It has been said that Miss Austen came nearer to showing life as it is, ­the life she knew and chose to depict, ­than any other novelist of English race.  In other words, she is a princess among the truth-tellers.  Whether or not this claim can be substantiated, it is sure that, writing practically half a century after Richardson and Fielding, she far surpassed those pioneers in the exquisite and easy verisimilitude of her art.  Nay, we can go further and say that nobody has reproduced life with a more faithful accuracy, that yet was not photography because it gave the pleasure proper to art, than this same Jane Austen, spinster, well-born and well-bred:  in her own phrase, an “elegant female” of the English past.  Scott’s famous remark can not be too often quoted:  “That young lady had a talent for describing the movements and feelings of characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with.”

If you look on the map at the small Southern county of Hampshire, you will see that the town of Steventon lies hard by Selborne, another name which the naturalist White has made pleasant to the ear.  Throughout her forty-two years of life ­she was born the year of American revolution and died shortly after Scott had begun his Waverley series ­she was a country-woman in the best sense:  a clergyman’s daughter identified with her neighborhood, dignified and private in her manner of existence, her one sensational outing being a four years’ residence in the fashionable watering-place of Bath, where Beau Nash once reigned supreme and in our day, Beaucaire has been made to rebuke Lady Mary Carlisle for her cold patrician pride.  Quiet she lived and died, nor was she reckoned great in letters by her contemporaries.  She wrote on her lap with others in the room, refused to take herself seriously and in no respect was like the authoress who is kodaked at the writing-desk and chronicled in her movements by land and sea.  She was not the least bit “literary.”  Fanny Burney, who had talent to Jane Austen’s genius, was in a blaze of social recognition, a petted darling of the town, where the other walked in rural ways and unnoted of the world, wrote novels that were to make literary history.  Such are the revenges of the whirligig, Time.

Austen’s indestructible reputation is founded on half a dozen pieces of fiction:  the best, and best known, “Sense and Sensibility” and “Pride and Prejudice,” although “Mansfield Park,” “Emma,” “Northanger Abbey” and “Persuasion” (in order of publication but not of actual composition) are all of importance to the understanding and enjoyment of her, and her evenness of performance, on the whole, is remarkable.  The earlier three of these books were written by Miss Austen when a young woman In the twenties, but published much later, and were anonymous ­an indication of her tendency to take her authorship as an aside.  Two of them appeared posthumously.  Curiously, “Northanger Abbey,” that capital hit at the Radcliffe romanticism, and first written of her stories, was disposed of to a publisher when the writer was but three and twenty, yet was not printed until she had passed away nearly twenty years later, ­a sufficient proof of her unpopularity from the mercantile point of view.

Here is one of the paradoxes of literature:  this gentlewoman dabbling in a seemingly amateur fashion in letters, turns out to be the ablest novelist of her sex and race, one of the very few great craftsmen, one may say, since art is no respector of sex.  Jane Austen is the best example in the whole range of English literature of the wisdom of knowing your limitations and cultivating your own special plot of ground.  She offers a permanent rebuke to those who (because of youth or a failure to grasp the meaning of life) fancy that the only thing worth while lies on the other side of the Pyrénées; when all the while at one’s own back-door blooms the miracle.  She had a clear-eyed comprehension of her own restrictions; and possessed that power of self-criticism which some truly great authors lack.  She has herself given us the aptest comment ever made on her books:  speaking of the “little bit of ivory two inches wide on which she worked with a brush so fine as to produce little effect after much labor"; ­a judgment hardly fair as to the interest she arouses, but nevertheless absolutely descriptive of the plus and minus of her gift.

Miss Austen knew the genteel life of the upper middle class Hampshire folk, “the Squirearchy and the upper professional class,” as Professor Saintsbury expresses it, down to the ground ­knew it as a sympathetic onlooker slightly detached (she never married), yet not coldly aloof but a part of it as devoted sister and maiden aunt, and friend-in-general to the community.  She could do two things which John Ruskin so often lauded as both rare and difficult:  see straight and then report accurately; a literary Pre-Raphaelite, be it noted, before the term was coined.  It not only came natural to her to tell the truth about average humanity as she saw it; she could not be deflected from her calling.  Winning no general recognition during her life-time, she was not subjected to the temptations of the popular novelist; but she had her chance to go wrong, for it is recorded how that the Librarian to King George the Third, an absurd creature yclept Clark, informed the authoress that his Highness admired her works, and suggested that in view of the fact that Prince Leonard was to marry the Princess Charlotte, Miss Austen should indite “An historical romance illustrative of the august house of Coburg.”  To which, Miss Jane, with a humor and good-sense quite in character (and, it may be feared, not appreciated by the recipient):  “I could not sit down to write a serious romance under any other motive than amusement to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up, and never relax into laughter at myself and 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.”

There is scarce a clearer proof of genius than this ability to strike out a path and keep to it:  in striking contrast with the weak wobbling so often shown in the desire to follow literary fashion or be complaisant before the suggestion of the merchants of letters.

All her novels are prophetic of what was long to rule, in their slight framework of fable; the handling of the scenes by the way, the characterization, the natural dialogue, the vraisemblance of setting, the witty irony of observation, these are the elements of interest.  Jane Austen’s plots are mere tempests in tea-pots; yet she does not go to the extreme of the plotless fiction of the present.  She has a story to tell, as Trollope would say, and knows how to tell it in such a way as to subtract from it every ounce of value.  There is a clear kernel of idea in each and every one of her tales.  Thus, in “Sense and Sensibility,” we meet two sisters who stand for the characteristics contrasted in the title, and in the fortunes of Mariane, whose flighty romanticism is cured so that she makes a sensible marriage after learning the villainy of her earlier lover and finding that foolish sentimentalism may well give way to the informing experiences of life, ­the thesis, satirically conveyed though with more subtlety than in the earlier “Northanger Abbey,” proclaims the folly of young-girl sentimentality and hysteria.  In “Pride and Prejudice,” ranked by many as her masterpiece, Darcy, with his foolish hauteur, his self-consciousness of superior birth, is temporarily blind to the worth of Elizabeth, who, on her part, does not see the good in him through her sensitiveness to his patronizing attitude; as the course of development brings them together in a happy union, the lesson of toleration, of mutual comprehension, sinks into the mind.  The reader realizes the pettiness of the worldly wisdom which blocks the way of joy.  As we have said, “Northanger Abbey” speaks a wise word against the abuse of emotionalism; it tells of the experiences of a flighty Miss, bred on the “Mysteries of Udolpho” style of literature, during a visit to a country house where she imagined all the medieval romanticism incident to that school of fiction, ­aided and abetted by such innocuous helps as a storm without and a lonesome chamber within doors.  Of the later stories, “Mansfield Park” asks us to remember what it is to be poor and reared among rich relations; “Emma” displays a reverse misery:  the rich young woman whose character is exposed to the adulations and shams incident upon her position; while in “Persuasion,” there is yet another idea expressed by and through another type of girl; she who has fallen into the habit of allowing herself to be over-ridden and used by friends and family. ­There is something all but Shaksperian in that story’s illustration of “the uncertainty of all human events and calculations,” as she herself expresses it:  Anne Eliot’s radical victory is a moral triumph yet a warning withal.  And in each book, the lesson has been conveyed with the unobtrusive indirection of fine art; the story is ever first, we are getting fiction not lectures.  These novels adorn truth; they show what literature can effect by the method of much-in-little.

There is nothing sensational in incident or complication:  as with Richardson, an elopement is the highest stretch of external excitement Miss Austen vouchsafes.  Yet all is drawn so beautifully to scale, as in such a scene as that of the quarrel and estrangement of Elizabeth and Darcy in “Pride and Prejudice,” that the effect is greater than in the case of many a misused opportunity where the events are earth-shaking in import.  The situation means so much to the participants, that the reader becomes sympathetically involved.  After all, importance in fiction is exactly like importance in life; important to whom? the philosopher asks.  The relativity of things human is a wholesome theory for the artist to bear in mind.  Even as the most terrific cataclysm on this third planet from the sun in a minor system, makes not a ripple upon Mars, so the most infinitesimal occurrence in eighteenth century Hampshire may seem of account, ­if only a master draws the picture.

Not alone by making her characters thoroughly alive and interesting does Miss Austen effect this result:  but by her way of telling the tale as well; by a preponderance of dialogue along with clear portraiture she actually gets an effect that is dramatic.  Scenes from her books are staged even to the present day.  She found this manner of dialogue with comparative parsimony of description and narration, to be her true method as she grew as a fiction-maker:  the early unpublished story “Susan,” and the first draught of “Sense and Sensibility,” had the epistolary form of Richardson, the more undramatic nature of which is self-evident.  As for characterization itself, she is with the few:  she has added famous specimens ­men and women both ­to the natural history of fiction.  To think of but one book, “Pride and Prejudice,” what an inimitable study of a foolish woman is Mrs. Bennett!  Who has drawn the insufferable patroness more vividly than in a Lady Catherine de Bourgh!  And is not the sycophant clergyman hit off to the life in Mr. Collins!  Looking to the stories as a group, are not her heroines, with Anne Eliot perhaps at their head, wonderful for quiet attraction and truth, for distinctness, charm and variety?  Her personages are all observed; she had the admirable good sense not to go beyond her last.  She had every opportunity to see the county squire, the baronet puffed up with a sense of his own importance, the rattle and rake of her day, the tuft hunter, the gentleman scholar, and the retired admiral (her two brothers had that rank) ­and she wisely decided to exhibit these and other types familiar to her locality and class, instead of drawing on her imagination or trying to extend by guess-work her social purview.  Her women in general, whether satiric and unpleasant like Mrs. Norris in “Mansfield Park” or full of winning qualities like Catherine Moreland and Anne Eliot, are drawn with a sureness of hand, an insight, a complete comprehension that cannot be over-praised.  Jane Austen’s heroines are not only superior to her heroes (some of whom do not get off scot-free from the charge of priggishness) but they excel the female characterization of all English novelists save only two or three, ­one of them being Hardy.  Her characters were so real to herself, that she made statements about them to her family as if they were actual, ­a habit which reminds of Balzac.

The particular angle from which she looked on life was the satirical:  therefore, her danger is exaggeration, caricature.  Yet she yielded surprisingly little, and her reputation for faithful transcripts from reality, can not now be assailed.  Her detached, whimsical attitude of scrutinizing the little cross-section of life she has in hand, is of the very essence of her charm:  hers is that wit which is the humor of the mind:  something for inward smiling, though the features may not change.  Her comedy has in this way the unerring thrust and the amused tolerance of a Moliere whom her admirer Macaulay should have named rather than Shakspere when wishing to compliment her by a comparison; with her manner of representation and her view of life in mind, one reverts to Meredith’s acute description of the spirit that inheres in true comedy.  “That slim, feasting smile, shaped like the longbow, was once a big round satyr’s laugh, that flung up the brows like a fortress lifted by gunpowder.  The laugh will come again, but it will be of the order of the smile, finely tempered, showing sunlight of the mind, mental richness rather than noisy enormity.  Its common aspect is one of unsolicitous observation, as if surveying a full field and having leisure to dart on its chosen morsels, without any flattering eagerness.  Men’s future upon earth does not attract it; their honesty and shapeliness in the present does; and whenever they were out of proportion, overthrown, affected, pretentious, bombastical, hypocritical, pedantic, fantastically delicate; whenever it sees them self-deceived or hoodwinked, given to run riot in idolâtries, drifting into vanities, congregating in absurdities, planning shortsightedly, plotting dementedly; whenever they are at variance with their professions, and violate the unwritten but perceptible laws binding them in consideration one to another; whenever they offend sound reason, fair justice; are false in humility or mined with conceit, individually or in the bulk ­the Spirit overhead will look humanly malign and cast an oblique light on them, followed by volleys of silvery laughter.  That is the Comic Spirit.”

If the “silvery laughter” betimes sounds a bit sharp and thinly feminine, what would you have?  Even genius must be subject to the defect of its quality.  Still, it must be confessed that this attitude of the artist observer is broken in upon a little in the later novels, beginning with “Mansfield Park,” by a growing tendency to moral on the time, a tendency that points ominously to didacticism.  There is something of the difference in Jane Austen between early and late, that we shall afterwards meet in that other great woman novelist, George Eliot.  One might push the point too far, but it is fair to make it.

We may also inquire ­trying to see the thing freshly, with independence, and to get away from the mere handing-on of a traditional opinion ­if Jane Austen’s character-drawing, so far-famed for its truth, does not at times o’erstep the modesty of Nature.  Goldwin Smith, in his biography of her, is quite right in pointing out that she unquestionably overdraws her types:  Mr. Collins is at moments almost a reminder of Uriah Heap for oily submissiveness:  Sir Walter Eliot’s conceit goes so far he seems a theory more than a man, a “humor” in the Ben Jonson sense.  So, too, the valetudinarianism of Mr. Wood-house, like that of Smollett’s Bramble, is something strained; so is Lady de Bourgh’s pride and General Tilney’s tyranny.  Critics are fond of violent contrasts and to set over against one another authors so unlike, for example, as Miss Austen and Dickens is a favorite occupation.  Also is it convenient to put a tag on every author:  a mask reading realist, romanticist, psychologue, sensation-monger, or some such designation, and then hold him to the name.  Thus, in the case of Austen it is a temptation to call her the greatest truth-teller among novelists, and so leave her.  But, as a matter of fact, great as realist and artist as she was, she does not hesitate at that heightening of effect which insures clearer seeing, longer remembering and a keener pleasure.  Perhaps she is in the broad view all the better artist because of this:  a thought sadly forgotten by the extreme veritists of our day.  It is the business of art to improve upon Nature.

Again the reader of Jane Austen must expect to find her with the limitation of her time and place:  it is, frankly, a dreadfully contracted view of the world she represents, just for the reason that it is the view of her Hampshire gentry in the day of the third George.  The ideals seem low, narrow; they lack air and light.  Woman’s only rôle is marriage; female propriety chokes originality; money talks, family places individuals, and the estimate of sex-relations is intricately involved with these eidola.  There is little sense of the higher and broader issues:  the spiritual restrictions are as definite as the social and geographical:  the insularity is magnificent.  It all makes you think of Tennyson’s lines: 

“They take the rustic cackle of their burg For the great wave that echoes round the world!”

Hence, one of the bye-products of Miss Austen’s books is their revelation of hide-bound class-distinction, the not seldom ugly parochialism ­the utilitarian aims of a circle of highly respectable English country folk during the closing years of the eighteenth century.  The opening sentence of her masterpiece reads:  “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”  Needless to say that “universally” here is applicable to a tiny area of earth observed by a most charming spinster, at a certain period of society now fast fading into a dim past.  But the sentence might serve fairly well as a motto for all her work:  every plot she conceived is firm-based upon this as a major premise, and the particular feminine deduction from those words may be found in the following taken from another work, “Mansfield Park”:  “Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria Bertram was beginning to think marriage a duty; and as a marriage with Mr. Rushford would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her father’s, as well as insure her the house in town, which was now a prime object, it became by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushford if she could.”  The egocentric worldliness of this is superb.  The author, it may be granted, has a certain playful satire in her manner here and elsewhere, when setting forth such views:  yet it seems to be fair to her to say that, taking her fiction as a whole, she contentedly accepts this order of things and builds upon it.  She and her world exhibit not only worldliness but that “other-worldliness” which is equally self-centered and materialistic.  Jane Austen is a highly enjoyable mondaine.  To compare her gamut with that of George Eliot or George Meredith is to appreciate how much has happened since in social and individual evolution.  The wide social sympathy that throbs in modern fiction is hardly born.

In spite, too, of the thorough good breeding of this woman writer, the primness even of her outlook upon the world, there is plain speaking in her books, even touches of coarseness that are but the echo of the rankness which abounds in the Fielding-Smollett school.  Happily, it is a faint one.

Granting the slightness of her plots and their family likeness, warm praise is due for the skill with which they are conducted; they are neatly articulated, the climactic effect is, as a rule, beautifully graduated and sure in its final force:  the multitude of littles which go to make up the story are, upon examination, seen to be not irrelevant but members of the one body, working together towards a common end.  It is a puzzling question how this firm art was secured:  since technique does not mean so much a gift from heaven as the taking of forethought, the self-conscious skill of a practitioner.  Miss Austen, setting down her thoughts of an evening in a copybook in her lap, interrupted by conversations and at the beck and call of household duties, does not seem as one who was acquiring the mastery of a difficult art-form.  But the wind bloweth where it listeth ­and the evidences of skill are there; we can but chronicle the fact, and welcome the result.

She was old-fashioned in her adherence to the “pleasant ending”; realist though she was, she could not go to the lengths either of theme or interpretation in the portrayal of life which later novelists have so sturdily ventured.  It is easy to understand that with her avowed dislike of tragedy, living in a time when it was regarded as the business of fiction to be amusing ­when, in short, it was not fashionable to be disagreeable, as it has since become ­Jane Austen should have preferred to round out her stories with a “curtain” that sends the audience home content.  She treats this desire in herself with a gentle cynicism which, read to-day, detracts somewhat perhaps from the verity of her pictures.  She steps out from the picture at the close of her book to say a word in proper person.  Thus, in “Mansfield Park,” in bringing Fanny Price into the arms of her early lover, Edmund, she says:  “I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions and the transfer of unchanging attachments must vary much as to time in different people.  I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.”

But it cannot be urged against her that it was her habit to effect these agreeable conclusions to her social histories by tampering with probability or violently wresting events from their proper sequence.  Life is neither comedy nor tragedy ­it is tragi-comedy, or, if you prefer the graver emphasis, comi-tragedy.  Miss Austen, truth-lover, has as good a right to leave her lovers at the juncture when we see them happily mated, as at those more grievous junctures so much affected by later fiction.  Both representations may be true or false in effect, according as the fictionist throws emphasis and manages light-and-shade.  A final page whereon all is couleur de rose has, no doubt, an artificial look to us now:  a writer of Miss Austen’s school or her kind of genius for reporting fact, could not have finished her fictions in just the same way.  There is no blame properly, since the phenomenon has to do with the growth of human thought, the change of ideals reflected in literature.

For one more point:  Miss Austen only knew, or anyhow, only cared to write, one sort of Novel ­the love story.  With her, a young man and woman (or two couples having similar relations) are interested in each other and after various complications arising from their personal characteristics, from family interference or other criss-cross of events, misplacement of affection being a trump card, are united in the end.  The formula is of primitive simplicity.  The wonder is that so much of involvement and genuine human interest can be got out of such scant use of the possible permutations of plot.  It is all in the way it is done.

Love stories are still written in profusion, and we imagine that so compelling a motive for fiction will still be vital (in some one of its innumerable phases) in the twenty-fifth century.  Yet it is true that novelists now point with pride to the work of the last generation of their art, in that it has so often made sex love subsidiary to other appeals, or even eliminated it altogether from their books.  Some even boast of the fact that not a woman is to be found in the pages of their latest creation.  Nearly one hundred years ago, Defoe showed the possibility (if you happen to have genius) of making a powerful story without the introduction of the eternal feminine:  Crusoe could not declare with Cyrano de Bergerac: 

“Je vous dois d’avoir eu tout au moins, une amie; Grace a vous, une robe a passe dans ma vie.”

It is but natural that, immensely powerful as it is, such a motive should have been over-worked:  the gamut of variations has been run from love licit to love illicit, and love degenerate and abnormal to no-love-at-all.  But any publisher will assure you that still “love conquers all”; and in the early nineteenth century any novelist who did not write tales of amatory interest was a fool:  the time was not ripe to consider an extension of the theme nor a shifted point of view.  For the earlier story-tellers, in the language of Browning’s lyric,

“Love is best.”

Jane Austen’s diction ­or better, her style, which is more than diction ­in writing her series of social studies, affords a fine example of the adaptation of means to end.  Given the work to be accomplished, the tools are perfect instruments for the purpose.  The student of English style in its evolution must marvel at the idiom of Austen, so strangely modern is it, so little has time been able to make it passe.  From her first book, her manner seems to be easy, adequate, unforced, with nothing about it self-conscious or gauche.  In the development of some great writers the change from unsureness and vulgarity to the mastery of mature years can be traced:  Dickens is one such.  But nothing of the sort can be found in Austen.  She has in “Northanger Abbey” and “Pride and Prejudice” ­early works ­a power in idiomatic English which enables her reader to see her thought through its limpid medium of language, giving, it may be, as little attention to the form of expression as a man uninstructed in the niceties of a woman’s dress gives to those details which none the less in their totality produce on him a most formidable effect.  Miss Austen’s is not the style of startling tricks:  nor has she the flashing felicities of a Stevenson which lead one to return to a passage for re-gustation.  Her manner rarely if ever takes the attention from her matter.  But her words and their marshaling (always bearing in her mind her unambitious purpose) make as fit a garment for her thought as was ever devised upon English looms.  If this is style, then Jane Austen possesses it, as have very few of the race.  There is just a touch of the archaic in it, enough to give a quaintness that has charm without being precious in the French sense; hers are breeding and dignity without distance or stiffness.  Now and again the life-likeness is accentuated by a sort of undress which goes to the verge of the slip-shod ­as if a gentlewoman should not be too particular, lest she seem professional; the sort of liberty with the starched proprieties of English which Thackeray later took with such delightful results.  Of her style as a whole, then, we may say that it is good literature for the very reason that it is not literary; neither mannered nor mincing nor affectedly plain.  The style is the woman ­and the woman wrote as a lady should who is portraying genteel society; very much as she would talk ­with the difference the artist will always make between life and its expression in letters.

Miss Austen’s place was won slowly but surely, unlike those authors whose works spring into instantaneous popularity, to be forgotten with equal promptness, or others who like Mrs. Stowe write a book which, for historical reasons, gains immediate vogue and yet retains a certain reputation.  The author of “Pride and Prejudice” gains in position with the passing of the years.  She is one of the select company of English writers who after a century are really read, really of more than historical significance.  New and attractive editions of her books are frequent:  she not only holds critical regard (and to criticism her importance is permanent) but is read by an appreciable number of the lovers of sound literature; read far more generally, we feel sure, than Disraeli or Bulwer or Charles Kingsley, who are so much nearer our own day and who filled so large a place in their respective times.  Compared with them, Jane Austen appears a serene classic.  When all is said, the test, the supreme test, is to be read:  that means that an author is vitally alive, not dead on the shelves of a library where he has been placed out of deference to the literary Mrs. Grundy.  Lessing felt this when he wrote his brilliant quatrain: 

Wer wird nicht einen Klopstock loben,
Doch wird ihn jeder lesen?  Nein! 
Wir wollen weniger erhoben
Und fleissiger gelesen sein,

So was the century which was to be conspicuous for its development of fiction that should portray the social relations of contemporary life with fine and ever-increasing truth, most happily inaugurated by a woman who founded its traditions and was a wonderful example of its method.  She is the literary godmother of Trollope and Howells, and of all other novelists since who prefer to the most spectacular uses of the imagination the unsensational chronicling of life.