Memoir of Jane Austen by James Edward Austen-Leigh (best books to read for success txt) 📕

‘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 conversations 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.  Madelle. Cossart is rather my passion.’

Two notices of her works appeared in the ‘Quarterly Review.’  One in October 1815, and another, more than three years after her death, in January 1821.  The latter article is known to have been from the pen of Whately, afterwards Archbishop of Dublin. {140}  They differ much from each other in the degree of praise which they award, and I think also it may be said, in the ability with which they are written.  The first bestows some approval, but the other expresses the warmest admiration.  One can scarcely be satisfied with the critical acumen of the former writer, who, in treating of ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ takes no notice whatever of the vigour with which many of the characters are drawn, but declares that ‘the interest and merit 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 commonplace 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 1815, 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 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 regard to character hardly exceeded by Shakspeare himself.  These are his words: ‘Like him (Shakspeare) she shows as admirable a discrimination 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 Macbeth, and Julius Cæsar; and Miss Austen’s {142} Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Rushworth, and Miss Bates are no more alike than her Darcy, Knightley, and Edmund Bertram.  Some have complained indeed of finding her fools too much like nature, and consequently tiresome.  There is no disputing about tastes; all we 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 pictures, or those of the Dutch school, must admit that excellence of imitation may confer attraction on that which would be insipid or disagreeable in the reality.  Her minuteness of detail has also been found fault with; but even where it produces, 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 produce that thorough acquaintance with the characters which is necessary to make the reader heartily interested 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 maturity and flavour without them.’

The world, I think, has endorsed the opinion of the later writer; but it would not be fair to set down the discrepancy between the two entirely to the discredit 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 frequent perusals, and it is probable that each Reviewer represented fairly enough the prevailing opinions of readers in the year when each wrote.

Since that time, the testimonies in favour of Jane Austen’s works have been continual and almost unanimous.  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.

Opinions expressed by eminent persons—Opinions of others of less eminence—Opinion of American 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 have been increased.

Southey, in a letter to Sir Egerton Brydges, 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 Basingstoke, was married to Southey’s uncle, the Rev. Herbert 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.  Mr. Hill had been Chaplain to the British Factory at Lisbon, where Southey visited him and had the use of a library in those languages which his uncle had collected.  Southey himself continually mentions his uncle Hill in terms of respect and gratitude.

S. T. Coleridge would sometimes burst out into high encomiums of Miss 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 off one of my hands, if it would enable me to write like your aunt with the other.’

The biographer of Sir J. Mackintosh says: ‘Something recalled to his mind the traits of character which are so delicately touched in Miss Austen’s novels . . .  He 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 unnoticed .{145} . .  The “Quarterly” had done her more justice . . .  It was impossible for a foreigner to understand fully the merit of her works.  Madame de Staël, 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 novel to Miss Austen.  She did not need the common materials for a novel, strong emotions, or strong incidents.’ {146}

It was not, however, quite impossible for a foreigner 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, particularly those written by women.  “C’est toute une école de morale.”  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 lines appeared, 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 clear 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 had been prolonged.  I have the authority of his sister, Lady Trevelyan, for stating that he had intended 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