om her age, and her peculiar attachment to her sister,
the deepest of all.

Of Jane herself I know of no such definite tale of love to relate. Her
reviewer in the 'Quarterly' of January 1821 observes, concerning the
attachment of Fanny Price to Edmund Bertram: 'The 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