|
|
 |
Letters to Fanny Knight
LXXXIII - March 13
"Oh, my dear Fanny! the more I write about him, the warmer my feelings become -- the more strongly
I feel the sterling worth of such a young man and the desirableness of your growing in love with him again. I recommend this
most thoroughly. There are such beings in the world, perhaps one in a thousand, as the creature you and I should think perfection,
where grace and spirit are united to worth, where the manners are equal to the heart and understanding, but such a person
may not come in your way, or, if he does, he may not be the eldest son of a man of fortune, the near relation of your particular
friend and belonging to your own county. Think of all this, Fanny. Mr. A. has advantages which do not often meet in one
person. His only fault, indeed, seems modesty. If he were less modest he would be more agreeable, speak louder, and look impudenter;
and is not it a fine character of which modesty is the only defect? I have no doubt he will get more lively and more like
yourselves as he is more with you; he will catch your ways if he belongs to you. And, as to there being any objection from
his goodness, from the danger of his becoming even evangelical, I cannot admit that. I am by no means convinced that we ought
not all to be evangelicals, and am at least persuaded that they who are so from reason and feeling must be happiest and safest.
Do not be frightened from the connection by your brothers having most wit -- wisdom is better than wit, and in the long run
will certainly have the laugh on her side; and don't be frightened by the idea of his acting more strictly up to the precepts
of the New Testament than others."
LXXXIV - March 23
"Now, my dearest Fanny, I will begin a subject which comes in very naturally. You frighten
me out of my wits by your reference. Your affection gives me the highest pleasure, but indeed you must not let anything depend
on my opinion; your own feelings, and none but your own, should determine such an important point. So far, however, as answering
your question, I have no scruple. I am perfectly convinced that your present feelings, supposing you were to marry now, would
be sufficient for his happiness; but when I think how very, very far it is from a "now," and take everything that may be into
consideration, I dare not say, "Determine to accept him;" the risk is too great for you, unless your own sentiments prompt
it. You will think me perverse perhaps; in my last letter I was urging everything in his favour, and now I am inclining
the other way, but I cannot help it; I am at present more impressed with the possible evil that may arise to you from engaging
yourself to him -- in word or mind -- than with anything else. When I consider how few young men you have yet seen much of;
how capable you are (yes, I do still think you very capable) of being really in love; and how full of temptation the next
six or seven years of your life will probably be (it is the very period of life for the strongest attachments to be formed),
-- I cannot wish you, with your present very cool feelings, to devote yourself in honour to him. It is very true that you
never may attach another man his equal altogether; but if that other man has the power of attaching you more, he will be in
your eyes the most perfect. I shall be glad if you can revive past feelings, and from your unbiassed self resolve to go
on as you have done, but this I do not expect; and without it I cannot wish you to be fettered. I should not be afraid of
your marrying him; with all his worth you would soon love him enough for the happiness of both; but I should dread the continuance
of this sort of tacit engagement, with such an uncertainty as there is of when it may be completed."
|
|
 |
 |
Poetry
Mrs. Austen
(enclosed in a letter of 1807)
This morning I woke from a quiet repose, I first rubb'd my eyes, and
I next blew my nose; With my stockings and shoes I then covered my toes, And proceeded to put on the rest of my clothes. This
was finished in less than an hour, I suppose. I employ'd myself next in repairing my hose. 'Twas a work of necessity
not what I chose; Of my sock I'd much rather have knit twenty rows. My work being done, I look'd through the windows, And
with pleasure beheld all the bucks and the does, The cows and the bullocks, the wethers and ewes. To the library each
morning the family goes, So I went with the rest though I felt rather froze. My flesh is much warmer, my blood freer
flows, When I work in the garden with rakes and with hoes. And now I believe I must come to a close, For I find I
grow stupid e'en while I compose. If I write any longer my verse will be prose.
|
 |
|
|
|