 he following pages are the production of a pen which has already contributed in no small degree to
the entertainment of the public. And when the public, which has not been insensible to the merits of
“Sense and Sensibility,” “Pride and Prejudice,” “Mansfield Park,” and “Emma,” shall be informed that the hand which
guided that pen is now mouldering in the grave, perhaps a brief account of Jane Austen will be read with a kindlier
sentiment than simple curiosity.
Short and easy will be the task of the mere biographer. A life of usefulness, literature, and religion, was not by any
means a life of event. To those who lament their irreparable loss, it is consolatory to think that, as she never deserved
disapprobation, so, in the circle of her family and friends, she never met reproof; that her wishes were not only reasonable,
but gratified; and that to the little disappointments incidental to human life was never added, even for a moment,
an abatement of goodwill from any who knew her.
Jane Austen was born on the 16th of December, 1775, at Steventon, in the county of Hants. Her father was Rector
of that parish upwards of forty years. There he resided, in the conscientious and unassisted discharge of ministerial
duties, until he was turned of seventy years. Then he retired with his wife, our authoress, and her sister, to Bath, for the
remainder of his life, a period of about four years. Being not only a profound scholar, but possessing a most exquisite
taste in every species of literature, it is not wonderful that his daughter Jane should, at a very early age, have become
sensible to the charms of style, and enthusiastic in the cultivation of her own language. On the death of her father
she removed, with her mother and sister, for a short time, to Southampton, and finally, in 1809, to the pleasant village
of Chawton, in the same county. From this place she sent into the world those novels, which by many have been
placed on the same shelf as the works of a D’Arblay and an Edgeworth. Some of these novels had been the gradual
performances of her previous life. For though in composition she was equally rapid and correct, yet an invincible distrust
of her own judgement induced her to withhold her works from the public, till time and many perusals had satisfied
her that the charm of recent composition was dissolved. The natural constitution, the regular habits, the quiet and happy occupations of our authoress, seemed to promise a long succession of amusement to the public, and a gradual increase of reputation to herself. But the symptoms of a decay,
deep and incurable, began to shew themselves in the commencement of 1816. Her decline was at first deceitfully
slow; and until the spring of this present year, those who knew their happiness to be involved in her existence could
not endure to despair. But in the month of May, 1817, it was found advisable that she should be removed to Winchester
for the benefit of constant medical aid, which none even then dared to hope would be permanently beneficial. She
supported, during two months, all the varying pain, irksomeness, and tedium, attendant on decaying nature, with
more than resignation, with a truly elastic cheerfulness. She retained her faculties, her memory, her fancy, her temper,
and her affections, warm, clear, and unimpaired, to the last. Neither her love of God, nor of her fellow creatures flagged for a moment. She made a point of receiving the sacrament before excessive bodily weakness might have rendered her perception unequal to her wishes. She wrote whilst she
could hold a pen, and with a pencil when a pen was become too laborious. The day preceding her death she composed
some stanzas replete with fancy and vigour. Her last voluntary speech conveyed thanks to her medical attendant; and
to the final question asked of her, purporting to know her wants, she replied, “I want nothing but death.”
She expired shortly after, on Friday the 18th of July, 1817, in the arms of her sister, who, as well as the relator of
these events, feels too surely that they shall never look upon her like again.
Jane Austen was buried on the 24th of July, 1817, in the cathedral church of Winchester, which, in the whole
catalogue of its mighty dead, does not contain the ashes of a brighter genius or a sincerer Christian.
Of personal attractions she possessed a considerable share. Her stature was that of true elegance. It could not
have been increased without exceeding the middle height. Her carriage and deportment were quiet, yet graceful. Her features were separately good. Their assemblage produced an unrivalled expression of that cheerfulness, sensibility, and benevolence, which were her real characteristics. Her
complexion was of the finest texture. It might with truth be said, that her eloquent blood spoke through her modest
cheek. Her voice was extremely sweet. She delivered herself with fluency and precision. Indeed she was formed
for elegant and rational society, excelling in conversation as much as in composition. In the present age it is hazardous
to mention accomplishments. Our authoress would, probably, have been inferior to few in such acquirements,
had she not been so superior to most in higher things. She had not only an excellent taste for drawing, but, in her earlier
days, evinced great power of hand in the management of the pencil. Her own musical attainments she held very
cheap. Twenty years ago they would have been thought more of, and twenty years hence many a parent will expect
their daughters to be applauded for meaner performances.
She was fond of dancing, and excelled in it. It remains now to add a few observations on that which her friends deemed
more important, on those endowments which sweetened every hour of their lives.
If there be an opinion current in the world, that perfect placidity of temper is not reconcileable to the most lively
imagination, and the keenest relish for wit, such an opinion will be rejected for ever by those who have had the happiness
of knowing the authoress of the following works. Though the frailties, foibles, and follies of others could not escape her immediate detection, yet even on their vices did
she never trust herself to comment with unkindness. The affectation of candour is not uncommon; but she had no
affectation. Faultless herself, as nearly as human nature can be, she always sought, in the faults of others, something to
excuse, to forgive or forget. Where extenuation was impossible, she had a sure refuge in silence. She never uttered either
a hasty, a silly, or a severe expression. In short, her temper was as polished as her wit. Nor were her manners inferior to
her temper. They were of the happiest kind. No one could be often in her company without feeling a strong desire of
obtaining her friendship, and cherishing a hope of having obtained it. She was tranquil without reserve or stiffness;
and communicative without intrusion or self-sufficiency.
She became an authoress entirely from taste and inclination. Neither the hope of fame nor profit mixed with her
early motives. Most of her works, as before observed, were composed many years previous to their publication. It was
with extreme difficulty that her friends, whose partiality she suspected whilst she honoured their judgement, could prevail
on her to publish her first work. Nay, so persuaded was she that its sale would not repay the expense of publication,
that she actually made a reserve from her very moderate income to meet the expected loss. She could scarcely believe
what she termed her great good fortune when “Sense and Sensibility” produced a clear profit of about Ј150. Few so
gifted were so truly unpretending. She regarded the above sum as a prodigious recompense for that which had cost her
nothing. Her readers, perhaps, will wonder that such a work produced so little at a time when some authors have received
more guineas than they have written lines. The works of our authoress, however, may live as long as those which have
burst on the world with more йclat. But the public has not been unjust; and our authoress was far from thinking it so.
Most gratifying to her was the applause which from time to time reached her ears from those who were competent to
discriminate. Still, in spite of such applause, so much did she shrink from notoriety, that no accumulation of fame
would have induced her, had she lived, to affix her name to any productions of her pen. In the bosom of her own family
she talked of them freely, thankful for praise, open to remark, and submissive to criticism. But in public she turned
away from any allusion to the character of an authoress. She read aloud with very great taste and effect. Her own works,
probably, were never heard to so much advantage as from her own mouth; for she partook largely in all the best gifts
of the comic muse. She was a warm and judicious admirer of landscape, both in nature and on canvass. At a very early
age she was enamoured of Gilpin on the Picturesque; and she seldom changed her opinions either on books or men.
Her reading was very extensive in history and belles lettres; and her memory extremely tenacious. Her favourite
moral writers were Johnson in prose, and Cowper in verse. It is difficult to say at what age she was not intimately acquainted with the merits and defects of the best essays and novels in the English language. Richardson’s power of creating, and preserving the consistency of his characters, as particularly exemplified in “Sir Charles Grandison,” gratified the natural discrimination of her mind, whilst her taste secured her from the errors of his prolix style and tedious narrative. She did not rank any work of Fielding quite so
high. Without the slightest affectation she recoiled from every thing gross. Neither nature, wit, nor humour, could
make her amends for so very low a scale of morals.
Her power of inventing characters seems to have been intuitive, and almost unlimited. She drew from nature; but, whatever may have been surmised to the contrary, never from individuals.
The style of her familiar correspondence was in all respects the same as that of her novels. Every thing came finished from her pen; for on all subjects she had ideas as clear as her expressions were well chosen. It is not hazarding too
much to say that she never dispatched a note or letter unworthy of publication.
One trait only remains to be touched on. It makes all others unimportant. She was thoroughly religious and devout;
fearful of giving offence to God, and incapable of feeling it towards any fellow creature. On serious subjects she
was well-instructed, both by reading and meditation, and her opinions accorded strictly with those of our Established
Church.
London, Dec. 1, 1817
* * *
POSTSCRIPT
Since concluding the above remarks, the writer of them has been put in possession of some extracts from the private
correspondence of the authoress. They are few and short; but are submitted to the public without apology, as being
more truly descriptive of her temper, taste, feelings, and principles than any thing which the pen of a biographer
can produce.
The first extract is a playful defence of herself from a mock charge of having pilfered the manuscripts of a young
relation.
“What should I do, my dearest E. with your manly, vigorous sketches, so full of life and spirit? How could I possibly
join them on to a little bit of ivory, two inches wide, on which I work with a brush so fine as to produce little effect
after much labour?”
The remaining extracts are from various parts of a letter written a few weeks before her death.
“My attendant is encouraging, and talks of making me quite well. I live chiefly on the sofa, but am allowed to walk from one room to the other. I have been out once in a sedanchair, and am to repeat it, and be promoted to a wheel-chair
as the weather serves. On this subject I will only say further that my dearest sister, my tender, watchful, indefatigable
nurse, has not been made ill by her exertions. As to what I owe to her, and to the anxious affection of all my beloved
family on this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray to God to bless them more and more.”
She next touches with just and gentle animadversion on a subject of domestic disappointment. Of this the particulars do not concern the public. Yet in justice to her characteristic sweetness and resignation, the concluding observation
of our authoress thereon must not be suppressed.
“But I am getting too near complaint. It has been the appointment of God, however secondary causes may have operated.”
The following and final extract will prove the facility with which she could correct every inpatient thought, and turn from complaint to cheerfulness.
“You will find Captain — a very respectable, well-meaning man, without much manner, his wife and sister all good
humour and obligingness, and I hope (since the fashion allows it) with rather longer petticoats than last year.”
London, Dec. 20, 1817.
Persuasion
by Jane Austen:
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