She died on July 18, and six days later she was buried in Winchester Cathedral..
There was no recognition at the time that regency England had lost its keenest observer and sharpest analyst; no understanding that a miniaturist (as she maintained that she was and as she was then seen), a “merely domestic” novelist, could be seriously concerned with the nature of society and the quality of its culture; no grasp of Jane Austen as a historian of the emergence of regency society into the modern world.
During her lifetime there had been a solitary response in any way adequate to the nature of her achievement: for March 1816, where he hailed this “nameless author” as a masterful exponent of “the modern novel” in the new realist tradition.
A graduate student in my course on the novel some years ago — she was better read though less guarded than many of her contemporaries — produced this critical comment after rereading the chapters on Marianne’s desertion by Willoughby in I cite these two not altogether academic responses to Jane Austen’s work as evidence for what will be my main arguments in the following chapters: that Jane Austen, knowing satirist and beautifully controlled comic artist though she is, is far from deficient in feeling; and that, notwithstanding her spinsterhood and her vaunted determination not to stray in subject-matter beyond the limits of her own experience, she is acutely awake to sex, and quite able to convey sexual feeling even though she may not take us into bedrooms.which was published in 1978 in the English Literary Monographs Series, at the University of Victoria in Canada.
She supposed that she was suffering from bile, but the symptoms make possible a modern clinical assessment that she was suffering from Addison disease.
Her condition fluctuated, but in April she made her will, and in May she was taken to Winchester to be under the care of an expert surgeon.
But Jane Austen’s own novels provide indisputable evidence that their author understood the experience of love and of love disappointed., the last of the early novels, was written about 1798 or 1799, probably under the title “Susan.” In 1803 the manuscript of “Susan” was sold to the publisher Richard Crosby for £10.
He took it for immediate publication, but, although it was advertised, unaccountably it never appeared.
She was probably also prompted by her need for money.
Two years later Thomas Egerton agreed to publish The years after 1811 seem to have been the most rewarding of her life.