I’m re-reading the memoir of her father James-Edward Austen-Leigh, in which Mary-Augusta of course writes of his beloved Aunt Jane. I thought to share what she — who never knew Jane Austen, or Jane’s mother Mrs George Austen — wrote about their latter days at Chawton:

Memoir of James Edward Austen Leigh
published for private circulation in 1911, pp. 12-14

The cottage at Chawton still stands to testify that the constant hospitality of the owner, Mrs. George Austen, had to be shown within modest limits. Her income was modest also. A letter from her to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Leigh-Perrot, is extant, thanking the recipient for making some addition to her means, and explaining how the total of £500 a year was made up. Three-quarters of this sum came from three or four of her sons, and two of these, Henry and Frank, had not of late been in a position to contribute anything, as the first had failed in business and the second had now to support an increasing family. Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s help was, therefore, very welcome, though Mrs. Austen is careful to add that her son, Mr. Knight, ‘is most kind and liberal; he allows me £200 a year, gives me my house rent, supplies me plentifully with wood and makes me many kind presents, and often asks Cassandra if she is sure I have enough, as if I have not he would most willingly give me more; but that I should be sorry to apply for, well knowing that, though his income is large, his family is large also.’ It was certainly not at Chawton and Godmersham that Jane observed the spirit in which the John Dashwoods acted towards their relations. In the Austen family, whether rich or poor, the contest generally seems to have been who should give up the most to the other, and her eldest son, James, who allowed his widowed mother £50 a year during his lifetime, probably made a larger proportional contribution from his income as a country clergyman than his richer brother, Edward Knight, contributed from his.

But, generous though they were, the sum total was not large for three ladies to live upon, and as Jane Austen was never, in her own home, accustomed to affluence, doubtless the sums received for her books, small though they seem to us, were a very welcome addition to somewhat narrow means. This was the little house and household in which Edward Austen had always been so welcome a guest, but now its brightest light was extinguished, and on July 24, 1817, he attended Jane Austen’s funeral in Winchester Cathedral, to represent the head of the family, his own father, the latter being too unwell to attend in person.

[And here’s wishes for Janeite Deb’s speedy recovery. Enjoying the Bowen books???]

One wonderful memory of visiting Chawton Cottage – Jane Austen’s home from 1809 until her death, was the hallway lined with Hugh Thomson’s drawings for Pride and Prejudice.  So a BIG surprise when a copy of that very book was found ONLINE via the Internet Archive! And what a beautiful book it is, with a golden peacock filling the front cover, and what seems like hundreds of illustrations on the inside. Take a look…..

UPDATE: Thrilled to see that Ms. Place’s happiness at locating this book equals my own. Isn’t it gorgeous?!? And even signed by the illustrator. I cannot stress more the importance of such endeavors for those of us far from large research libraries, and I applaud everyone involved in such a noble cause. Many 19th-century books are hard to get, even as interlibrary loans. They are sometimes fragile; oftentimes they are locked away in “Special Collections” and do not circulate. This same site, Internet Archive, offers Thomson’s Sense and Sensibility. Watch our BIBLIOGRAPHY page for more such jewels, as we find them; and, please, let us know of similar Internet Archive or Books.google sites as you discover them.

My interests are drawn by letters and diaries – especially of English women, from a broad range of times. Mid-18th century, to complement my love of Mozart (his letters make for wonderful reading; I highly recommend the Anderson translation); early-19th century to complement my research into the lives of Emma Smith and Mary Gosling; I value my Queen Victoria collection of letters and journals; World War I and World War II – nothing of politics or “war,” but personal responses to these adverse times. 

Therefore, I had long ago bookmarked a wonderful website dealing with the letters of Thomas and Jane Carlyle. Jane is the half of this pair who interests me, especially after having read Thea Holme’s delightful The Carlyles at Home (a terrific piece of writing). This Duke University Press-related website has FULL TEXT letters, searchable, browseable. I cannot praise the site more highly. And looking at it today, I put in AUSTEN just to see what would turn up; my findings are what I want to share.

The first letter was written by Jane to Thomas on 5 August 1852. Jane is on the road, and recounts a little of her journey to her husband:

‘Some twenty minutes after; I started myself, in a little gig, with a brisk little horse, and silent driver— Nothing could be more pleasant—than so pirring thro’ quiet roads in the dusk—with the moon coming out—I felt as if I were reading about myself in a Miss Austin novel!  (Could she have been thinking of NORTHANGER ABBEY??) But it got beyond Miss Austin when at the end of some three miles before a sort of Carrier’s Inn, the gentleman of the barouchette stept into the middle of the road, making a sort of military signal to my driver, which he repeated with impatience when the man did not at once draw up!— I sat confounded—’ (And there, I’m afraid, we must leave poor Jane, in the middle of the thoroughfare and about to be accosted by who knows what sort of man… to find out the end of her tale and WHY he waved Jane’s carriage down, take a look at the complete letter.)

The second letter, and so comical, was written by Jane to Helen Welsh on 27 February 1843. It concerns Jane’s uncle, whom she visits:

‘My dearest Helen

After (in Dumfries & Galloway-courier phraseology) “taking a birds-eye view” of all modern literature, I am arrived at the conclusion; that to find a book exactly suited to my Uncle’s taste I must—write it myself! and alas, that cannot be done before tomorrow morning!

“La Motte Fouque’s Magic Ring”? suggests Geraldine—“too mystical! My Uncle detests confusion of ideas”—

“Paul de Kock?  HE is very witty”— “Yes but also very indecent!—and my Uncle would not relish indecencies read aloud to him by his daughters.”—

“Oh!— Ah!— Well! Miss Austin?”— “Too washy—watergruel for mind and body at the same time were too bad”—

Timidly and after a pause— “Do you think he could stand Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame? “— The idea of my uncle listening to the sentimental monstrosities of Victor Hugo!— a smile of scorn was this time all my reply.’