  the  first  distinguished  exploit  of 
Miss  Frederica  Vernon  ;  and,  if  we  consider  that  it 
was  achieved  at  the  tender  age  of  sixteen,  we  shall 
have  room  for  the  most  flattering  prognostics  of  her 
future  renown.  I  am  excessively  provoked,  however, 
at  the  parade  of  propriety  which  prevented  Miss 
Summers  from  keeping  the  girl;  and  it  seems  so 
extraordinary  a  piece  of  nicety,  considering  my 
daughter's  family  connections, that  I  can  only  suppose 
the  lady  to  be  governed  by  the  fear  of  never  getting 
her  money.  Be  that  as  it  may,  however,  Frederica 
is  returned  on  my  hands ;  and,  having  nothing  else 
to  employ  her,  is  busy  in  pursuing  the  plan  of 
romance  begun  at  Langford.  She  is  actually  falling 
in  love  with  Reginald  De  Courcy !  To  disobey  her 
mother  by  refusing  an  unexceptionable  offer  is  not 
enough  ;  her  affections  must  also  be  given  without  her 
mother's  approbation.  I  never  saw  a  girl  of  her  age 
bid  fairer  to  be  the  sport  of  mankind.  Her  feelings 
are  tolerably  acute,  and  she  is  so  charmingly  artless 
in  their  display  as  to  afford  the  most  reasonable  hope 
of  her  being  ridiculous,  and  despised  by  every  man 
who  sees  her. 

Artlessness  will  never  do  in  love  matters ;  and 
that  girl  is  born  a  simpleton  who  has  it  either  by 
nature  or  affectation.  I  am  not  yet  certain  that  Regi- 
nald sees  what  she  is  about,  nor  is  it  of  much  conse- 
quence. She  is  now  an  object  of  indifference  to  him, 
and  she  would  be  one  of  contempt  were  he  to  under- 


Lady  Susan.  243 


?>tand  her  emotions.  Her  beauty  is  much  admired 
by  the  Vcrnons,  but  it  has  no  effect  on  him.  She  is 
in  high  favour  with  her  aunt  altogether,  oecause  she 
is  so  httle  hke  myself,  of  course.  She  is  exactly  the 
companion  for  Mrs.  Vernon,  who  dearly  loves  to  be 
first,  and  to  have  all  the  sense  and  all  the  wit  of  the 
conversation  to  herself:  Frederica  will  never  eclipse 
her.  When  she  first  came  I  was  at  some  pains  to 
prevent  her  seeing  much  of  her  aunt ;  but  I  have  re- 
laxed, as  I  believe  I  may  depend  on  her  observing 
the  rules  I  have  laid  down  for  their  discourse.  But 
do  not  imagine  that  with  all  this  lenity  I  have  for  a 
moment  given  up  my  plan  of  her  marriage.  No  ;  I  am 
unalterably  fixed  on  this  point,  though  I  have  not  yet 
quite  decided  on  the  manner  of  bringing  it  about.  I 
should  not  choose  to  have  the  business  brouc^ht  on 
here,  and  canvassed  by  the  wise  heads  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Vernon ;  and  I  cannot  just  now  afford  to  go  to 
town.     Miss  Frederica  must  therefore  wait  a  little. 

Yours  ever, 

S.  Vernon. 

XX. 

Mrs,  Vernon  to  Lady  De  Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

We  nave  a  very  unexpected  guest  with  us  at 
present,  my  dear  mother  :  he  arrived  yesterday.  I 
heard  a  carriage  at  the  door,  as  I  was  sitting  with  my 
children  while  they  dined ;  and  supposing  1  should  be 
wanted,  left  the  nursery  soon  afterwards,  and  was 
half-way  down  stairs,  when  Frederica,  as  pale  as  ashes. 


244  Lady  Susan, 


came  running  up,  and  rushed  by  me  into  her  own 
room.  I  instantly  followed,  and  asked  her  what  was 
the  matter.  *  Oh  ! '  said  she,  '  he  is  come — Sir  James 
is  come,  and  what  shall  I  do?'  This  was  no  expla- 
nation ;  I  begged  her  to  tell  me  ^\•hat  she  meant.  At 
that  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the 
door :  it  was  Reginald,  who  came,  by  Lady  Susan's 
direction,  to  call  Frederica  down.  *  It  is  Mr.  Do 
Courcy  r  said  she,  colouring  violently.  'Mamma  has 
sent  for  me;  I  must  go.'  We  all  three  went  down 
together ;  and  I  saw  my  brother  examining  the  terri- 
fied face  of  Frederica  with  surprise.  In  the  breakfast- 
room  we  found  Lady  Susan,  and  a  }'oung  man  of 
gentlemanlike  appearance,  whom  she  introduced  by 
the  name  of  Sir  James  Martin — the  very  person,  as 
you  may  remember,  whom  it  was  said  she  had  been 
at  pains  to  detach  from  Miss  Mainwaring;  but  the 
conquest,  it  seems,  was  not  designed  for  herself,  or  she 
has  since  transferred  it  to  her  daughter;  for  Sir  James 
is  now  desperately  in  love  with  Frederica,  and  with 
full  encouragement  from  mamma.  The  poor  girl, 
however,  I  am  sure,  dislikes  him  ;  and  though  his 
person  and  address  are  very  well,  he  appears,  both  to 
Mr.  Vernon  and  me,  a  very  weak  young  man.  Frede- 
rica looked  so  shy,  so  confused,  when  we  entered  the 
room,  that  I  felt  for  her  exceedingly.  Lady  Susan 
behaved  with  great  attention  to  her  visitor ;  and  yet 
I  thought  I  could  perceive  that  she  had  no  particular 
pleasure  in  seeing  him.  Sir  James  talked  a  great 
deal,  and  made  many  civil  excuses  to  me  for  the 
liberty  he  had  taken  in  coming  to  Churchhill — mixing 


Lady  Susan.  .  245 


more  frequent  lauL;htcr  with  his  discourse  than  the 
subject  required — said  many  things  over  and  over 
again,  and  told  Lady  Susan  three  times  that  he  had 
seen  Mrs.  Johnson  a  few  evenings  before.  He  now 
and  then  addressed  Frederica,  but  more  frequently 
her  mother.  The  poor  girl  sat  all  this  time  without 
oi)ening  lier  li[)s — her  c}'es  cast  down,  and  her  colour 
varying  every  instant ;  while  Reginald  observed  all 
that  passed  in.  perfect  silence.  At  length  Lady  Susan, 
weary,  I  belic\c,  of  her  situation,  proposed  walking  ; 
and  we  left  the  two  gentlemen  together,  to  put  on  our 
pelisses.  As  we  went  upstairs  Lady  Susan  begged 
permission  to  attenci  me  for  a  few  moments  in  my 
dressing-room,  as  she  was  anxious  to  speak  with  me 
in  private.  I  led  her  thither  accordingly,  and  as  soon 
as  the  door  was  closed,  she  said  :  *  I  was  never  more 
surprised  in  my  life  than  by  Sir  James's  arrival,  and 
the  suddennes.  of  it  requires  some  apology  to  you, 
my  dear  sister ;  though  to  vie,  as  a  mother,  it  is 
highly  flattering.  He  is  so  extremely  attached  to 
my  daughter  that  he  could  not  exist  longer  without 
seeing  her.  Sir  James  is  a  young  man  of  an  amiable 
disposition  and  excellent  character  ;  a  little  too  much 
of  the  rattle,  perhaps,  but  a  year  or  two  will  rectify 
tJiat :  and  he  is  in  other  respects  so  very  eligible  a 
match  for  Frederica,  that  I  have  always  observed  his 
attachment  with  the  greatest  pleasure  ;  and  am  per- 
suaded that  you  and  my  brother  will  give  the  alliance 
}'Our  hearty  approbation.  I  have  ne\er  before  men- 
tioned the  likelihood  of  its  taking  place  to  anyone, 
because  I  thought  that  whilst  Frederica  continued  at 


246  Lady  Susan. 


school  it  had  better  not  be  known  to  exist ;  but  now, 
as  I  am  convinced  that  Frederica  is  too  old  ever  to 
submit  to  school  confinement,  and  have,  therefore, 
begun  to  consider  her  union  with  Sir  James  as  not 
very  distant,  I  had  intended  within  a  few  days  to  ac- 
quaint yourself  and  Mr.  Vernon  with  the  whole  busi- 
ness. I  am  sure,  my  dear  sister,  you  will  excuse  my 
remaining  silent  so  long,  and  agree  with  me  that  such 
circumstances,  while  they  continue  from  any  cause  in 
suspense,  cannot  be  too  cautiously  concealed.  When 
you  have  the  happiness  of  bestowing  your  sweet  little 
Catherine,  some  years  hence,  on  a  man  who  in  con- 
nection and  character  is  alike  unexceptionable,  you 
will  know  what  I  feel  now  ;  though,  thank  Heaven, 
you  cannot  have  all  my  reasons  for  rejoicing  in  such 
an  event.  Catherine  will  be  amply  provided  for,  and 
not,  like  my  Frederica,  indebted  to  a  fortunate  esta- 
blishment for  the  comforts  of  life.'  She  concluded  by 
demanding  my  congratulations.  I  gave  them  some- 
what awkwardly,  I  believe  ;  for,  in  fact,  the  sudden 
disclosure  of  so  important  a  matter  took  from  me  the 
power  of  speaking  with  any  clearness.  She  thanked 
me,  however,  most  affectionately,  for  my  kind  concern 
in  the  welfare  of  herself  and  daughter ;  and  then  said  : 
'  I  am  not  apt  to  deal  in  professions,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Vernon,  and  I  never  had  the  convenient  talent  of 
affecting  sensations  foreign  to  my  heart;  and  therefore 
I  trust  you  will  believe  me  when  I  declare,  that  much 
as  I  had  heard  in  your  praise  before  I  knew  you,  I 
had  no  idea  that  I  should  ever  love  you  as  I  now  do  ; 
and   I  must   further  say  that  your  friendship  towards 


Lady  Susan.  .  247 


me  is  more  particularly  gratifyini^  because  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  some  attempts  were  made  to 
prejudice  you  against  me.  I  only  wish  that  they, 
whoever  they  are,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  such 
kind  intentions,  could  see  the  terms  on  which  we  now 
are  together,  and  understand  the  real  affection  we 
feel  for  each  other ;  but  I  will  not  detain  you  any 
longer.  God  bless  you,  for  your  goodness  to  me  and 
my  girl,  and  continue  to  you  all  your  present  happi- 
ness.' What  can  one  say  of  such  a  woman,  my  dear 
mother?  Such  earnestness,  such  solemnity  of  expres- 
sion !  and  yet  I  cannot  help  suspecting  the  truth  of 
everything  she  says.  As  for  Reginald,  I  believe  he 
does  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  matter.  When 
Sir  James  came,  he  appeared  all  astonishment  and 
perplexity ;  the  folly  of  the  young  man  and  the  con- 
fusion of  Frederica  entirely  engrossed  him ;  and 
though  a  little  private  discourse  with  Lady  Susan  has 
since  had  its  effect,  he  is  still  hurt,  I  am  sure,  at  her 
allowing  of  such  a  man's  attentions  to  her  daughter. 
Sir  James  invited  himself  with  great  composure  to 
remain  here  a  few  days — hoped  we  would  not  think 
it  odd,  was  aware  of  its  being  very  impertinent,  but 
he  took  the  liberty  of  a  relation  ;  and  concluded  by 
wishing,  with  a  laugh,  that  he  might  be  really  one 
very  soon.  Even  Lady  Susan  seemed  a  little  discon- 
certed by  this  forwardness;  in  her  heart  I  am  per- 
suaded she  sincerely  wished  him  gone.  But  something 
must  be  done  for  this  poor  girl,  if  her  feelings  are 
such  as  both  I  and  her  uncle  believe  them  to  be.  She 
must  not  be  sacrificed  to  policy  or  ambition,  and  she 


248  Lady  Susan. 


must  not  be  left  to  suffer  from  the  dread  of  it.  The 
girl  whose  heart  can  distinguish  Reginald  De  Courcy, 
deserves,  however  he  may  slight  her,  a  better  fate 
than  to  be  Sir  James  Martin's  wife.  As  soon  as  I  can 
get  her  alone,  I  will  discover  the  real  truth  ;  but  she 
seems  to  wish  to  avoid  me.  I  hope  this  does  not 
proceed  from  anything  wrong,  and  that  I  shall  not 
find  out  I  have  thought  too  well  of  her.  Her  beha- 
viour to  Sir  James  certainly  speaks  the  greatest  con- 
sciousness and  embarrassment,  but  I  see  nothing  in  it 
more  like  encouragement.    Adieu,  my  dear  mother. 

Yours,  &c. 

C.  Vernon. 


XXI. 

Miss  Vernon  to  Mr.  De  Cojtrey. 

Sir, — I  hope  you  will  excuse  this  liberty ;  I  am 
forced  upon  it  by  the  greatest  distress,  or  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  trouble  you.  I  am  very  miserable  about 
Sir  James  Martin,  and  have  no  other  way  in  the  world 
of  helping  myself  but  by  writing  to  you,  for  I  am 
forbidden  even  speaking  to  my  uncle  and  aunt  on  the 
subject ;  and  this  being  the  case,  I  am  afraid  my  ap- 
plying to  you  will  appear  no  better  than  equivocation, 
and  as  if  I  attended  to  the  letter  and  not  the  spirit  of 
mamma's  commands.  But  if  you  do  not  take  my 
part  and  persuade  her  to  break  it  off,  I  shall  be  half 
distracted,  for  I  cannot  bear  him.  No  human  being 
hwtyou  could  have  any  chance  of  prevailing  with  her. 


Lady  Susan.  249 


if  you  will,  therefore,  have  the  unspeakably  great 
kindness  of  taking  my  part  with  her,  and  persuading 
iier  to  send  Sir  James  away,  I  shall  be  more  obliged 
to  you  than  it  is  possible  for  me  to  express.  I  always 
disliked  him  from  the  Hrst :  it  is  not  a  sudden  fancy, 
I  assure  you,  sir ;  I  always  thought  him  silly  and 
impertinent  and  disagreeable,  and  now  he  is  grown 
worse  than  ever.  I  would  rather  work  for  my  bread 
tlian  marry  him.  I  do  not  know  how  to  apologise 
enough  for  this  letter  ;  I  know  it  is  taking  so  great  a 
liberty.  I  am  aware  how  dreadfully  angry  it  will  make 
nramma,  but  I  remember  the  risk. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

F.  S.  V. 

XXII. 

Lady  Susan  to  Mrs.  JoJuison. 

Churchhill. 

This  Is  insufferable  !  My  dearest  friend,  I  was  never 
so  enraged  before,  and  must  relieve  myself  by  writing 
to  you,  who  I  know  will  enter  into  all  my  feelings. 
Who  should  come  on  Tuesday  but  Sir  James  Martin ! 
Guess  my  astonishment,  and  vexation — for,  as  you 
well  know,  I  never  wished  him  to  be  seen  at  Church- 
hill.  What  a  pity  that  you  should  not  have  known 
his  intentions  !  Not  content  with  coming,  he  actually 
invited  himself  to  remain  here  a  few  days.  I  could 
liave  poisoned  him  1  I  made  the  best  of  it,  however, 
and  told  my  story  with  great  success  to  Mrs.  Vernon, 
who,   whatever  might   be    her    real    sentiments,  said 


250  Lady  Susan, 


nothing  in  opposition  to  mine.  I  made  a  point  also 
of  Fredcrica's  behaving  civilly  to  Sir  James,  and  gave 
her  to  understand  that  I  was  absolutely  determined 
on  her  marrying  him.  She  said  something  of  her 
misery,  but  that  was  all.  I  have  for  some  time  been 
more  particularly  resolved  on  the  match  from  seeing 
the  rapid  increase  of  her  affection  for  Reginald,  and 
from  not  feeling  secure  that  a  knowledge  of  such 
affection  might  not  in  the  end  awaken  a  return.  Con- 
temptible as  a  regard  founded  only  on  compassion 
must  make  them  both  in  my  eyes,  I  felt  by  no 
m^ans  assured  that  such  might  not  be  the  consequence. 
It  is  true  that  Reginald  had  not  in  any  degree  grown 
cool  towards  me  ;  but  yet  he  has  lately  mentioned 
Frederica  spontaneously  and  unnecessarily,  and  once 
said  something  in  praise  of  her  person.  He  was  all 
astonishment  at  the  appearance  of  my  visitor,  and  at 
first  observed  Sir  James  with  an  attention  which  I  was 
pleased  to  see  not  unmixed  with  jealousy  ;  but  un- 
luckily it  was  impossible  for  me  really  to  torment 
him,  as  Sir  James,  though  extremely  gallant  to  me, 
very  soon  made  the  whole  party  understand  that  his 
heart  was  devoted  to  my  daughter.  I  had  no  great 
difficulty  in  convincing  De  Courcy,  when  we  were 
alone,  that  I  was  perfectly  justified,  all  things  con- 
sidered, in  desiring  the  match  ;  and  the  whole  business 
seemed  most  comfortably  arranged.  They  could  none 
of  them  help  perceiving  that  Sir  James  was  no  Solomon; 
but  I  had  positively  forbidden  Frederica  complaining 
to  Charles  Vernon  or  his  wife,  and  they  had  therefore 
no  pretence  for  interference  ;  though  my  impertinent 


Lady  Susan.  .  251 

sister,  I  believe,  wanted  only  opportunity  for  doin<^ 
so.  Everything,  however,  was  going  on  calmly  and 
quietly ;  and,  though  I  counted  the  hours  of  Sir  James's 
stay,  my  mind  was  entirely  satisfied  with  the  posture 
ofaffiiH-s.  Guess,  then,  what  I  must  feel  at  the  sudden 
disturbance  of  all  my  schemes  ;  and  that,  too,  from  a 
quarter  where  I  had  least  reason  to  expect  it  Reginald 
came  this  morning  into  my  dressing-room  with  a  very 
unusual  solemnity  of  countenance,  and  after  some 
preface  informed  me  in  so  many  words  that  he  wished 
to  reason  with  me  on  the  impropriety  and  unkindness 
of  allowing  Sir  James  Martin  to  address  my  daughter 
contrary  to  her  inclinations.  I  was  all  amazement. 
When  I  found  that  he  was  not  to  be  laughed  out  of  his 
design,  I  calmly  begged  an  explanation,  and  desired 
to  know  by  what  he  was  impelled,  and  by  whom 
commissioned,  to  reprimand  me.  He  then  told  me, 
mixing  in  his  speech  a  few  insolent  compliments  and 
ill-timed  expressions  of  tenderness,  to  which  I  listened 
with  perfect  indifference,  that  my  daughter  had  ac- 
quainted him  with  some  circumstances  concerning 
herself.  Sir  James,  and  me  which  had  given  him  great 
uneasiness.  In  short,  I  found  that  she  had  in  the  first 
place  actually  written  to  him  to  request  his  interference, 
and  that,  on  receiving  her  letter,  he  had  conversed 
with  her  on  the  subject  of  it,  in  order  to  understand 
the  particulars,  and  to  assure  himself  of  her  real 
wishes.  I  have  not  a  doubt  but  that  the  girl  took 
this  opportunity  of  making  downright  love  to  him. 
I  am  convinced  of  it  by  the  manner  in  which  he  spoke 
of  her.     Much  good  may  such  love  do  him!     I  shall 


252  Lady  Susan, 


ever  despise  the  man  who  can  be  gratified  by  the 
passion  which  he  never  wished  to  inspire,  nor  sohcited 
the  avowal  of.  I  shall  always  detest  them  both.  He 
can  have  no  true  regard  for  me,  or  he  would  not  have 
listened  to  her;  and  she,  with  her  little  rebellious 
heart  and  indelicate  feelings,  to  throw  herself  into  the 
protection  of  a  young  man  with  whom  she  has  scarcely 
ever  exchanged  two  words  before  !  I  am  equally  con- 
founded at  her  impudence  and  his  credulity.  How 
dared  he  believe  what  she  told  him  in  my  disfavour! 
Ought  he  not  to  have  felt  assured  that  I  must  have 
unanswerable  motives  for  all  that  I  had  done  ?  Where 
was  his  reliance  on  my  sense  and  goodness  then  ? 
Where  the  resentment  which  true  love  would  have 
dictated  against  the  person  defaming  me — that  person, 
too,  a  chit,  a  child,  without  talent  or  education,  whom 
he  had  been  always  taught  to  despise  ?  I  was  calm 
for  some  time  ;  but  the  greatest  degree  of  forbearance 
may  be  overcome,  and  I  hope  I  w^as  afterwards  suffi- 
ciently keen.  He  endeavoured,  long  endeavoured,  to 
soften  my  resentment  ;  but  that  woman  is  a  fool 
indeed  who,  while  insulted  by  accusation,  can  be 
worked  on  by  compliments.  At  length  he  left  me, 
as  deeply  provoked  as  myself;  and  he  showed  his 
anger  more.  I  was  quite  cool,  but  he  gave  way  to 
the  most  violent  indignation  ;  I  may  therefore  expect 
it  will  the  sooner  subside,  and  perhaps  his  may 
be  vanished  for  ever,  while  mine  will  be  found  still 
fresh  and  implacable.  He  is  now  shut  up  in  his 
apartment,  whither  I  heard  him  go  on  leaving  mine. 
How  unpleasant,  one  would  think,  must  be  his  reflec- 


Lady  Susan.  253 


tions !  but  sonic  people's  feelings  are  incomprehen- 
sible. I  have  not  yet  tranquillised  myself  enough  to 
sec  I'rcdcrica.  ^7/^'  shall  not  soon  forget  the  occur- 
rences of  this  day;  she  shall  find  that  she  has  poured 
forth  her  tender  tale  of  love  in  vain,  and  exposed 
herself  for  ever  to  the  contempt  of  the  whole  world, 
and  the  severest  resentment  of  her  injured  mother. 

Your  affectionate 

S.  Verxox. 

XXIII. 

Mrs.  Vernon  to  Lady  Dc  Coiircy. 

Clnirclihill, 

Let  me  congratulate  you,  my  dearest  mother  !    The 
affair  which  has  given  us  so  much  anxiety  is  drawing 
to  a  happy  conclusion.     Our  prospect  is  most  delight- 
ful, and  since  matters  have  now  taken  so  favourable  a 
turn,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I  ever  imparted  my  appre- 
hensions to  you  ;  for  the  pleasure  of  learning  that  the 
danger  is  over  is  perhaps  dearly  purchased  by  all  that 
you  have  previously  suffered.     I  am  so  much  agitated 
by  delight  that  I   can  scarcely  hold   a  pen ;  but  am 
determined  to  send   you  a  few  short  lines  by  James, 
that  you  may  have  some  explanation  of  what  must  so 
gieatly  astonish  you,  as  that  Reginald  should  be  re- 
turning to   Parklands.     I  was  sitting  about   half-an- 
hour   ago    with   Sir  James   in   the  breakfast  parlour, 
when  my  brother  called  me  out  of  the  room.     I  in- 
stantly saw  that  something  was  the  matter ;  his  com- 
plexion was  raised,  and  he  spoke  with  great  emotion  ; 
you  know  his   eager  manner,  my  dear  mother,  when 


254  Lady  Susan. 


his  mind  is  interested.  'Catherine/  said  he,  '  I  am 
going  home  to-day ;  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you,  but  I 
must  go :  it  is  a  great  while  since  I  have  seen  my 
father  and  mother.  I  am  going  to  send  James  forward 
with  my  hunters  immediately  ;  if  you  have  any  letter, 
therefore,  he  can  take  it.  I  shall  not  be  at  home 
myself  till  Wednesday  or  Thursday,  as  I  shall  go 
through  London,  where  I  have  business ;  but  before 
I  leave  you,'  he  continued,  speaking  in  a  lower  tone, 
and  with  still  greater  energy,  *  I  must  warn  you  of 
one  thing — do  not  let  Frederica  Vernon  be  made  un- 
happy by  that  Martin.  He  wants  to  marry  her  ;  her 
mother  promotes  the  match,  but  she  cannot  endure 
the  idea  of  it.  Be  assured  that  I  speak  from  the 
fullest  conviction  of  the  truth  of  what  I  say ;  I  know 
that  Frederica  is  made  wretched  by  Sir  James's  con- 
tinuing here.  She  is  a  sweet  girl,  and  deserves  a  better 
fate.  Send  him  away  immediately  ;  he  is  only  a  fool : 
but  what  her  mother  can  mean.  Heaven  only  knows! 
Good  bye,'  he  added,  shaking  my  hand  with  earnest- 
ness ;  *  I  do  not  know  when  you  will  see  me  again ; 
but  remember  what  I  tell  you  of  Frederica  ;  you  mnst 
make  it  your  business  to  see  justice  done  her.  She  is 
an  amiable  girl,  and  has  a  very  superior  mind  to  what 
we  have  given  her  credit  for.'  He  then  left  me,  and 
ran  upstairs.  I  would  not  try  to  stop  him,  for  I  know 
what  his  feelings  must  be.  The  nature  of  mine,  as  I 
listened  to  him,  I  need  not  attempt  to  describe  ;  for  a 
minute  or  two  I  remained  in  the  same  spot,  over- 
powered by  wonder  of  a  most  agreeable  sort  indeed  ; 
yet  it  required  some  consideration  to  be  tranquilly 


Lady  Susan.  255 


happy.  In  about  ten  minutes  after  my  return  to  the 
parlour  Lady  Susan  entered  the  room.  I  concluded, 
of  course,  that  she  and  Reginald  had  been  quarrelling ; 
and  looked  with  anxious  curiosity  for  a  confirmation  of 
my  belief  in  her  face.  Mistress  of  deceit,  however,  she 
appeared  perfectly  unconcerned,  and  after  chatting  on 
indifferent  subjects  for  a  short  time,  said  to  me,  '  I  find 
from  W'ilson  that  we  are  going  to  lose  Mr.  De  Courcy 
— is  it  true  that  he  leaves  Churchhill  this  mornin"-  ? ' 
I  replied  that  it  was.  '  He  told  us  nothing  of  all  this 
last  night,'  said  she,  laughing,  'or  even  this  morning 
at  breakfast ;  but  perhaps  he  did  not  know  it  himself. 
Young  men  are  often  hasty  in  their  resolutions,  and 
not  more  sudden  in  forming  than  unsteady  in  keeping 
them.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  were  to  change 
his  mind  at  last,  and  not  go.'  She  soon  afterwards 
left  the  room.  I  trust,  however,  my  dear  mother,  that 
we  have  no  reason  to  fear  an  alteration  of  his  present 
plan ;  things  have  gone  too  far.  They  must  have 
quarrelled,  and  about  Frederica,  too.  Her  calmness 
astonishes  me.  What  delight  will  be  yours  in  seeirig 
him  again  ;  in  seeing  him  still  worthy  your  esteem, 
still  capable  of  forming  your  happiness !  When  I 
next  write  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  that  Sir  James 
is  gone.  Lady  Susan  vanquished,  and  Frederica  at 
peace.  We  have  much  to  do,  but  it  shall  be  done. 
I  am  all  impatience  to  hear  how  this  astonishing 
change  was  effected.  I  finish  as  I  began,  with  the 
warmest  congratulations. 

Yours  ever,  &c., 

Catii.  Vernon. 


256  Lady  Susan, 


XXIV. 

From  the  same  to  the  same. 

Churchhili, 

Little  did  I  imagine,  my  dear  mother,  when  I  sent 
off  my  last  letter,  that  the  delightful  perturbation  of 
spirits  I  was  then  in  would  undergo  so  speedy,  so 
melancholy  a  reverse.  I  never  can  sufficiently  regret 
that  I  wrote  to  you  at  all.  Yet  who  could  have 
foreseen  what  has  happened  1  My  dear  mother,  every 
hope  which  made  me  so  happy  only  two  hours  ago 
has  vanished.  The  quarrel  between  Lady  Susan  and 
Reginald  is  made  up,  and  we  are  all  as  we  were  before. 
One  point  only  is  gained.  Sir  James  Martin  is  dis- 
missed. What  are  we  now  to  look  forward  to  1  I 
am  indeed  disappointed  ;  Reginald  was  all  but  gone, 
his  horse  was  ordered  and  all  but  brought  to  the  door  ; 
who  would  not  have  felt  safe  t  For  half  an  hour  I 
was  in  momentary  expectation  of  his  departure. 
After  I  had  sent  off  my  letter  to  you,  I  went  to  Mr. 
Vernon,  and  sat  with  him  in  his  room  talking  over 
the  whole  matter,  and  then  determined  to  look  for 
Frederica,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  breakfast.  I 
met  her  on  the  stairs,  and  saw  that  she  was  cr}'ing. 
*  My  dear  aunt,'  said  she,  *  he  is  going — Mr.  De  Courcy 
is  going,  and  it  is  all  my  fault.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
be  very  angry  with  me,  but  indeed  I  had  no  idea  it 
would  end  so.'  '  My  love,'  I  replied,  *  do  not  think  it 
necessary  to  apologise  to  me  on  that  account.  I  shall 
feel  myself  under  an  obligation  to  anyone  who  is  the 
means  of  sending  my  brother  home,  because/  recol- 


Lady  Susan.  ,  257 


lectin^  myself,  *  I  know  my  father  wants  very  much 
to  sec  liim.  But  what  is  it  )"ou  have  done  to  occasion 
all  this  ? '  She  blushed  deeply  as  she  answered  :  '  I 
was  so  unhappy  about  Sir  James  that  I  could  not 
help — I  have  done  something  very  wrong,  I  know ; 
but  you  have  not  an  idea  of  the  misery  I  have  been 
in  :  and  mamma  had  ordered  me  never  to  speak  to  you 
or  my  uncle  about  it,  and —  '  *  You  therefore  spoke  to 
my  brother  to  engage  his  interference/  said  I,  to  save 
her  the  explanation.  '  No,  but  I  wrote  to  him — I 
did  indeed,  I  got  up  this  morning  before  it  was  light, 
and  was  two  hours  about  it  ;  and  v.hcn  my  letter 
was  done  I  thought  I  never  should  ha\e  courage  to 
give  it.  After  breakfast,  however,  as  I  was  going  to  my 
room,  I  met  him  in  the  passage,  and  then,  as  I  knew 
that  everything  must  depend  on  that  moment,  I  forced 
myself  to  give  it.  Pie  was  so  good  as  to  take  it  imme- 
diately. I  dared  not  look  at  him,  and  ran  away  directly. 
I  was  in  such  a  fright  I  could  hardly  breathe.  My  dear 
aunt,  you  do  not  know  how  miserable  I  have  been.' 
*  Frederica/  said  I,  *  you  ought  to  have  told  me  all  your 
distresses.  You  would  have  found  in  me  a  friend  alwa}'s 
ready  to  assist  you.  Do  you  think  that  your  uncle 
or  I  should  not  have  espoused  your  cause  as  warmly 
as  my  brother } '  *  Indeed,  I  did  not  doubt  your  kind- 
ness/ said  she,  colouring  again,  '  but  I  thought  I\Ir. 
De  Courcy  could  do  anything  with  my  mother  ;  but 
I  was  mistaken  :  they  have  had  a  dreadful  quarrel 
about  it,  and  he  is  going  away.  IMamma  will  never 
forgive  me,  and  I  shall  be  worse  off  than  ever.'  '  No, 
you  shall  not/  I  replied  ;  '  in  such  a  point  as  this  your 

S 


258  Lady  Susan, 


mother's  prohibition  ought  not  to  have  prevented  your 
speaking  to  me  on  the  subject.  She  has  no  right  to 
make  you  unhappy,  and  she  shall  not  do  it.  V^our 
applying,  however,  to  Reginald  can  be  productive  only 
of  good  to  all  parties.  I  believe  it  is  best  as  it  is. 
Depend  upon  it  that  you  shall  not  be  made  unhappy 
any  longer.'  At  that  moment  how  great  was  my 
astonishment  at  seeing  Reginald  come  out  of  Lady 
Susan's  dressing-room.  My  heart  misgave  me  in- 
stantly. His  confusion  at  seeing  me  was  very  evident. 
Frederica  immediately  disappeared.  'Are  you  going.?' 
I  said  ;  *  you  will  find  Mr.  Vernon  in  his  own  room.' 
*  No,  Catherine,'  he  replied,  *  I  am  not  going.  Will 
you  let  me  speak  to  you  a  moment .''  *  We  went  into 
my  room.  *  I  find,'  he  continued,  his  confusion  in- 
creasing as  he  spoke,  '  that  I  have  been  acting  with 
my  usual  foolish  impetuosity.  I  have  entirely  mis- 
understood Lady  Susan,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  the  house  under  a  false  impression  of  her 
conduct.  There  has  been  some  very  great  mistake  ; 
we  have  been  all  mistaken,  I  fancy.  Frederica  does 
not  know  her  mother.  Lady  Susan  means  nothing 
but  her  good,  but  she  will  not  make  a  friend  of  her. 
Lady  Susan  does  not  always  know,  therefore,  what 
will  make  her  daughter  happy.  Besides,  I  could 
have  no  right  to  interfere.  Miss  Vernon  was  mis- 
taken in  applying  to  me.  In  short,  Catherine,  every- 
thing has  gone  wrong,  but  it  is  now  all  happily  set- 
tled. Lady  Susan,  I  believe,  wishes  to  speak  to  you 
about  it,  if  you  are  at  leisure.'  *  Certainly,*  I  replied, 
deeply  sighing  at  the  recital  of  so  lame  a  story.     I 


Lady  Susan.  •  259 


made   no  comments,  however,  for  words  would  have 
been  vain. 

Reginald  was  glad  to  get  away,  and  I  went  to 
Lady  Susan,  curious,  indeed,  to  hear  her  account  of 
it.  *  Did  I  not  tell  you,'  said  she  with  a  smile,  *  that 
your  brother  would  not  leave  us  after  all  ?'  '  You  did, 
indeed,'  replied  I  very  gravely  ;  'but  I  flattered  myself 
you  would  be  mistaken.'  '  I  should  not  have  hazarded 
such  an  opinion,'  returned  she,  '  if  it  had  not  at  that 
moment  occurred  to  me  that  his  resolution  of  going 
might  be  occasioned  by  a  conversation  in  which  we 
had  been  this  morning  engaged,  and  which  had  ended 
very  much  to  his  dissatisfaction,  from  our  not  rightly 
understanding  each  other's  meaning.  This  idea  struck 
me  at  the  moment,  and  I  instantly  determined  that 
an  accidental  dispute,  in  which  I  might  probably  be 
as  much  to  blame  as  himself,  should  not  deprive  you 
of  your  brother.  If  you  remember,  I  left  the  room 
almost  immediately.  I  was  resolved  to  lose  no  time 
in  clearing  up  those  mistakes  as  far  as  I  could.  The 
case  was  this — Frederica  had  set  herself  violently 
against  marrying  Sir  James.'  'And  can  your  lady- 
ship wonder  that  she  should.^'  cried  I  with  some 
warmth  ;  *  Frederica  has  an  excellent  understanding, 
and  Sir  James  has  none.'  '  I  am  at  least  very  far 
from  regretting  it,  my  dear  sister,'  said  she  ;  '  on  the 
contrary,  I  am  grateful  for  so  favourable  a  sign  of  my 
daughter's  sense.  Sir  James  is  certainly  below  par 
(his  boyish  manners  make  him  appear  worse) ;  and 
had  Frederica  possessed  the  penetration  and  the 
abilities  which  I  could  have  wished  in  my  daughter, 


26o  La(^y  StisaH. 


or  had  I  even  known  her  to  possess  as  much  as  she 
does,  I  should  not  have  been  anxious  for  the  match.' 
*  It  is  odd  that  you  should  alone  be  ignorant  of  your 
daughter's  sense !'  *  Frederica  never  does  justice  to 
herself;  her  manners  are  shy  and  childish,  and  besides 
she  is  afraid  of  me.  During  her  poor  father's  life  she 
was  a  spoilt  child ;  the  severity  which  it  has  since 
been  necessary  for  me  to  show  has  alienated  her  affec- 
tion ;  neither  has  she  any  of  that  brilliancy  of  intellect, 
that  genius  or  vigour  of  mind  which  will  force  itself 
fonvard.'  '  Say  rather  that  she  has  been  unfortunate 
in  her  education  !'  *  Heaven  knows,  my  dearest  Mrs. 
Vernon,  how  fully  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  I  would 
wish  to  forget  every  circumstance  that  might  throw 
blame  on  the  memory  of  one  whose  name  is  sacred 
with  me.'  Here  she  pretended  to  cry ;  I  was  out  of 
patience  with  her.  *  But  what,'  said  I,  *  was  your 
ladyship  going  to  tell  me  about  your  disagreement 
with  my  brother }'  *  It  originated  in  an  action  of  my 
daughter's,  which  equally  marks  her  want  of  judgment 
and  the  unfortunate  dread  of  me  I  have  been  men- 
tioning— she  wrote  to  Mr.  De  Courcy.'  '  I  know  she 
did  ;  you  had  forbidden  her  speaking  to  Mr.  Vernon 
or  to  me  on  the  cause  of  her  distress  ;  what  could  she 
do,  therefore,  but  apply  to  my  brother } '  *  Good 
God!'  she  exclaimed,  *what  an  opinion  you  must 
have  of  me !  Can  you  possibly  suppose  that  I  was 
aware  of  her  unhappiness }  that  it  was  my  object  to 
make  my  own  child  miserable,  and  that  I  had  for- 
bidden her  speaking  to  you  on  the  subject  from  a  fear 
of  your  interrupting  the  diabolical  scheme }    Do  you 


Lady  Susan.  261 


think  nie  destitute  of  every  honest,  every  natural 
feehng  ?  Am  I  capable  of  consigning  /icr  to  ever- 
lasting misery  whose  welfare  it  is  my  first  earthly 
duty  to  promote  ?  The  idea  is  horrible  ! '  '  What,  tlien, 
was  your  intention  when  you  insisted  on  her  silence  ?* 
'  Of  what  use,  my  dear  sister,  could  be  any  application 
to  you,  however  the  affair  might  stand  ?  Why  should 
I  subject  you  to  entreaties  which  I  refused  to  attend 
to  myself?  Neither  for  your  sake  nor  for  hers,  nor 
for  my  own,  could  such  a  thing  be  desirable.  When 
my  own  resolution  was  taken  I  could  not  wish  for  the 
interference,  however  friendly,  of  another  person.  I 
was  mistaken,  it  is  true,  but  I  believed  myself  right.' 
'  But  what  was  this  mistake  to  which  your  ladyship 
so  often  alludes .''  from  whence  arose  so  astonishing  a 
misconception  of  your  daughter's  feelings }  Did  you 
not  know  that  she  disliked  Sir  James .?'  'I  knew  that 
he  was  not  absolutely  the  man  she  would  have 
chosen,  but  I  was  persuaded  that  her  objections  to 
him  did  not  arise  from  any  perception  of  his  deficiency. 
You  must  not  question  me,  however,  my  dear  sister, 
too  minutely  on  this  point,'  continued  she,  taking  me 
affectionately  by  the  hand  ;  'I  honestly  own  that  there 
is  something  to  conceal.  Frcderica  makes  me  very 
unhappy  !  Her  applying  to  I\Ir.  De  Courcy  hurt  me 
particularly.'  *  What  is  it  you  mean  to  infer,'  said 
I,  '  by  this  appearance  of  mystery  ?  If  you  think 
your  daughter  at  all  attached  to  Reginald,  her  ob- 
jecting to  Sir  James  could  not  less  deserve  to  be 
attended  to  than  if  the  cause  of  her  objecting  had 
b<?en  a  consciousness   of  his  folly ;  and  why  should 


262  Lady  Susan. 


your  ladyship,  at  any  rate,  quarrel  with  my  brother 
for  an  interference  which,  you  must  know,  it  is  not  in 
his  nature  to  refuse  when  urged  in  such  a  manner?' 

*  His  disposition,  you  know,  is  warm,  and  he  came 
to  expostulate  with  me  ;  his  compassion  all  alive  for 
this  ill-used  girl,  this  heroine  in  distress !  We  mis- 
understood each  other :  he  believed  me  more  to 
blame  than  I  really  was ;  I  considered  his  inter- 
ference less  excusable  than  I  now  find  it.  I  have  a 
real  regard  for  him,  and  was  beyond  expression  mor- 
tified to  find  it,  as  I  thought,  so  ill  bestowed.  We 
were  both  warm,  and  of  course  both  to  blame.  His 
resolution  of  leaving  Churchhill  is  consistent  with  his 
general  eagerness.  When  I  understood  his  intention, 
however,  and  at  the  same  time  began  to  think  that 
we  had  been  perhaps  equally  mistaken  in  each  other's 
meaning,  I  resolved  to  have  an  explanation  before 
it  was  too  late.  For  any  member  of  your  family  I 
must  always  feel  a  degree  of  affection,  and  I  own  it 
would  have  sensibly  hurt  me  if  my  acquaintance  with 
Mr.  De  Courcy  had  ended  so  gloomily.  I  have  now 
only  to  say  further,  that  as  I  am  convinced  of 
Frederica's  having  a  reasonable  dislike  to  Sir  James, 
I  shall  instantly  inform  him  that  he  must  give  up 
all  hope  of  her.  I  reproach  myself  for  having  even, 
though  innocently,  made  her  unhappy  on  that  score. 
She  shall  have  all  the  retribution  in  my  power  to 
make  ;  if  she  value  her  own  happiness  as  much  as  I 
do,  if  she  judge  wisely,  and  command  herself  as  she 
ought,  she  may  now  be  easy.  Excuse  me,  my  dearest 
sister,  for  thus  trespassing  on  your  time,  but  I  owe  it 


Lady  Stisan,  263 


to  my  own  character;  and  after  this  explanation  I 
trust  I  am  in  no  danger  of  sinking  in  your  opinion.' 
I  could  have  said,  *  Not  much,  indeed  ! '  but  I  left  her 
almost  in  silence.  It  was  the  greatest  stretch  of  for- 
bearance I  could  practise.  I  could  not  have  stopped 
myself  had  I  begun.  Her  assurance  !  her  deceit !  but 
I  will  not  allow  myself  to  dwell  on  them  ;  they  will 
strike  you  sufficiently.  My  heart  sickens  within  me. 
As  soon  as  I  was  tolerably  composed  I  returned  to 
the  parlour.  Sir  James's  carriage  was  at  the  door, 
and  he,  merry  as  usual,  soon  afterwards  took  his 
leave.  How  easily  does  her  ladyship  encourage  or 
dismiss  a  lover!  In  spite  of  this  release,  Frederica 
still  looks  unhappy :  still  fearful,  perhaps,  of  her 
mother's  anger ;  and  though  dreading  my  brother's 
departure,  jealous,  it  may  be,  of  his  staying.  I  see 
how  closely  she  observes  him  and  Lady  Susan,  poor 
girl !  I  have  now  no  hope  for  her.  There  is  not  a 
chance  of  her  affection  being  returned.  He  thinks 
very  differently  of  her  from  what  he  used  to  do  ;  he 
does  her  some  justice,  but  his  reconciliation  with  her 
mother  precludes  every  dearer  hope.  Prepare,  my 
dear  mother,  for  the  worst !  The  probability  of  their 
marrying  is  surely  heightened  !  He  is  more  securely 
hers  than  ever.  When  that  wretched  event  takes 
place,  Frederica  must  belong  wholly  to  us.  I  am 
thankful  that  my  last  letter  will  precede  this  by  so 
little,  as  every  moment  that  you  can  be  saved  from 
feeling  a  joy  which  leads  only  to  disappointment  is 
of  consequence. 

Yours  ever,  &c. 

Catherine  Vernon, 


264  Lady  Susan. 


XXV. 
Lady  Susan  to  ]\Irs.  Jo  Jin  son. 

Cluirchhill. 

I  call  on  you,  dear  Alicia,  for  congratulations  :  I 
am  my  ownself,  gay  and  triumphant  !  When  I  wrote 
to  you  the  other  day  I  was,  in  truth,  in  high  irritation, 
and  with  ample  cause.  Nay,  I  know  not  whether  I 
ought  to  be  quite  tranquil  now,  for  I  have  had  more 
trouble  in  restoring  peace  than  I  ever  intended  to 
submit  to  —  a  spirit,  too,  resulting  from  a  fancied 
sense  of  superior  integrity,  which  is  peculiarly  in- 
solent !  I  shall  not  easily  forgive  him,  I  assure  you. 
He  was  actually  on  the  point  of  leaving  Churchhill  ! 
I  had  scarcely  concluded  my  last,  when  Wilson 
brought  me  word  of  it.  I  found,  therefore,  that  some- 
thing must  be  done  ;  for  I  did  not  choose  to  leave 
my  character  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  whose  passions 
are  so  violent  and  so  revengeful.  It  would  have 
been  trifling  with  my  reputation  to  allow  of  his  de- 
parting with  such  an  impression  in  my  disfavour  ;  in 
this  light,  condescension  was  necessary.  I  sent  Wilson 
to  say  that  I  desired  to  speak  with  him  before  he 
went;  he  came  immediately.  The  angry  emotions 
which  had  marked  every  feature  when  we  last  parted 
were  partially  subdued.  lie  seemed  astonished  at 
the  summons,  and  looked  as  if  half  wishing  and  half 
fearing  to  be  softened  by  what  I  might  say.  If  my 
countenance  expressed  what  I  aimed  at,  it  was  com- 
posed and  dignified  ;  and  yet,  with  a  degree  of  pen- 
siveness  which    might    convince  him  that  I  was  not 


Lady  Susan.  265 


quite  happy.  *  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  the  liberty 
I  have  taken  in  sending  for  }'ou,'  said  I  ;  *  but  as  I 
have  just  learnt  your  intention  of  leaving  this  place 
to-day,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  entreat  that  you  will  not 
on  my  account  shorten  your  visit  here  even  an  hour. 
I  am  perfectly  aware  that  after  what  has  passed 
between  us  it  would  ill  suit  the  feelings  of  either  to 
remain  longer  in  the  same  house  :  so  very  great,  so 
total  a  change  from  the  intimacy  of  friendship  must 
render  any  future  intercourse  the  severest  punish- 
ment; and  }'Our  resolution  of  quitting  Churchhill  is 
undoubtedly  in  unison  with  our  situation,  and  with 
those  lively  feelings  which  I  know  you  to  possess. 
But,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  not  for  me  to  suffer  such  a 
sacrifice  as  it  must  be  to  leave  relations  to  whom  you 
are  so  much  attached,  and  are  so  dear.  ]\Iy  remaining 
here  cannot  give  that  pleasure  to  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Vernon 
which  your  society  must  ;  and  my  visit  has  already 
perhaps  been  too  long.  My  removal,  therefore,  which 
must,  at  any  rate,  take  place  soon,  may,  with  perfect 
convenience,  be  hastened  ;  and  I  make  it  my  particular 
request  that  I  may  not  in  any  way  be  instrumental 
in  separating  a  family  so  affectionately  attached  to 
each  other.  Where  I  go  is  of  no  consequence  to  nn\'- 
one  ;  of  very  little  to  myself;  but  you  are  of  im- 
portance to  all  your  connections.'  Here  I  concluded, 
and  I  hope  you  will  be  satisfied  with  my  speech.  Its 
effect  on  Reginald  justifies  some  portion  of  vanity, 
for  it  was  no  less  favourable  than  instantaneous.  Oh, 
how  delightful  it  was  to  watch  the  variations  of  his 
countenance  while  I  spoke  !  to  see  the  struggle  be- 


266  Lady  Susan. 


tween  returning  tenderness  and  the  remains  of  dis- 
pleasure. There  is  something  agreeable  in  feelings 
so  easily  worked  on  ;  not  that  I  envy  him  their  pos- 
session, nor  would,  for  the  world,  have  such  myself ; 
but  they  are  very  convenient  when  one  wishes  to 
influence  the  passions  of  another.  And  yet  this 
Reginald,  whom  a  very  few  words  from  me  softened 
at  once  into  the  utmost  submission,  and  rendered 
more  tractable,  more  attached,  more  devoted  than 
ever,  would  have  left  me  in  the  first  angry  swelling  of 
his  proud  heart  without  deigning  to  seek  an  explana- 
tion. Humbled  as  he  now  is,  I  cannot  forgive  him 
such  an  instance  of  pride,  and  am  doubtful  whether  I 
ought  not  to  punish  him  by  dismissing  him  at  once 
after  this  reconciliation,  or  by  marrying  and  teazing 
him  for  ever.  But  these  measures  are  each  too  violent 
to  be  adopted  without  some  deliberation  ;  at  present 
my  thoughts  are  fluctuating  between  various  schemes. 
I  have  many  things  to  compass  :  I  must  punish  Fre- 
derica,  and  pretty  severely  too,  for  her  application  to 
Reginald ;  I  must  punish  him  for  receiving  it  so 
favourably,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  conduct.  I  must 
torment  my  sister-in-law  for  the  insolent  triumph  of 
her  look  and  manner  since  Sir  James  has  been  dis- 
missed ;  for,  in  reconciling  Reginald  to  me,  I  was  not 
able  to  save  that  ill-fated  young  man;  and  I  must 
make  myself  amends  for  the  humiliation  to  which  I 
have  stooped  within  these  few  days.  To  effect  all 
this  I  have  various  plans.  I  have  also  an  idea  of 
being  soon  in  town  ;  and  whatever  may  be  my  deter- 
mination   as   to   the  rest,  I   shall  probably  put   t/iai 


Lady  Susan.  267 

project  in  execution  ;  for  London  will  be  always  the 
fairest  field  of  action,  however  my  views  may  be 
directed  ;  and  at  any  rate  I  shall  there  be  rewarded 
by  your  society,  and  a  little  dissipation,  for  a  ten 
weeks'  penance  at  Churchhill.  I  believe  I  owe  it  to 
my  character  to  complete  the  match  between  my 
daughter  and  Sir  James  after  having  so  long  in- 
tended it.  Let  me  know  your  opinion  on  this  point. 
Flexibility  of  mind,  a  disposition  easily  biassed  by 
others,  is  an  attribute  which  you  know  I  am  not  very 
desirous  of  obtaining  ;  nor  has  Frederica  any  claim 
to  the  indulgence  of  her  notions  at  the  expense  of  her 
mother's  inclinations.  Her  idle  love  for  Reginald, 
too !  It  is  surely  my  duty  to  discourage  such  ro- 
mantic nonsense.  All  things  considered,  therefore,  it 
seems  incumbent  on  me  to  take  her  to  town  and 
marry  her  immediately  to  Sir  James.  When  my 
own  will  is  effected  contrary  to  his,  I  shall  have  some 
credit  in  being  on  good  terms  with  Reginald,  which 
at  present,  in  fact,  I  have  not ;  for  though  he  is  still  in 
my  power,  I  have  given  up  the  very  article  by  which 
our  quarrel  was  produced,  and  at  best  the  honour  of 
victory  is  doubtful.  Send  me  your  opinion  on  all 
these  matters,  my  dear  Alicia,  and  let  me  know 
whether  you  can  get  lodgings  to  suit  me  within  a 
short  distance  of  you. 

Your  most  attached 

S.  Vernon. 


268  Lady  Susan, 


XXVI. 

Mrs.  Johnson  to  Lady  Susan. 

Edward  Street. 

I  am  gratified  by  your  reference,  and  this  is  my 
advice :  that  you  come  to  town  yourself,  without  loss 
of  time,  but  that  you  leave  Frederica  behind.  It 
would  surely  be  much  more  to  the  purpose  to  get 
yourself  well  established  by  marrying  Mr.  De  Courcy, 
than  to  irritate  him  and  the  rest  of  his  family  by 
making  her  marry  Sir  James.  You  should  think  more 
of  yourself  and  less  of  your  daughter.  She  is  not  of 
a  disposition  to  do  you  credit  in  the  world,  and  seems 
precisely  in  her  proper  place  at  Churchhill,  with  the 
Vernons.  But  you  arc  fitted  for  society,  and  it  is 
shameful  to  have  you  exiled  from  it.  Leave  Frederica, 
therefore,  to  punish  herself  for  the  plague  she  has 
given  you,  by  indulging  that  romantic  tender-hearted- 
ness which  will  always  ensure  her  misery  enough,  and 
come  to  London  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  have  another 
reason  for  urging  this  :  Mainwaring  came  to  town  last 
week,  and  has  contrived,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Johnson,  to 
make  opportunities  of  seeing  me.  He  is  absolutely 
miserable  about  you,  and  jealous  to  such  a  degree  of 
De  Courcy  that  it  would  be  highly  unadvisable  for 
them  to  meet  at  present.  And  yet,  if  you  do  not 
allow  him  to  see  you  here,  I  cannot  answer  for  his 
not  committing  some  great  imprudence — such  as  going 
to  Churchhill,  for  instance,  which  would  be  dreadful ! 
Besides,  if  you  take  my  advice,  and  resolve  to  marry 


Lady  Susan.  269 


De  Courcy,  it  will  be  indispensably  neccssaiy  to  }'oli 
to  get  Mainwaring  out  of  the  way  ;  and  you  only  can 
ha\'e  influence  enough  to  send  him  back  to  his  wife. 
I  have  still  another  motive  for  your  coming  :  Mr.  John- 
son leaves  London  next  Tuesda\' ;  he  is  going  for  liis 
health  to  Bath,  where,  if  the  waters  are  favourable 
to  his  constitution  and  my  wishes,  he  will  be  laid  up 
with  the  gout  many  weeks.  During  his  absence  we 
shall  be  able  to  chuse  our  own  society,  and  to  ha\e 
true  enjoyment.  I  would  ask  you  to  Edward  Street, 
but  that  once  he  forced  from  me  a  kind  of  promise  never 
to  invite  you  to  my  house  ;  nothing  but  my  being  in 
the  utmost  distress  for  money  should  have  extorted  it 
from  me.  I  can  get  you,  however,  a  nice  drawing-room 
apartment  in  Upper  Seymour  Street,  and  we  may  be 
always  together  there  or  here ;  for  I  consider  my  promise 
to  Mr.  Johnson  as  comprehending  only  (at  least  in  his 
absence)  your  not  sleeping  in  the  house.  Poor  Main- 
waring  gives  me  such  histories  of  his  wife's  jealousy. 
Siliy  woman  to  expect  constancy  from  so  charming  a 
man !  but  she  always  was  silly— intolerably  so  in  marry- 
ing him  at  all,  she  the  heiress  of  a  large  fortune  and 
he  without  a  shilling  :  one  title,  I  know,  she  might  have 
had,  besides  baronets.  Her  folly  in  forming  the  con- 
nection was  so  great  that,  though  Mr.  Johnson  was  hcT 
guardian,  and  I  do  not  in  general  share  Ins  feelings,  I 
never  can  forgive  her. 

Adieu.     Yours  ever, 

Alicia. 


^70  Lady  Susan, 


XXVII. 

Mrs.  Vernon  to  Lady  De  Conrcy. 

Churchhill. 

This  letter,  my  dear  mother,  will  be  brought  you  by 
Reginald.  His  long  visit  is  about  to  be  concluded  at 
last,  but  I  fear  the  separation  takes  place  too  late  to 
do  us  any  good.  She  is  going  to  London  to  see  her 
particular  friend,  Mrs.  Johnson.  It  was  at  first  her 
intention  that  Frederica  should  accompany  her,  for 
the  benefit  of  masters,  but  we  overruled  her  there. 
Frederica  was  wretched  in  the  idea  of  going,  and  I 
could  not  bear  to  have  her  at  the  mercy  of  her  mother; 
not  all  the  masters  in  London  could  compensate  for 
the  ruin  of  her  comfort.  I  should  have  feared,  too,  for 
her  health,  and  for  everything  but  her  principles — there 
I  believe  she  is  not  to  be  injured  by  her  mother,  or 
her  mother's  friends ;  but  with  those  friends  she  must 
have  mixed  (a  very  bad  set,  I  doubt  not),  or  have  been 
left  in  total  solitude,  and  I  can  hardly  tell  which  would 
have  been  worse  for  her.  If  she  is  with  her  mother, 
moreover,  she  must,  alas !  in  all  probability  be  with 
Reginald,  and  that  would  be  the  greatest  evil  of  all. 
Here  we  shall  in  time  be  in  peace,  and  our  regular 
employments,  our  books  and  conversations,  with  exer- 
cise, the  children,  and  every  domestic  pleasure  in  my 
power  to  procure  her,  will,  I  trust,  gradually  overcome 
thi?  youthful  attachment.  I  should  not  have  a  doubt 
of  it  were  she  slighted  for  any  other  woman  in  the 
world  than  her  own  mother.     How  long  Lady  Susan 


Lady  Susan.  271 


will  be  in  town,  or  whether  she  returns  here  again,  I 
know  not.  I  could  not  be  cordial  in  my  invitation,  but 
if  she  chuses  to  come  no  want  of  cordiality  on  my  part 
will  keep  her  away.  I  could  not  help  asking  Reginald 
if  he  intended  being  in  London  this  winter,  as  soon  as 
I  found  her  ladyship's  steps  would  be  bent  thither ;  and 
though  he  professed  himself  quite  undetermined,  there 
was  something  in  his  look  and  voice  as  he  spoke  which 
contradicted  his  words.  I  have  done  with  lamentation  ; 
I  look  upon  the  event  as  so  far  decided  that  I  resign 
myself  to  it  in  despair.  If  he  leaves  you  soon  for 
London  everything  will  be  concluded. 

Your  affectionate,  &c., 

C.  Vernon. 

xxvin. 

Mi's.  JoJinson  to  Lady  Susan. 

Edward  Street. 

My  dearest  Friend, — I  write  in  the  greatest  distress ; 
the  most  unfortunate  event  has  just  taken  place.  Mr. 
Johnson  has  hit  on  the  most  effectual  manner  of 
plaguing  us  all.  He  had  heard,  I  imagine,  by  some 
means  or  other,  that  you  were  soon  to  be  in  London, 
and  immediately  contrived  to  have  such  an  attack  of 
the  gout  as  must  at  least  delay  his  journey  to  Bath, 
if  not  wholly  prevent  it.  I  am  persuaded  the  gout  is 
brought  on  or  kept  off  at  pleasure  ;  it  was  the  same 
when  I  wanted  to  join  the  Hamiltons  to  the  Lakes  ; 
and  three  years  ago,  when  /  had  a  fancy  for  Bath, 
nothing  could  induce  him  to  have  a  gouty  symptom. 


272  Lady  Susan. 


I  am  pleased  to  find  that  my  letter  had  so  much 
effect  on  you,  and  that  De  Courcy  is  certainly  your 
own.  I.et  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  you  arrive, 
and  in  particular  tell  me  what  you  mean  to  do  with 
Mainwaring.  It  is  impossible  to  say  when  I  shall  be 
able  to  come  to  you  ;  my  confinement  must  be  great- 
It  is  such  an  abominable  trick  to  be  ill  here  instead  of 
at  Bath  that  I  can  scarcely  command  myself  at  all. 
At  Bath  his  old  aunts  would  have  nursed  him,  but  here 
it  all  falls  upon  me;  and  he  bears  pain  with  such 
patience  that  I  have  not  the  common  excuse  for  losing 
my  temper. 

Yours  ever, 

Alicia. 

XXIX. 

Lady  Susan  Vernon  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 
My  dear  Alicia, — There  needed  not  this  last  fit  of  the 
gout  to  make  me  detest  Mr.  Johnson,  but  now  the 
extent  of  my  aversion  is  not  to  be  estimated.  To 
have  you  confined  as  nurse  in  his  apartment !  My 
dear  Alicia,  of  what  a  mistake  were  you  guilty  in 
marrying  a  man  of  his  age  !  just  old  enough  to  be 
formal,  ungovernable,  and  to  have  the  gout  ;  too  old 
to  be  agreeable,  too  young  to  die.  I  arrived  last 
night  about  five,  had  scarcely  swallowed  my  dinner 
when  Mainwaring  made  his  appearance.  I  will  not 
dissemble  what  real  pleasure  his  sight  afforded  me, 
nor  how  strongly  I  felt  the  contrast  between  his  person 


Lady  Susan.  273 


and  manners  and  those  of  Reginald,  to  the  infinite 
disadvantage  of  the  latter.  For  an  hour  or  two  I  was 
even  staggered  in  my  resolution  of  marrying  him, 
and  though  this  was  too  idle  and  nonsensical  an  idea 
to  remain  long  on  my  mind,  I  do  not  feci  very  eager 
for  the  conclusion  of  my  marriage,  nor  look  forward 
with  much  impatience  to  the  time  when  Reginald, 
according  to  our  agreement,  is  to  be  in  town.  I  shall 
probably  put  off  his  arrival  under  some  pretence  or 
other.  He  must  not  come  till  Mainwaring  is  gone.  I 
am  still  doubtful  at  times  as  to  marrying ;  if  the  old 
man  would  die  I  might  not  hesitate,  but  a  state  of 
dependance  on  the  caprice  of  Sir  Reginald  will  not 
suit  the  freedom  of  my  spirit  ;  and  if  I  resolve  to  wait 
for  that  event,  I  shall  have  excuse  enough  at  present 
in  having  been  scarcely  ten  months  a  widow.  I  have 
not  given  Mainwaring  any  hint  of  my  intention,  or 
allowed  him  to  consider  my  acquaintance  with  Regi- 
nald as  more  than  the  commonest  flirtation,  and  he  is 
tolerably  appeased.  Adieu,  till  we  meet ;  I  am  en- 
chanted with  my  lodgings. 

Yours  ever, 

S.  Vernon. 

XXX. 

Lady  Susan  Vernon  to  Mr.  dc  Courcy. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 

I  have  received  your  letter,  and  though  I  do  not 
attempt  to  conceal  that  I  am  gratified  by  your  im- 
patience for  the  hour  of  meeting,  I  yet  feel  myself 

T 


2/4  Lady  Stlsan, 

under  the  necessity  of  delaying  that  hour  beyond  the 
time  originally  fixed.  Do  not  think  me  unkind  for 
such  an  exercise  of  my  power,  nor  accuse  me  of  in- 
stability without  first  hearing  my  reasons.  In  the 
course  of  my  journey  from  Churchhill  I  had  ample 
leisure  for  reflection  on  the  present  state  of  our  affairs, 
and  every  review  has  served  to  convince  me  that  they 
require  a  delicacy  and  cautiousness  of  conduct  to  which 
we  have  hitherto  been  too  little  attentive.  We  have 
been  hurried  on  by  our  feelings  to  a  degree  of  precipi- 
tation which  ill  accords  with  the  claims  of  our  friends 
or  the  opinion  of  the  world.  We  have  been  unguarded 
in  forming  this  hasty  engagement,  but  we  must  not 
complete  the  imprudence  by  ratifying  it  while  there 
is  so  much  reason  to  fear  the  connection  would  be 
opposed  by  those  friends  on  whom  you  depend.  It  is 
not  for  us  to  blame  any  expectations  on  your  father's 
side  of  your  marrying  to  advantage ;  where  posses- 
sions are  so  extensive  as  those  of  your  family,  the 
wish  of  increasing  them,  if  not  strictly  reasonable,  is 
too  common  to  excite  surprise  or  resentment.  He  has 
a  right  to  require  a  woman  of  fortune  in  his  daughter- 
in-law,  and  I  am  sometimes  quarrelling  with  myself 
for  suffering  you  to  form  a  connection  so  imprudent ; 
but  the  influence  of  reason  is  often  acknowledged  too 
late  by  those  who  feel  like  me.  I  have  now  been  but 
a  few  months  a  widow,  and,  however  little  indebted  to 
my  husband's  memory  for  any  happiness  derived  from 
him  during  a  union  of  some  years,  I  cannot  forget 
that  the  indelicacy  of  so  early  a  second  marriage  must 
subject  me  to  the  censure  of  the  world,  and  incur, 


Lady  Susan.  ,  275 


what  would  be  still  more  insupportable,  the  displeasure 
of  Mr.  Vernon.  I  might  perhaps  harden  myself  in 
time  against  the  injustice  of  general  reproach,  but  the 
loss  of  Jiis  valued  esteem  I  am,  as  you  well  know,  ill- 
fitted  to  endure;  and  when  to  this  may  be  added  the 
consciousness  of  having  injured  you  with  }'our  family, 
how  am  I  to  support  myself?  With  feelings  so  poig- 
nant as  mine,  the  conviction  of  having  divided  the 
son  from  his  parents  would  make  me,  e\'en  with  you, 
the  most  miserable  of  beings.  It  will  surely,  theie- 
fore,  be  advisable  to  delay  our  union — to  delay  it  till 
appearances  are  more  promising — till  affairs  have 
taken  a  more  favourable  turn.  To  assist  us  in  such  a 
resolution  I  feel  that  absence  will  be  necessary.  We 
must  not  meet.  Cruel  as  this  sentence  may  appear, 
the  necessity  of  pronouncing  it,  which  can  alone  re- 
concile it  to  myself,  will  be  evident  to  you  when  you 
have  considered  our  situation  in  the  light  in  which  I 
have  found  myself  imperiously  obliged  to  place  it. 
You  maybe — you  must  be — well  assured  that  nothing 
but  the  strongest  conviction  of  duty  could  induce  me 
to  wound  my  own  feelings  by  urging  a  lengthened 
separation,  and  of  insensibility  to  yours  you  will 
hardly  suspect  me.  Again,  therefore,  I  say  that  we 
ought  not,  we  must  not,  yet  meet.  By  a  removal  for 
.some  months  from  each  other  we  shall  tranquillise  the 
sisterly  fears  of  Mrs.  Vernon,  who,  accustomed  herself 
to  the  enjoyment  of  riches,  considers  fortune  as  neces- 
sary everywhere,  and  whose  sensibilities  are  not  of  a 
nature  to  comprehend  ours.  Let  me  hear  from  you 
soon — very  soon.     Tell  me  that  you  submit  to  my 

T  1 


2/6  Lady  Susan. 


arguments,  and  do  not  reproach  me  for  using  such. 
I  cannot  bear  reproaches  :  my  spirits  are  not  so  high 
as  to  need  being  repressed.  I  must  endeavour  to 
seek  amusement,  and  fortunately  many  of  my  friends 
are  in  town  ;  amongst  them  the  Mainwarings ;  you 
know  how  sincerely  I  regard  both  husband  and  wife. 
I  am,  very  faithfully  yours, 

S.  Vernon. 

XXXI. 

Lady  Susan  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 
My  dear  Friend, — That  tormenting  creature,  Regi- 
nald, is  here.  My  letter,  which  was  intended  to  keep 
him  longer  in  the  country,  has  hastened  him  to  town. 
Much  as  I  wish  him  away,  however,  I  cannot  help 
being  pleased  with  such  a  proof  of  attachment.  He 
is  devoted  to  me,  heart  and  soul.  He  will  carry  this 
note  himself,  which  is  to  serve  as  an  introduction  to 
you,  with  whom  he  longs  to  be  acquainted.  Allow 
him  to  spend  the  evening  with  you,  that  I  may  be  in 
no  danger  of  his  returning  here.  I  have  told  him  that 
I  am  not  quite  well,  and  must  be  alone  ;  and  should 
he  call  again  there  might  be  confusion,  for  it  is  im- 
possible to  be  sure  of  servants.  Keep  him,  therefore, 
I  entreat  you,  in  Edward  Street.  You  will  not  find 
him  a  heavy  companion,  and  I  allow  you  to  flirt  with 
him  as  much  as  you  like.  At  the  same  time,  do  not 
forget  my  real  interest ;  say  all  that  you  can  to  con- 
vince him  that  I  shall  be  quite  wretched  if  he  remains 


Lady  Susan.  .  277 


here ;  you  know  my  reasons — propriety,  and  so  forth, 
I  would  urge  them  more  myself,  but  that  I  am  im- 
patient to  be  rid  of  him,  as  Mainwarinc;  comes  within 
half-an  hour.     Adieu  ! 

S.  Vernon. 

XXXII. 

Mrs.  Johnson  to  Lady  Snsan. 

Edward  Street. 

My  dear  Creature, — I  am  hi  agonies,  and  know  not 
what  to  do.  Mr.  De  Courcy  arrived  just  when  he 
should  not.  ]\Irs.  Mainwaring  had  that  instant  entered 
the  house,  and  forced  herself  into  her  guardian's 
presence,  though  I  did  not  know  a  syllable  of  it  till 
afterwards,  for  I  was  out  when  both  she  and  Reginald 
came,  or  I  should  have  sent  him  away  at  all  events  ; 
but  she  was  shut  up  with  Mr.  Johnson,  while  he  waited 
in  the  drawing-room  for  me.  She  arrived  yesterday 
in  pursuit  of  her  husband,  but  perhaps  you  know  this 
already  from  himself  She  came  to  this  house  to 
entreat  my  husband's  interference,  and  before  I  could 
be  aware  of  it,  everything  that  you  could  wish  to  be 
concealed  was  known  to  him,  and  unluckily  she  had 
wormed  out  of  Mainwaring's  servant  that  he  had 
visited  you  eveiy  day  since  your  being  in  town,  and 
had  just  watched  him  to  your  door  herself!  What 
could  I  do  }  Facts  are  such  horrid  things  !  All  is  by 
this  time  known  to  De  Courcy,  who  is  now  alone  with 
Mr.  Johnson.  Do  not  accuse  me  ;  indeed,  it  was  im- 
possible to  prevent  it.     Mr.  Johnson  has  for  some  time 


2/8  Lady  Susan. 


suspected  De  Courcy  of  intending  to  marry  you,  and 
would  speak  with  him  alone  as  soon  as  he  knew  him 
to  be  in  the  house.  That  detestable  Mrs.  Mainwaring, 
who,  for  your  comfort,  has  fretted  herself  thinner  and 
uglier  than  ever,  is  still  here,  and  they  have  been  all 
closeted  together.  What  can  be  done  t  At  any 
rate,  I  hope  he  will  plague  his  wafe  more  than  ever. 
With  anxious  wishes, 

Yours  faithfully, 
Alicia. 

XXXIII. 

Lady  Susan  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 

This  eclaircissement  is  rather  provoking.  How 
unlucky  that  you  should  have  been  from  home  !  I 
thought  myself  sure  of  you  at  seven  !  I  am  undis- 
mayed however.  Do  not  torment  yourself  with  fears 
on  my  account ;  depend  on  it,  I  can  make  my  stor}' 
good  with  Reginald.  Mainwaring  is  just  gone  ;  he 
brought  me  the  nc^ws  of  his  wife's  arrival.  Silly 
woman,  what  does  she  expect  by  such  manoeuvres  ? 
Yet  I  wish  she  had  stayed  quietly  at  Langford.  Regi- 
nald will  be  a  little  enraged  at  first,  but  by  to- 
morrow's dinner,  everything  will  be  well  again. 

Adieu!  ! 

S.V. 


Lady  Susan.  279 


XXXIV. 

Mr.  De  Convey  to  Lady  Susan. 

—  Hotel 
I  write  only  to  bid  you  farewell,  the  spell  is  re- 
moved ;  I  see  you  as  you  are.  Since  we  parted 
yesterday,  I  have  received  from  indisputable  authority 
such  a  history  of  you  as  must  bring  the  most  morti- 
fying conviction  of  the  imposition  I  have  been  under, 
and  the  absolute  necessity  of  an  immediate  and 
eternal  separation  from  you .  You  cannot  doubt 
to  what  I  allude.  Langford !  Langford  !  that  word 
will  be  sufficient.  I  received  my  information  in  Mr. 
Johnson's  house,  from  Mrs.  Mainwaring  h-erself.  You 
know  how  I  have  loved  you  ;  you  can  intimately 
judge  of  my  present  feelings,  but  I  am  not  so  weak  as 
to  find  indulgence  in  describing  them  to  a  woman 
who  will  glory  in  having  excited  their  anguish,  but 
whose  affection  they  have  never  been  able  to  gain. 

R.  De  Courcy. 

XXXV. 

Lady  Susan  to  Mr.  De  Courcy. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  my  astonishment  in 
reading  the  note  this  moment  received  from  you.  I 
•am  bewildered  in  my  endeavours  to  form  some  ra- 
tional conjecture  of  what  Mrs.  Mainwaring  can  have 
told  you  to  occasion  so  extraordinary  a  change  in  your 
sentiments.     Have  I  not  explained  everything  to  you 


28o  Lady  Susan. 


with  respect  to  myself  which  could  bear  a  doubtful 
meaning,  and  which  the  ill-nature  of  the  world  had 
interpreted  to  my  discredit  ?  What  can  you  now 
have  heard  to  stagger  your  esteem  for  me  ?  Have  I 
ever  had  a  concealment  from  you  ?  Reginald,  you 
agitate  me  beyond  expression,  I  cannot  suppose  that 
the  old  story  of  Mrs.  Mainwaring's  jealousy  can  be 
revived  again,  or  at  least  be  listened  to  again.  Come 
to  me  immediately,  and  explain  what  is  at  present 
absolutely  incomprehensible.  Believe  me  the  single 
word  of  Langford  is  not  of  such  potent  intelligence  as 
to  supersede  the  necessity  of  more.  If  we  arc  to 
part,  it  will  at  least  be  handsome  to  take  your  per- 
sonal leave — but  I  have  little  heart  to  jest ;  in  truth, 
I  am  serious  enough  ;  for  to  be  sunk,  though  but  for 
an  hour,  in  your  esteem  is  a  humiliation  to  which  I 
know  not  how  to  submit.  I  shall  count  every  minute 
till  your  arrival. 

S.  V. 

XXXVI. 

Mr,  De  Convey  to  Lady  Susan. 

—  Hotel. 
Why  would  you  write  to  me  }  Why  do  you  require 
particulars  }  But,  since  it  must  be  so,  I  am  obliged 
to  declare  that  all  the  accounts  of  your  misconduct 
during  the  life,  and  since  the  death  of  Mr.  Vernon, 
which  had  reached  me,  in  common  with  the  world  in 
general,  and  gained  my  entire  belief  before  I  saw 
you,   but  which   you,  by  the  exertion   of  your  per- 


Lady  Susan.  28 1 


verted  abilities,  had  made  me  resolved  to  disallow, 
have  been  unanswerably  proved  to  me  ;  nay  more,  1 
am  assured  that  a  connection,  of  which  I  had  never 
before  entertained  a  thought,  has  for  some  time  ex- 
isted, and  still  continues  to  exist,  between  you  and 
the  man  whose  family  you  robbed  of  its  peace  in 
return  for  the  hospitality  with  which  )'ou  were  re- 
ceived into  it ;  that  you  have  corresponded  with 
him  ever  since  your  leaving  Langford  ;  not  with  his 
wife,  but  with  him,  and  that  he  now  visits  you  every 
day.  Can  you,  dare  you  deny  it  ?  and  all  this  at  the 
time  when  I  was  an  encouraged,  an  accepted  lover! 
From  what  have  I  not  escaped !  I  have  only  to  be 
grateful.  Far  from  me  be  all  complaint,  every  sigh 
of  regret.  My  own  folly  had  endangered  me,  my 
preservation  I  owe  to  the  kindness,  the  integrity  of 
another  ;  but  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  whose 
agonies  while  she  related  the  past  seemed  to  threaten 
her  reason,  how  is  sJlc  to  be  consoled  !  After  such 
a  discovery  as  this,  you  will  scarcely  affect  further 
wonder  at  my  meaning  in  bidding  you  adieu.  ]\Iy 
understanding  is  at  length  restored,  and  teaches  no 
less  to  abhor  the  artifices  which  had  subdued  me 
than  to  despise  myself  for  the  weakness  on  which 
their  strength  was  founded. 

R.  De  Courcy. 


282  Lady  Susan, 


XXXVII. 

Lady  Susan  to  Mr.  De  Courcy. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 

1  am  satisfied,  and  will  trouble  you  no  more  when 
these  few  lines  are  dismissed.  The  engagement 
which  you  were  eager  to  form  a  fortnight  ago  is  no 
longer  compatible  with  your  views,  and  I  rejoice  to 
find  that  the  prudent  advice  of  your  parents  has  not 
been  given  in  vain.  Your  restoration  to  peace  will,  I 
doubt  not,  speedily  follow  this  act  of  filial  obedience, 
and  I  flatter  myself  with  the  hope  of  surviving  my 
share  in  this  disappointment. 

S.  V. 

XXXVIII. 

Mrs.  Johnson  to  Lady  Susan  Vernon. 

Edward  Street. 

I  am  grieved,  though  I  cannot  be  astonished  at 
your  rupture  with  Mr.  De  Courcy;  he  has  just  in- 
formed Mr.  Johnson  of  it  by  letter.  He  leaves 
London,  he  says,  to-day.  Be  assured  that  I  partake 
in  all  your  feelings,  and  do  not  be  angry  if  I  say  that 
our  intercourse,  even  by  letter,  must  soon  be  given 
up.  It  makes  me  miserable ;  but  Mr.  Johnson  vows 
that  if  I  persist  in  the  connection,  he  will  settle  in  the 
country  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  you  know  it  is 
impossible  to  submit  to  such  an  extremity  while  any 
other  alternative  remains.     You  have  heard  of  course 


Lady  Susan.  283 


that  the  Mainwarings  are  to  part,  and  I  am  afraid 
Mrs.  M.  will  come  home  to  us  again  ;  but  she  is  still 
so  fond  of  her  husband,  and  frets  so  much  about  him, 
that  perhaps  she  may  not  live  long.  Miss  Main- 
waring  is  just  come  to  town  to  be  with  her  aunt,  and 
they  say  that  she  declares  she  will  have  Sir  James 
Martin  before  she  leaves  London  again.  If  I  were 
you,  I  would  certainly  get  him  myself.  I  had  almost 
forgot  to  give  you  my  opinion  of  Mr.  De  Courcy  ;  I 
am  really  delighted  with  him  ;  he  is  full  as  hand- 
some, I  think,  as  Mainwaring,  and  with  such  an  open, 
good-humoured  countenance,  that  one  cannot  help 
loving  him  at  first  sight.  Mr.  Johnson  and  he  are 
the  greatest  friends  in  the  world.  Adieu,  my  dearest 
Susan,  I  wish  matters  did  not  go  so  perversely.  That 
unlucky  visit  to  Langford  I  but  I  dare  say  you  did 
all  for  the  best,  and  there  is  no  defying  destiny. 
Your  sincerely  attached, 

Alicia. 

XXXIX. 

Lady  SiLsan  to  Mrs.  Johnson. 

Upper  Seymour  Street. 

-  My  dear  Alicia, — I  yield  to  the  necessity  which 
parts  us.  Under  circumstances  you  could  not  act 
othisrwise.  Our  friendship  cannot  be  impaired  by  it, 
and  in  happier  times,  when  your  situation  is  as  in- 
dependent as  mine,  it  will  unite  us  again  in  the  same 
intimacy  as  ever.  For  this  I  shall  impatiently  wait, 
and  meanwhile  can  safely  assure  you  that  I  never  was 


284  Lady  Susan. 


more  at  ease,  or  belter  satisfied  with  myself  and 
everything  about  me  than  at  the  present  hour.  Your 
husband  I  abhor,  Reginald  I  despise,  and  I  am  secure 
of  never  seeing  either  again.  Have  I  not  reason  to 
rejoice  ?  Mainwaring  is  more  devoted  to  me  than 
ever ;  and  were  we  at  hberty,  I  doubt  if  I  could 
resist  even  matrimony  offered  by  Jiim.  This  event,  if 
his  wife  live  with  you,  it  may  be  in  your  power  to 
hasten.  The  violence  of  her  feelings,  which  must 
wear  her  out,  may  be  easily  kept  in  irritation.  I 
rely  on  your  friendship  for  this.  I  am  now  satisfied 
that  I  never  could  have  brought  myself  to  marry 
Reginald,  and  am  equally  determined  that  Frederica 
never  shall.  To-morrow,  I  shall  fetch  her  from 
Churchhill,  and  let  Maria  Mainwaring  tremble  for  the 
consequence.  Frederica  shall  be  Sir  James's  wife 
before  she  quits  my  house,  and  she  may  whimper,  and 
the  Vernons  may  storm,  I  regard  them  not.  I  am 
tired  of  submitting  my  will  to  the  caprices  of  others ; 
of  resigning  my  own  judgment  in  deference  to  those 
to  whom  I  owe  no  duty,  and  for  whom  I  feel  no 
respect;  I  have  given  up  too  much,  have  been  too 
easily  worked  on,  but  Frederica  shall  now  feel  the 
difference.  Adieu,  dearest  of  friends  ;  may  the  next 
gouty  attack  be  more  favourable !  and  may  you 
always  regard  me  as  unalterably  yours, 

S.  Vernon. 


Lady  Susan.  285 


XL. 

Lady  dc  Courcy  to  Mrs.  Vernon. 

My  dear  Catlicrinc, — I  have  cliarming  news  for  you, 
and  if  I  had  not  sent  off  my  letter  tin's  morning  you 
might  have  been  spared  the  vexation  of  knowing  of 
Reginald's  being  gone  to  London,  for  he  is  returned. 
Reginald  is  returned,  not  to  ask  our  consent  to  his 
marrying  Lady  Susan,  but  to  tell  us  they  are  parted 
for  ever.    lie  has  been  only  an  hour  in  the  house,  and  I 
have  not  been  able  to  learn  particulars,  for  he  is  so  very 
low  that  I  have  not  the  heart  to  ask  questions,  but  I 
hope  we  shall  soon  know  all.     This  is  the  most  joyful 
hour  he  has  ever  given  us  since  the  day  of  his  birth. 
Nothing  is  wanting  but  to  have  you  here,  and  it  is  our 
particular  wish  and  entreaty  that  you  would  come  to 
us  as  soon  as  you  can.     You   have  owed  us  a  visit 
many  long  weeks  ;  I  hope   nothing  will   make  it  in- 
convenient  to  Mr.   Vernon  ;   and  pray  bring  all  my 
grandchildren  ;    and   your  dear  niece   is   included,  of 
course ;  I  long  to  see  her.     It  has  been  a  sad,  heavy 
winter  hitherto,  without  Reginald,  and  seeing  nobody 
from  Churchhill.     I  never  found  the  season  so  dreary 
before ;  but  this  happy  meeting  will  make  us  young 
again.      Frederica  runs    much  in  my  thoughts,  and 
when  Reginald  has   recovered  his  usual  good  spirits 
(as  I  trust  he  soon  will)  we  will  try  to  rob  him  of  his 
heart  once   more,  and   I   am  full  of  hopes  of  seeing 
their  hands  joined  at  no  great  distance. 

Your  affectionate  mother, 

C.  De  Courcy. 


12S6  Lady  Susan. 


XLI. 

Mrs.  Vernon  to  Lady  de  Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

My  dear  Mother, — Your  letter  has  surprised  me 
beyond  measure !  Can  it  be  true  that  they  are  really 
separated — and  for  ever  ?  I  should  be  overjoyed  if  I 
dared  depend  on  it,  but  after  all  that  I  have  seen  how 
can  one  be  secure  ?  And  Reginald  really  with  you !  My 
surprise  is  the  greater  because  on  Wednesday,  the 
very  day  of  his  coming  to  Parklands,  we  had  a  most 
unexpected  and  unwelcome  visit  from  Lady  Susan, 
looking  all  cheerfulness  and  good-humour,  and  seem- 
ing more  as  if  she  were  to  marry  him  when  she  got  to 
London  than  as  if  parted  from  him  for  ever.  She 
stayed  nearly  two  hours,  was  as  affectionate  and  agree- 
able as  ever,  and  not  a  syllable,  not  a  hint  was  dropped, 
of  any  disagreement  or  coolness  between  them.  I 
asked  her  whether  she  had  seen  my  brother  since  his 
arrival  in  town  ;  not,  as  you  may  suppose,  with  any 
doubt  of  the  fact,  but  merely  to  see  how  she  looked. 
She  immediately  answered,  without  any  embarrass- 
ment, that  he  had  been  kind  enough  to  call  on  her  on 
Monday ;  but  she  believed  he  had  already  returned 
home,  which  I  was  very  far  from  crediting.  Your 
kind  invitation  is  accepted  by  us  with  pleasure,  and 
on  Thursday  next  we  and  our  little  ones  will  be 
with  you.  Pray  heaven,  Reginald  may  not  be  in 
town  again  by  that  time !  I  wish  we  could  bring 
dear  Frederica  too,  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  her 


Lady  Susan.  287 


mother's  errand  hither  was  to  fetch  her  away ;  and, 
miserable  as  it  made  the  poor  girl,  it  was  impossible 
to  detain  her.  I  was  thoroughly  unwilling  to  let  her 
go,  and  so  was  her  uncle ;  and  all  that  could  be  urged 
we  did  urge ;  but  Lady  Susan  declared  that  as  she 
was  now  about  to  fix  herself  in  London  for  several 
months,  she  could  not  be  easy  if  her  daughter  were 
not  with  her  for  masters,  &c.  Her  manner,  to  be 
sure,  was  very  kind  and  proper,  and  Mr.  Vernon 
believes  that  Frederica  will  now  be  treated  with  affec- 
tion. I  wish  I  could  think  so  too.  The  poor  girl's 
heart  was  almost  broke  at  taking  leave  of  us.  I 
charged  her  to  write  to  me  very  often,  and  to  remem- 
ber that  if  she  were  in  any  distress  we  should  be 
always  her  friends.  I  took  care  to  see  her  alone,  that 
I  might  say  all  this,  and  I  hope  made  her  a  little 
more  comfortable  ;  but  I  shall  not  be  easy  till  I  can 
go  to  town  and  judge  of  her  situation  myself.  I  wish 
there  were  a  better  prospect  than  now  appears  of  the 
match  which  the  conclusion  of  your  letter  declares 
your  expectations  of  At  present,  it  is  not  very 
likely. 

Yours  ever,  &c., 

C.  Vernon. 


CONCLUSION. 

This  correspondence,  by  a  meeting  between  some 
of  the  parties,  and  a  separation  between  the  others, 
could  not,  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  Post-Oflice 
revenue,  be  continued  any  longer.     Very  little  assist- 


2SS  Lady  Susan. 


ance  to  the  State  could  be  derived  from  the  epistolary 
intercourse  of  Mrs.  Vernon  and  her  niece;  for  the 
former  soon  perceived,  by  the  style  of  Frederica's 
letters,  that  they  were  written  under  her  mother's 
inspection  !  and  therefore,  deferring  all  particular  en- 
quiry till  she  could  make  it  personally  in  London,  ceased 
writing  minutely  or  often.  Having  learnt  enough, 
in  the  meanwhile,  from  her  open-hearted  brother, 
of  what  had  passed  between  him  and  Lady  Susan  to 
sink  the  latter  lower  than  ever  in  her  opinion,  she  was 
proportionably  more  anxious  to  get  Frederica  removed 
from  such  a  mother,  and  placed  under  her  own  care  ; 
and,  though  with  little  hope  of  success,  was  resolved 
to  leave  nothing  unattempted  that  might  offer  a  chance 
of  obtaining  her  sister-in-law's  consent  to  it.  Her 
anxiety  on  the  subject  made  her  press  for  an  early 
visit  to  London  ;  and  Mr.  Vernon,  who,  as  it  must 
already  have  appeared,  lived  only  to  do  whatever  he 
was  desired,  soon  found  some  accommodating  business 
to  call  him  thither.  With  a  heart  full  of  the  matter, 
Mrs.  Vernon  waited  on  Lady  Susan  shortly  after  her 
arrival  in  town,  and  was  met  with  such  an  easy  and 
cheerful  affection,  as  made  her  almost  turn  from  her 
with  horror.  No  remembrance  of  Reginald,  no  con- 
sciousness of  guilt,  gave  one  look  of  embarrassment ; 
she  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  seemed  eager  to  show 
at  once  by  every  possible  attention  to  her  brother  and 
sister  her  sense  of  their  kindness,  and  her  pleasure  in 
their  society.  Frederica  was  no  more  altered  than 
Lady  Susan  ;  the  same  restrained  manners,  the  same 
timid  look  in  the  presence  of  her  mother  as  heretofore, 


Lady  Susan.  289 


assured  her  aunt  of  licr  situation  being  uncomfortable, 
and  confirmed  her  in  the  plan  of  altering  it.  No 
unkindness,  however,  on  the  part  of  Lady  Susan  ap- 
peared. Persecution  on  the  subject  of  Sir  James  was 
entirely  at  an  end  ;  his  name  merely  mentioned  to  say 
that  he  was  not  in  London  ;  and  indeed,  in  all  her 
conversation,  she  was  solicitous  only  for  the  welfare 
and  improvement  of  her  daughter,  acknowledging,  in 
terms  of  grateful  delight,  that  Frcderica  was  now 
growing  every  day  more  and  more  what  a  parent 
could  desire.  Mrs.  Vernon,  surprised  and  incredulous, 
knew  not  what  to  suspect,  and,  w^ithout  any  change  in 
her  own  views,  only  feared  greater  difficulty  in  accom- 
plishing them.  The  first  hope  of  anything  better  w^as 
derived  from  Lady  Susan's  asking  her  whether  she 
thought  Frederica  looked  quite  as  well  as  she  had 
done  at  Churchhill,  as  she  must  confess  herself  to  have 
sometimes  an  anxious  doubt  of  London's  perfectly 
agreeing  with  her.  Mrs.  Vernon,  encouraging  the 
doubt,  directly  proposed  her  niece's  returning  with 
them  into  the  country.  Lady  Susan  was  unable  to 
express  her  sense  of  such  kindness,  yet  knew  not, 
from  a  variety  of  reasons,  how  to  part  with  her 
daughter ;  and  as,  though  her  own  plans  were  not  yet 
wholly  fixed,  she  trusted  it  would  ere  long  be  in  her 
power  to  take  Frederica  into  the  country  herself, 
concluded  by  declining  entirely  to  profit  by  such 
unexampled  attention.  Mrs.  Vernon  persevered,  how- 
ever, in  the  offer  of  it,  and  though  Lady  Susan 
continued  to  resist,  her  resistance  in  the  course  of  a 
few  days   seemed   somewhat  less  formidable.      The 

U 


290  Lady  Susan. 


lucky  alarm  of  an  influenza  decided  what  might  not 
have  been  decided  quite  so  soon.  Lady  Susan*s 
maternal  fears  were  then  too  much  awakened  for  her 
to  think  of  anything  but  Frederica's  removal  from  the 
risk  of  infection  ;  above  all  disorders  in  the  world  she 
most  dreaded  the  influenza  for  her  daughter's  con- 
stitution ! 

Frederica  returned  to  Churchhill  with  her  uncle 
and  aunt ;  and  three  weeks  afterwards,  Lady  Susan 
announced  her  being  married  to  Sir  James  Martin. 
Mrs.  Vernon  was  then  convinced  of  what  she  had  only 
suspected  before,  that  she  might  have  spared  herself 
all  the  trouble  of  urging  a  removal  which  Lady 
Susan  had  doubtless  resolved  on  from  the  first. 
Frederica's  visit  was  nominally  for  six  weeks,  but  her 
mother,  though  inviting  her  to  return  in  one  or  two 
affectionate  letters,  was  very  ready  to  oblige  the  whole 
party  by  consenting  to  a  prolongation  of  her  stay, 
and  in  the  course  of  two  months  ceased  to  write  of 
her  absence,  and  in  the  course  of  two  more  to  write 
to  her  at  all.  Frederica  was  therefore  fixed  in  the 
family  of  her  uncle  and  aunt  till  such  time  as  Re- 
ginald De  Courcy  could  be  talked,  flattered,  and 
finessed  into  an  afl'ection  for  her  which,  allowing 
leisure  for  the  conquest  of  his  attachment  to  her 
mother,  for  his  abjuring  all  future  attachments,  and 
detesting  the  sex,  might  be  reasonably  looked  for  in 
the  course  of  a  twelvemonth.  Three  months  might 
have  done  it  in  general,  but  Reginald's  feelings  were 
no  less  lasting  than  lively.  Whether  Lady  Susan 
was  or  was  not  happy  in  her  second  choice,  I  do  not 


Lady  Susan.  291 


see  how  it  can  ever  be  ascertained  ;  for  who  would 
take  her  assurance  of  it  on  either  side  of  the  ques- 
tion ?  The  world  must  judge  from  probabilities  ;  she 
had  nothing  against  her  but  her  husband,  and  her 
conscience.  Sir  James  may  seem  to  have  drawn  ? 
harder  lot  than  mere  folly  merited  ;  I  leave  him, 
therefore,  to  all  the  pity  that  anybody  can  give  him. 
For  myself,  I  confess  that  /  can  pity  only  Miss  Main- 
waring  ;  who,  coming  to  town,  and  putting  herself 
to  an  expense  in  clothes  which  impoverished  her  for 
two  years,  on  purpose  to  secure  him,  was  defrauded 
of  her  due  by  a  woman  ten  years  older  than  herself. 


FINIS, 


u  2 


THE    WATSONS. 


PREFACE. 


This  work  was  left  by  its  author  a  fragment  without 
a  name,  in  so  elementary  a  state  as  not  even  to  be 
divided  into  chapters  ;  and  some  obscurities  and  in- 
accuracies of  expression  may  be  observed  in  it  which 
the  author  would  probably  have  corrected.  The 
original  manuscript  is  the  property  of  my  sister,  Miss 
Austen,  by  whose  permission  it  is  now  published. 
I  have  called  it  *  The  Watsons,*  for  the  sake  of  having 
a  title  by  which  to  designate  it.  Two  questions  may 
be  asked  concerning  it.  When  was  it  written  }  And, 
why  was  it  never  finished  .''  I  was  unable  to  answer 
the  first  question,  so  long  as  I  had  only  the  internal 
evidence  of  the  style  to  guide  me.  I  felt  satisfied, 
indeed,  that  it  did  not  belong  to  that  early  class  of 
her  writings  which  are  mentioned  at  page  46  of  the 
Memoir,  but  rather  bore  marks  of  her  more  mature 
style,  though  it  had  never  been  subjected  to  the  filing 
and  polishing  process  by  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  impart  a  high  finish  to  her  published  works.  At 
last,  on  a  close  inspection  of  the  original  manuscript, 
the  water-marks  of  1803,  and  1804,  were  found  in  the 
paper  on  which  it  was  written.  It  is,  therefore,  pro- 
bable, that  it  was  composed  at  Bath,  before  she 
ceased  to  reside  there  in  18(^5.  This  would  place 
the  date  a  few  years  later  than  the  composition,  but 


296  Preface. 

earlier  than  the  publication  of  '  Sense  and  Sensibility,* 
and  'Pride  and  Prejudice.' 

To  the  second  question,  wliy  was  it  never  finished  ? 
I  can  give  no  satisfactory  answer.  I  think  it  will  be 
generally  admitted  that  there  is  much  in  it  which  pro- 
mised well :  that  some  of  the  characters  are  drawn 
with  her  Vv^onted  vigour,  and  some  with  a  delicate 
discrimination  peculiarly  her  own  ;  and  that  it  is  rich 
in  her  especial  power  of  telling  the  story,  and  bring- 
ing out  the  characters  by  conversation  rather  than 
by  description.  It  could  not  have  been  broken  up 
for  the  purpose  of  using  the  materials  in  another 
fabric  ;  for,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Robert  Watson, 
in  whom  a  resemblance  to  the  future  Mrs.  Elton  is 
very  discernible,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  trace  much 
resemblance  between  this  and  any  of  her  subsequent 
works.  She  must  have  felt  some  regret  at  leaving 
Tom  Musgrave's  character  incomplete  ;  yet  he  never 
appears  elsewhere.  My  own  idea  is,  but  it  is  only 
a  guess,  that  the  author  became  aware  of  the  evil 
of  having  placed  her  heroine  too  low,  in  such  a 
position  of  poverty  and  obscurity  as,  though  not 
necessarily  connected  with  vulgarity,  has  a  sad  ten- 
dency to  degenerate  into  it ;  and  therefore,  like  a 
singer  who  has  begun  on  too  low  a  note,  she  discon- 
tinued the  strain.  It  was  an  error  of  which  she  was 
likely  to  become  more  sensible,  as  she  grew  older, 
and  saw  more  of  society  ;  certainly  she  never  repeated 
it  by  placing  the  heroine  of  any  subsequent  work 
under  circumstances  likely  to  be  unfavourable  to  the 
refinement  of  a  lady. 


THE    WATSONS. 


m 


s 


HE  first  winter  assembly  In  the  town  of  D. 


in  Surrey  was  to  be  held  on  Tuesday, 
October  13th,  and  it  was  generally  ex- 
pected to  be  a  very  good  one.  A  long 
list  of  county  families  was  confidently  run  over  as 
sure  of  attending,  and  sanguine  hopes  were  entertained 
that  the  Osbornes  themselves  would  be  there.  The 
Edwards'  invitation  to  the  Watsons  followed  of  course. 
The  Edwards  were  people  of  fortune,  who  lived  in  the 
town  and  kept  their  coach.  The  Watsons  inhabited 
a  village  about  three  miles  distant,  were  poor  and 
had  no  close  carriage  ;  and  ev-er  since  there  had  been 
balls  in  the  place,  the  former  were  accustomed  to 
invite  the  latter  to  dress,  dine,  and  sleep  at  their 
house  on  every  monthly  return  throughout  the  winter. 
On  the  present  occasion,  as  only  two  of  Mr.  Watson's 
children  were  at  home,  and  one  was  always  necessary 
as  companion  to  himself,  for  he  was  sickly  and  had 
lost  his  wife,  one  only  could  profit  by  the  kindness 
of  their  friends.  Miss  Emma  Watson,  who  was  very 
recently  returned  to  her  family  from  the  care  of  an 
aunt  who  had  brought  her  up,  was  to  make  her  first 


298  The  Watsons, 


public  appearance  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  her 
eldest  sister,  whose  delight  in  a  ball  was  not  lessened 
by  a  ten  years'  enjoyment,  had  some  merit  in  cheer- 
fully undertaking  to  drive  her  and  all  her  finery  in 
the  old  chair  to  D.  on  the  important  morning. 

As  they  splashed  along  the  dirty  lane  Miss  Wat- 
son thus  instructed  and  cautioned  her  inexperienced 
sister. 

*  I  dare  say  it  will  be  a  very  good  ball,  and  among 
so  many  officers  you  will  hardly  want  partners.  You 
will  find  Mrs.  Edwards'  maid  very  willing  to  help 
you,  and  I  would  advise  you  to  ask  Mary  Edwards' 
opinion  if  you  are  at  all  at  a  loss,  for  she  has  a 
very  good  taste.  If  Mr.  Edwards  does  not  lose  his 
money  at  cards  you  will  stay  as  late  as  you  can 
wish  for ;  if  he  does  he  will  hurry  you  home  per- 
haps— but  you  are  sure  of  some  comfortable  soup. 
I  hope  you  will  be  in  good  looks.  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  you  were  to  be  thought  one  of  the  prettiest 
girls  in  the  room,  there  is  a  great  deal  in  novelty. 
Perhaps  Tom  Musgrave  may  take  notice  of  you  ;  but 
I  would  advise  you  by  all  means  not  to  give  him  any 
encouragement.  He  generally  pays  attention  to  every 
new  girl,  but  he  is  a  great  flirt  and  never  means  any- 
thing serious.' 

*  I  think  I  have  heard  you  speak  of  him  before,' 
said  Emma,  Svho  is  he.'*' 

*  A  young  man  of  very  good  fortune,  quite  indepen- 
dent, and  remarkably  agreeable,  an  universal  favourite 
wherever  he  goes.  Most  of  the  girls  hereabout  are  in 
love  with  him,  or  have  been.     I  believe  I  am  the  only 


TJie  Watsons.  ^  299 


one  among  them  that  have  escaped  with  a  whole  heart ; 
and  yet  I  was  the  first  he  paid  attention  to  when  he 
came  into  this  country  six  years  ago ;  and  very  great 
attention  did  he  pay  me.  Some  people  say  that  he 
has  never  seemed  to  like  any  girl  so  well  since, 
though  he  is  always  behaving  in  a  particular  way  to 
one  or  another.' 

'And  how  came  yow  heart  to  be  the  only  cold 
one  ? '  said  Emma,  smiling. 

'There  was  a  reason  for  that,' — replied  Miss  Watson, 
changing  colour — *  I  have  not  been  very  well  used 
among  them,  Emma,  I  hope  you  will  have  better 
luck.' 

'  Dear  sister,  I  beg  your  pardon,  if  I  have  unthink- 
ingly given  you  pain.' 

*  When  first  we  knew  Tom  Musgrave,'  continued 
Miss  Watson,  without  seeming  to  hear  her,  *  I  was 
very  much  attached  to  a  young  man  of  the  name  of 
Purvis,  a  particular  friend  of  Robert's,  who  used  to 
be  with  us  a  great  deal.  Everybody  thought  it 
would  have  been  a  match.' 

A  sigh  accompanied  these  words,  which  Emma 
respected  in  silence ;  but  her  sister  after  a  short 
pause  went  on. 

*  You  will  naturally  ask  why  it  did  not  take  place, 
and  why  he  is  married  to  another  woman,  while  I 
am  still  single.  But  you  must  ask  him — not  me — 
you  must  ask  Penelope.  Yes,  Emma,  Penelope  was 
at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  She  thinks  everything  fair 
for  a  husband,  I  trusted  her ;  she  set  him  against 
me.  with  a  view  of  gaining  him  herself,  and  it  ended 


300  The  Watsons. 


in  his  discontinuing  his  visits,  and  soon  after  marrying 
somebody  else.  Penelope  makes  light  of  her  conduct, 
but  /  think  such  treachery  very  bad.  It  has  been  the 
ruin  of  my  happiness.  I  shall  never  love  any  man 
as  I  loved  Purvis.  I  do  not  think  Tom  Musgrave 
should  be  named  with  him  in  the  same  day.' 

*  You  quite  shock  me  by  what  you  say  of  Penelope,' 
said  Emma,  *  could  a  sister  do  such  a  thing  t  Rivalry, 
treachery  between  sisters !  I  shall  be  afraid  of  being 
acquainted  with  her.  But  I  hope  it  was  not  so ;  ap- 
pearances w^ere  against  her.' 

'  You  do  not  know  Penelope.  There  is  notning 
she  would  not  do  to  get  married.  She  would  as 
good-  as  tell  you  so  herself  Do  not  trust  her  with 
any  secrets  of  your  own,  take  warning  by  me,  do  not 
trust  her ;  she  has  her  good  qualities,  but  she  has  no 
faith,  no  honour,  no  scruples,  if  she  can  promote  her 
own  advantage.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  she  was 
well  married.  I  declare  I  had  rather  have  her  well 
married  than  myself.' 

'Than  yourself!  yes  I  can  suppose  so.  A  heart 
wounded  like  yours  can  have  little  inclination  for 
matrimony.' 

'  Not  much  indeed — but  you  know  we  must  marry. 
I  could  do  very  well  single  for  my  own  part ;  a 
little  company,  and  a  pleasant  ball  now  and  then, 
would  be  enough  for  me,  if  one  could  be  young  for 
ever  ;  but  my  father  cannot  provide  for  us,  and  it 
is  very  bad  to  grow  old  and  be  poor  and  laughed  at. 
I  have  lost  Purvis,  it  is  true  ;  but  very  few  people 
marry  their  first  loves.     I  should  not  refuse  a  man 


The  Watsons.  301 


because  he  was  not  Purvis.  Not  that  I  can  c\'cr  quite 
forgive  Penelope.' 

Emma  shook  her  head  in  acquiescence. 

'Penelope,  however,  has  had  her  troubles,'  con- 
tinued Miss  Watson.  '  She  was  sadly  disappointed 
in  Tom  Musgrave,  who  afterwards  transferred  his 
attentions  from  mc  to  her,  and  whom  she  was  very 
fond  of ;  but  he  never  means  anything  serious,  and 
when  he  had  trifled  with  her  long  enough,  he  began 
to  slight  her  for  Margaret,  and  poor  Penelope  was 
very  wretched.  And  since  then,  she  has  been  trying 
to  make  some  match  at  Chichester — she  won't  tell  us 
with  whom;  but  I  believe  it  is  a  rich  old  Dr.  Harding, 
uncle  to  the  friend  she  goes  to  see;  and  she  has  taken 
a  vast  deal  of  trouble  about  him,  and  given  up  a  great 
deal  of  time  to  no  purpose  as  yet.  When  she  went 
away  the  other  day,  she  said  it  should  be  the  last 
time.  I  suppose  you  did  not  know  what  her  parti- 
cular business  was  at  Chichester,  nor  guess  at  the 
object  which  could  take  her  away  from  Stanton  just 
as  you  were  coming  home  after  so  many  years' 
absence.' 

*  No  indeed,  I  had  not  the  smallest  suspicion  of  it. 
I  considered  her  engagement  to  Mrs.  Shaw  just  at  that 
time  as  very  unfortunate  for  me.  I  had  hoped  to  find 
all  my  sisters  at  home,  to  be  able  to  make  an  imme- 
diate friend  of  each.* 

*  I  suspect  the  Doctor  to  have  had  an  attack  of  the 
asthma,  and  that  she  was  hurried  away  on  that  ac- 
count. The  Shaws  are  quite  on  her  side — at  least,  I 
believe  so;  but  she  tells  me  nothing.     She  professes 


302  The  Watsons. 


to  keep  her  own  counsel ;  she  says,  and  truly  enough, 
that  "  Too  many  cooks  spoil  the  broth." ' 

*  I  am  sorry  for  her  anxieties,'  said  Emma  ;  *  but  I 
do  not  like  her  plans  or  her  opinions.  I  shall  be 
afraid  of  her.  She  must  have  too  masculine  and  bold 
a  temper.  To  be  so  bent  on  marriage — to  pursue  a 
man  merely  for  the  sake  of  situation,  is  a  sort  of  thing 
that  shocks  me  ;  I  cannot  understand  it.  Poverty  is 
a  great  evil ;  but  to  a  woman  of  education  and  feeling 
it  ought  not,  it  cannot  be  the  greatest.  I  would 
rather  be  teacher  at  a  school  (and  I  can  think  of 
nothing  worse),  than  marry  a  man  I  did  not  like.' 

*  I  would  rather  do  anything  than  be  teacher  at  a 
school,*  said  her  sister.  '/  have  been  at  school, 
Emma,  and  know  what  a  life  they  lead ;  yotc  never 
have.  I  should  not  like  marrying  a  disagreeable  man 
any  more  than  yourself ;  but  I  do  not  think  there  are 
many  very  disagreeable  men  ;  I  think  I  could  like 
any  goodhumoured  man  with  a  comfortable  income. 
I  suppose  my  aunt  brought  you  up  to  be  rather 
refined.' 

*  Indeed  I  do  not  know.  My  conduct  must  tell 
you  how  I  have  been  brought  up.  I  am  no  judge  of 
it  myself.  I  cannot  compare  my  aunt's  method  with 
any  other  person's,  because  I  know  no  other.' 

'  But  I  can  see  in  a  great  many  things  that  you  are 
very  refined.  I  have  observed  it  ever  since  you  came 
home,  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  not  be  for  your  happi- 
ness.    Penelope  will  laugh  at  you  very  much.' 

*  That  will  not  be  for  my  happiness,  I  am  sure.  If 
my  opinions  are  wrong  I  must  correct  them ;  if  they 


The  Watso7is.  ,  303 

arc  above  my  situation,  I  must  endeavour  to  concea' 
them  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  ridicule — has  Peneiope 
mucli  wit  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  she  has  great  spirits,  and  never  cares  what 
she  says.' 

1  Margaret  is  more  gentle,  I  imagine  ?' 

*  Yes  ;  especially  in  company  ;  she  is  all  gentleness 
and  mildness  when  anybody  is  by.  But  she  is  a  little 
fretful  and  perverse  among  ourselves.  Poor  creature ! 
She  is  possessed  with  the  notion  of  Tom  Musgrave's 
being  more  seriously  in  love  with  her  than  he  ever 
was  with  anybody  else,  and  is  always  expecting  him 
to  come  to  the  point.  This  is  the  second  time  within 
this  twelvemonth  that  she  has  gone  to  spend  a  month 
with  Robert  and  Jane  on  purpose  to  ^%%  him  on  by 
her  absence ;  but  I  am  sure  she  is  mistaken,  and 
that  he  will  no  more  follow  her  to  Croydon  now  than 
he  did  last  March.  He  will  never  marry  unless  he 
can  marry  somebody  very  great ;  Miss  Osborne,  per- 
haps, or  somebody  in  that  style.' 

*  Your  account  of  this  Tom  Musgrave,  Elizabeth, 
gives  me  very  little  inclination  for  his  acquaintance.' 

'  You  are  afraid  of  him  ;  I  do  not  wonder  at  you.' 
'  No,  indeed  ;  I  dislike  and  despise  him.' 
'  Dishke  and  despise  Tom  Musgrave  !  No,  tJiat 
you  never  can.  I  defy  you  not  to  be  delighted  with 
him  if  he  takes  notice  of  you.  I  hope  he  will  dance 
with  you ;  and  I  dare  say  he  will,  unless  the  Osbornes 
come  with  a  large  party,  and  then  he  will  not  speak 
to  anybody  else.' 

'He  seems  to  have  most  engaging  manners!'  said 


304-  ^^^^  Watsojis. 


Emma.  'Well,  we  shall  see  how  irresistible  Mr.  Tom 
Riusgrave.  and  I  find  each  other.  I  suppose  I  shall 
know  hi'm  as  soon  as  I  enter  the  ball-room  ;  he  must 
carry  some  of  his  charms  in  his  face.' 

'  You  will  not  find  him  in  the  ball-room,  I  can  tell 
you  ;  you  will  go  early,  that  Mrs.  Edwards  may  get 
a  good  place  by  the  fire,  and  he  never  comes  till  late; 
if  the  Osbornes  are  coming,  he  will  wait  in  the  pas- 
sage and  come  in  with  them.  I  should  like  to  look 
in  upon  you,  Emma.  If  it  was  but  a  good  day  with 
my  father,  I  would  wrap  myself  up,  and  James  should 
drive  me  over  as  soon  as  I  had  made  tea  for  him  ; 
and  I  should  be  with  you  by  the  time  the  dancing 
began.' 

*  What !  Would  you  come  late  at  night  in  this 
chair  .^' 

'  To  be  sure  I  would.  There,  I  said  you  were  very 
refined,  and  ihafs  an  instance  of  it' 

Emma  for  a  moment  made  no  answer.  At  last  she 
said — 

*  I  wish,  Elizabeth,  you  had  not  made  a  point  of 
my  going  to  this  ball ;  I  wish  you  were  going  instead 
of  me.  Your  pleasure  would  be  greater  than  mine. 
I  am  a  stranger  here,  and  know  nobody  but  the  Ed- 
wards; my  enjoyment,  therefore,  must  be  very  doubt- 
ful. Yours,  among  all  your  acquaintance,  would 
be  certain.  It  is  not  too  late  to  change.  Very  little 
apology  could  be  requisite  to  the  Edwards,  who 
must  be  more  glad  of  your  company  than  of  mine, 
and  I  should  most  readily  return  to  my  father  ;  and 
should  not  be  at  all  afraid  to  drive  this   quiet  old 


TJie  Watsons.  •  305 


creature  home.     Your  clothes  I  would   undertake  to 
find  means  of  sending  to  you.' 

'  My  dearest  Emma,'  cried  Elizabeth,  warmly,  '  do 
you  think  I  would  do  such  a  thing }  Not  for  the  uni- 
verse !  But  I  shall  never  forget  your  goodnature  in 
proposing  it.  You  must  have  a  sweet  temper  indeed  ! 
I  never  met  with  an}thing  like  it  !  And  would  you 
really  give  up  the  ball  that  I  might  be  able  to  go  to 
it  }  Believe  me,  Emma,  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  that 
comes  to.  No  ;  though  I  am  nine  years  older  than 
}-ou  are,  I  would  not  be  the  means  of  keeping  you 
from  being  seen.  You  are  very  pretty,  and  it  would 
be  very  hard  that  you  should  not  have  as  fair  a 
chance  as  we  have  all  had  to  make  your  fortune.  No, 
Emma,  whoever  stays  at  home  this  winter,  it  shan't 
be  you.  I  am  sure  I  should  never  have  forgiven  the 
person  who  kept  me  from  a  ball  at  nineteen.' 

Emma  expressed  her  gratitude,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  they  jogged  on  in  silence.  Elizabeth  first 
spoke : — 

'  You  will  take  notice  who  INIary  Edwards  dances 
with.^' 

*  I  will  remember  her  partners,  if  I  can  ;  but  you 
know  they  will  be  all  strangers  to  me.' 

'  Only  observe  whether  she  dances  with  Captain 
Hunter  more  than  once — I  have  my  fears  in  that 
quarter.  Not  that  her  father  or  mother  like  officers  ; 
but  if  she  does,  you  know,  it  is  all  over  with  poor 
Sam.  And  I  have  promised  to  write  him  word  who 
she  dances  with.' 

'Is  Sam  attached  to  Miss  Edwards.^' 
X 


5o6  The  Watsons. 


'Did  not  you  know  tJiat  ?' 

*  How  should  I  know  it  ?  How  should  I  know  in 
Shropshire  what  is  passing  of  that  nature  in  Surrey  ? 
It  is  not  hkely  that  circumstances  of  such  dehcacy 
should  have  made  any  part  of  the  scanty  communi- 
cation which  passed  between  you  and  me  for  the  last 
fourteen  years.' 

*  I  wonder  I  never  mentioned  it  when  I  wrote. 
Since  you  have  been  at  home,  I  have  been  so  busy 
with  my  poor  father,  and  our  great  wash,  that  I  have 
had  no  leisure  to  tell  you  anything  ;  but,  indeed,  I 
concluded  you  knew  it  all.  He  has  been  very  much 
in  love  with  her  these  two  years,  and  it  is  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  him  that  he  cannot  always  get  away 
to  our  balls  ;  but  Mr.  Curtis  won't  often  spare  him, 
and  just  now  it  is  a  sickly  time  at  Guildford.' 

'  Do  you  suppose  Miss  Edwards  inclined  to  like  him  .^  * 

*  I  am  afraid  not :  you  know  she  is  an  only  child, 
and  will  have  at  least  ten  thousand  pounds.' 

*  But  still  she  may  like  our  brother.' 

*  Oh,  no !  The  Edwards  look  much  higher.  Her 
father  and  mother  would  never  consent  to  it.  Sam  is 
only  a  surgeon,  you  know.  Sometimes  I  think  she 
does  like  him.  But  Mary  Edwards  is  rather  prim 
and  reserved  ;  I  do  not  always  know  what  she  would 
be  at.' 

*  Unless  Sam  feels  on  sure  grounds  with  the  lady 
herself,  it  seems  a  pity  to  me  that  he  should  be  en- 
couraged to  think  of  her  at  all.' 

*  A  young  man  must  think  of  somebody,'  said 
Elizabeth,  '  and  why  should  not  he  be  as  lucky  as 


The  Watsons.  '  307 


Robert,  who  has  got  a  good  wife  and  six  thousand 
pounds  ? ' 

'  We  must  not  all  expect  to  be  individually  lucky,' 
replied  Emma.  '  The  luck  of  one  member  of  a  family 
is  luck  to  all.' 

'  Mine  is  all  to  come,  I  am  sure,'  said  Elizabeth, 
giving  another  sigh  to  the  remembrance  of  Purvis.  '  I 
have  been  unlucky  enough ;  and  I  cannot  say  much 
for  you,  as  my  aunt  married  again  so  foolishly.  Well, 
you  will  have  a  good  ball,  I  daresay.  The  next  turn- 
ing will  bring  us  to  the  turnpike :  you  may  see  the 
church-tower  over  the  hedge,  and  the  White  Hart  is 
close  by  it.  I  shall  long  to  know  what  you  think  of 
Tom  Musgrave.' 

Such  were  the  last  audible  sounds  of  Miss  Watson's 
voice,  before  they  passed  through  the  turnpike-gate, 
and  entered  on  the  pitching  of  the  town,  the  jumbling 
and  noise  of  which  made  further  conversation  most 
thoroughly  undesirable.  The  old  mare  trotted  heavily 
on,  wanting  no  direction  of  the  reins  to  take  the  right 
turning,  and  making  only  one  blunder,  in  proposing 
to  stop  at  the  milliner's,  before  she  drew  up  towards 
Mr.  Edwards'  door.  Mr.  Edwards  lived  in  the  best 
house  in  the  street,  and  the  best  in  the  place,  if  i\lr. 
Tomlinson,  the  banker,  might  be  indulged  in  calling 
his  newly-erected  house  at  the  end  of  the  town,  with 
a  shrubbery  and  sweep,  in  the  country. 

Mr.  Edwards*  house  was  higher  than  most  of  its 
neighbours,  with  four  windows  on  each  side  the  door ; 
the  windows  guarded  by  posts  and  chains,  and  the 
door  approached  by  a  flight  of  stone  steps. 


3o8  The  Watsons. 


*  Here  we  are,'  said  Elizabeth,  as  the  carriage  ceased 
moving,  *  safely  arrived,  and  by  the  market  clock  we 
have  been  only  five-and-thirty  minutes  coming  ;  which 
I  think  is  doing  pretty  well,  though  it  would  be  nothing 
for  Penelope.  Is  not  it  a  nice  town?  The  Edwards 
have  a  noble  house,  you  see,  and  they  live  quite  in 
style.  The  door  will  be  opened  by  a  man  in  livery, 
with  a  powdered  head,  I  can  tell  you.' 

Emma  had  seen  the  Edwards  only  one  morning  at 
Stanton  ;  they  were  therefore  all  but  strangers  to  her  ; 
and  though  her  spirits  were  by  no  means  insensible  to 
the  expected  joys  of  the  evening,  she  felt  a  little  un- 
comfortable in  the  thought  of  all  that  was  to  precede 
them.  Her  conversation  with  Elizabeth,  too,  giving 
her  some  very  unpleasant  feelings  with  respect  to  her 
own  family,  had  made  her  more  open  to  disagreeable 
impressions  from  any  other  cause,  and  increased  her 
sense  of  the  awkwardness  of  rushing  into  intimacy  on 
so  slight  an  acquaintance. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  manner  of  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Edwards  to  give  immediate  change  to  these  ideas. 
The  mother,  though  a  very  friendly  woman,  had  a 
reserved  air,  and  a  great  deal  of  formal  civility  ;  and 
the  daughter,  a  genteel-looking  girl  of  twenty-two, 
with  her  hair  in  papers,  seemed  very  naturally  to  have 
caught  something  of  the  style  of  her  mother,  who  had 
brought  her  up.  Emma  was  soon  left  to  know  what 
they  could  be,  by  Elizabeth's  being  obliged  to  hurry 
away;  and  some  very  languid  remarks  on  the  pro- 
bable brilliancy  of  the  ball  were  all  that  broke,  at 
intervals,  a  silence  of  half-an-hour,  before  they  were 


TJic  Watsons.  >  309 


joined  by  the  master  of  the  house.  Mr.  Edwards 
had  a  much  easier  and  more  communicative  air  than 
the  ladies  of  the  family  ;  he  was  fresh  from  the  street, 
and  he  came  ready  to  tell  whatever  might  interest. 
After  a  cordial  reception  of  Emma,  he  turned  to  his 
daughter  with — 

*  Well,  Mary,  I  bring  you  good  news :  the  Osbornes 
will  certainly  be  at  the  ball  to-night.  Horses  for  two 
carriages  are.  ordered  from  the  White  Hart  to  beat 
Osborne  Castle  by  nine.' 

*  I  am  glad  of  it,'  observed  Mrs.  Edwards,  '  because 
their  coming  gives  a  credit  to  our  assembly.  The 
Osbornes  being  known  to  have  been  at  the  first  ball, 
will  dispose  a  great  many  people  to  attend  the  second. 
It  is  more  than  they  deserve ;  for,  in  fact,  they  add 
nothing  to  the  pleasure  of  the  evening:  they  come  so 
late  and  go  so  early  ;  but  great  people  have  always 
their  charm.' 

Mr.  Edwards  proceeded  to  relate  many  other  little 
articles  of  news  which  his  morning's  lounge  had 
supplied  him  with,  and  they  chatted  with  greater 
briskness,  till  Mrs.  Edwards'  moment  for  dressing 
arrived,  and  the  young  ladies  were  carefully  recom- 
mended to  lose  no  time.  Emma  was  shown  to  a  very 
comfortable  apartment,  and  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Edwards* 
civilities  could  leave  her  to  herself,  the  happy  occupa- 
tion, the  first  bliss  of  a  ball,  began.  The  girls,  dressing 
in  some  measure  together,  grew  unavoidably  better 
acquainted.  Emma  found  in  Miss  Edwards  the  show 
of  good  sense,  a  modest  unpretending  mind,  and  a 
great  wish  of  obliging  ;  and  when  they  returned  to  the 


3IO  TJie  Watso7is. 


parlour  where  Mrs.  Edwards  was  sitting,  respectably 
attired  in  one  of  the  two  satin  gowns  which  went 
through  the  winter,  and  a  new  cap  from  the  milliner's, 
they  entered  it  with  much  easier  feelings  and  more 
natural  smiles  than  they  had  taken  away.  Their 
dress  was  now  to  be  examined :  Mrs.  Edwards 
acknowledged  herself  too  old-fashioned  to  approve 
of  every  modern  extravagance,  however  sanctioned  ; 
and  though  ,  complacently  viewing  her  daughters 
good  looks,  would  give  but  a  qualified  admiration ; 
and  Mr.  Edwards,  not  less  satisfied  with  Mary,  paid 
some  compliments  of  good-humoured  gallantry  to 
Emma  at  her  expense.  The  discussion  led  to  more 
intimate  remarks,  and  Miss  Edwards  gently  asked 
Emma  if  she  was  not  often  reckoned  very  like  her 
youngest  brother.  Emma  thought  she  could  perceive 
a  faint  blush  accompany  the  question,  and  there 
seemed  something  still  more  suspicious  in  the  manner 
in  which  Mr.  Edwards  took  up  the  subject. 

'  You  are  paying  Miss  Emma  no  great  compliment, 
I  think,  Mary,'  said  he,  hastily.  *  Mr.  Sam  Watson  is 
a  very  good  sort  of  young  man,  and  I  dare  say  a  very 
clever  surgeon  ;  but  his  complexion  has  been  rather  too 
much  exposed  to  all  weathers  to  make  a  likeness  to 
him  very  flattering.' 

Mary  apologised,  in  some  confusion — 

'  She  had  not  thought  a  strong  likeness  at  all  incom- 
patible with  very  different  degrees  of  beauty.  There 
might  be  resemblance  in  countenance,  and  the  com- 
plexion and  even  the  features  be  very  unlike.' 

*  I   know   nothing   of   my   brother's   beauty/   said 


The  Watsovs.  .  31 1 


Emma,  *  for  I  have  not  seen  him  since  he  was  seven 
years  old  ;  but  my  father  reckons  us  ahke.' 

'Mr.  Watson!'  cried  Mr.  Edwards ;  'well,  you  as- 
tonish me.  There  is  not  the  least  likeness  in  the 
world  ;  your  brother's  eyes  are  grey,  yours  are  brown  ; 
he  has  a  long  face,  and  a  wide  mouth.  My  dear,  do 
yon  perceive  the  least  resemblance.^' 

*  Not  the  least:  Miss  Emma  Watson  puts  me  very 
much  in  mind  of  her  eldest  sister,  and  sometimes  I 
see  a  look  of  Miss  Penelope,  and  once  or  twice  there 
has  been  a  glance  of  Mr.  Robert,  but  I  cannot  perceive 
any  likeness  to  Mr.  Samuel' 

'  I  see  the  likeness  between  her  and  Miss  Watson,' 
replied  Mr.  Edwards,  'very  strongly,  but  I  am  not 
sensible  of  the  others.  I  do  not  much  think  she  is 
like  any  of  the  family  hut  Miss  Watson  ;  but  I  am 
very  sure  there  is  no  resemblance  between  her  and 
Sam.' 

This  matter  was  settled,  and  they  went  to  dinner. 

-'Your  father,  Miss  Emma,  is  one  of  my  oldest 
friends,'  said  Mr.  Edwards,  as  he  helped  her  to  wine, 
when  they  were  drawn  round  the  fire  to  enjoy  their 
dessert.  'We  must  drink  to  his  better  health.  It  is 
a  great  concern  to  me,  I  assure  you,  that  he  should  be 
such  an  invalid.  I  know  nobody  who  likes  a  game  of 
cards,  in  a  social  way,  better  than  he  does,  and  very 
few  people  who  play  a  fairer  rubber.  It  is  a  thousand 
pities  that  he  should  be  so  deprived  of  the  pleasure. 
For  now,  we  have  a  quiet  little  Whist  Club,  that  meets 
three  times  a  week  at  the  White  Hart  ;  and  if  he  could 
but  hav^e  his  health,  how  nmch  he  would  enjoy  it!' 


312  The  Watsons. 


'  I  daresay  he  would,  sir ;  and  I  wish,  with  all  my 
heart,  he  were  equal  to  it.' 

*  Your  club  would  be  better  fitted  for  an  invalid,' 
said  Mrs.  Edwards,  *if  you  did  not  keep  it  up  so 
late.'     This  was  an  old  grievance. 

'So  late,  my  dear!  What  are  you  talking  of.'^' 
cried  the  husband,  with  sturdy  pleasantry.  '  We  are 
always  at  home  before  midnight.  They  would  laugh 
at  Osborne  Castle  to  hear  you  call  tJiat  late ;  they 
are  but  just  rising  from  dinner  at  midnight.' 

*  That  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,'  retorted  the 
lady,  calmly.  '  The  Osborncs  are  to  be  no  rule  fur 
us.  You  had  better  meet  every  night,  and  break  up 
two  hours  sooner.* 

So  far  the  subject  was  very  often  carried  ;  but  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Edwards  were  so  wise  as  never  to  pass  that 
point ;  and  Mr.  Edwards  now  turned  to  something 
else.  He  had  lived  long  enough  in  the  idleness  of  a 
town  to  become  a  little  of  a  gossip,  and  having  some 
anxiety  to  know  more  of  the  circumstances  of  his 
young  guest  than  had  yet  reached  him,  he  began 
with— 

*  I  think.  Miss  Emma,  I  remember  your  aunt  very 
well,  about  thirty  years  ago  ;  I  am  pretty  sure  1 
danced  with  her  in  the  old  rooms  at  Bath  the  year 
before  I  married.  She  was  a  very  fine  woman  tlien, 
but  like  other  people,  I  suppose,  she  is  grown  some- 
what older  since  that  time.  I  hope  she  is  likely  to 
be  happy  in  her  second  choice.' 

*  I  hope  so  ;  I  believe  so,  sir,'  said  Emma,  In  some 
agitation. 


The  Watsoin.  .  313 


*  Mr.  Turner  had  not  been  dead  a  great  while,  I 
think  ? ' 

'  About  two  years,  sir.' 

'  I  forget  what  her  name  is  now.' 

'  O'Brien.' 

*  Irisli  !  ah,  I  remember;  and  she  is  gone  to  settle 
in  Ireland.  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  should  not 
wish  to  go  with  her  into  tJiat  country.  Miss  Emma  ; 
but  it  must  be  a  great  deprivation  to  her,  poor  lady! 
after  bringing  you  up  like  a  child  of  her  own.* 

'  I  was  not  so  ungrateful,  sir,'  said  Emma,  warmly, 
*  as  to  wish  to  be  anywhere  but  with  her.  It  did  not 
suit  Captain  O'Brien  that  I  should  be  of  the  party.' 

*  Captain  ! '  repeated  Mrs.  Edwards.  '  The  gentle- 
man is  in  the  army  then  } ' 

'  Yes,  ma'am.' 

'Aye,  there  is  nothing  like  your  officers  for  captl- 
vatincf  the  ladies,  vouncc  or  old.  There  is  no  resistincT 
a  cockade,  my  dear.' 

'  I  hope  there  is,'  said  Mrs.  Edwards  gravely,  with 
a  quick  glance  at  her  daughter  ;  and  Emma  had  just 
recovered  from  her  own  perturbation  in  time  to  see  a 
blush  on  Miss  Edwards'  check  and  in  remembering 
what  Elizabeth  had  said  of  Captain  Hunter,  to  wonder 
and  waver  between  his  influence  and  her  brother's. 

*  Elderly  ladies  should  be  careful  how  they  make  a 
second  choice,'  observed  Mr.  Edwards. 

'  Carefulness  and  discretion  should  not  be  confmed 
to  elderly  ladies,  or  to  a  second  choice,'  added  his 
wife.  *  They  are  quite  as  necessary  to  young  ladies  in 
their  first.' 


314  The  Watsons. 


*  Rather  more  so,  my  dear,'  replied  he  ;  '  because 
young  ladies  are  likely  to  feel  the  effects  of  it  longer. 
When  an  old  lady  plays  the  fool,  it  is  not  in  the 
course  of  nature  that  she  should  suffer  from  it  many 
years.' 

Emma  drew'  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  Mrs. 
Edwards,  in  perceiving  it,  changed  the  subject  to  one 
of  less  anxiety  to  all. 

With  nothing  to  do  but  to  expect  the  hour  of 
setting  off,  the  afternoon  was  long  to  the  two  young 
ladies ;  and  though  Miss  Edwards  was  rather  dis- 
composed at  the  very  early  hour  which  her  mother 
always  fixed  for  going,  that  early  hour  itself  was 
watched  for  with  some  eagerness.  The  entrance  of 
the  tea-things  at  seven  o'clock  was  some  relief;  and, 
luckily,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwards  always  drank  a  dish 
extraordinary  and  ate  an  additional  muffin  when 
they  were  going  to  sit  up  late,  which  lengthened  the 
ceremony  almost  to  the  wished-for  n  oment. 

At  a  little  before  eight  o'clock  the  Tomlinsons'  car- 
riage was  heard  to  go  by,  which  was  the  constant 
signal  for  Mrs.  Edwards  to  order  hers  to  the  door ; 
and  in  a  very  few  minutes  the  party  were  trans- 
ported from  the  quiet  and  warmth  of  a  snug  parlour  to 
the  bustle,  noise,  and  draughts  of  air  of  a  broad  entrance 
passage  of  an  inn.  Mrs.  Edwards,  carefully  guard- 
ing her  own  dress,  while  she  attended  with  yet  greater 
solicitude  to  the  proper  security  of  her  young  charges' 
shoulders  and  throats,  led  the  way  up  the  wide  stair- 
case, while  no  sound  of  a  ball  but  the  first  scrape  of 
one   violin    blessed  the    ears    of  her   followers  ;  and 


The  Watsons.  .  315 


Miss  Edwards,  on  hazarding  the  anxious  enquiry  of 
whether  there  were  many  people  come  yet,  was  told 
by  the  waiter,  as  she  knew  she  should,  that  Mr.  Tom- 
linson's  family  were  in  the  room. 

In  passing  along  a  short  gallery  to  the  assembly 
room,  brilliant  in  lights  before  them,  they  were  ac- 
costed by  a  young  man  in  a  morning-dress  and  boots, 
who  was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  a  bedchamber 
apparently  on  purpose  to  see  them  go  by. 

*  Ah  !  Mrs.  Edwards,  how  do  you  do  t  How  do 
you  do.  Miss  Edwards  } '  he  cried,  with  an  easy  air. 
•  You  are  determined  to  be  in  good  time,  I  see,  as 
usual.     The  candles  are  but  this  moment  lit.' 

*  I  like  to  get  a  good  seat  by  the  fire,  you  know, 
Mr.  Musgrave,'  replied  Mrs.  Edwards. 

*  I  am  this  moment  going  to  dress,'  said  he.  '  I 
am  waiting  for  my  stupid  fellow.  We  shall  have  a 
famous  ball.  The  Osbornes  are  certainly  coming ; 
you  may  depend  upon  that,  for  I  was  with  Lord 
Osborne  this  morning.' 

The  party  passed  on.  Mrs.  Edwards'  satin  gown 
swept  along  the  clean  floor  of  the  ballroom  to  the 
fireplace  at  the  upper  end,  where  one  party  only  were 
formally  seated,  while  three  or  four  officers  were 
lounging  together,  passing  in  and  out  from  the  ad- 
joining card-room.  A  very  stiff"  meeting  between 
these  near  neighbours  ensued,  and  as  soon  as  they 
were  all  duly  placed  again,  Emma,  in  a  low  whisper, 
which  became  the  solemn  scene,  said  to  Miss 
Edwards  :■ — 

*  The  gentleman  we  passed  in  the  passage  was  Ivl  r. 


3i6  The  Watso7is. 


Musgrave,  then  ;   he  is   reckoned  remarkably  agree- 
able, I  understand  ? ' 

Miss  Edwards  answered  hesitatingly,  *  Yes ;  he  is 
very  much  liked  by  many  people ;  but  ive  are  not 
very  intimate.' 

*  He  is  rich,  is  not  he  ? ' 

*  lie  has  about  eight  or  nine  hundred  a-year,  I 
believe.  He  came  into  possession  of  it  when  he  was 
very  young,  and  my  father  and  mother  think  it  has 
given  him  rather  an  unsettled  turn.  He  is  no  favourite 
with  them.' 

The  cold  and  empty  appearance  of  the  room,  and 
the  demure  air  of  the  small  cluster  of  females  at  one 
end  of  it,  began  soon  to  give  way.  The  inspiriting 
sound  of  other  carriages  was  heard,  and  continual 
accessions  of  portly  chaperones,  and  strings  of  smartly 
dressed  girls,  were  received,  with  now  and  then  a 
fresh  gentleman  straggler,  who,  if  not  enough  in  love 
to  station  himself  near  any  fair  creature,  seemed  glad 
to  escape  into  the  card-room. 

Among  the  increasing  number  of  military  men, 
one  now  made  his  way  to  Miss  Edwards  with  an 
air  of  empressment  which  decidedly  said  to  her  com- 
panion, '  I  am  Captain  Hunter  ; '  and  Emma,  who 
could  not  but  watch  her  at  such  a  moment,  saw  her 
looking  rather  distressed,  but  by  no  means  displeased, 
and  heard  an  engagement  formed  for  the  two  first 
dances,  which  made  her  think  her  brother  Sam's 
a  hopeless  case. 

Emma  in  the  meanwhile  w^as  not  unobserved  or 
unadmired  herself.     A  new  face,  and  a  very  pretty 


The  Watsons.  '  317 


one,  could  not  be  slighted.  Her  name  was  whispered 
from  one  party  to  another,  and  no  sooner  had  tlie 
signal  been  given  by  the  orchestra's  striking  up  a 
favourite  air,  which  seemed  to  call  the  young  to  their 
duty  and  people  the  centre  of  the  room,  than  she  found 
herself  engaged  to  dance  with  a  brother  officer,  intro- 
duced by  Captain  Hunter. 

Emma  Watson  was  not  more  than  of  the  middle 
height,  well  made  and  plump,  with  an  air  of  healthy 
vigour.  Her  skin  was  very  brown,  but  clear,  smooth, 
and  glowing,  which,  with  a  lively  eye,  a  sweet  smile, 
and  an  open  countenance,  gave  beauty  to  attract, 
and  expression  to  make  that  beauty  improve  on  ac- 
quaintance. Having  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  her  partner,  the  evening  began  very  pleasantly 
to  her,  and  her  feelings  perfectly  coincided  with  the 
reiterated  observ^ation  of  others,  that  it  was  an  ex- 
cellent ball.  The  two  first  dances  were  not  quite 
over  w^hen  the  returning  sound  of  carriages  after  a 
long  interruption  called  general  notice  I — '  The  Os- 
bornes  are  coming  !  *  '  The  Osbornes  are  coming  ! ' 
was  repeated  round  the  room.  After  some  minutes 
of  extraordinary  bustle  without  and  watchful  curi- 
osity within,  the  important  party,  preceded  by  the 
attentive  master  of  the  inn,  to  open  a  door  which  was 
never  shut,  made  their  appearance.  They  consisted 
of  Lady  Osborne;  her  son.  Lord  Osborne;  her 
daughter.  Miss  Osborne  ;  IMiss  Carr,  her  daughter's 
friend  ;  Mr.  Howard,  formerly  tutor  to  Lord  Osborne, 
now  clergyman  of  the  parish  in  which  the  castle 
stood  ;    Mrs.  Blake,  a   widow  sister,  who  li\ed   with 


3l8  The  Watsons. 


him  ;  her  son,  a  fine  boy  of  ten  years  old  ;  and  Mr. 
Tom  Musgrave,  who  probably,  imprisoned  within  his 
own  room,  had  been  listening  in  bitter  impatience  to 
the  sound  of  the  music  for  the  last  half-hour.  In 
their  progress  up  the  room  they  paused  almost  im- 
mediately behind  Emma  to  receive  the  compliments 
of  some  acquaintance,  and  she  heard  Lady  Osborne 
observe  that  they  had  made  a  point  of  coming  early 
for  the  gratification  of  Mrs.  Blake's  little  boy,  who 
was  uncommonly  fond  of  dancing.  Emma  looked  at 
them  all  as  they  passed,  but  chiefly  and  with  most 
interest  on  Tom  Musgrave,  who  was  certainly  a 
genteel,  good-looking  young  man.  Of  the  females 
Lady  Osborne  had  by  much  the  finest  person  ;  though 
nearly  fifty,  she  was  very  handsome,  and  had  all  the 
dignity  of  rank. 

Lord  Osborne  was  a  very  fine  young  man ;  but 
there  was  an  air  of  coldness,  of  carelessness,  even  of 
awkwardness  about  him,  which  seemed  to  speak  him 
out  of  his  element  in  a  ball-room.  He  came  in  fact 
only  because  it  was  judged  expedient  for  him  to 
please  the  borough  ;  he  was  not  fond  of  women's 
company,  and  he  never  danced.  Mr.  Howard  was  an 
agreeable-looking  man,  a  little  more  than  thirty. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  two  dances,  Emma  found 
herself,  she  knew  not  how,  seated  amongst  the  Os- 
borne's set  ;  and  she  was  immediately  struck  with 
the  fine  countenance  and  animated  gestures  of  the 
little  boy,  as  he  was  standing  before  his  mother,  con- 
sidering when  they  should  begin. 

*  You  will  not  be  surprised  at  Charles's  impatience/ 


The  Watsons.  '  319 


said  Mrs.  Blake,  a  lively,  pleasant-looking  little  woman 
of  five  or  six  and  thirty,  to  a  lady  who  was  standing 
near  her,  *  when  you  know  what  a  partner  he  is  to 
have.  Miss  Osborne  has  been  so  very  kind  as  to 
promise  to  dance  the  two  first  dances  with  him.' 

*  Oh,  yes  !  we  have  been  engaged  this  week,'  cried 
the  boy,  *  and  we  are  to  dance  down  every  couple.' 

On  the  other  side  of  Emma,  Miss  Osborne,  Miss 
Carr,  and  a  party  of  young  men  were  standing  en- 
gaged in  very  lively  consultation  ;  and  soon  after- 
wards she  saw  the  smartest  officer  of  the  set  walking 
off  to  the  orchestra  to  order  the  dance,  while  Miss 
Osborne  passing  before  her  to  her  little  expecting 
partner,  hastily  said,  *  Charles,  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
not  keeping  my  engagement,  but  I  am  going  to  dance 
these  two  dances  with  Colonel  Beresford.  I  know 
you  will  excuse  me,  and  I  will  certainly  dance  with 
you  after  tea ; '  and  without  staying  for  an  answer, 
she  turned  again  to  Miss  Carr,  and  in  another  minute 
was  led  by  Colonel  Beresford  to  begin  the  set.  If 
the  poor  little  boy's  face  had  in  its  happiness  been 
interesting  to  Emma,  it  was  infinitely  more  so  under 
this  sudden  reverse  ;  he  stood  the  picture  of  disap- 
pointment with  crimsoned  cheeks,  quivering  lips,  and 
eyes  bent  on  the  floor.  His  mother,  stifling  her  own 
mortification,  tried  to  soothe  his  with  the  prospect  of 
Miss  Osborne's  second  promise ;  but,  though  he  con- 
trived to  utter  with  an  effort  of  boyish  bravery,  *  Oh, 
I  do  not  mind  it  !  '  it  was  very  evident  by  the  un- 
ceasing agitation  of  his  features  that  he  minded  it 
as  much  as  ever. 


^20  The  Watsojis. 


Emma  did  not  think  or  reflect ;  she  felt  and  acted. 

*  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  dance  with  you,  sir,  if  you 
like  it,'  said  she,  holding  out  her  hand  with  the  most 
unaffected  good-humour.  The  boy,  in  one  moment 
restored  to  all  his  first  delight,  looked  joyfully  at  his 
mother;  and  stepping  forwards  with  an  honest,  simple 

*  Thank  you,  ma'am,'  was  instantly  ready  to  attend  his 
new  acquaintance.  The  thankfulness  of  Mrs.  Blake 
was  more  diffuse  ;  with  a  look  most  expressive  of 
unexpected  pleasure  and  lively  gratitude,  she  turned 
to  her  neighbour  with  repeated  and  fervent  acknow- 
ledgements of  so  great  and  condescending  a  kindness 
to  her  boy.  Emma  with  perfect  truth  could  assure 
her  that  she  could  not  be  giving  greater  pleasure  than 
she  felt  herself;  and  Charles  being  provided  with  his 
gloves  and  charged  to  keep  them  on,  they  joined  the 
set  which  was  now  rapidly  forming,  with  nearly  equal 
complacency.  It  was  a  partnership  which  could  not 
be  noticed  without  surprise.  It  gained  her  a  broad 
stare  from  Miss  Osborne  and  Miss  Carr  as  they  passed 
her  in  the  dance.  '  Upon  my  word,  Charles,  you  are 
in  luck,'  said  the  former,  as  she  turned  him  ;  '  you 
have  got  a  better  partner  than  me;'  to  which  the 
happy  Charles  answered  '  Yes.' 

Tom  Musgrave,  who  was  dancing  with  Miss  Carr, 
gave  her  many  inquisitive  glances ;  and  after  a  time 
Lord  Osborne  himself  came,  and  under  pretence  of 
talking  to  Charles,  stood  to  look  at  his  partner. 
Though  rather  distressed  by  such  observation,  Emma 
could  not  repent  what  she  had  done,  so  happy  had  it 
made   both  the  boy  and  his  mother ;  the  latter  of 


TJic  Watsons.  .  321 


whom  was  continually  making  opportunities  of  ad- 
dressing her  with  the  warmest  civihty.  Her  little 
partner  she  found,  though  bent  chiefly  on  dancing, 
was  not  unwilling  to  speak,  when  her  questions  or 
remarks  gave  him  anything  to  say  ;  and  she  learnt, 
by  a  sort  of  inevitable  enquiry,  that  he  had  two 
brothers  and  a  sister,  that  they  and  their  mamma  all 
lived  with  his  uncle  at  Wickstead,  that  his  uncle 
taught  him  Latin,  that  he  was  very  fond  of  riding, 
and  had  a  horse  of  his  own  given  him  by  Lord 
Osborne ;  and  that  he  had  been  out  once  already 
with  Lord  Osborne's  hounds. 

At  the  end  of  these  dances,  Emma  found  they  were 
to  drink  tea  ;  Miss  Edwards  gave  her  a  caution  to  be 
at  hand,  in  a  manner  which  convinced  her  of  Mrs. 
Edwards'  holding  it  very  important  to  have  them 
both  close  to  her  when  she  moved  into  the  tea-room  ; 
and  Emma  was  accordingly  on  the  alert  to  gain  her 
proper  station.  It  was  always  the  pleasure  of  the 
company  to  have  a  little  bustle  and  crowd  when  they 
adjourned  for  refreshment.  The  tea-room  was  a 
small  room  within  the  card-room  ;  and  in  passing 
through  the  latter,  where  the  passage  was  straitened 
by  tables,  Mrs.  Edwards  and  her  party  were  for  a 
few  moments  hemmed  in.  It  happened  close  by 
Lady  Osborne's  casino  table  ;  Mr.  Howard,  who  be- 
longed to  it,  spoke  to  his  nephew  ;  and  Emma,  on 
perceiving  herself  the  object  of  attention  both  to 
Lady  Osborne  and  him,  had  just  turned  away  her 
eyes  in  time  to  avoid  seeming  to  hear  her  young 
companion   exclaim    delightedly  aloud,  *  Oh,  uncle ! 

V 


^22  The  Watsons. 


do  look  at  ;ny  partner  ;  she  is  so  pretty ! '  As 
they  were  immediately  in  motion  again,  however, 
Charles  was  hurried  off  without  being  able  to  receive 
his  uncle's  suffrage.  On  entering  the  tea-room,  in 
which  two  long  tables  were  prepared,  Lord  Osborne 
was  to  be  seen  quite  alone  at  the  end  of  one,  as  if 
retreating  as  far  as  he  could  from  the  ball,  to  enjoy 
his  own  thoughts  and  gape  without  restraint  Charles 
instantly  pointed  him  out  to  Emma.  '  There's  Lord 
Osborne,  let  you  and  I  go  and  sit  by  him.' 

*  No,  no,'  said  Emma,  laughing,  'you  must  sit 
with  my  friends.* 

Charles   was   now   free   enough   to   hazard   a   few 
questions  in  his  turn.     '  What  o'clock  was  it  t ' 
'  Eleven.' 

*  Eleven !  and  I  am  not  at  all  sleepy.  Mamma 
said  I  should  be  asleep  before  ten.  Do  you  think 
Miss  Osborne  will  keep  her  word  with  me  when  tea 
is  over  V 

'  Oh,  yes  !  I  suppose  so  ; '  though  she  felt  that  she 
had  no  better  reason  to  give  than  that  Miss  Osborne 
had  not  kept  it  before. 

*  When  shall  you  come  to  Osborne  Castle  ?* 

*  Ntver,  probably.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  the 
family.' 

*  But  you  may  come  to  Wickstead  and  see  mamma, 
and  she  can  take  you  to  the  castle.  There  is  a 
monstrous  curious  stuffed  fox  there,  and  a  badger, 
anybody  would  think  they  were  alive.  It  is  a  pity 
you  should  not  see  them.* 

On  rising  from  tea  there  was  again  a  scramble  for 


The  Watsons.  '  323 


the  pleasure  of  being  first  out  of  the  room,  which 
happened  to  be  increased  by  one  or  two  of  the  card- 
parties  having  just  broken  up,  and  the  players  being 
disposed  to  move  exactly  the  different  way.  Among 
these  was  Mr.  Howard,  his  sister  leaning  on  his  arm  ; 
and  no  sooner  were  they  within  reach  of  Emma,  than 
Mrs.  Blake,  calling  her  notice  by  a  friendly  touch, 
said,  'Your  goodness  to  Charles,  my  dear  Miss 
Watson,  brings  all  his  family  upon  you.  Give  me 
leave  to  introduce  my  brother.'  Emma  curtsied,  the 
gentleman  bowed,  made  a  hasty  request  for  the 
honour  of  her  hand  in  the  two  next  dances,  to  which 
as  hasty  an  affirmative  was  given,  and  they  were  im- 
mediately impelled  in  opposite  directions.  Emma  was 
very  well  pleased  with  the  circumstance  ;  there  was  a 
quietly  cheerful,  gentlemanlike  air  in  Mr.  Howard 
which  suited  her  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  afterwards  the 
value  of  her  engagement  increased,  when,  as  she  was 
sitting  in  the  card-room,  somewhat  screened  by  a 
door,  she  heard  Lord  Osborne,  who  was  lounging  on 
a  vacant  table  near  her,  call  Tom  Musgrave  towards 
him  and  say,  *  Why  do  not  you  dance  with  that  beau- 
tiful Emma  Watson  ?  I  want  you  to  dance  with  her, 
and  I  will  come  and  stand  by  you.' 

*  I  was    determined    on  it    this  very  moment,  my 
lord  ;  I'll  be  introduced  and  dance  with  her  directly.' 

*  Aye,  do ;  and  if  you  find  she  does  not  want  much 
talking  to,  you  may  introduce  me  by  and  by.' 

*  Very  well,  my  lord  ;  if  she  is  like  her  sisters  she 
will   only  want    to   be    listened    to.       I   will   go  this 

V  2 


324  Tlie  Watsons. 


moment.  I  shall  find  her  In  the  tea-room.  That  stiff 
old  Mrs.  Edwards  has  never  done  tea.* 

Away  he  went,  Lord  Osborne  after  him ;  and 
Emma  lost  no  time  in  hunying  from  her  corner 
exactly  the  other  way,  forgetting  in  her  haste  that 
she  left  Mrs.  Edwards  behind. 

*  We  had  quite  lost  you,'  said  Mrs.  Edwards,  who 
followed  her  with  Mary  in  less  than  five  minutes. 
*  If  you  prefer  this  room  to  the  other  there  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  not  be  here,  but  we  had  better 
all  be  together.' 

Emma  was  saved  the  trouble  of  apologising,  by 
their  being  joined  at  the  moment  by  Tom  Musgrave, 
who  requesting  Mrs.  Edwards  aloud  to  do  him  the 
honour  of  presenting  him  to  IMiss  Emma  Watson, 
left  that  good  lady  V\ithout  any  choice  in  the  busi- 
ness, but  that  of  testifying  by  the  coldness  of  her 
manner  that  she  did  it  unwillingly.  The  honour  of 
dancing  with  her  was  solicited  without  loss  of  time, 
and  Emma,  however  she  might  like  to  be  thought  a 
beautiful  girl  by  lord  or  commoner,  was  so  little  dis- 
posed to  favour  Tom  Musgrave  himself  that  she  had 
considerable  satisfaction  in  avowing  her  previous  en- 
gagement. He  was  evidently  surprised  and  discom- 
posed. The  style  of  her  last  partner  had  probably 
led  him  to  believe  her  not  overpowered  with  applica- 
tions. 

'  My  little  friend,  Charles  Blake,'  he  cried,  *  must 
not  expect  to  engross  you  the  whole  evening.  We 
can  never  suffer  this.  It  is  against  the  rules  of  the 
assembly,  and  I  axn  sure  it  will  never  be  patronised 


The  Watsons.  •  325 


by  our  good  friend  here,  Mrs.  Edwards;   she  is  by- 
much  too  nice  a  judge  of  decorum  to  give  her  Hcensc 

to  such  a  dangerous  particularity ' 

'  I  am  not  going  to  dance  with  Master  Blakc,  sir!* 
The  gentleman,  a  little  disconcerted,  could  only 
hope  he  might  be  fortunate  another  time,  and  seem- 
ing unwilling  to  leave  her,  though  his  friend.  Lord 
Osborne,  was  waiting  in  the  doorway  for  the  result, 
as  Emma  with  some  amusement  perceived,  he  began 
to  make  civil  enquiries  after  her  family. 

*  Mow  comes  it  that  we  have  not  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  your  sisters  here  this  evening  }  Our  assemblies 
have  been  used  to  be  so  well  treated  by  them  that  we 
do  not  know  how  to  take  this  neglect.' 

*  My  eldest  sister  is  the  only  one  at  home,  and  she 
could  not  leave  my  father.' 

*  Miss  Watson  the  only  one  at  home !  You  astonish 
me  !  It  seems  but  the  day  before  yesterday  that  I 
saw  them  all  three  in  this  town.  But  I  am  afraid  I 
have  been  a  very  sad  neighbour  of  late.  I  hear  dread- 
ful complaints  of  my  negligence  wherever  I  go,  and  I 
confess  it  is  a  shameful  length  of  time  since  I  was  at 
Stanton.  But  I  shall  nozv  endeavour  to  make  myself 
amends  for  the  past.' 

Emma's  calm  curtsey  in  reply  must  have  struck 
him  as  very  unlike  the  encouraging  warmth  he  had 
been  used  to  receive  from  her  sisters,  and  gave  him 
probably  the  novel  sensation  of  doubting  his  own  in- 
fluence, and  of  wishing  for  more  attention  than  she 
bestowed.  The  dancing  now  recommenced  ;  Miss 
Carr  being  impatient  to  call,  everybody  was  required 


3  2 '5  The  Watsons. 


to  stand  up ;  and  Tom  Musgrave's  curiosity  was  ap- 
peased on  seeing  Mr.  Howard  come  forward  and 
claim  Emma's  hand. 

*  That  will  do  as  well  for  me,'  was  Lord  Osborne's 
remark,  when  his  friend  carried  him  the  news,  and  he 
was  continually  at  Howard's  elbow  during  the  two 
dances. 

The  frequency  of  his  appearance  there  was  the  only 
unpleasant  part  of  the  engagement,  the  only  objection 
she  could  make  to  Mr.  Howard.  In  himself,  she 
thought  him  as  agreeable  as  he  looked  ;  though  chat- 
ting on  the  commonest  topics,  he  had  a  sensible,  unaf- 
fected way  of  expressing  himself,  which  made  them  all 
worth  hearing,  and  she  only  regretted  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  make  his  pupil's  manners  as  unexcep- 
tionable as  his  own.  The  two  dances  seemed  very 
short,  and  she  had  her  partner's  authority  for  con- 
sidering them  so.  At  their  conclusion,  the  Osbornes 
and  their  train  were  all  on  the  move. 

*  We  are  off  at  last,'  said  his  lordship  to  Tom  ; 
*  How  much  longer  do  you  stay  in  this  heavenly 
place  .'' — till  sunrise  V 

*  No,  faith  !  my  lord  ;  I  have  had  quite  enough  of  it, 
I  assure  you.  I  shall  not  show  myself  here  again 
when  I  have  had  the  honour  of  attending  Lady  Os- 
borne to  her  carriage.  I  shall  retreat  in  as  much 
secrecy  as  possible  to  the  most  remote  corner  of  the 
house,  where  I  shall  order  a  barrel  of  oysters,  and  be 
famously  snug.' 

'  Let  me  see  you  soon  at  the  castle,  and  bring  me 
word  how  she  looks  by  daylight.* 


The  Watsons.  .  327 


Emma  and  Mrs.  Blake  parted  as  old  acquaintance, 
and  Charles  shook  her  by  the  hand,  and  wished  her 
goodbye  at  least  a  dozen  times.  From  Miss  Osborne 
and  Miss  Carr  she  received  something  like  a  jerking 
curtsey  as  they  passed  her ;  even  Lady  Osborne  gave 
her  a  look  of  complacency,  and  his  lordship  actually 
came  back  after  the  others  were  out  of  the  room,  to 
*  beg  her  pardon,'  and  look  in  the  window-seat  behind 
her  for  the  gloves  which  were  visibly  compressed  in 
his  hand.  As  Tom  Musgrave  was  seen  no  more,  we 
may  suppose  his  plan  to  have  succeeded,  and  imagine 
him  mortifying  with  his  barrel  of  oysters  in  dreary 
soHtude,  or  gladly  assisting  the  landlady  in  her  bar  to 
make  fresh  negus  for  the  happy  dancers  above. 
Emma  could  not  help  missing  the  party  by  whom 
she  had  been,  though  in  some  respects  unpleasantly, 
distinguished,  and  the  two  dances  which  followed  and 
concluded  the  ball  were  rather  flat  in  comparison  with 
the  others.  Mr.  Edwards  having  played  with  good 
luck,  they  were  some  of  the  last  in  the  room. 

'  Here  we  are  back  again,  I  declare,'  said  Emma 
sorrowfully,  as  she  walked  into  the  dining-room,  where 
the  table  was  prepared,  and  the  neat  upper  maid  was 
lighting  the  candles. 

'  My  dear  Miss  Edwards,  how  soon  it  is  at  an  end ! 
I  wish  it  could  all  come  over  again.' 

A  great  deal  of  kind  pleasure  was  expressed  in  her 
having  enjoyed  the  evening  so  much ;  and  Mr.  Ed- 
wards was  as  warm  as  herself  in  the  praise  of  the 
fulness,  brilliancy,  and  spirit  of  the  meeting,  though 
as  he  had  been  fixed  the  whole  time  at   the  same 


328  The  Watsons. 


table  in  the  same  room,  with  only  one  chanr^e  of 
chairs,  it  might  have  seemed  a  matter  scarcely  per- 
ceived ;  but  he  had  won  four  rubbers  out  of  hve,  and 
everything  went  well.  His  daughter  felt  the  advan- 
tage of  this  gratified  state  of  mind,  in  the  course  of 
the  remarks  and  retrospections  which  now  ensued 
over  the  welcome  soup. 

*  How  came  you  not  to  dance  with  either  of  the 
Mr.  Tomlinsons,  Mary.?'  said  her  mother. 

*  I  was  always  engaged  when  they  asked  me.' 

*  I  thought  you  were  to  have  stood  up  with  Mr. 
James  the  two  last  dances;  Mrs.  Tomlinson  told  me 
he  was  gone  to  ask  you,  and  I  had  heard  you  say  two 
minutes  before  that  you  were  not  engaged.' 

*  Yes,  but  there  was  a  mistake ;  I  had  misunder- 
stood. I  did  not  know  I  was  engaged.  I  thought  it 
had  been  for  the  two  dances  after,  if  we  stayed  so  long; 
but  Captain  Hunter  assured  me  it  was  for  those  very 
two.* 

*  So  you  ended  with  Captain  Hunter,  Mary,  did 
you?'  said  her  father.  *And  whom  did  you  begin 
with  V 

*  Captain  Hunter,'  was  repeated  in  a  very  humble 
tone. 

*  Hum  !  That  is  being  constant,  however.  But 
who  else  did  you  dance  with  ?' 

'  Mr.  Norton  and  Mr.  Styles.' 
'And  who  are  they  ?' 

'  Mr.  Norton  is  a  cousin  of  Captain  HunlerV 
*And  who  is  Mr.  Styles  ?' 

*  One  of  his  particular  friends.* 


The  Watsons.  '  329 


*All  in  the  same  regiment,'  a(Med  Mrs.  Edwards. 
*  Mary  was  surrounded  by  red-coats  all  the  evening. 
I  should  have  been  better  pleased  to  see  her  dancing 
with  some  of  our  old  neighbours,  I  confess.' 

*  Yes,  yes;  we  must  not  neglect  our  old  neighbours. 
But  if  these  soldiers  are  quicker  than  other  people  ia 
a  ball-room,  what  are  young  ladies  to  do  ?' 

'  I  think  there  is  no  occasion  for  their  engaging 
themselves  so  many  dances  beforehand,  Mr.  Ed- 
wards * 

*  No,  perhaps  not;  but  I  remember,  my  dear,  when 
you  and  I  did  the  same.' 

Mrs.  Edwards  said  no  more,  and  Mary  breathed 
again.  A  good  deal  of  good-humoured  pleasantry 
followed,  and  Emma  went  to  bed  in  charming  spirits, 
her  head  full  of  Osbornes,  Blakes,  and  Howards. 

The  next  morning  brought  a  great  many  visitors.  It 
was  the  way  of  the  place  always  to  call  on  Mrs.  Ed- 
wards the  morning  after  a  ball,  and  this  neighbourly 
inclination  was  increased  in  the  present  instance  by  a 
general  spirit  of  curiosity  on  Emma's  account,  as 
everybody  w^anted  to  look  again  at  the  girl  who  had 
been  admired  the  night  before  by  Lord  Osborne. 
Many  were  the  eyes,  and  various  the  degrees  of  ap- 
probation with  which  she  w-as  examined.  Some  saw 
no  fault,  and  some  no  beauty.  With  some  her  brown 
skin  was  the  annihilation  of  every  grace,  and  others 
could  never  be  persuaded  that  she  was  half  so  hand- 
some as  Elizabeth  Watson  had  been  ten  years  ago. 
The  morning  passed  quickly  away  in  discussing  the 
merits  of  the  ball  with  all  this  succession  of  company, 


330  The  Watsons. 


and  Emma  was  at  once  astonished  by  finding  it  two 
o'clock,  and  considering  that  she  had  heard  nothing 
of  her  father's  chair.  After  this  discovery  she  had 
walked  twice  to  the  window  to  examine  the  street 
and  was  on  the  point  of  asking  leave  to  ring  the  bell 
and  make  enquiries,  when  the  light  sound  of  a  car- 
riage driving  up  to  the  door  set  her  heart  at  ease. 
She  stepped  again  to  the  window,  but  instead  of  the 
convenient  though  very  un-smart  family  equipage 
perceived  a  vieat  curricle.  Mr.  Musgrave  was  shortly 
afterwards  announced,  and  Mrs.  Edwards  put  on  her 
very  stififest  look  at  the  sound.  Not  at  all  dismayed, 
however,  by  her  chilling  air,  he  paid  his  compliments 
to  each  of  the  ladies  with  no  unbecoming  ease,  and 
continuing  to  address  Emma  presented  her  a  note, 
which  'he  had  the  honour  of  bringing  from  her  sister, 
but  to  which  he  must  observe  a  verbal  postscript  fi-om 
himself  would  be  requisite.' 

The  note,  which  Emma  was  beginning  to  read 
rather  before  Mrs.  Edwards  had  entreated  her  to  use 
no  ceremony,  contained  a  few  lines  from  Elizabeth 
importing  that  their  father,  in  consequence  of  being 
unusually  well,  had  taken  the  sudden  resolution  of 
attending  the  visitation  that  day,  and  that  as  his  road 
lay  quite  wide  from  D.  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
come  home  till  the  following  morning,  unless  the 
Edwards  would  send  her,  which  was  hardly  to  be 
expected,  or  she  could  meet  with  any  chance  convey- 
ance, or  did  not  mind  walking  so  far.  She  had 
scarcely  run  her  eye  through  the  whole,  before  she 


The  Watso7is.  •  331 


found  herself  obliged  to  listen  to  Tom  Musgrave's 
further  account. 

*  I  receiv^ed  that  note  from  the  fair  hands  of  Miss 
Watson  only  ten  minutes  ago,'  said  he  ;  *  I  met  her 
in  the  village  of  Stanton,  whither  my  good  stars 
prompted  me  to  turn  my  horses'  heads.  She  was  at 
that  moment  in  quest  of  a  person  to  employ  on  the 
errand,  and  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  convince  her 
that  she  could  not  find  a  more  willing  or  speedy  mes- 
senger than  myself.  Remember,  I  say  nothing  of  my 
disinterestedness.  My  reward  is  to  be  the  indulgence 
of  conveying  you  to  Stanton  in  my  curricle.  Though 
they  are  not  written  down,  I  bring  your  sister's  orders 
for  the  same.' 

Emma  felt  distressed ;  she  did  not  like  the  proposal 
— she  did  not  wish  to  be  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
the  proposer ;  and  yet,  fearful  of  encroaching  on  the 
Edwards,  as  well  as  wishing  to  go  home  herself,  she 
was  at  a  loss  how  entirely  to  decline  what  he  offered. 
Mrs.  Edwards  continued  silent,  either  not  under- 
standing the  case,  or  waiting  to  see  how  the  young 
lady's  inclination  lay.  Emma  thanked  him,  but  pro- 
fessed herself  very  unwilling  to  give  him  so  much 
trouble.  *  The  trouble  was  of  course  honour,  plea- 
sure, delight — what  had  he  or  his  horses  to  do  V  Still 
she  hesitated — '  She  believed  she  must  beg  leave  to 
decline  his  assistance ;  she  was  rather  afraid  of  the 
sort  of  carriage.  The  distance  was  not  beyond  a 
walk.'  Mrs.  Edwards  was  silent  no  longer.  She 
enquired  into  the  particulars,  and  then  said,  *  We 
shall  be  extremely  happy,  Miss  Emma,  if  you  can 


332  The  Watsons. 


give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company  till  to-morrow; 
but  if  you  cannot  conveniently  do  so,  our  carriage  is 
quite  at  your  service,  and  Mary  will  be  pleased  with 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  your  sister/ 

This  was  precisely  w^iat  Emma  had  longed  for, 
and  she  accepted  the  offer  most  thankfully,  acknow- 
ledging that  as  Elizabeth  was  entirely  alone,  it  was 
her  wish  to  return  home  to  dinner.  The  plan  was 
warmly  opposed  by  their  visitor — 

*  I  cannot  suffer  it,  indeed.  I  must  not  be  deprived 
of  the  happiness  of  escorting  you.  I  assure  you  there 
is  not  a  possibility  of  fear  with  my  horses.  You  might 
guide  them  yourself  Your  sisters  all  know  how  quiet 
they  are;  they  have  none  of  them  the  smallest  scruple 
in  trusting  themselves  with  me,  even  on  a  race-course. 
Believe  me,'  added  he,  lowering  his  voice,  *jw/  are 
quite  safe — the  danger  is  only  mine' 

Emma  was  not  more  disposed  to  oblige  him  for  all 
this. 

*  And  as  to  Mrs.  Edwards'  carriage  being  used  the 
day  after  a  ball,  it  is  a  thing  quite  out  of  rule,  I 
assure  you — never  heard  of  before.  The  old  coach- 
man will  look  as  black  as  his  horses — won't  he,  Miss 
Edwards  ?' 

No  notice  was  taken.  The  ladles  were  silently 
firm,  and  the  gentleman  found  himself  obliged  to 
submit. 

*  What  a  famous  ball  we  had  la^t  night,'  he  cried, 
after  a  short  pause  ;  *  How  long  did  you  keep  it  up 
after  the  Osbornes  and  I  went  away  ? ' 

*  We  had  two  dances  more.' 


The  Watsons.  •  333 


*  It  is  making  it  too  much  of  a  fatigue,  I  think,  to 
stay  so  late.  I  suppose  your  set  was  not  a  very  full 
one.' 

'Yes;  quite  as  full  as  ever,  except  the  Osborncs. 
There  seemed  no  vacancy  anywhere ;  and  everybody 
danced  with  uncommon  spirit  to  the  very  last* 

Emma  said  this,  though  against  her  conscience. 

'  Indeed  !  perhaps  I  might  have  looked  in  upon 
you  again,  if  I  had  been  aware  of  as  much  ;  for  I  am 
rather  fond  of  dancing  than  not.  Miss  Osborne  is  a 
charming  girl,  is  not  she  1 ' 

'  I  do  not  think  her  handsome,'  replied  Emma,  to 
whom  all  this  was  chiefly  addressed. 

*  Perhaps  she  is  not  critically  handsome,  but  her 
manners  are  delightful.  And  Fanny  Carr  is  a  most 
interesting  little  creature.  You  can  imagine  nothing 
more  naive  ox  piquante\  and  what  do  you  think  of 
Lord  Osborne,  Miss  Watson  V 

*  He  would  be  handsome  even  though  he  were  not 
a  lord,  and,  perhaps,  better  bred  ;  more  desirous  of 
pleasing  and  showing  himself  pleased  in  a  right 
place.' 

'  Upon  my  word,  you  are  severe  upon  my  friend  ' 
I  assure  you  Lord  Osborne  is  a  very  good  fellow.' 

*  I  do  not  dispute  his  virtues,  but  I  do  not  like  his 
careless  air,' 

*  If  it  were  not  a  breach  of  confidence,'  replied 
Tom,  with  an  important  look,  'perhaps  I  might  be 
able  to  win  a  more  favourable  opinion  of  poor 
Osborne.' 

Emma  gave  him  no  encouragement,  and  he  was 


334  '^^^^  Watsons. 


obliged  to  keep  his  friend's  secret.  Ke  was  also 
obliged  to  put  an  end  to  his  visit,  for  Mrs.  Edwards 
having  ordered  her  carriage  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost  on  Emma's  side  in  preparing  for  it.  Miss  Ed- 
wards accompanied  her  home ;  but  as  it  was  dinner 
hour  at  Stanton  stayed  with  them  only  a  few  minutes. 

*  Now,  my  dear  Emma,'  said  Miss  Watson,  as  soon 
as  they  were  alone,  '  you  must  talk  to  me  all  the  rest 
of  the  day  without  stopping,  or  I  shall  not  be  satis- 
fied ;  but,  first  of  all,  Nanny  shall  bring  in  the  dinner. 
Poor  thing !  You  will  not  dine  as  you  did  yesterday, 
for  we  have  nothing  but  some  fried  beef  How  nice 
Mary  Edwards  looks  in  her  new  pelisse !  And  now 
tell  me  how  you  like  them  all,  and  what  I  am  to  say 
to  Sam.  I  have  begun  my  letter ;  Jack  Stokes  is  to 
call  for  it  to-morrow,  for  his  uncle  is  going  within  a 
mile  of  Guildford  next  day.' 

Nanny  brought  in  the  dinner. 

*  We  will  wait  upon  ourselves,'  continued  Elizabeth, 
'  and  then  we  shall  lose  no  time.  And  so  you  would 
not  come  home  with  Tom  Musgrave  ''' 

'  No,  you  had  said  so  much  against  him  that  I 
could  not  wish  either  for  the  obligation  or  the  inti- 
macy which  the  use  of  his  carriage  must  have  created. 
I  should  not  even  have  liked  the  appearance  of  it.' 

*  You  did  very  right ;  though  I  wonder  at  your  for- 
bearance, and  I  do  not  think  I  could  have  done  it 
myself.  He  seemed  so  eager  to  fetch  you  that  I 
could  not  say  no,  though  it  rather  went  against  me  to 
be  throwing  you  together,  so  well  as  I  knew  his 
tricks ;  but  I  did  long  to  see  you,  and  it  was  a  clever 


TJie  Watsoits.  ,  ^^^ 


way  of  getting  you  home.  Besides,  it  won't  do  to  be 
too  nice.  Nobody  could  have  thought  of  the  Ed- 
wards letting  you  have  their  coach,  after  the  horses 
being  out  so  late.     But  what  am  I  to  say  to  Sam  ?' 

'  If  you  are  guided  by  me  you  will  not  encourage 
him  to  think  of  Miss  Edwards.  The  father  is  de- 
cidedly against  him,  the  mother  shows  him  no  favour, 
and  I  doubt  his  having  any  interest  with  Mary.  She 
danced  twice  with  Captain  Hunter,  and  I  think 
shows  him  in  general  as  much  encouragement  as  is 
consistent  with  her  disposition,  and  the  circumstances 
she  is  placed  in.  She  once  mentioned  Sam,  and  cer- 
tainly with  a  little  confusion ;  but  that  was  perhaps 
merely  owing  to  the  consciousness  of  his  liking  her, 
which  may  very  probably  have  come  to  her  know- 
ledge.' 

'  Oh !  dear,  yes.  She  has  heard  enough  of  i/ial 
from  us  all.  Poor  Sam  !  he  is  out  of  luck  as  well  as 
other  people.  For  the  life  of  me,  Emma,  I  cannot 
help  feeling  for  those  that  are  crossed  in  love.  Well, 
now  begin,  and  give  me  an  account  of  everything  as 
it  happened.' 

Emma  obeyed  her,  and  Elizabeth  listened  with 
very  little  interruption  till  she  heard  of  Mr.  Howard 
as  a  partner. 

*  Dance  with  Mr.  Howard.  Good  heavens  !  You 
don't  say  so !  Why  he  is  quite  one  of  the  great  and 
grand  ones.     Did  you  not  find  him  very  high  ?* 

'  His  manners  are  of  a  kind  to  give  mc  much  more 
case  and  confidence  than  Tom  Musgravc's ' 

'  Well,  go  on.     1  should  have  been  frightened  out 


336  The  Watsons 


of  my  wits  to  have  had  anything  to  do  witli  the 
Osborne's  set/ 

Emma  concluded  her  narration. 

'And  so  you  really  did  not  dance  with  Tom  Mus- 
grave  at  all ;  but  you  must  have  liked  him — you  must 
have  been  struck  with  him  altogether.' 

*  I  do  not  like  him,  Elizabeth.  I  allow  his  person 
and  air  to  be  good  ;  and  that  his  manners  to  a  certain 
point — his  address  rather — is  pleasing.  But  I  see 
nothing  else  to  admire  in  him.  On  the  contrary,  he 
seems  very  vain,  very  conceited,  absurdly  anxious  for 
distinction,  and  absolutely  contemptible  in  some  of 
the  measures  he  takes  for  being  so.  There  is  a  ridi- 
culousness about  him  that  entertains  me  ;  but  his 
company  gives  me  no  other  agreeable  emotion.' 

*  My  dearest  Emma!  You  are  like  nobody  else  in 
the  world.  It  is  well  Margaret  is  not  by.  You  do 
not  offend  me,  though  I  hardly  know  how  to  believe 
you ;  but  Margaret  would  never  forgive  such  words.' 

*  I  wish  Margaret  could  have  heard  him  profess  his 
ignorance  of  her  being  out  of  the  country;  he  declared 
it  seemed  only  two  days  since  he  had  seen  her.' 

*Aye,  that  is  just  Hke  him;  and  yet  this  fs  the 
man  she  ivill  fancy  so  desperately  in  love  with  her. 
He  is  no  favourite  of  mine,  as  you  well  know,  Emma, 
but  you  must  think  him  agreeable.  Can  you  lay 
your  hand  on  your  heart,  and  say  you  do  not  1 ' 

*  Indeed,  I  can,  both  hands  ;  and  spread  them  to 
their  widest  extent.' 

*  I  should  like  to  know  the  man  you  do  think 
agreeable.' 


The  Watsons.  '  337 


*  His  name  is  Moward.' 

*  Howard  !  Dear  me  ;  I  cannot  think  o(  him  but 
as  pla}'ing  cards  with  Lady  Osborne,  and  looking 
proud.  I  must  own,  howc\cr,  that  it  is  a  reUef  to  me 
to  find  you  can  speak  as  you  do  of  Tom  IMusgrave. 
My  heart  did  misgive  me  that  you  would  like  him 
too  well.  You  talked  so  stoutly  beforehand,  that  I 
was  sadly  afraid  your  brag  would  be  punished.  I 
only  hope  it  will  last,  and  that  he  will  not  come  on 
to  pay  you  much  attention.  It  is  a  hard  thing  for  a 
woman  to  stand  against  the  flattering  wa}'s  of  a  man 
when  he  is  bent  upon  pleasing  her.' 

As  their  quietly  sociable  little  meal  concluded, 
Miss  Watson  could  not  help  observing  how  com- 
fortably it  had  passed. 

*  It  is  so  delightful  to  me/  said  she,  '  to  have  things 
going  on  in  peace  and  good-humour.  Nobody  can 
tell  how  much  I  hate  quarrelling.  Now,  though  we 
have  had  nothing  but  fried  beef,  how  good  it  has  all 
seemed.  I  wish  everybody  were  as  easily  satisfied 
as  you  ;  but  poor  Margaret  is  very  snappish,  and 
Penelope  owns  she  would  rather  have  quarrelling 
going  on  than  nothing  at  all' 

Mr.  Watson  returned  in  the  e\-cning  not  the  worse 
for  the  exertion  of  the  day,  and,  consequently,  pleased 
with  what  he  had  done,  and  glad  to  talk  of  it  over 
his  own  fireside.  Emma  had  not  foreseen  any  in- 
terest to  herself  in  the  occurrences  of  a  visitation  ; 
but  when  she  heard  I\Ir.  Howard  spoken  of  as  the 
preacher,  and  as  having  given  them  an  excellent 
sermon^  she  could  not  help  listening  with  a  quicker  ear 

Z 


338  The  Watsons. 


*  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  heard  a  discourse 
more  to  my  mind,'  continued  Mr.  Watson,  *■  or  one 
better  delivered.  He  reads  extremely  well,  with 
great  propriety,  and  in  a  very  impressive  manner,  and 
at  the  same  time  without  any  theatrical  grimace  or 
violence.  I  own  I  do  not  like  much  action  in  the 
pulpit  ;  I  do  not  like  the  studied  air  and  artificial 
inflexions  of  voice  which  your  very  popular  and  most 
admired  preachers  generally  have.  A  simple  de- 
livery is  much  better  calculated  to  inspire  devotion, 
and  shows  a  much  better  taste.  Mr.  Howard  read 
like  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.' 

*  And  what  had  you  for  dinner,  sir } '  said  his 
eldest  daughter. 

He  related  the  dishes,  and  told  what  he  had  ate 
himself. 

*  Upon  the  whole,'  he  added,  '  I  have  had  a  very 
comfortable  day.  My  old  friends  were  quite  sur 
prised  to  see  me  amongst  them,  and  I  must  say  that 
everybody  paid  me  great  attention,  and  seemed  to 
feel  for  me  as  an  invalid.  They  would  make  me  sit 
near  the  fire  ;  and  as  the  partridges  were  pretty  high. 
Dr.  Richards  would  have  them  sent  away  to  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  "  that  they  might  not  offend 
Mr.  Watson,"  which  I  thought  very  kind  of  him. 
But  what  pleased  me  as  much  as  anything  was  Mr. 
Howard's  attention.  There  is  a  pretty  steep  flight  of 
steps  up  to  the  room  we  dine  in,  which  do  not  quite 
agree  with  my  gouty  foot,  and  Mr.  Howard  walked 
by  me  from  the  bottom  to  the  top,  and  would  make 
me  take  his  arm.     It  struck  me  as  very  becoming  in 


The  Watsons.  •  339 


so  young  a  man,  but  I  am  sure  I  had  no  claim  to 
expect  it,  for  I  never  saw  him  before  in  my  h'fe.  By 
the  by,  he  enquired  after  one  of  my  daughters,  but 
I  do  not  know  which.  I  suppose  you  know  among 
yourselves.' 

On  the  third  day  after  the  ball,  as  Nanny,  at  five 
minutes  before  three,  was  beginning  to  bustle  into  the 
parlour  with  the  tray  and  knife-case,  she  was  sud- 
denly called  to  the  front  door  by  the  sound  of  as 
smart  a  rap  as  the  end  of  a  riding  whip  could  give ; 
and  though  charged  by  Miss  Watson  to  let  nobody 
in,  returned  in  half  a  minute  with  a  look  of  awkward 
dismay  to  hold  the  parlour  door  open  for  Lord  Os- 
borne and  Tom  Musgrave.  The  surprise  of  the 
young  ladies  may  be  imagined.  No  visitors  would 
have  been  w^elcome  at  such  a  moment,  but  such 
visitors  as  these — such  an  one  as  Lord  Osborne  at 
least,  a  nobleman  and  a  stranger,  was  really  dis- 
tressing. 

He  looked  a  little  embarrassed  himself,  as,  on  being 
introduced  by  his  easy  voluble  friend,  he  muttered 
something  of  doing  himself  the  honour  of  waiting 
upon  Mr.  Watson.  Though  Emma  could  not  but 
take  the  compliment  of  the  visit  to  herself,  she  was 
very  far  from  enjoying  it.  She  felt  all  the  incon- 
sistency of  such  an  acquaintance  with  the  very  humble 
style  in  which  they  were  obliged  to  live  ;  and  having 
in  her  aunt's  family  been  used  to  many  of  the  ele- 
gancies of  life,  was  fully  sensible  of  all  that  must  be 

open  to   the  ridicule  of  richer  people  in  her  present 

7.  ^ 


340  The  Watso7ts. 

home.  Of  the  pain  of  such  feelings,  Elizabeth  knew 
very  little.  Her  simple  mind,  or  juster  reason,  saved 
her  from  such  mortification  ;  and  though  shrinking 
under  a  general  sense  of  inferiority,  she  felt  no  par- 
ticular shame.  Mr.  Watson,  as  the  gentlemen  had 
already  heard  from  Nanny,  was  not  well  enough  to  be 
down  stairs.  With  much  concern  they  took  their 
seats  ;  Lord  Osborne  near  Emma,  and  the  convenient 
Mr.  Musgrave,  in  high  spirits  at  his  own  importance, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace  with  Elizabeth.  He 
was  at  no  loss  for  words  ;  but  when  Lord  Osborne 
had  hoped  that  Emma  had  not  caught  cold  at  the 
ball  he  had  nothing  more  to  say  for  some  time,  and 
could  only  gratify  his  eye  by  occasional  glances  at 
his  fair  companion.  Emma  was  not  inclined  to  give 
herself  much  trouble  for  his  entertainment,  and  after 
hard  labour  of  mind,  he  produced  the  remark  of  its 
being  a  very  fine  day,  and  followed  it  up  with  the 
question  of,  '  Have  you  been  walking  this  morning  t ' 

*  No,  my  lord,  we  thought  it  too  dirty.' 

*  You  should  wear  half-boots.'  After  another  pause  : 
*  Nothing  sets  off  a  neat  ankle  more  than  a  half-boot ; 
nankeen,  galoshed  with  black,  looks  very  well.  Do 
not  you  like  half-boots  t ' 

*  Yes ;  but  unless  they  are  so  stout  as  to  injure 
their  beauty,  they  are  not  fit  for  country  walking.' 

*  Ladies  should  ride  in  dirty  weather.  Do  you 
ride?' 

*  No,  my  lord.' 

*  I  wonder  every  lady  does  not ;  a  woman  never 
looks  better  than  on  horseback.' 


The  Watsons.  .  341 

*  But  every  woman  may  not  have  the  inclination  or 
the  means.' 

*  If  they  knew  how  much  it  became  them,  they 
would  all  have  the  inclination;  and  I  fancy,  Miss 
Watson,  when  once  they  had  the  inclination,  the 
means  would  soon  follow.' 

'  Your  lordship  thinks  we  always  have  our  own 
way.  TJiat  is  a  point  on  which  ladies  and  gentlemen 
have  long  disagreed ;  but  without  pretending  to  de- 
cide it,  I  may  say  that  there  are  some  circumstances 
which  even  women  cannot  control.  Female  economy 
will  do  a  great  deal,  my  lord,  but  it  cannot  turn  a 
small  income  into  a  large  one.' 

Lord  Osborne  was  silenced.  Her  manner  had 
been  neither  sententious  nor  sarcastic,  but  there  was 
a  something  in  its  mild  seriousness,  as  well  as  in  the 
words  themselves,  which  made  his  lordship  think  ; 
and  when  he  addressed  her  again,  it  was  with  a  de- 
gree of  considerate  propriety  totally  unlike  the  half- 
awlavard,  half-fearless  style  of  his  former  remarks.  It 
was  a  new  thing  with  him  to  wish  to  please  a  woman  ; 
it  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  felt  what  was 
due  to  a  woman  in  Emma's  situation  ;  but  as  he  was 
wanting  neither  in  sense  nor  a  good  disposition  he 
did  not  feel  it  without  effect. 

*  You  have  not  been  long  in  this  country,  I  under- 
stand,' said  he,  in  the  tone  of  a  gentleman.  '■  I  hope 
you  are  pleased  with  it' 

He  was  rewarded  by  a  gracious  answer,  and  a  more 
liberal  full  view,  of  her  face  than  she  had  yet  be- 
stowed.    Unused  to  exert  himself,  and  happy  in  con- 


342  The  Watsons, 


templating  her,  he  then  sat  in  silence  for  some 
minutes  longer,  while  Tom  Musgrave  was  chattering; 
to  Elizabeth;  till  they  were  interrupted  by  Nanny's 
approach,  who,  half-opening  the  door  and  putting  in 
her  head,  said — 

'  Please,  ma'am,  master  wants  to  know  why  he 
be'nt  to  have  his  dinner  ? ' 

The  gentlemen,  who  had  hitherto  disregarded  every 
symptom,  however  positive,  of  the  nearness  of  that 
meal,  now  jumped  up  with  apologies,  while  Elizabeth 
called  briskly  after  Nanny  to  take  up  the  fowls. 

'  I  am  sorry  it  happens  so,'  she  added,  turning  good- 
humouredly  towards  Musgrave,  *  but  you  know  what, 
early  hours  we  keep.' 

Tom  had  nothing  to  say  for  himself,  he  knew  it 
very  well,  and  such  honest  simplicity,  such  shameless 
truth,  rather  bewildered  him.  Lord  Osborne's  part- 
ing comphments  took  some  time,  his  inclination  for 
speech  seeming  to  increase  with  the  shortness  of  the 
term  for  indulgence.  He  recommended  exercise  in 
defiance  of  dirt ;  spoke  again  in  praise  of  half-boots  ; 
begged  that  his  sister  might  be  allowed  to  send 
Emma  the  name  of  her  shoemaker;  and  concluded 
with  saying,  *  My  hounds  will  be  hunting  this  country 
next  week.  I  believe  they  will  throw  off  at  Stanton 
Wood  on  Wednesday  at  nine  o'clock.  I  mention 
this  in  hopes  of  your  being  drawn  out  to  see  what's 
going  on.  If  the  morning's  tolerable,  pray  do  us  the 
honour  of  giving  us  your  good  wishes  in  person.' 

The  sisters  looked  on  each  other  with  astonishment 
when  their  visitors  had  withdrawn. 


The  Watsons.  .  343 


'Here's  an  unaccountable  honour!'  cried  Elizabeth 
at  last.  '  Who  would  have  thought  of  Lord  Osborne's 
coming  to  Stanton  ?  He  is  very  handsome ;  but  Tom 
Musgrave  looks  all  to  nothing  the  smartest  and  most 
fashionable  man  of  the  two.  I  am  glad  he  did  not 
say  anything  to  me  ;  I  would  not  have  had  to  talk  to 
such  a  great  man  for  the  world.  Tom  was  very 
agreeable,  was  not  he  .'*  But  did  you  hear  him  ask 
where  Miss  Penelope  and  Miss  Margaret  were,  when 
he  first  came  in  t  It  put  me  out  of  patience.  I  am 
glad  Nanny  had  not  laid  the  cloth  however,  it  would 
have  looked  so  awkward ;  just  the  tray  did  not 
signify.'  To  say  that  Emma  was  not  flattered  by 
Lord  Osborne's  visit,  would  be  to  assert  a  very  un- 
likely thing,  and  describe  a  very  odd  young  lady  ; 
but  the  gratification  was  by  no  means  unalloyed  ;  his 
coming  was  a  sort  of  notice  which  might  please  her 
vanity,  but  did  not  suit  her  pride,  and  she  would 
rather  have  known  that  he  wished  the  visit  without 
presuming  to  make  it,  than  have  seen  him  at  Stanton. 

Among  other  unsatisfactory  feelings  it  once  occurred 
to  her  to  wonder  why  Mr.  Howard  had  not  taken  the 
same  privilege  of  coming,  and  accompanied  his  lord- 
ship, but  she  was  willing  to  suppose  that  he  had 
either  known  nothing  about  it,  or  had  declined  any 
share  in  a  measure  which  carried  quite  as  much  im- 
pertinence in  its  form  as  good  breeding.  Mr. 'Watson 
was  very  far  from  being  delighted  when  he  heard 
what  had  passed  ;  a  little  peevish  under  immediate 
pain,  and  ill-disposed  to  be  pleased,  he  only  replied, 

*  Pooh !    Pooh  !  what  occasion   could  there   be  for 


344  I^Ji^  Watsons. 


Lord  Osborne's  coming  ?  I  have  lived  here  fourteen 
years  without  being  noticed  by  any  of  the  family.  It 
is  some  fooling  of  that  idle  fellow,  Tom  Musgrave.  I 
cannot  return  the  visit.  I  would  not  if  I  could.* 
And  when  Tom  Musgrave  was  met  with  again,  he 
was  commissioned  with  a  message  of  excuse  to 
Osborne  Castle,  on  the  too  sufficient  plea  of  Mr. 
Watson's  infirm  state  of  health. 

A  week  or  ten  days  rolled  quietly  away  after  this 
visit  before  any  new  bustle  arose  to  interrupt  even  for 
half  a  day  the  tranquil  and  affectionate  intercourse  of 
the  two  sisters,  whose  mutual  regard  was  increasing 
with  the  intimate  knowledge  of  each  other  which  such 
intercourse  produced.  The  first  circumstance  to  break 
in  on  their  security  was  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from 
Croydon  to  announce  the  speedy  return  of  Margaret, 
and  a  visit  of  two  or  three  days  from  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Robert  Watson,  who  undertook  to  bring  her  home, 
and  wished  to  see  their  sister  Emma. 

It  was  an  expectation  to  fill  the  thoughts  of  the 
sisters  at  Stanton  and  to  busy  the  hours  of  one  of 
them  at  least ;  for,  as  Jane  had  been  a  woman  of 
fortune,  the  preparations  for  her  entertainment  were 
considerable ;  and  as  Elizabeth  had  at  all  times  more 
goodwill  than  method  in  her  guidance  of  the  house, 
she  could  make  no  change  without  a  bustle.  An 
absence  of  fourteen  years  had  made  all  her  brothers 
and  sisters  strangers  to  Emma,  but  in  her  expectation 
of  Margaret  there  was  more  than  the  awkwardness 
of  such  an  alienation  ;  she  had  heard  things  which 
made  her  dread  her  return  ;  and  the  day  which  brought 


TJie  Watsons.  .  345 


the  party  to  Stanton,  seemed  to  her  the  probable 
conclusion  of  almost  all  that  had  been  comfortable  in 
the  house. 

Robert  Watson  was  an  attorney  at  Croydon  in  a 
good  way  of  business ;  very  well  satisfied  with  him- 
self for  the  same,  and  for  having  married  the  only 
daughter  of  the  attorney  to  whom  he  had  been  clerk, 
with  a  fortune  of  six  thousand  pounds.  I\lrs.  Robert 
was  not  less  pleased  with  herself  for  ha\-ing  had  that 
six  thousand  pounds  and  for  being  now  in  posses- 
sion of  a  very  smart  house  in  Croydon,  where  she 
gave  genteel  parties  and  wore  fine  clothes.  In  her 
person  there  was  nothing  remarkable  ;  her  manners 
were  pert  and  conceited.  INIargaret  was  not  without 
beauty;  she  had  a  slight  pretty  figure,  and  rather 
wanted  countenance  than  good  features ;  but  the 
sharp  and  anxious  expression  of  her  face  made  her 
beauty  in  general  little  felt.  On  meeting  her  long- 
absent  sister,  as  on  every  occasion  of  show,  her 
manner  was  all  affection  and  her  voice  all  gentleness ; 
continual  smiles  and  a  very  slow  articulation  being 
her  constant  resource  when  determined  on  pleasing. 

She  was  now  '  so  delighted  to  see  dear,  dear  Emma/ 
that  she  could  hardly  speak  a  word  in  a  minute. 

*  I  am  sure  we  shall  be  great  friends,'  she  observ-ed 
with  much  sentiment  as  they  were  sitting  together. 
Emma  scarcely  knew  how  to  answer  such  a  proposi- 
tion, and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  spoken  she  could 
not  attempt  to  equal.  Mrs.  Robert  Watson  ej-ed  her 
with  much  familiar  curiosity  and  triumphant  compas- 
sion ;  the  loss  of  the  aunt's  fortune  was  uppermost  in 


346  TJie  Watsons, 


her  mind  at  the  moment  of  meeting  ;  and  she  could 
not  but  feel  how  much  better  it  was  to  be  the 
daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  property  in  Croydon  than 
the  niece  of  an  old  woman  who  threw  herself  away 
on  an  Irish  captain.  Robert  was  carelessly  kind,  as 
became  a  prosperous  man  and  a  brother  ;  more  intent 
on  settling  with  the  post-boy,  inveighing  against  the 
exorbitant  advance  in  posting,  and  pondering  over  a 
doubtful  halfcrown,  than  on  welcoming  a  sister  who 
was  no  longer  likely  to  have  any  property  for  him  to 
get  the  direction  of 

*Your  road  through  the  village  is  infamous,  Elizabeth/ 
said  he  ;  *  worse  than  ever  it  was.  By  heaven  !  I  would 
indict  it  if  I  lived  near  you.     Who  is  surveyor  now.^' 

There  was  a  little  niece  at  Croydon  to  be  fondly 
enquired  after  by  the  kind-hearted  Elizabeth,  who 
regretted  very  much  her  not  being  of  the  party. 

*  You  are  very  good,'  replied  her  mother,  *  and  I 
assure  you  it  went  very  hard  with  Augusta  to  have 
us  come  away  without  her.  I  was  forced  to  say  we 
were  only  going  to  church,  and  promise  to  come  back 
for  her  directly.  But  you  know  it  would  not  do  to 
bring  her  without  her  maid,  and  I  am  as  particular  a.s 
ever  in  having  her  properly  attended  to.' 

'  Sweet  little  darling,'  cried  Margaret.  *  It  quite 
broke  my  heart  to  leave  her.' 

'  Then  why  was  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  run  away 
from  her?'  cried  Mrs.  Robert.  'You  are  a  sad 
shabby  girl.  I  have  been  quarrelling  with  you  all  the 
way  we  came,  have  not  1 1  Such  a  visit  as  this  I 
never  heard  of !     You  know  how  glad  we  are  to  have 


Tfie  Watsons.  •  347 


any  of  you  with  us,  if  it  be  for  months  together ;  and 
I  am  sorry  (with  a  witty  smile)  we  have  not  been 
able  to  make  Croydon  agreeable  this  autumn.' 

*  My  dearest  Jane,  do  not  overpower  me  with  your 
raillery.  You  know  what  inducements  I  had  to  bring 
me  home.  Spare  me,  T  entreat  you.  I  am  no  match 
for  your  arch  sallies.' 

*  Well,  I  only  beg  you  Avill  not  set  your  neighbours 
against  the  place.  Perhaps  Emma  may  be  tempted 
to  go  back  with  us  and  stay  till  Christmas,  if  you 
don't  put  in  your  word.' 

Emma  was  greatly  obliged.  *  I  assure  you  we 
have  very  good  society  at  Croydon.  I  do  not  much 
attend  the  balls,  they  are  rather  too  mixed  ;  but  our 
parties  are  very  select  and  good.  I  had  seven  tables 
last  week  in  nay  drawing-room.' 

*  Are  you  fond  of  the  country  ?  How  do  you  like 
Stanton  ? ' 

'Very  much,'  replied  Emma,  who  thought  a  com- 
prehensive answer  most  to  the  purpose.  She  saw 
that  her  sister-in-law  despised  her  immediately. 
Mrs.  Robert  Watson  was  indeed  wondering  what 
sort  of  a  home  Emma  could  possibly  have  been  used 
to  in  Shropshire,  and  setting  it  down  as  certain  that 
the  aunt  could  never  have  had  six  thousand  pounds. 

'  How  charming  Emma  is,'  whispered  Margaret  to 
Mrs.  Robert  in  her  most  languishing  tone.  Emma 
was  quite  distressed  by  such  behaviour ;  and  she  did 
not  like  it  better  when  she  heard  Margaret  five 
minutes  afterwards  say  to  Elizabeth  in  a  sharp,  quick 
accent,  totally  unlike  the  first,  'Have  you  heard  from 


348  The  Watsons. 


Pen  since  she  went  to  Chichester  ?  I  had  a  letter  the 
other  day.  I  don't  find  she  is  Hkcly  to  make  anything 
of  it.  I  fancy  she'll  come  back  '  Miss  Penelope/  as 
she  went' 

Such  she  feared  would  be  Margaret's  common  voice 
when  the  novelty  of  her  own  appearance  were  over  ; 
the  tone  of  artificial  sensibility  was  not  recommended 
by  the  idea.  The  ladies  were  invited  upstairs  to  pre- 
pare for  dinner. 

*  I  hope  you  will  find  things  tolerably  comfortable, 
Jane,'  said  Elizabeth,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
spare  bedchamber. 

'  My  good  creature,'  replied  Jane,  'use  no  ceremony 
with  me,  I  entreat  you.  I  am  one  of  those  who  always 
take  things  as  they  find  them.  I  hope  I  can  put  up 
with  a  small  apartment  for  two  or  three  nights  with- 
out making  a  piece  of  work.  I  always  wish  to  be 
treated  quite  "  en  famille  "  when  I  come  to  see  you. 
And  now  I  do  hope  you  have  not  been  getting  a  great 
dinner  for  us.     Remember  we  never  eat  suppers.' 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Margaret  rather  quickly  to 
Emma,  '  you  and  I  are  to  be  together ;  Elizabeth 
always  takes  care  to  have  a  room  to  herself.' 

*  No.     Elizabeth  gives  me  half  hers.' 

*  Oh  ! '  in  a  softened  voice,  and  rather  mortified  to 
find  that  she  was  not  ill-used. 

*  I  am  soriy  I  am  not  to  have  the  pleasure  of  your 
company,  especially  as  it  makes  me  nervous  to  be 
much  alone.' 

Emma  was  the  first  of  the  females  in  the  parlour 
again ;  on  entering  it  she  found  her  brother  alone. 


The  Watsons.  •  349 


*  So  Emma/  said  he,  '  you  arc  quite  a  stranger  at 
home.  It  must  seem  odd  cnou^^h  for  you  to  be  here. 
A  pretty  piece  of  work  your  Aunt  Turner  has  made 
of  it !  By  heaven !  A  woman  should  never  be 
trusted  with  money.  I  ahvaj's  said  she  ought  to 
have  settled  something  on  you,  as  soon  as  her  husband 
died.' 

'  But  that  would  have  been  trusting  7;ie  with  money,* 
replied  Emma,  '  and  I  am  a  woman  too.' 

'  It  might  have  been  secured  to  your  future  use, 
without  your  having  any  power  over  it  now.  What  a 
blow  it  must  have  been  upon  you  !  To  find  yourself, 
instead  of  heiress  of  8,000/.  or  9,000/.,  sent  back  a 
weight  upon  your  family,  without  a  sixpence.  I  hope 
the  old  woman  will  smart  for  it.' 

'  Do  not  speak  disrespectfully  of  her  ;  she  was  very 
good  to  me,  and  if  she  has  made  an  imprudent  choice, 
she  will  sufYer  more  from  it  herself  than  I  can 
possibly  do.' 

*  I  do  not  mean  to  distress  you,  but  you  know 
ever}^body  must  think  her  an  old  fool.  I  thought 
Turner  had  been  reckoned  an  extraordinarily  sensible, 
clever  man.  How  the  devil  came  he  to  make  such  a 
will .? ' 

*  My  uncle's  sense  is  not  at  all  impeached  in  my 
opinion  by  his  attachment  to  my  aunt.  She  had  been 
an  excellent  wife  to  him.  The  most  liberal  and 
enlightened  minds  are  always  the  most  confiding. 
The  event  has  been  unfortunate,  but  my  uncle's 
memory  is,  if  possible,  endeared  to  me  by  such  a 
proof  of  tender  respect  for  my  aunt.' 


3  50  The  Watsons. 


*  That's  odd  sort  of  talking.  He  might  have  pro- 
vided decently  for  his  widow,  without  leaving  every- 
thing that  he  had  to  dispose  of,  or  any  part  of  it,  at 
her  mercy/ 

*  My  aunt  may  have  erred,'  said  Emma,  warmly ; 
'  she  /las  erred,  but  my  uncle's  conduct  was  faultless  ; 
I  was  her  own  niece,  and  he  left  to  her  the  power  of 
providing  for  me.' 

*  But  unluckily  she  has  left  the  pleasure  of  providing 
for  you  to  your  father,  and  without  the  power.  That's 
the  long  and  short  of  the  business.  After  keeping 
you  at  a  distance  from  your  family  for  such  a  length 
of  time  as  must  do  away  all  natural  affection  among 
us,  and  breeding  you  up  (I  suppose)  in  a  superior 
style,  you  are  returned  upon  their  hands  without  a 
sixpence.' 

'You  know,'  replied  Emma,  struggling  with  her 
tears,  '  my  uncle's  melancholy  state  of  health.  He 
was  a  greater  invalid  than  my  father.  He  could  not 
leave  home.' 

*  I  do  not  mean  to  make  you  cry,'  said  Robert, 
rather  softened — and  after  a  short  silence,  by  way  of 
changing  the  subject,  he  added  :  *  I  am  just  come  from 
my  father's  room  ;  he  seems  very  indifferent.  It  will 
be  a  sad  break  up  when  he  dies.  Pity  you  can  none 
of  you  get  married  !  You  must  come  to  Croydon  as 
well  as  the  rest,  and  see  what  you  can  do  there.  I 
believe  if  Margaret  had  had  a  thousand  or  fifteen 
hundred  pounds,  there  was  a  young  man  who  would 
have  thought  of  her.* 

Emma  was   glad   when  they  were  joined  by  the 


The  Watso7is.  .  351 


others  ;  it  was  better  to  look  at  her  sister-in-law's 
finery  than  listen  to  Robert,  who  had  equally  irritated 
and  grieved  her.  Mrs.  Robert,  exactly  as  smart  as 
she  had  been  at  her  own  party,  came  in  with  apologies 
for  her  dress. 

'  I  would  not  make  you  wait,'  said  she,  '  so  I  put 
on  the  first  thing  I  met  with.  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  sad 
figure.  My  dear  Mr.  W.  (addressing  her  husband), 
you  have  not  put  any  fresh  powder  in  your  hair.' 

*  No,  I  do  not  intend  it.  I  think  there  is  powder 
enough  in  my  hair  for  my  wife  and  sisters.' 

*  Indeed,  you  ought  to  make  some  alteration  in  your 
dress  before  dinner  when  you  are  out  visiting,  though 
you  do  not  at  home.' 

*  Nonsense.' 

'  It  is  very  odd  you  do  not  like  to  do  what  other 
gentlemen  do.  Mr.  Marshall  and  Mr.  Hemming  change 
their  dress  every  day  of  their  lives  before  dinner. 
And  what  was  the  use  of  my  putting  up  your  last  new 
coat,  if  you  are  never  to  wear  it  } ' 

*  Do  be  satisfied  with  being  fine  yourself  and  leave 
your  husband  alone.' 

To  put  an  end  to  this  altercation  and  soften  the  evi- 
dent vexation  of  her  sister-in-law,  Emma  (though  in  no 
spirits  to  make  such  nonsense  easy),  began  to  admire 
her  gown.     It  produced  immediate  complacency. 

*  Do  you  like  it } '  said  she.  '  I  am  very  happy.  It 
has  been  excessively  admired,  but  sometimes  I  think 
the  pattern  too  large.  I  shall  wear  one  to-moriow 
which  I  think  you  will  prefer  to  this.  Have  you 
seen  the  one  I  gave  Margaret .'' ' 


352  The  Watsojis. 


Dinner  came,  and  except  when  Mrs.  Robert  looked 
at  her  husband's  head,  she  continued  gay  and  flippant^ 
chiding  Elizabeth  for  the  profusion  on  the  table,  and 
absolutely  protesting  against  the  entrance  of  the  roast 
turkey,  which  formed  the  only  exception  to  'you  see 
your  dinner.'  '  I  do  beg  and  entreat  that  no  turkey  may 
be  seen  to-day.  I  am  really  frightened  out  of  my 
wits  with  the  number  of  dishes  we  have  already.  Let 
us  have  no  turkey  I  beseech  you.' 

'  My  dear,'  replied  Elizabeth,  '  the  turkey  is  roasted, 
and  it  may  just  as  well  come  in  as  stay  in  the  kitchen. 
Besides,  if  it  is  cut,  I  am  in  hopes  my  father  may  be 
tempted  to  eat  a  bit,  for  it  is  rather  a  favourite  dish.' 

'You  may  have  it  in,  my  dear,  but  I  assure  you  I 
shan't  touch  it.' 

Mr.  Watson  had  not  been  well  enough  to  join  the 
party  at  dinner,  but  was  prevailed  on  to  come  down 
and  drink  tea  with  them. 

*  I  wish  he  may  be  able  to  have  a  game  of  cards, 
to-night,'  said  Elizabeth  to  Mrs.  Robert,  after  seeing 
her  father  comfortably  seated  in  his  arm-chair. 

'  Not  on  my  account,  my  dear,  I  beg.  You  know 
I  am  no  card-player.  I  think  a  snug  chat  infinitely 
better.  I  always  say  cards  are  very  well  sometimes 
to  break  a  formal  circle,  but  one  never  wants  them 
among  friends.' 

'  I  was  thinking  of  it's  being  something  to  amuse 
my  father,'  said  Elizabeth,  '  if  it  was  not  disagreeable 
to  you.  He  says  his  head  won't  bear  whist,  but  per- 
haps if  we  make  a  round  game  he  may  be  tempted  to 
sit  down  with  us.' 


The  Watsons.  353 


*  By  all  means,  my  dear  creature,  I  am  quite  at 
your  service,  only  do  not  obli^^e  me  to  choose  the 
game,  that's  all.  Speculation  is  the  only  round  game 
at  Croydon  now,  but  I  can  play  anything.  When 
there  is  only  one  or  two  of  you  at  home,  you  must  be 
c(uite  at  a  loss  to  amuse  him.  Why  do  \'ou  not  get 
him  to  play  at  cribbage  .'^  Margaret  and  I  have 
played  at  cribbage  most  nights  that  we  have  not  been 
engaged.' 

A  sound  like  a  distant  carriage  was  at  this  moment 
caught ;  everybody  listened ;  it  became  more  decided  ; 
it  certainly  drew  nearer.  It  was  an  unusual  sound  for 
Stanton  at  any  time  of  the  day,  for  the  village  was  on 
no  very  public  road,  and  contained  no  gentleman's 
family  but  the  rector's.  The  wheels  rapidly  approached; 
in  two  minutes  the  general  expectation  was  answered ; 
they  stopped  beyond  a  doubt  at  the  garden-gate  of  the 
parsonage.  Who  could  it  be  }  It  was  certainly  a 
postchaise.  Penelope  was  the  only  creature  to  be 
thought  of;  she  might  perhaps  have  met  with  some 
unexpected  opportunity  of  returning.  A  pause  of 
suspense  ensued.  Steps  were  distinguished  along  the 
paved  footw^ay,  which  led  under  the  window  of  the 
house  to  the  front  door,  and  then  within  the  passage. 
They  were  the  steps  of  a  man.  It  could  not  be 
Penelope.  It  must  be  Samuel.  The  door  opened, 
and  displayed  Tom  Musgrave  in  the  wrap  of  a 
traveller.  He  had  been  in  London  and  was  now  on 
his  way  home,  and  he  had  come  half-a-mile  out  of  his 
road  merely  to  call  for  ten  minutes  at  Stanton.  He 
loved  to  take  pi^ople  by  surprise  with  sudden  visits  at 

A  A 


354  The  Watsons. 


extraordinary  seasons,  and,  in  the  present  instance,  he 
had  the  additional  motive  of  being  able  to  tell  the 
Miss  Watsons,  whom  he  depended  on  finding  sitting 
quietly  employed  after  tea,  that  he  was  going  home 
to  an  eight  o'clock  dinner. 

As  it  happened,  he  did  not  give  more  surprise  than 
he  received,  when,  instead  of  being  shown  into  the  usual 
little  sitting-room,  the  door  of  the  best  parlour  (a  foot 
larger  each  way  than  the  other)  was  thrown  open,  and 
he  beheld  a  circle  of  smart  people,  whom  he  could  not 
immediately  recognise,  arranged  with  all  the  honours 
of  visiting  round  the  fire,  and  Miss  Watson  seated  at 
the  best  Pembroke  table,  with  the  best  tea-things 
before  her.  He  stood  a  few  seconds  in  silent  amaze- 
ment. *  Musgrave,'  ejaculated  Margaret,  in  a  tender 
voice.  He  recollected  himself,  and  came  forward, 
delighted  to  find  such  a  circle  of  friends,  and  blessing 
his  good  fortune  for  the  unlooked-for  indulgence.  He 
shook  hands  with  Robert,  bowed  and  smiled  to  the 
ladies,  and  did  everything  very  prettily,  but  as  to  any 
particularity  of  address  or  emotion  towards  Margaret, 
Emma,  who  closely  observed  him,  perceived  nothing 
that  did  not  justify  Elizabeth's  opinion,  though  Mar- 
garet's modest  smiles  imported  that  she  meant  to  take 
the  visit  to  herself.  He  was  persuaded  without  much 
difficulty  to  throw  off  his  great  coat  and  drink  tea 
with  them.  For  'whether  he  dined  at  eight  or  nine,' 
as  he  observed,  'was  a  matter  of  very  little  conse- 
quence;' and  without  seeming  to  seek  he  did  not  turn 
away  from  the  chair  close  by  Margaret,  which  she 
was  assiduous  in  providing  him.    She  had  thus  secured 


The  Watsons.  '  355 


him  from  her  sisters,  but  it  was  not  immediately  in 
her  power  to  preserv^e  him  from  her  brother's  claims ; 
for  as  he  came  avowedly  from  London,  and  had  left 
it  only  four  hours  ago,  the  last  current  report  as  to 
public  news,  and  the  general  opinion  of  the  day,  must 
be  understood  before  Robert  could  let  his  attention 
be  yielded  to  the  less  rational  and  important  demands 
of  the  women.  At  last,  however,  he  was  at  liberty  to 
hear  Margaret's  soft  address,  as  she  spoke  her  fears  of 
his  having  had  a  most  terrible  cold,  dark,  dreadful 
journey — 

*  Indeed,  you  should  not  have  set  out  so  late.' 

*  I  could  not  be  earlier,'  he  replied.  *  I  was  detained 
chatting  at  the  Bedford  by  a  friend.  All  hours  are 
alike  to  me.  How  long  have  you  been  in  the  country 
Miss  Margaret.?' 

'  We  only  came  this  morning ;  my  kind  brother 
and  sister  brought  me  home  this  very  morning.  'Tis 
singular — is  not  it .''' 

*  You  were  gone  a  great  while,  were  not  you  .''  A 
fortnight,  I  suppose  .'*' 

*  You  may  call  a  fortnigJit  a  great  while,  Mr.  Mus- 
grave,'  said  Mrs.  Robert,  sharply ;  '  but  zvc  think  a 
vionth  very  little.  I  assure  you  we  bring  her  home 
at  the  end  of  a  month  much  against  our  will.' 

*  A  month  !  Have  you  really  been  gone  a  month  ? 
'Tis  amazing  how  time  flies.' 

'You  may  imagine,'  said  Margaret,  in  a  sort  of 
whisper,  '  what  are  my  sensations  in  finding  myself 
once  more  at  Stanton  ;  you  know  what  a  sad  visitor  I 
make.     And  I  was   so   excessively  impatient  to  see 


356  71ie  Watsons, 


Emma  ;  I  dreaded  the  meeting,  and  at  the  same  time 
longed  for  it.  Do  you  not  comprehend  the  sort  of 
feehng  ?' 

'  Not  at  all/  cried  he,  aloud  ;  *  I  could  never  dread 
a  meeting  with  Miss  Emma  Watson,  or  any  of  her 
sisters.' 

It  was  lucky  that  he  added  that  finish. 

*  Were  you  speaking  to  me  V  said  Emma,  who  had 
caught  her  own  name. 

*  Not  absolutely,'  he  answered  ;  *  but  I  was  thinking 
of  you,  as  many  at  a  greater  distance  are  probably 
doing  at  this  moment.  Fine  open  weather,  Miss 
Emma — charming  season  for  hunting.' 

'Emma  is  delightful,  is  not  she.*^'  whispered  Mar- 
garet ;  '  I  have  found  her  more  than  answer  my 
warmest  hopes.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  more 
perfectly  beautiful }  I  think  even  jw/  must  be  a  con- 
vert to  a  brown  complexion.' 

He  hesitated.  Margaret  was  fair  herself,  and  he 
did  not  particularly  want  to  compliment  her ;  but 
Miss  Osborne  and  Miss  Carr  were  likewise  fair,  and 
his  devotion  to  them  carried  the  day. 

'  Your  sister's  complexion,'  said  he,  at  last,  '  is  as 
fine  as  a  dark  complexion  can  be ;  but  I  still  profess 
my  preference  of  a  white  skin.  You  have  seen  Miss 
Osborne  .''  She  is  my  model  for  a  truly  feminine  com- 
plexion, and  she  is  very  fair.' 

*  Is  she  fairer  than  me  .'*' 

Tom  made  no  reply.  *  Upon  my  honour,  ladies,' 
said  he,  giving  a  glance  over  his  own  person,  *  I  am 
highly  indebted  to  your  condescension  for  admitting 


Tlie  Watsons.  ,  357 

me  in  such  dishabille  into  your  drawing-room.  I 
really  did  not  consider  how  unfit  I  was  to  be  here,  or 
I  hope  I  should  have  kept  my  distance.  Lady  Os- 
borne would  tell  me  that  I  was  growing  as  careless  as 
her  son  if  she  saw  me  in  this  condition.' 

The  ladies  were  not  wanting  in  civil  returns,  and 
Kobert  Watson,  stealing  a  view  of  his  own  head  in  an 
opposite  glass,  said  with  equal  civility — 

'  You  cannot  be  more  in  dishabille  than  myself. 
We  got  here  so  late  that  I  had  not  time  even  to  put 
a  little  fresh  powder  into  my  hair.' 

Emma  could  not  help  entering  into  what  she  sup- 
posed her  sister-in-law's  feelings  at  the  moment. 

When  the  tea-things  were  removed,  Tom  began  to 
talk  of  his  carriage  ;  but  the  old  card-table  being  set 
out,  and  the  fish  and  counters,  with  a  tolerably  clean 
pack  brought  forward  from  the  buffet  by  Miss  Watson, 
the  general  voice  was  so  urgent  with  him  to  join  their 
party  that  he  agreed  to  allow  himself  another  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Even  Emma  was  pleased  that  he  would 
stay,  for  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that  a  family  party 
might  be  the  worst  of  all  parties;  and  the  others  were 
delighted. 

'  What's  your  game  .^'  cried  he,  as  they  stood  round 
the  table. 

*  Speculation,  I  believe,*  said  Elizabeth.  *  My  sister 
recommends  it,  and  I  fancy  we  all  like  it.  I  know 
you  do,  Tom.' 

*  It  is  the  only  round  game  played  at  Croydon  now,' 
said  Mrs.  Robert ;  *  we  never  think  of  any  other.  I 
am  glad  it  is  a  favourite  with  you.' 


358  The  Watsom 


*  Oh !  me^  said  Tom.  *  Whatever  you  decide  on 
will  be  a  favourite  with  me.  I  have  had  some  pleasant 
hours  at  speculation  in  my  time;  but  I  have  not  been 
in  the  way  of  it  for  a  long  while.  Vingt-un  is  the 
game  at  Osborne  Castle.  I  have  played  nothing  but 
vingt-un  of  late.  You  would  be  astonished  to  hear 
the  noise  we  make  there — the  fine  old  lofty  drawing- 
room  rings  again.  Lady  Osborne  sometimes  declares 
she  cannot  hear  herself  speak.  Lord  Osborne  enjoys  it 
famously,  and  he  makes  the  best  dealer  without  excep- 
tion that  I  ever  beheld — such  quickness  and  spirit,  he 
lets  nobody  dream  over  their  cards.  I  wish  you  could 
see  him  over-draw  himself  on  both  his  own  cards.  It 
is  worth  anything  in  the  world  !' 

'Dear  me!'  cried  Margaret,  'why  should  not  we 
play  vingt-un  t  I  think  it  is  a  much  better  game 
than  speculation.  I  cannot  say  I  am  very  fond  of 
speculation.' 

Mrs.  Robert  offered  not  another  word  in  support  of 
the  game.  She  was  quite  vanquished,  and  the 
fashions  of  Osborne  Castle  carried  it  over  the  fashions 
of  Croydon. 

*  Do  you  see  much  of  the  parsonage  family  at  the 
castle,  Mr.  Musgrave  V  said  Emma,  as  they  were 
taking  their  seats. 

*  Oh !  yes  ;  they  are  almost  always  there.  Mrs. 
Blake  is  a  nice  little  goodhumoured  woman  ;  she  and 
I  are  sworn  friends ;  and  Howard's  a  very  gentleman- 
like good  sort  of  fellow.  You  are  not  forgotten,  I 
assure  you,  by  any  of  the  party.  I  fancy  you  must 
have   a   little    cheek-glowing    now    and    then.    Miss 


Tke  Watsons.  359 

Emma.  Were  not  you  rather  warm  last  Saturday 
about  nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening  ?  I  will  tell 
you  how  it  was — I  see  you  are  dying  to  know.  Says 
Howard  to  Lord  Osborne ' 

At  this  interesting  moment  he  was  called  on  by 
the  others  to  regulate  the  game,  and  determine  some 
disputable  point  ;  and  his  attention  was  so  totally 
engaged  in  the  business,  and  afterwards  by  the  course 
of  the  game,  as  never  to  revert  to  what  he  had  been 
saying  before;  and  Emma,  though  suffering  a  good 
deal  from  curiosity,  dared  not  remind  him. 

He  proved  a  very  useful  addition  at  their  table. 
Without  him  it  would  have  been  a  party  of  such 
very  near  relations  as  could  have  felt  little  interest, 
and  perhaps  maintained  little  complaisance,  but  his 
presence  gave  variety  and  secured  good  manners.  He 
was,  in  fact,  excellently  qualified  to  shine  at  a  round 
game,  and  few  situations  made  him  appear  to  greater 
advantage.  He  played  with  spirit,  and  had  a  great 
deal  to  say  ;  and  though  no  wit  himself,  could  some- 
times make  use  of  the  wit  of  an  absent  friend,  and 
had  a  lively  way  of  retailing  a  common-place,  or  say- 
ing a  mere  nothing,  that  had  great  effect  at  a  card- 
table.  The  ways  and  good  jokes  of  Osborne  Castle 
were  now  added  to  his  ordinary  means  of  entertain- 
ment. He  repeated  the  smart  sayings  of  one  lady, 
detailed  the  oversights  of  another,  and  indulged  them 
even  with  a  copy  of  Lord  Osborne's  overdrawing  him- 
self on  both  cards. 

The  clock  struck  nine  while  he  was  thus  agreeably 
occupied;  and  when  Nanny  came  in  with  her  masters 


360  The  Watsons. 


basin  of  gruel,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  observing  to 
Mr.  Watson  that  he  should  leave  him  at  supper  while 
he  went  home  to  dinner  himself.  The  carriage  was 
ordered  to  the  door,  and  no  entreaties  for  his  staying 
longer  could  now  avail ;  for  he  well  knew  that  if  he 
stayed  he  would  have  to  sit  down  to  supper  in  less 
than  ten  minutes,  which  to  a  man  whose  heart  had 
been  long  fixed  on  calling  his  next  meal  a  dinner, 
was  quite  insupportable.  On  finding  him  determined 
to  go,  Margaret  began  to  wink  and  nod  at  Elizabeth 
to  ask  him  to  dinner  for  the  following  day,  and  Eliza- 
beth at  last,  not  able  to  resist  hints  which  her  own 
hospitable  social  temper  more  than  half  seconded, 
gave  the  invitation  —  'Would  he  give  Robert  the 
meeting,  they  should  be  very  happy  ? ' 

*  With  the  greatest  pleasure,'  was  his  first  reply.  In 
a  moment  afterwards,  '  That  is,  if  I  can  possibly  get 
here  in  time ;  but  I  shoot  with  Lord  Osborne,  and 
therefore  must  not  engage.  You  will  not  think  of  me 
unless  you  see  me.'  And  so  he  departed,  delighted 
in  the  uncertainty  in  which  he  had  left  it. 

Margaret,  in  the  joy  of  her  heart,  under  circum- 
stances which  she  chose  to  consider  as  peculiarly  pro- 
pitious, would  willingly  have  made  a  confidante  of 
Emma  when  they  were  alone  for  a  short  time  the 
next  morning,  and  had  proceeded  so  far  as  to  say, 
*  The  young  man  who  was  here  last  night,  my  dear 
Emma,  and  returns  to-day,  is  more  interesting  to  me 
than  perhaps  you  may  be  aware;'  but  Emma,  pre- 
tending to  understand  nothing  extraordinary  in  the 


TJis  Watsons.  .  361 


words,  made  some  very  inapplicable  reply,  and  jump- 
ing up,  ran  away  from  a  subject  which  was  odious  to 
her.  As  Margaret  would  not  allow  a  doubt  to  be 
repeated  of  Musgrave's  coming  to  dinner,  preparations 
wore  made  for  his  entertainment  much  exceeding 
what  had  been  deemed  necessary  the  day  before  ; 
and  taking  the  office  of  superintendence  entirely  from 
her  sister,  she  was  half  the  morning  in  the  kitchen 
herself,  directing  and  scolding. 

After  a  great  deal  of  indifferent  cooking  and  anxious 
suspense,  however,  they  were  obliged  to  sit  down 
without  their  guest.  Tom  Musgrave  never  came ; 
and  Margaret  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  her  vexation 
under  the  disappointment,  or  repress  the  peevishness 
of  her  temper.  The  peace  of  the  party  for  the  re- 
mainder of  that  day  and  the  whole  of  the  next,  which 
comprised  the  length  of  Robert  and  Jane's  visit,  was 
continually  invaded  by  her  fretful  displeasure  and 
querulous  attacks.  Elizabeth  was  the  usual  object  of 
both.  Margaret  had  just  respect  enough  for  her 
brother's  and  sister's  opinion  to  behave  properly  by 
them,  but  Elizabeth  and  the  maids  could  never  do 
right ;  and  Emma,  whom  she  seemed  no  longer  to 
think  about,  found  the  continuance  of  the  gentle  voice 
beyond  calculation  short.  Eager  to  be  as  little  among 
them  as  possible,  Emma  was  delighted  with  the  alter- 
native of  sitting  above  with  her  father,  and  warmly 
entreated  to  be  his  constant  companion  each  evening; 
and  as  Elizabeth  loved  company  of  any  kind  too 
well  not  to  prefer  being  below  at  all  risks ;  as  she  had 
rather  talk  of  Croydon  with  Jane,  with  every  inter- 


362  The  Watsons. 


ruption  of  Margaret's  perverseness,  than  sit  with  only 
her  father,  who  frequently  could  not  endure  talking 
at  all,  the  affair  was  so  settled,  as  soon  as  she  could 
be  persuaded  to  believe  it  no  sacrifice  on  her  sister's 
part.  To  Emma  the  change  was  most  acceptable  and 
delightful.  Her  father,  if  ill,  required  little  more  than 
gentleness  and  silence,  and  being  a  man  of  sense  and 
education,  was,  if  able  to  converse,  a  welcome  com- 
panion. In  Jiis  chamber  Emma  was  at  peace  from 
the  dreadful  mortifications  of  unequal  society  and 
family  discord ;  from  the  immediate  endurance  of 
hard-hearted  prosperity,  low-minded  conceit,  and 
wrong-headed  folly,  engrafted  on  an  untoward  dis- 
position. She  still  suffered  from  them  in  the  contem- 
plation of  their  existence,  in  memory  and  in  prospect, 
but  for  the  moment  she  ceased  to  be  tortured  by  their 
effects.  She  was  at  leisure;  she  could  read  and  think, 
though  her  situation  was  hardly  such  as  to  make  re- 
flection very  soothing.  The  evils  arising  from  the  loss 
of  her  uncle  were  neither  trifling  nor  likely  to  lessen  ; 
and  when  thought  had  been  freely  indulged  in  con- 
trasting the  past  and  the  present,  the  employment  of 
mind  and  dissipation  of  unpleasant  ideas,  which  only 
reading  could  produce,  made  her  thankfully  turn  to  a 
book. 

The  change  in  her  home  society  and  style  of  life, 
in  consequence  of  the  death  of  one  friend  and  the 
imprudence  of  another,  had  indeed  been  striking. 
From  being  the  first  object  of  hope  and  solicitude  to 
AW  uncle  who  had  formed  her  mind  with  the  care  of  a 
parent,  and  of  tenderness  to  an  aunt  whose  amiable 


The  Watsons.  .  363 


temper  had  delighted  to  give  her  every  indulgence  ; 
from  being  the  Hfe  and  spirit  of  a  house  where  all 
had  been  comfort  and  elegance,  and  the  expected 
heiress  of  an  easy  independence,  she  was  become  of 
importance  to  no  one — a  burden  on  those  \\hosc  affec- 
tions she  could  not  expect,  an  addition  in  a  hou^e 
already  overstocked,  surrounded  by  inferior  minds, 
with  little  chance  of  domestic  comfort,  and  as  little 
hope  of  future  support.  It  was  well  for  her  that  she 
was  naturally  cheerful,  for  the  change  had  been  such 
as  might  have  plunged  weak  spirits  in  despondence. 

She  was  very  much  pressed  by  Robert  and  Jane  to 
return  with  them  to  Croydon,  and  had  some  difficulty 
in  getting  a  refusal  accepted,  as  they  thought  too 
highly  of  their  own  kindness  and  situation  to  suppose 
the  offer  could  appear  in  less  advantageous  light  to 
anybody  else.  Elizabeth  gave  them  her  interest, 
though  evidently  against  her  own,  in  privately  urging 
Emma  to  go. 

'  You  do  not  know  what  you  refuse,  Emma,'  said 
she,  '  nor  what  you  have  to  bear  at  home.  I  would 
advise  you  by  all  means  to  accept  the  invitation  ; 
there  is  always  something  lively  going  on  at  Croydon. 
You  will  be  in  company  almost  every  day,  and  Robert 
and  Jane  will  be  very  kind  to  you.  As  for  me,  I 
shall  be  no  worse  off  without  you  than  I  have  been 
used  to  be ;  but  poor  Margaret's  disagreeable  ways 
are  new  to  yoiij  and  they  would  vex  you  more  than 
)'ou  think  for,  if  you  stay  at  home.' 

I'.nmia  was  of  course  uninfluenced,  except  to  greater 


364  TJie  Watsous. 

esteem  for  Elizabeth,  by  such  representations,  and  the 
visitors  departed  without  her 


When  the  author's  sister,  Cassandra,  showed  the 
manuscript  of  this  work  to  some  of  her  nieces,  she 
also  told  them  something  of  the  intended  story ;  for 
with  this  dear  sister — though,  I  believe,  with  no  one 
else — Jane  seems  to  have  talked  freely  of  any  work 
that  she  might  have  in  hand.  Mr.  Watson  was  soon 
to  die;  and  Emma  to  become  dependent  for  a  home 
on  her  narrow-minded  sister-in-law  and  brother.  She 
was  to  decline  an  offer  of  marriage  from  Lord  Osborne, 
and  much  of  the  interest  of  the  tale  was  to  arise  from 
Lady  Osborne's  love  for  Mr.  Howard,  and  his  counter 
affection  for  Emma,  whom  he  was  finally  to  marry. 


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