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Art. 3.-JANE AUSTEN: A PERSONAL ASPECT

WAS Jane Austen a moralist? No!' many of her fervent admirers will exclaim-Thank Heaven! that she was not! Her mission was to amuse, to delight, to refresh us, but neither to reprove, nor to condemn us! Those who want "Moral Tales" must seek them elsewhere; they are not to be found among Jane Austen's writings!' They are not indeed, if to be moral is to be dull, and if no one can instruct without growing tedious. Far, far away from such odious reproaches must those pages for ever shine to which we turn again and again, as beguilers of trouble and companions in mirth, equally welcome in society or solitude, in early life or in advancing years. They seem even to grow with our growth and strengthen with our strength, for, old though we may be, and wise as we may think ourselves, we never outgrow their freshness or their wisdom. Such is the creed of Jane Austen's earnest adherents. Nor is this all. In addition to the unflagging interest taken in her books by successive generations of readers a separate interest has grown up in the hearts of many. For them, to know her books-in some cases almost by heart-is much, but it is not enough; they desire to know herself also.

The existence of this feeling came to light as soon as the original 'Memoir of Jane Austen' was published, in 1869, by her nephew the Rev. J. E. Austen Leigh. The production of this book not only caused the appearance of a large number of articles, notices and reviews concerning its subject and her works, but it also brought to the author a variety of interesting letters from unknown correspondents, both English and American, describing the effect that its perusal had produced upon the writers' minds. These letters afforded him much pleasure and not a little surprise. Until that period he had not realised to how large a number of readers, and in what a high degree, the aunt, to whom he as a boy and a young man had been so warmly attached, had also become a living, though an unseen friend. The letters contained not only requests for additional information, but also entreaties that any stories, or fragments of stories, left by Miss Austen in manuscript might be

published, one correspondent urging that 'Every line from the pen of Jane Austen is precious.'

The writer of the Memoir could however do little beyond attending to the last-mentioned request. Having obtained the necessary permission from those members of his family to whom the original manuscripts had been bequeathed by Jane's sister, Cassandra, he included in the second edition of his Memoir Lady Susan,' 'The Watsons,' the alternative ending of 'Persuasion' and some of Jane's childish writings. More than this he could not at that time do, for, though aware that letters written by his aunt were in existence, he was unable to obtain access to them, nor were they published until nearly ten years after his own death took place. They had been written by Jane to her sister, and are a peculiarly restricted selection, which should never be taken as a specimen of her general correspondence, having been spared by Cassandra only from a belief that they contained nothing sufficiently interesting to induce any future generation to publish them. All that she thought of real interest she destroyed-as treasures too precious ever to be profaned by the eyes of strangers. Since the publication of these letters others have been recovered, written by more distant branches of the Austen family, bearing upon the life at Steventon Rectory in old days and consequently upon that of Jane herself. Another book, giving some authentic details of that life, and dealing especially with the careers of her sailor brothers, was subsequently published by a great-great-nephew and niece. All the additional information thus acquired has been embodied in the latest † Life of Jane Austen' published in 1913 by a great-nephew and a great-greatnephew; and those eager readers of the original Memoir who have read this latest 'Life' may have found their wishes for further information fulfilled in some degree.

But though gratified, they may not be wholly satisfied. They may still desire a more intimate acquaintance with her inner self, with those hidden recesses of feeling

'Jane Austen's Sailor Brothers.' By J. H. and Edith Hubback (John Lane, 1906).

Life and Letters of Jane Austen.' By W. and R. A. Austen-Leigh (Smith Elder, 1912).

concerning which a delicate reserve impelled her to keep a sacred silence. They may long for a sight of the vanished letters, not from idle curiosity, but that, in the words of one writer already recorded, 'much as they loved and honoured her before, they might learn to love and honour her still more.' A natural but a vain wish! The letters perished long ago-sacrificed by Cassandra as an offering of love and reverence to the memory of a sister unspeakably dear to herself.

Yet, though in this way we can learn nothing, there is another path, hitherto we believe untrodden, by the help of which we may attain a point of view affording us some fresh knowledge respecting those inner convictions which Jane Austen was always slow in revealing to the public gaze, and which will at the same time furnish an answer to the question asked at the beginning of this article.

To accomplish such an object we must turn to her books, and reverse our usual attitude of mind towards them by considering each story, not as a separate creation, but as part of a general whole. From an artistic standpoint there is nothing that can tempt us to act in this manner. Every novel is complete in itself, possessing its own plot, characters and distinctive atmosphere in a remarkable degree. We find no repetition of ideas among the six; and this may induce the belief that, while comparison is easy, generalisation is impossible. Nevertheless, it will be seen, on reflection, that, apart from the creative, dramatic, humorous qualities common to all, there is one moral or religious feature which declares their family likeness. One line of thought, one grace, or quality, or necessity, by whichever title we like to know it, is apparent in all her works. Its name is— Repentance.

It will be found, on examination, that this incident recurs in all her novels, being neither dragged in as a moral nor dwelt upon as a duty, but quietly taking its place as a natural and indispensable part of the plot, an inevitable incident in the formation and development of each successive child of her imagination. Every one, gayer or graver as the case may be, has his own testimony to give on this question, while all display the skill with which the author knew how to handle the subject,

according to the varying needs of place, character and surroundings.

We shall find that even in her very early and most lighthearted story 'Northanger Abbey,' the episode could not be dispensed with. The young heroine of this story, under the excitement of wild and captivating romances, allows herself to believe that the man in whose house she is a guest had, not long before, desired, perhaps connived at, the death of his own excellent and charming wife, or, at the very least, is keeping her immured in some dungeon on the premises. Such delusions could not be suffered to go unpunished. Nor were they, but, as they arose from nothing worse than ignorance and folly, the penalty inflicted is mercifully abridged. Still, the offender has to undergo a period of sharp anguish, brought upon her by a not unreasonable remonstrance, on the part of the hero, a son of the supposed villain. Its effect was immediate. Catherine,' we read, 'was completely awakened. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly did she cry. She hated herself more than she could express.' But Jane Austen, we are very sure, would never break a butterfly upon the wheel; consequently we learn with no surprise that, after forming a resolution of 'always judging and acting in the future with the greatest good sense,' and being assisted by Henry Tilney's 'astonishing generosity and nobleness of character in never alluding to what had passed,' Catherine is ready to be consoled. The lenient hand of time ‘did much for her by insensible gradations in the course of another day'; and she soon found that she had nothing to do but to 'forgive herself and be happier than ever.' Nevertheless, so effectually has the work of penitence been performed that, when General Tilney, not long afterwards, turns her out of his house at a few hours' notice, she magnanimously abstains from reverting to her previous suspicions that he has at an earlier period either poisoned or incarcerated his wife.

Passing from these playful pages to those of her latest and most pathetic work, Persuasion,' we find the same chord struck, but in a minor key and with a softer tone. Nothing glaringly wrong could befall a character of whom her own creator wrote beforehand to a niece, 'You may perhaps like the heroine, as she is almost too

good for me.' Anne Elliot's error was want of judgment, of too meek a submission to the direction of an older friend, an error that leaned to virtue's side' and was embraced by her unselfish spirit the more readily because, though destructive of her own happiness, she was persuaded to believe that it would promote the future good of a man whom she devotedly loved. Want of mental

balance and some youthful weakness of character are the worst charges that can be brought against this almost perfect being, yet for these she has to suffer long, and has to learn, through suffering, the nature of the mistake she had made. Repentance, in the form of deep regret, overtook her as years passed on. 'She felt,' we are told, 'that, were any young person in similar circumstances to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness— such uncertain future good.' Captain Wentworth had, on his side, a worse fault to repent of: 'I was proud,' he cried; too proud to understand or to do you justice -too proud to ask you again. This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than myself.' Readers can only agree with both speakers and rejoice in the sequel that closes these confessions.

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Instances of graver misconduct and its subsequent results will be found in the four remaining novels. Even in the story written when Jane Austen was quite a young girl, called first Elinor and Marianne' and afterwards 'Sense and Sensibility,' the plot is made to hinge upon the evils inflicted by the heroine upon herself and her family through a too violent indulgence in a romantic passion. This renders her indifferent to the needs and the claims of other people, and blind to the sorrow of her sister, who is also suffering, but in silence, from an unfortunate attachment. It is not until Marianne is herself in the depths of disappointed affection that her eyes are opened to the truths around her. Then, 'Oh! Elinor,' she cries, 'you have made me hate myself for ever. How barbarous have I been to you!-you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!' Such is her first burst of penitence, to be strengthened by time and a severe illness, after which she speaks once more: 'I considered the past. . . I saw

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