A Memoir of Jane Austen

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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 mark. The picture was drawn
from the intuitive perceptions of genius, not from personal
experience. In no circumstance of her life was there any similarity
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 connections,
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 after 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 manners 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,° could be little better
than a fancy-piece. There is no doubt that if we could 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
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