Jane Austen and the Popular Novel: The Determined Author

Jane Austen and the Popular Novel The Determined Author

Anthony Mandal

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

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Also by Anthony Mandal

THE RECEPTION OF JANE AUSTEN IN EUROPE (2007 with Brian Southam)

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THE ENGLISH NOVEL, 1830-36: A Bibliographical Survey of Prose Fiction Published in the British Isles (2003 with Peter Garside, Verena Ebbes, Angela Koch and Rainer Schöwerling)

The Determined Author

Anthony Mandal

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

© A.A. Mandal 2007

No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1T 4LP. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2007 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS and 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. 10010 Companies and representatives throughout the world PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN-13: 978-0-230-00896-0 hardback ISBN-10: 0-230-00896-8 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. 10 16

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All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.

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To my parents, Maria and Sibnath

10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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List of Tables and Figures

ix

List of Abbreviations

x

Acknowledgements

xi

Part I  The Literary Context and Austen’s Early Fiction 1 1 Introduction: Fiction and the Literary Marketplace, 1785–1820 The production of fiction, 1785–99 The production of fiction, 1800–19 Conclusion

3 6 17 38

2

41 42 51 62

Jane Austen and Fiction, 1787–1809 Reading and revision: Austen’s juvenilia and Lady Susan Jane Austen and her (non-)publishers, 1: Cadell & Davies Jane Austen and her (non-)publishers, 2: Crosby & Co.

3 Getting Published at Last, 1811–13 Austen’s first publisher: Thomas Egerton and Sense and Sensibility Achieving celebrity: Pride and Prejudice Postscript

75

Part II  Austen’s Regency Novels

89

4 Making the Popular Polite: Mansfield Park and the Moral–Domestic Novel The publishing context Literary conventions and social models The Evangelical heroine and Fanny Price: fulfilment or failure? 5 Woman as Genius/Genius Loci: Emma as an English National Tale The social and literary contexts of Emma National heroinism ‘To be a true citizen of Highbury’ vii 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

77 83 87

91 94 102 118 131 133 141 152

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Contents

viii Contents

7

Conclusion: The Canonization of Jane Austen Austen looks forward: Sanditon and modernity Austen for a new generation: Bentley’s Standard Novels Reconstructing Austen: Whately, Leavis, Siskin

168 169 184 203 204 207 209

Notes

217

Bibliography

234

Index

246

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6 The Business of Novel Writing: Walter Scott and Persuasion Fame, profit, and ‘The Great Unknown’ Heirs presumptive and presuming heirs: Scott, Austen, and the work of history

Tables 1.1 Most productive authors of fiction, 1810–19

30

1.2 Most productive publishers of fiction, 1810–19

32

Figures 1.1 Output of new fiction, 1770–99

6

1.2 Output of fiction by gender, 1785–99

13

1.3 Output of new fiction, 1800–29

17

1.4 Output of fiction by gender, 1800–29

27

6.1 Scott and Austen’s fiction in the newspapers, May 1814–June 1816

ix 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

170

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List of Tables and Figures

Abbreviations of Austen’s writings (used in references) C&OW Catharine and Other Writings, ed. Margaret Anne Doody and Douglas Murray (Oxford, 1993). E Emma, ed. Fiona Stafford (1816; London, 1996). JAL Jane Austen’s Letters, ed. Deirdre Le Faye (3rd edn, Oxford and New York, 1995). Citations follow the format ‘JAL, page (date)’ or ‘(JAL, page; date)’. The same format will be used in repeated references to collections of correspondence by other figures. LSWS Lady Susan, The Watsons, Sanditon, ed. Margaret Drabble (Harmondsworth, 1974). MP Mansfield Park, ed. Kathryn Sutherland (1814; London, 1996). NA Northanger Abbey, ed. Marilyn Butler (1818; London, 1995). P Persuasion, ed. Gillian Beer (1818; London, 1998). PP Pride and Prejudice, ed. Vivien Jones (1813; London, 1996). SS Sense and Sensibility, ed. Ros Ballaster (1811; London, 1995).

Abbreviations of other works (used in references) BJA DBF

EN

David Gilson, A Bibliography of Jane Austen (1982; Winchester and New Castle, de, 1997). P. D. Garside, J. E. Belanger, and S. A. Ragaz, British Fiction, 1800–1829: A Database of Production, Circulation & Reception, designer A. A. Mandal (Cardiff University, 2004) . Peter Garside, James Raven, and Rainer Schöwerling (eds), The English Novel 1770–1829: A Bibliographical Survey of Prose Fiction Published in the British Isles, 2 vols (Oxford, 2000).

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List of Abbreviations

FR LL MJA

List of Abbreviations

xi

Deirdre Le Faye, Jane Austen: A Family Record (1989; 2nd edn, Cambridge, 2004). A revision of W. and R. A. AustenLeigh’s Jane Austen: Her Life and Letters (London, 1913). Jan Fergus, Jane Austen: A Literary Life (Basingstoke and London, 1991). James Edward Austen-Leigh, A Memoir of Jane Austen, ed. Kathryn Sutherland (1870–1; Oxford, 2002).

A note on statistical data Although a ‘decade’ strictly runs through years 1 to 10 (e.g. ‘1801– 1810’), for the sake of convenience I have used the term when discussing spans of dates to mean 1800–09, 1810–19, etc. Unless otherwise noted, statistical data for the period 1800–29 derive from the British Fiction, 1800–29 database (DBF), developed at Cardiff University’s Centre for Editorial and Intertextual Research between 1997 and 2004. Figures supplied for the 1770–99 period were manually collated by the author of this study, based on analyzing individual bibliographical entries and using the tables provided in the Introduction to vol. 1 of The English Novel.

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The completion of this book would have been impossible were it not for the help provided by many people during its long gestation. I am especially grateful to colleagues at the School of English, Communication, and Philosophy at Cardiff University. Various editors at Palgrave Macmillan have shown understanding and offered encouragement during the last year: in particular, Helen Craine, Ruth Ireland, Paula Kennedy, and Christabel Scaife, as well as Professor Devoney Looser, who, acting as reader for Palgrave, recommended publication and offered insightful comments on early drafts. At Cardiff University, I would like to thank Professor David Skilton, for his enthusiasm and unremitting support. Much help was provided unhesitatingly at various stages of my research by Dr Jacqueline Belanger, Dr Andrew Davies, Tom Dawkes, Dr Tim Killick, and Peter Keelan. Most recently, Professor Martin Kayman offered many incisive suggestions regarding portions of the final draft. More generally, a number of people helped me along my way, with kindness and understanding: Franchesca Denning, Gillian Garside, Professor Robert Miles, Michael Richardson, Dr Christopher Skelton-Foord, Professor Kathryn Sutherland, Judith Stinton. My most extended thanks go to Professor Peter Garside, whose generosity and wisdom have given me the enthusiasm for a subject (and an author) I had never previously appreciated. It has been a pleasure and a privilege to work with you. Finally, I take this opportunity to thank my family for their advice and enthusiasm throughout the various stages of this project. Without the unceasing support of my parents, Sibnath and Maria Mandal, this study would neither have begun nor finished, and they have helped me in ways I cannot begin to fathom. My son, Gabriel, has given me the opportunity to escape—however briefly—from the pleasures of research to the even greater joys of fatherhood.

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Acknowledgements

The Literary Context and Austen’s Early Fiction

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Part I

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Introduction: Fiction and the Literary Marketplace, 1785–1820

The most uninteresting, dry, improbable, trifling work that the novel-press, in its late laborious efforts, has produced. When will the dreary prospect be enlivened again by a work of real genius? Critical Review (1791) When the novelist or romancer improves the taste, and raises the moral tone of the mind; when he renders Religion attractive even to the world, by painting her with all those pleasing attributes which the world is unwilling to allow her; then I assert, that fiction accomplishes the noblest ends of truth itself. T. B. Macaulay (1816) To say that Jane Austen was a determined author accurately conveys how self-assured she was in her calling as a novelist. Despite outright rejection and mishandling of her fiction by publishers, as well as unwelcome suggestions regarding which subjects she should deal with, Austen held firm to her principles and eventually published her own distinctive novels on her own distinctive terms. Certainly, her works were not best sellers when they were first published— especially when compared to her more successful peers, Maria Edgeworth, Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan), Amelia Opie, and of course Sir Walter Scott. Nevertheless, by the very act of holding firm to her authorly principles, Austen has, over the past two centuries, gained a near-magisterial place in posterity. The title of this study, however, also articulates another imperative that was fundamental to Austen’s literary career: the degree to which her development as an author was determined by the immediate print culture she encountered and engaged with. In light of this, Jane  10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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1

Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Austen and the Popular Novel: The Determined Author seeks to provide an alternative context for Austen’s later novels, by challenging two significant assumptions that have generally been made about the development of fiction since the end of the eighteenth century. The first is the notion that, from the 1790s, novel production continued to increase in a linear fashion, without any major interruptions. The second is an associated belief that, following the high-point of the 1790s, the output of novels penned by women declined perceptibly through the nineteenth century, realized most palpably in the male-dominated Victorian fiction market. Two recent bibliographical surveys of the Romantic period—The English Novel, 1770–1829 (2000) and British Fiction, 1800–1829: A Database of Production, Circulation & Reception (2004)—however, have uncovered vital data which contradict both views. It is in light of these revelations that this study aims to transform our understanding of British fiction published during the 1810s, which the following chapters will establish were a period of at least equal significance as the 1790s for women writers. This study aims to demonstrate how Jane Austen’s later fiction—beginning with Mansfield Park—can be seen as inherently belonging to these dynamic 1810s, much as her earlier novels belong to the polemical 1790s. By employing Austen as a ‘case study’, whose novels are to be compared with fiction published contemporaneously, I intend to demonstrate that the Regency period (1811–20) supplied a vibrant and receptive market for women writers. Consequently, a fuller understanding of the fiction of this decade will enable us to appreciate how Austen was able to publish successfully in the 1810s when she had failed in preceding decades. While many studies have attempted to locate Austen on either side of the conservative–radical dialectic of the 1790s, more concerted efforts have been made since the 1990s to move beyond this paradigm, and towards uncovering the dialogic imperatives operating within Austen’s texts.1 In particular, Jan Fergus’s Jane Austen: A Literary Life (1991) and Deidre Lynch’s Economy of Character: Novels, Market Culture, and the Business of Inner Meaning (1998) have provided alternative routes to Austen by focusing on the immediate print culture that underpinned her career as an author. Roger Sales’s Jane Austen and Representations of Regency England (1994) has demonstrated that there is much work to be done in locating Austen within more topical and localized terms. As he persuasively notes:

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Fiction and the Literary Marketplace



Similarly, it seems awkward that we locate the fiction of Austen, who after all was as much an avid reader as she was a determined author, purely in relation to novels written ten or more years earlier. More recently, Peter Knox-Shaw’s Jane Austen and the Enlightenment (2004) has sought to demonstrate ‘just how receptive Jane Austen was, and how keenly she engaged with contemporary ideas’.3 Complementing such studies, this book recontextualizes Austen in two ways: through an analysis of the fiction market that characterized the decade in which Austen published and by addressing especially the dialogic nature of her texts, which polyvalently appropriated both the radical and the conservative discursive fields as they suited Austen’s purpose. While a great deal of attention has been paid to the 1790s, the 1810s have generally been overlooked as a decade particularly conducive to women’s fiction. Many novels from this period have long been consigned to obscurity, some of them deservedly so: nevertheless, a number of fictional discourses surfaced that discernibly influenced Austen’s works and therefore deserve a closer analysis if a fuller picture of her aesthetic achievement is to be obtained. This chapter will consider the culture of fiction in Austen’s lifetime by discussing three significant aspects of the literary marketplace. The first section will examine the novel market between 1785 and 1799, during which time Austen began to engage with fiction in earnest, both as a reader of novels and as the writer of the juvenilia and the first drafts of novels that would eventually be published in the Regency period. The second section will inspect the period surrounding the publication of her novels (the later 1800s and 1810s) in similar terms, but in much closer detail, focusing on the kinds of works being published, their authors, and the major publishers of the time. By dealing with these aspects of the literary marketplace during two key moments in Austen’s lifetime, the chapter will conclude by addressing the vexed issue of whether the novels of the 1810s were truly innovative works that transformed the generic categories of the 1790s or simply reconstitutions of the same established patterns in different guises.4

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the debates of the 1790s may not be quite so crucial as far as the later writings are concerned, or at least … it is dangerous to read the novels that were produced during and after the second Regency Crisis exclusively in terms of events that took place ten or more years earlier.2

Jane Austen and the Popular Novel



Although this study will argue that the Regency novel market was of prime importance to Austen’s literary career, it cannot be disputed that the late 1780s and the 1790s were fundamental to the gestation of her oeuvre. A brief examination of some salient aspects of this earlier period will consequently enable a fuller contextualization of the 1810s. Figure 1.1, based on data provided in the first volume of The English Novel, plots the output of new works of fiction published during 1770–99. More particularly, the chart indicates that an exponential growth in production occurs slightly before the 1790s, with a leap from 51 new titles bearing a 1787 imprint to 80 in 1788.5 A number of factors can be isolated for this rise, among them an emerging market for female authors and readers, coupled with a developing sentimental mode of fiction, more translations of Continental novels, the proliferation of circulating libraries, and the success of newly formed publishing concerns.6 This growth from 1788 was evenly sustained, averaging around 71 new titles per year, until the pronounced dip of 1793–5 (45, 56, and 50 titles respectively). There are no specific reasons for this drop, although it is likely that, following the initial surge, production experienced a natural lull, while the start of the war with France in 1793 may have had an adverse effect on the developing market. Following this trough, 120 100 80 60 40 20 0 1770

1775

1780

1785

1790

1795

Figure 1.1  Output of new fiction, 1770–99

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The production of fiction, 1785–99

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace



however, a second sudden rise in output in 1796 continued virtually unhindered throughout the remainder of the decade. What is perhaps even more indicative when viewing these leaps is their relation to two important points of inception in Austen’s work—the first surge of 1788 coincides with the writing of her juvenilia (c. 1788– 93), while the second of 1796 correlates with the first drafting of her early novels (1795–9). More generally, and as will be discussed below, these periods of increased production are matched by a corresponding rise in female authorship. It would be useful at this point to consider what dynamics were operating in the fiction market described by these figures. Generically speaking, three major developments can be identified between 1785 and 1799, the first of which concerns the sentimental novel. Sentimental fiction itself underwent a number of transformations from the mid-century onwards, initially following the model of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela (1740) and Clarissa (1747–9). It was this kind of epistolary story that filled circulating-library shelves throughout the latter half of the century. From the 1790s onwards, however, Richardsonian variants declined in popularity, to the point that they was perceived as outmoded and clumsy, being replaced by newer formulations of sensibility.7 Another strand of sentimental fiction followed in the wake of Continental works such as Rousseau’s paradigmatic La Nouvelle Héloïse (1761) and Émile (1762), Goethe’s Die Lieden des jungen Werthers (1774), and Saint Pierre’s Paul et Virginie (1788). Native realizations soon followed, the most famous being Henry Mackenzie’s rewrite of La Nouvelle Héloïse, Julia de Roubigné (1777). These narratives are punctuated by hiatuses, tending towards the fragmentary, and are far more disjointed than the rambling Richardsonian texts of the 1770s: Mackenzie’s Man of Feeling (1771) is the most obvious example, employing a motif of the discovered and deteriorated manuscript. With their stories of youthful love threatened by the conventional rules of an older generation (usually ending in death for at least one lover), these works and their derivatives were evidently targeted at young men and women. This subtype enjoyed more sustained popularity until the fin de siècle, and representative titles include ‘a sequel’ to La Nouvelle Héloïse (not by Rousseau), entitled Laura; or, Original Letters (1790), as well as more polemical works, such as Mary Wollstonecraft’s Mary, a Fiction (1788) and Helen Maria Williams’s Julia (1790).

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Towards the end of the century, a more domestic sentimental mode appeared: largely the product of a new wave of British female authors, this explains the sudden surge of titles in 1788. The narrative style is far more direct and may or may not be epistolary, while the plot itself is exciting, adventurous, gregarious (in contrast to the isolation of the antecedent types), and typically features an orphaned heroine who must discover her usually aristocratic origins. The most obvious exponent of this subtype is Charlotte Smith, who wrote a number of fictions in this vein, most notably Emmeline, the Orphan of the Castle (1788), Ethelinde, or the Recluse of the Lake (1789), and Celestina (1791). Mary Robinson, one-time mistress of the Prince of Wales, wrote seven domestic–sentimental novels during the 1790s, including Angelina (1796), Walsingham; or, the Pupil of Nature (1797), and The Natural Daughter (1799). The later novels of Smith and Robinson also become much darker in tone and more radical in emphasis, expressive of their own bitterness as women on the periphery of, and discarded by, the society to which they belonged. Less memorable offerings include Ann Howell’s Rosa de Montmorien and Elizabeth Keir’s epistolary History of Miss Greville, both published in 1787, as well as Anna Maria Bennett’s peripatetic Anna; or, Memoirs of a Welch Heiress (1785) and Ellen, Countess of Castle Howel (1794). The domestic–sentimental novel represents a new fictional subtype still vibrant during the 1790s, so much so that it formed the basis of Austen’s earliest juvenile parodies. In these pieces, Austen manages to collapse the rambling sentimental narratives into short, clipped sentences—to the extent that her own tales of sensibility, as full of variety and incident as their circulatinglibrary progenitors, are rarely longer than a dozen or so pages. Even the domestic–sentimental could not outlive the decade, however, and by the turn of the century sensibility as a form was being eschewed in favour of newer fictions. Commensurate with the decline in the sentimental novel was the rise of the Gothic romance, which itself can be seen as inheriting and exaggerating many of the tropes of sensibility—notably the orphaned heroine, who must face a world even more hostile than that portrayed in sentimental fiction. Despite intermittent instances throughout the second half of the eighteenth century,8 Gothic— particularly, sentimental–Gothic—began to dominate the fiction market in the wake of Ann Radcliffe’s successful career. The five novels published during her lifetime—beginning with The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne (1789), reaching a high-point with The

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Fiction and the Literary Marketplace



Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), and concluding with The Italian, or the Confessional of the Black Penitents (1797)—produced a plethora of derivatives, including Eliza Parsons’s Mysterious Warning, a German Tale (1796) and Regina Maria Roche’s Children of the Abbey (1796) and Clermont (1798), as well as controversial ripostes, notably M. G. Lewis’s near-pornographic The Monk (1796). Lewis is one of many novelists who combine Radcliffean apparatus with a newer type of Gothic inspired by the more graphic German schauerromantik writers, such as Gleich, Naubert, and Schiller. By the 1800s, however, imitations of both Radcliffe and Lewis had degenerated into awkward pastiches: examples include Manfroné; or, the One-Handed Monk (1809), the pseudonymous Edward Mortimer’s Montoni; or, the Confessions of the Monk of Saint Benedict (1808), and T. J. HorsleyCurties’s shamelessly composite The Monk of Udolpho (1807)! While Gothic tales were becoming the popular staple of the circulating library, a more intellectual and problematic type of novel surfaced from the mid-1790s onwards. Polemical fiction affected reading habits to a hitherto unwitnessed degree, firstly through radical, ‘Jacobin’ titles from c. 1793 onwards, followed by a conservative riposte in the ‘Anti-Jacobin’ novels of 1796–1801. Much of the Jacobin incursion occurred at the start of the decade, in novels such as Elizabeth Inchbald’s A Simple Story (1791), with its study across two generations of mismatched love and paternal tyranny, and Thomas Holcroft’s Anna St Ives (1792), whose optimistic love story celebrates rational sensibility, despite threats from aristocratic irrationality. Although he could be perceived as part of the polemical dialogue of the 1790s, Robert Bage belongs to an older tradition of eighteenth-century rational fiction, especially in picaresque works such as Man as He Is (1792), an education-novel about a likeable but impressionable hero, which includes a liberal discourse on the French Revolution. Perhaps the most radical Jacobin novel of the revolutionary period, William Godwin’s Things as They Are; or, the Adventures of Caleb Williams (1794) employs a Gothic tale of persecution and injured innocence as a damning allegory of the prejudiced and tyrannous nature of British justice. As Marilyn Butler indicates, even if it follows the motifs and structures of the novel of sensibility, the bulk of Jacobin fiction ultimately eschews the passion of sentimental romance, favouring instead a belief in the perfectibility of the human mind and in self-control over selfindulgence: ‘The tide of sentimentalism had turned; and already, in the late 1780s, progressives like for example Bage and Holcroft had

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

censured, independently, the tendency to quietism which is latent in the sentimentalist’s stress on the irrational.’9 This is evident in Mary Wollstonecraft’s own movement away from the (albeit equivocal) sensibility of Mary (1788) to the darker anti-sentimental tale of female persecution in the posthumous Wrongs of Woman, or Maria; a Fragment (1798). It is interesting to note, however, that the novels of Charlotte Smith mark to some extent the confluence of liberal polemic and sentimental rhetoric, most notably in Desmond (1792) and The Young Philosopher (1798). Eliza Fenwick’s Secresy; or, the Ruin on the Rock (1795)—whose narrative ‘rather repelled than stimulated curiosity’ for the Critical—is another Jacobin novel caught in the dichotomy between sentimentalism and radical feminism.10 As Nicola Watson observes: [Secresy] is remarkable for a peculiar aesthetic and political deadlock, which displays the crippling effect of the epistolary mode upon the urgent feminist project of distinguishing between sensibility as a debilitating conservative ideology and as the powerhouse of a new feminist vision.11 This tension recurs forcefully and famously in Mary Hays’s transparently autobiographical Memoirs of Emma Courtney (1796), which, despite its purported intent of demonstrating the untenability of sentimental passions through the obsessive record of its eponymous heroine, was attacked for its celebration of illicit passion. The most sustained criticism of Hays’s novel occurs in Elizabeth Hamilton’s conservative satire, Memoirs of Modern Philosophers (1800), which appropriates Emma’s own discursive style against Hays, in the incongruous expostulations of the man-hunting, wouldbe novelist Bridgetina Botherim. A similar contrast between sentimental expression and whimsical reality forms the basis of Maria Edgeworth’s ‘Angelina, ou l’Amie Inconnue’ (1801). The quixotic Anne Warwick, who sentimentally renames herself ‘Angelina’, goes in search of the novelist ‘Araminta’, with whom she has had a lengthy correspondence. After a number of misadventures, Anne/Angelina finally discovers that Araminta is nothing more than a brandy-swigging, middle-aged hack, the coarse and portly Rachael Hodges. As noted earlier, writers alarmed at the Jacobinism popularized by authors such as Godwin, Inchbald, and Wollstonecraft launched

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their own campaign of polemical fiction. Responding to what they saw as insurrectionary (even seditious) narratives, conservative propagandists reacted speedily and effectively from 1796 onwards. Anti-Jacobin novels by female writers (such as Mary Ann Hanway, Sophia King, and Jane West) typically portray the influence of revolutionary ideas, generally in the form of the ‘New Philosophy’ championed by a libidinous libertine, who employs radical sophistry in order to seduce unthinking heroines. These novels often contrast paired women: one a free-thinking iconoclast, the other a meek and dutiful heroine. While the former is often doomed to death after various humiliations (seduction, prostitution, poverty), the latter enjoys the domestic felicities of married life with a respectable member of the hegemony. Anti-Jacobin fiction written by men caustically parodied the radical discourse by employing picaresque satires and bathetic caricature, while focusing on Quixotic heroes who are initially misdirected by radical energies and must learn lessons about life, before being welcomed back into the patriarchal fold. Hence, we find William Godwin recurring as ‘Mr Subtile’ and ‘Stupeo’ respectively in Isaac D’Israeli’s Vaurien (1797) and George Walker’s Vagabond (1799); while Godwin’s St Leon (1799) was parodied by Edward Dubois’s St Godwin, a Tale of the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, and Eighteenth Century (1800), purportedly written ‘by Count Reginald de St Leon’ (the full name of Godwin’s eponymous protagonist). The engagement between radicals and conservatives within fiction at the close of the eighteenth century led to a spate of novels which claimed to peel back the veneer of fashionable life, laying bare a truth about the world, hypostatized and absolute. Examples of this interchange include Jacobin or liberal novels such as Inchbald’s Simple Story and Nature and Art (1796), Bage’s Man as He Is and Hermsprong; or, Man as He Is Not (1796), and Godwin’s Things as They Are. These received their counters in such Anti-Jacobin titles as Frances Jacson’s Plain Sense (1795) and D’Israeli’s Vaurien, which was subtitled Sketches of the Times. Similarly, Hanway’s Ellinor (1798) described The World as It Is, King warned her peers with Waldorf; or, the Dangers of Philosophy (1798), and West simply portrayed A Tale of the Times (1799). Combined with the broader cultural anxiety inspired by the French Revolution, the turn in the Gothic signalled by Lewis’s Monk and its offshoots, as well as ‘Jacobinical’ fiction, a concerted effort was made by the Establishment and the periodical press to curtail the wanton production of fiction.

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Meanwhile, within the genre itself, a battle was raging between both reformers and reactionaries to give the novel some sort of respectability and veraciousness, and to take it beyond the confines of the circulating library. Without doubt, the most significant imprint year of the decade for fiction was 1796, remarkable not so much because of the previously unmatched output of 91 (1799 would rise even beyond this to 99), but because of the breathtaking rise in production of new titles, which virtually doubled from the previous year. Most of the fiction which contributed to this sharp influx comprised domestic– sentimental works written mainly by women, such as Anne Burke’s Adela Northington, Anne Plumptre’s Antoinette, and Mary Robinson’s Angelina—as well as works influenced by Rousseau and Saint Pierre: the derivative Julia De Saint Pierre by Helen Craik, and a translation of Ducray-Duminil’s Ambrose and Eleanor; or, the Adventures of Two Children on an Uninhabited Island. New Gothic titles also cluster around this year with increased frequency, clearly indicative of a developing penchant amongst circulating-library patrons for works such as Stephen Cullen’s Radcliffean Castle of Inchvally: A Tale—Alas! Too True, Karl Grosse’s The Genius and Horrid Mysteries, Isabella Kelly’s Ruins of Avondale Priory, and Mary Meeke’s The Abbey of Clugny. (So favourable, in fact, was the post-Udolpho climate for the Gothic that Regina Maria Roche rose to prominence with her third novel and first Gothic romance, The Children of the Abbey.) In addition to being a year marked by increased output, 1796 saw the publication of a number of key polemical novels of the Romantic period. Successful Jacobin titles such as Bage’s Hermsprong, Hays’s Emma Courtney, Inchbald’s Nature and Art, and Smith’s Marchmont were published, alongside West’s conservative A Gossip’s Story, and A Legendary Tale, and Hamilton’s Translations of the Letters of a Hindoo Rajah. Frances Burney’s blockbuster, Camilla: Or, a Picture of Youth (to which Austen herself subscribed), appeared alongside her half-sister Sarah Harriet’s Clarentine. The latter was described scathingly by Austen, as ‘foolish … full of unnatural conduct & forced difficulties, without striking merit of any kind’: obviously, Austen felt talent wasn’t hereditary (JAL, 120). Other intriguing contributions include William Beckford’s satire on the contemporary fiction market, Modern Novel Writing, as well as the most salacious novel of the period, Lewis’s The Monk.

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Although 1796 signals a maturing, energized novel market, within these very energies lay the seeds for the sudden and trenchant reaction to the genre at the close of the century: the novel of sensibility had acquired a dangerously radical edge; Gothic fiction was becoming inherently destabilized and ‘immoral’; and the revolutionaries themselves were bolder in their assertions. Combined with these subversive imperatives was the simple fact—repeatedly complained of by the reviewers—of sheer numbers, of a fictionproducing machine whose propensity for production and consumption could not be restrained. 60%

Female

Male

Unknown

50% 40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1785

1787

1789

1791

1793

1795

1797

Figure 1.2  Output of fiction by gender, 1785–99

If we examine the trends in authorship during the 1790s, certain distinct patterns become immediately apparent: Figure 1.2 compares output of first editions during 1785–99 across gender categories.12 As noted earlier, it has been generally assumed that the decade was one marked by the untrammelled rise of the woman novelist; however, while it is true that women certainly enjoyed hitherto unparalleled popularity, output of fiction by men throughout the 1790s (32.1 per cent) does not fall far behind that of women (41.5 per cent).13 From this evidence, it would appear that fiction of the 1790s was not wholly dominated by an overwhelming female authorship. In fact, the period would be better understood by the fact that women novelists command a more stable share of the

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

market year-on-year than a fluctuating male authorship in decline. Marking the start of the decade, new works of fiction with a 1790 imprint comprise 40.6 per cent (30 titles) indicating female authorship, while only 17.6 per cent (13) are apparently maleauthored. Proportionately speaking, female fiction drops to 32.8 per cent (19 titles) in 1792, and rises evenly to 52 per cent (39) by 1798. Novels by men, on the other hand, not only demonstrate a greater range between high (42 per cent) and low (17.6 per cent) but the actual rates of authorship constantly change from one imprint year to the next, owing to the smaller numbers of titles written by male authors. Most significant is the reiteration of the phenomenon of 1788, when the total output of fiction leaps from 50 in 1795 to 91 in 1796, with increased productivity by female authors playing no small part. Following the 30 titles of 1790 (a high figure itself linked to the developments of 1788) women’s fiction initially falls to average 21 titles per year for 1791–5. While women’s share of the market dips between 1790–3 and peaks significantly in 1794 and 1798, in terms of output, the key imprint years are 1795–6 when production doubles from 19 to 39, and female-authored fictions continue on the upward, averaging just under 39 titles per annum during 1796–9. While male authorship also rises markedly to 35 in 1796 from 21 the previous year, annual production drops to 22 titles in 1797–8, before a second surge (to 38) in 1799. Nevertheless, as illustrated through the percentile focus of Figure 1.2, the convergence in proportionate terms of male and female fictions during 1798–9 anticipates the more balanced distribution in male–female authorship during the 1800s. Moreover, it becomes evident that the mid-1790s were specifically conducive to female authorship, a fact which usefully frames Austen’s preparation of her early drafts. By the later 1790s, however, female authorship was in decline, again offering a possible context for the rejection around 1797–8 by the publishers Cadell & Davies of Austen’s First Impressions (later to be published as Pride and Prejudice). Moving from the general issue of authorship to the success of particular authors, we can at a most basic level turn to the issue of productivity, which demonstrates a decade conducive to the writing of multiple works. Of 288 identifiable individual authors publishing 495 titles with 1790s imprints, the following data obtain: 183 authors (63.5 per cent) released only one title during the decade, 57 (19.8 per cent) published two, 25 (8.7 per cent) issued three, ten (3.5 per cent)

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released four, while the remaining 13 (4.5 per cent) released five new titles or more.14 This last group of novelists were, unsurprisingly, dominated by women, who outstrip men nine-to-four, with totals of 72 new titles by women compared to 15 by men. The most productive novelist of the decade was circulating-library denizen Eliza Parsons, with 13 new titles. Although beginning in 1790 with the epistolary History of Miss Meredith, Parsons’s contemporary reputation was built on the Gothic fictions which spanned her 15-year career, including two of the infamous ‘Northanger Novels’ mentioned by Isabella Thorpe: Castle of Wolfenbach; a German Story (1793) and The Mysterious Warning, a German Tale (1796).15 Charlotte Smith published eight novels during the 1790s, which ranged from the domestic–sentimental Celestina (1791), the polemical Desmond (1792) and The Young Philosopher (1798), to the semi-Gothic Old Manor House (1793) and its sequel The Wanderings of Warwick (1794). Not far behind Smith with seven titles apiece were Mary Meeke, and one-time actress Mary ‘Perdita’ Robinson. Meeke, who wrote throughout her career for William Lane’s Minerva Press, would go on to publish another 19 novels and four translations between 1800 and 1823, making her the most prolific author of the Romantic era. As might be expected, her novels tend towards the popular taste: she begins with the Gothic Abbey of Clugny (1796) and The Mysterious Wife (1797), as well as taking the sentimental in hand with Palmira and Ermance (1797) and Ellesmere (1799).16 Following success with her poetry, Mary Robinson moved to fictions which received an ambivalent response from the critics—generally censure from the Critical and praise from the Monthly. Following Vancenza (1792), her most popular work, she treated the contemporary beau monde in The Widow, or a Picture of Modern Times (1794), and in 1796 she published the sentimental Angelina and Gothic Hubert de Sevrac, both of which met with a less-than-enthusiastic critical reception. Perhaps her most accomplished novel was Walsingham (1797), which received muted approbation from both the usually censorious Critical and the sympathetic Monthly, and for the copyright of which she received £150 from her publisher Longmans. Her critical standing waned as her later novels became increasingly more radical and bitter, reaching its lowest point with her last novel, The Natural Daughter (1799), written the year before her death, which was equated with ‘the general trash of the circulating library’ by the Critical.17

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Productivity, of course, can easily be more a sign of desperation and bad fortune than of success, and perhaps popularity can be more accurately measured in terms of subsequent editions. It hardly needs to be reiterated that the 1790s were marked by significant titles by equally noteworthy authors. Employing James Raven’s useful criterion of ‘success’ loosely being indicated by a novel going into five editions or more in the British Isles and US by 1829 (EN, i, 37–9), we can easily see who were the best sellers. The most successful profit made on a single novel by its author was that of Frances Burney, who sold the copyright for the first edition of Camilla for £1000 to her publishers. Without doubt, however, Ann Radcliffe rises above her peers, with all four of her novels from the 1790s reaching between six and 11 editions by 1800, and earning the huge sums of £500 for The Mysteries of Udolpho and £800 for The Italian. Other notable successes include Bage’s Hermsprong; Godwin’s Things as They Are and St Leon; Inchbald’s Simple Story and Nature and Art; Roche’s Children of the Abbey; Charlotte Smith’s Old Manor House; A Tale of the Times by Jane West, and the only fictional foray by the milkmaid poet ‘Lactilla’—Ann Yearsley—The Royal Captives: A Fragment of a Secret History (1795), which not only went into five editions by 1796, but was also serialized in The Weekly Examiner in 1795 and was purchased for £200 by Robinsons. Considering the closing years of the eighteenth century, it is clear that the key imprint years of the period were 1788 and 1796, whose surges in output marked a commensurate boost in confidence for women writers. In 1796 particularly, novels were well received, and successful publishers such as Hookham & Carpenter, Longmans, and Robinsons were more than willing to release female works. Although associating the genre with subversive impulses, the attention paid to the novel by the Jacobins, which in turn led to the adoption of the form by conservative factions, reified the novel’s potential as a vehicle for polemical expression, signalling it as a serious literary field. The data discussed above give compelling contextual reasons to explain why Jane Austen might have chosen these years to begin writing and also to attempt publication, and they clearly indicate her understanding of the promise offered by the market of the 1790s. However, following the heyday of the midnineties, Austen might have had the desire to write; but owing to the Anti-Jacobin backlash, she probably lacked the opportunity to publish. Generally understood nowadays as the time most conducive

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to women authors, the 1790s exhibit a far more complex environment for the female novelist. After a halcyon period during 1788–96, the 1790s are characterized not only by a lack of confidence but also by a lack of direction. This act of retrenchment and retroversion was mainly due to the vehement, counter-revolutionary reaction from mostly male quarters, which briefly overwhelmed the genre and limited its possibilities. It is a fact, then, that the 1790s were truly dynamic: not simply as a unilateral ‘women’s decade’ of market domination, but clearly as a women’s decade that nurtured a genre which would later enable female writers of the next generation, such as Maria Edgeworth, Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan), and Jane Austen, to publish works that restored confidence and direction to the form of the novel.

The production of fiction, 1800–19 Before analyzing the 1810s in particular detail, it is worth considering briefly what happened in the intervening years between 1799 and 1810. The remarkable growth in output of new titles that began with the imprint year 1788—despite a brief interruption during 1793–5— continued almost exponentially throughout the 1800s (as shown in Figure 1.3, below). The sporadic growth of the late 1790s was balanced by the more restrained rise in production during the early 120 100 80 60 40 20 0 1800

1805

1810

1815

1820

1825

Figure 1.3  Output of new fiction, 1800–29

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

1800s. The deflated production of the 1801–2 seasons is partially explicable as a symptom of the vehement Anti-Jacobin reaction of 1796–1801. This reactionary atmosphere led to the founding of the vitriolic Tory broadsheet, The Anti-Jacobin (1797–1821), which transformed previously liberal middle-class opinion into reactionary conservatism. Despite this early lull, however, turbulent times lay ahead mid-decade; and expansion continued unabated, culminating in 111 titles with an 1808 imprint—almost a decade after the previous high of 99 titles of 1799. In fact, the bumper output of the 1790s (701 new titles) was continued with similar vigour during the 1800s (778), and perhaps it would have been natural for contemporaries to anticipate parallel growth during successive decades. At the same time, following the radical–conservative debacle of the late 1790s and early 1800s, the novel acquired a rather lowly status after the serious attention of the early nineties, and the surge of 1808 was based on increased quantities of run-of-the-mill circulating-library titles, salacious scandal novels, and Monk-ish tales, rather than articulate, polemical engagements. The fiction market of the 1800s included no less than 117 foreign importations (15 per cent), dominated by authors such as the prolific German novelist August Lafontaine (15 titles in the 1800s alone), as well as Francophone writers such as the comtesse de Genlis (12), Pigault-Lebrun (six), and Madame de Staël (two). Among native novelists, Minerva stalwart Mary Meeke came close to matching Lafontaine, with 13 titles (if her four translations are included, she surpasses him). Veterans such as ‘Northanger’-novelist Francis Lathom contributed ten titles, while the enigmatic ‘Mr Lyttleton’ catered to popular, circulating-library tastes in his seven novels—a figure matched by the rakish creator of various scandal fictions of the ton, Charles Sedley, and more notably by the most significant author of the decade, Maria Edgeworth. Only 231 titles (29.7 per cent) published during the 1800s were actually deemed worthy or popular enough to merit subsequent British editions up to 1850, with the bulk of hack titles aimed squarely at the clientele of circulating libraries. At the same time, however, the decade witnessed a number of interesting transformations in the fiction market. As noted above, while the sentimental novel was losing the prominence it had enjoyed during the previous century, Gothic fictions proliferated throughout the 1800s.18 The end of the decade itself marked the beginnings of two relatively short-lived contemporaneous phenomena, which briefly

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dominated the novel market: scandal fiction and the polite Evangelical tale. The scandal novel was initiated by T. S. Surr’s A Winter in London; or, Sketches of Fashion (1806), which sought voyeuristically to paint a lurid portrait of upper-class fashionable life, while paradoxically (and not quite convincingly) taking the moral high-ground. The separation of the Prince Regent from Princess Caroline, and the subsequent ‘Delicate Investigation’ of the latter in 1806, led to the production of a number of transparent romans-à-clef, bearing salacious titles such as J. P. Hurstone’s Royal Intrigues: Or Secret Memoirs of Four Princesses (1808). A stream of derivatives followed until c. 1811, including more Surr-like works such as Mary Julia Young’s A Summer at Brighton. A Modern Novel (1807), which depicted scenes at Prince George’s alternative court, and A Summer at Weymouth; or, the Star of Fashion (1808), set in one of a number of watering places which were becoming popular during this period. The response to these risqué titles, as well as other shocking fictions, including Charlotte Dacre’s Gothic Zofloya; or, the Moor (1806), manifested itself in the polite Evangelical novel, which made a substantial impression during 1808–14. An Evangelically informed fiction industry began with Cœlebs in Search of a Wife (1808), written by the prolific conservative propagandist, Hannah More, and was continued throughout the Regency by writers such as Mary Brunton, Barbara Hofland, and to a lesser extent Amelia Opie and Lætitia-Matilda Hawkins. The position of the Evangelical novel and its effect will be briefly discussed later in this chapter. Partly as a result of the Evangelical influence—which sought to ‘tame’ the uncontrolled novel market of the mid-1800s—the highpoint of 1808 was suddenly inverted by a drop of 32 the following imprint year to 79. The erosion in production continued into the 1810s, reaching an absolute low-point during 1815–17 (53, 59, 55). Taken as a whole, the 1810s constituted only 86 per cent (667) of the output of the 1800s (778), although a marginally higher proportion of novels went into subsequent editions in the British Isles (236 titles, 35.4 per cent). Of course, the reasons for this decline cannot be reduced to a single set of circumstances; rather, a variety of forces—both within and without the market for novels—contributed to a diminution in output during the 1810s. A number of these factors will be established in Part II of this study, but are worth briefly considering now.

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The socio-political context of the times was a heavy determinant on the market for fiction, and goes some way towards explaining the deflated output of the 1810s. The most obvious and pressing concern for Britain during the first half of the decade was, of course, the war that had been waged with France since 1793. A series of economic manoeuvres instituted first by France and then by Britain led to a restriction in the import–export trade. Napoleon had introduced via the Berlin Decree his Continental System in 1806, which blockaded all exports from the mainland to Britain and reached peak effect in 1808. Pitt’s successor, Lord Grenville, and his ‘Ministry of all the Talents’ (a cross-party coalition of Tories and Whigs) retaliated by introducing 24 Orders in Council, which in turn blockaded France and her allies and allowed neutral parties to trade with the French only if they were selling British goods or if they had first paid a special duty at a British port. As Asa Briggs notes, ‘that residue of foreign trade which had not already been disturbed or strangled by Napoleon was strictly controlled by the British government’.19 This ‘double-blockade’ effectively served to inflate prices for all aspects of manufacture, not simply those of book production, and the Orders in Council were received with hostility by industrialists. Both parties in the war realized that such policies were ultimately damaging to their own interests more than to those of their enemies, and following intense blockading in 1810–11, both the Continental System and the Orders in Council were abandoned in 1812. As the European market reopened, however, that of the Transatlantic closed, when Britain declared war with the US (June 1812–December 1814) over border conflicts with Canada. In addition to limitations on overseas trade lanes, domestic measures also served to stifle economic productivity at home. The cost of living during 1811–14 peaked as inflation rose to its highest point compared to any other period during the nineteenth century, while income tax (introduced by Pitt in 1799) continued to affect middle-income Britain until its post-war abolition in 1816. In addition to the more direct effects of blockade, import duties— which effectively funded the war effort—quadrupled between 1790 and 1815, while the national debt continued to escalate from £228 million in 1793 to £876 million in 1815. Ultimately, while those hardest hit were the already impoverished lower classes, middlingclass booksellers and their customers were also affected in a very tangible way, thus limiting the possibilities for production and consumption that had been enjoyed in previous decades.

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Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

21

As well as the attempts to make the novel ‘proper’ and the sociopolitical context of the times, the market forces operating within British print culture at the time also played a part in deflating production. As noted earlier, a significant proportion of titles in the 1800s were of Continental provenance: the 1810s conversely saw a reduction in the numbers of foreign importations, which partially explains the fall in production. Translations from predominantly French and German originals fell from the 15 per cent of the previous decade to 5.1 per cent (34 out of 667 titles). One key reason for this was the effect of the war, both upon the conduits for importation and in stirring up patriotic resentment towards France. The material conditions of this period also played a significant role in the continued fall in output throughout the 1810s. As Lee Erickson has observed, the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars restricted the importation from the Continent of rags, from which paper was made.20 This caused a hike in the price of demy,21 from 21s per ream in 1797 to 32s in 1810: considering that paper usually constituted one-half to two-thirds of the cost of printing a book, books inevitably became more expensive and therefore riskier items to publish. The decline in fiction output during the 1810s continued consistently to an absolute low of 54 titles with an 1815 imprint, after which output began to rise once again. This is partly explicable as a result of the influence of Scott’s Waverley; or, ’Tis Sixty Years Since (1814), but in overall terms is more reminiscent of the nascent market of the early 1780s. As the chart makes clear, the 1810s are remarkable for being caught between two decades of significantly higher output: comparing production of new titles for the 1800s (778) and the 1820s (827) with that of the 1810s (667) qualifies some of the (albeit natural) assumptions of a progressively fecund novel industry. It is apparent, then, that the market in which Austen was publishing was a much more curtailed one than that of the preceding decades, one that—perhaps paradoxically—represented a more restrictive, professional industry, which provided greater opportunities to authors, like Austen, of polite, domestic fiction. Titles, styles, genres

In a paradigm reflecting the demise of the sentimental and correlative rise of the Gothic during the 1790s, by the Regency period the modishness of Gothic fiction was effectively at an end, and authors were penning more domestically inflected fictions in increasing numbers. At the same time, one should be careful about

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

parcelling out phases during this decade: much more so than for the 1790s, as the continuum of fiction in the 1810s was more variegated than during the previous century. In essence, the 1810s encompass a time in which the maturing novel market was coming to terms with a new sense of priorities in the wake of the French Revolution. Some observations on the decade can be hazarded, however, in order to explain a period which was conducive to novels such as those written by Austen. Taking figures relating to the dispersal of Gothic titles for 1800–29 provided by Peter Garside, the demise of Gothic becomes clear in the fall from 199 Gothic titles published in the 1800s (25.6 per cent) to 89 in the 1810s (13.3 per cent), waning to 6.6 per cent at its lowest in 1814.22 This correlates in microcosmic terms with the kinds of counter-Gothic titles published throughout this period, most notably E. S. Barrett’s parodic The Heroine, or Adventures of a Fair Romance Reader (1813), which was well received, going into three editions in as many years. In a satirical address from ‘The Heroine to the Reader’, we are told that the spectre of the protagonist Cherry Wilkinson—who asserts her Gothic credentials by renaming herself ‘Cherubina de Willoughby’—encounters her progenitors: I met the Radcliffian, Rochian, and other heroines; but they tossed their heads, and told me pertly that I was a slur on their sisterhood; while some went so far as to say, that I had a design upon their lives. They likewise shunned the Edgeworthian heroines, whom they thought too comic, moral, and natural.23 Garside notes that The Heroine serves as an unequivocal signifier of the demise of the eighteenth-century Gothic novel, ‘effectively marking the end of the pure Radcliffian mode, at least as a fashionable form of reading’ (EN, ii, 58). Of course, this leads us to the issue of what was replacing Gothic as the dominant form during the Regency period. Despite the fact that the 1810s were a period of reduced output, they nevertheless embraced a fictional topos of astonishing vitality and variety; and while Gothicism was clearly in decline a number of newer forms were moving in to take its place. The Regency market is characterized by two significant developments: the efflorescence of Evangelically minded fiction and the transformation of the national tale of the 1800s into the Scottian historical novel. Both represent a broad shift away from the outward-looking fictions of

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earlier years, towards more introspective narratives predicated on an insulated, post-revolutionary Britain at war. Hence, the term ‘domestic’ serves as an accurate index of these different phenomena; however, we should also read ‘domestic’ as two discrete terms when evaluating how these concerns were explored in the Evangelical and historical milieux themselves. Chronologically, the first development was that of ‘polite Evangelical’ (or, what can more generally be called ‘moral–domestic’) fiction from the late 1800s until the mid-1810s, the legacy of which were the pietistic, domestic antecedents of Victorian novels. The influence of the moral–domestic novel cannot be underestimated, and should be understood as part of a broader movement within Britain, which attempted to remodel the country into a ‘serious’ nation of middle-rank propriety and zeal. Domestic and Continental events were perceived as indications of the need for a wholesale shift in the cultural ethos of the times, away from decadence and towards rectitude; as Briggs notes: The wars against France reinforced the movements for the reformation of manners and the enforcement of a stricter morality; in many ways, indeed, they widened the ‘moral gap’ between Britain and the Continent as much as they widened the economic gap. The longer the struggle went on, the more ideas— particularly, abstract ideas—were regarded as dangerous on this side of the channel; only moral standards, supported by ‘vital religion’, were guarantees of social order, national greatness, and individual salvation.24 The legacy of Evangelicalism to fiction was the purging of many of its excesses and the legitimization of the novel as a respectable genre from the Regency onwards. In terms of its generic tropes, ‘domestic’ can be understood here to signify a concern with homely life, specifically that of women, opposing itself to the fantastic, the political, and the sophistic. It emphasizes basic Christian virtues and attempts to focus on the inner life of the heroine, at its best combining sensitive psychological depiction with a clear didactic purpose. As noted earlier, the greatest concentration of moral–domestic titles occurs at the start of the decade. Representative titles include Hannah More’s paradigmatic Evangelical novel, Cœlebs in Search of a Wife (1808), Mary Brunton’s best-selling Self-Control (1811),

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Lætitia-Matilda Hawkins’s The Countess and Gertrude (1811), and Amelia Opie’s Temper (1812). Later moral–domestic works also appeared, although they were greeted with less excitement: Frances Jacson’s Rhoda (1816), Elizabeth Lester’s The Quakers (1817), Susan Ferrier’s Marriage (1818), and Anne Raikes Harding’s Correction (1818). Andrew Reed’s No Fiction (1819) was a far more popular work, going into seven editions by 1823, while the most reprinted title of the decade was Jane Taylor’s programmatic ‘tale for youth’, Display (1815), which went into 15 editions to 1850. Reed’s success aside, the majority of moral–domestic titles were written by women. The complexities of the Evangelical influence on fiction—and, moreover, on Austen’s fiction—will be dealt with in Chapter 4. A precursor of Scott’s Waverley Novels, the national tale broadly encapsulates fictions that construct an image of nationhood distinct from that of a homogeneous ‘Britain’. Ina Ferris remarks: An Anglo–Irish creation, the national tale was founded by Maria Edgeworth in Castle Rackrent (1800), and it was transformed into national romance by [Sydney Owenson] Morgan’s Wild Irish Girl (1806). … As a sign of the new importance beginning to be granted to national distinctiveness in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the national tale takes its place in the matrix of (mostly) counter-Enlightenment forces that converged to form the nationalism that was to mark nineteenth-century Europe.25 In addition to Owenson’s novels, Germaine de Staël’s French novel Corinne, ou l’Italie (1807) was a significant influence on the development of the national romance. The majority of national tales written in the 1810s were also authored by women, and include Owenson’s O’Donnel (1814) and Florence Macarthy (1818), Edgeworth’s The Absentee (1812) and Ormond (1817), Christian Isobel Johnstone’s Clan-Albin (1815), and Lady Caroline Lamb’s melodramatic fictional portrait of Byron, Glenarvon (1816). Amongst these women authors, one notable exception is C. R. Maturin, whose works include The Milesian Chief (1812) and the Staëlian Women; or, Pour et Contre (1818). It was from a combination of the national tale and the earlier historical fictions of the 1800s that Scott would himself craft Waverley, arguably the most influential novel of the Regency period.

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24 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

25

Compared to moral–domestic and national types of fiction, the historical novel is drawn across much less unilateral lines. One might reasonably assume that the historical novel has no real presence until the intervention by Scott with Waverley in 1814. In fact, historical fictions themselves had appeared before this, a number of them during the early 1810s, in the wake of the successful pan-European sagas of Anna Maria and Jane Porter. Jane’s fictional account of William Wallace as a sentimentalized Christian hero, The Scottish Chiefs (1810), was the second most reissued title of the decade, going into 12 editions up to 1850. Other non-Scottian historical novels were written by authors as diverse as Jane West (The Loyalists, 1812—a possible influence on Waverley) and William Godwin (Mandeville. A Tale of the Seventeenth Century, 1817). Scott’s involvement, however, is naturally overwhelming, and he effectively took over the market for historical fictions from writers such as the Porters. His masculine appropriation incontrovertibly had its own roots in the earlier ‘national tales’ written by Edgeworth and Owenson during the previous decade.26 In Scott’s case, ‘domestic’ can be inscribed in post-war terms as a celebration, as well as an attempted construction, of a reconciling ‘Britishness’ that would serve to subsume the contemporary disparities of the country (cultural, political, religious) within a unifying myth of historicized, homogeneous nationhood. Scott’s Waverley Novels commenced in 1814 with Waverley itself, and continued with Guy Mannering; or, the Astrologer (1815), The Antiquary (1816), and Rob Roy (1818); as well as the three series of Tales of my Landlord (1816–19), the last of which signalled the end of the first phase of his Scottish fictions and his move to the English and Continental histories of the 1820s. Like the moral–domestic novel, Scott’s historical fiction privileges existing patriarchal structures: the former identifies them as the basis of good Anglican Christianity, the latter as a progressive and inclusivist myth. Unlike the moral–domestic mode, however, the Scottian novel prioritizes male discourses over female, focusing on the life of the masculine hero at moments of historical transformation and reintegration (civil wars, revolutions, religious conflicts). In a significant way, however, Scott’s transformation of the novel into a male discursive field simultaneously allowed for the ‘feminization’ of this male voice in its amalgamation with what had previously been seen as a woman’s form. Both the national tale and Scott’s incursion as they relate to Austen will be dealt with, respectively, in Chapters 5 and 6.

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Of the three forms described above, the first two (moral–domestic and national tales) drifted away from the mainstream of polite, middle-class fiction by the close of the decade, while the historical novel dominated the market throughout the 1820s. The fate of the mainstream historical novel brings into relief synecdochically the decade as a whole: beginning with popular and successful titles by women, the sub-genre is eventually appropriated by the male presence. In a macrocosmic fashion, the novel form itself, enjoying a renaissance of female authorship early in the decade, is similarly mastered by patriarchal, androcentric discourse. The Anti-Jacobin aims of male authors, which 15 years earlier had threatened to drive female novelists into the periphery and dominate the popular market, were ultimately realized through Scott’s retrospective fictional form, which unites the master-discourses of male historiography and middle-class nationhood with patronymically titled fictions and a newly shaped, masculine narrative model. Authors

It is notable that whereas the 1790s might be best described as a decade dominated by titles, the 1810s can be perceived most appositely as a decade dominated by authors. For some of these authors their careers as successful novelists were coming to an end (Edgeworth, Burney, Owenson); others were framed by the decade (Brunton and Austen herself); and there were those, like Scott, for (and through) whom the decade marked the beginnings of a new kind of professional male fiction that would flourish throughout the nineteenth century. If the 1810s were indeed dominated largely by persons rather than by works or movements, it is worth considering in some detail the aspects of authorship which mark the decade. Figure 1.4 demonstrates the variations in gender distribution during the first three decades of the nineteenth century. It is obvious from the chart that the early 1800s continue to be dominated by fictions written by women, although the reversal of the male–female pattern during the imprint years 1803–4 indicates a certain fluidity in authorship. Bearing in mind that a novel could take on average 18 months from inception to publication, it becomes clear that the Anti-Jacobin influence on fiction was still tangible up to three years later. A second rise in male output during the 1800s occurs with a new cluster of fictions published in 1807–8, the majority of which were Monk-ish Gothic titles, such as The Friar Hildargo (1807), by ‘Edward Mortimer’; Francis Lathom’s The Fatal Vow; or, St Michael’s

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26 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel



Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

70%

Female

Male

Unknown

1820

1825

27

60%

40% 30% 20% 10% 0% 1800

1805

1810

1815

Figure 1.4  Output of fiction by gender, 1800–29

Monastery (1807), Charles Howard’s The Convent of St Marc (1808), and Joseph Bounden’s The Murderer; or, the Fall of Lecas (1808). Other notable representations appealed to the recently whetted appetite for fashionable novels, and include no less than six titles by the pseudonymous scandal-monger Charles Sedley, among them The Mask of Fashion (1807), The Infidel Mother (1807), and Asmodeus; or, the Devil in London (1808).27 Despite this minor incursion, the overall gender distributions for the decade are not unexpected (47 per cent female; 38.3 per cent male) in the wake of the 1790s. When viewed as a prelude to the following decade, however, the 1800s pertinently emphasize how much more conducive to female authorship the 1810s actually were. Contrary to general expectations about women’s fiction following the high-point of the 1790s, female authorship rises dramatically during the 1810s—proportionately higher in fact than any decade before or since (51.7 per cent female; 29.4 per cent male).28 After the initial influx of Evangelically minded novels by women centring on 1810, a more pointed leap in female authorship occurs in 1814 (65.1 per cent). Most significantly, these general rises in female authorship coalesce precisely around the years which saw the appearance of Austen’s own novels. The initial growth around 1810 occurred at the time when Austen herself was arranging for the publication of Sense

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50%

and Sensibility, while 1814 saw the issue of Mansfield Park, and the final peak of 1816–17 also greeted the release of Emma. Hence, it becomes clear that the 1810s were especially conducive to the publication of fiction by women in general, and by Austen in particular. Just as the 1790s were marked by a key year in both numbers and notable titles, so were the 1810s: 1814 saw the greatest proportionate output by female authors, this time in a period of deflated production. Most of the titles published in 1814 belong clearly to the domestic milieu, with a number focusing on modern life, employing key terms such as ‘popularity’, ‘conduct’, and ‘a month in town’ in title pages. Domestic titles, in essence, are divided into two categories: the religious novels influenced by Evangelicalism and fashionable tales that utilize various melodramatic devices. Of course, there is still the odd Gothic hangover (Sarah Green’s The Carthusian Friar, or the Mysteries of Montanville and Mary Pilkington’s The Novice; or, the Heir of Montgomery Castle), and a few national and historical titles (Owenson’s O’Donnel; Anna Maria Porter’s Recluse of Norway). Intriguingly, while 1814 saw the publication of a large number of novels penned by women, it also witnessed the failure of certain key novelists to capture the market in the same manner as they had during earlier years. Not only was the reception of Austen’s own Mansfield Park unremarkable in comparison with her previous successes, but Edgeworth’s Patronage and Burney’s The Wanderer were also relatively unsuccessful. It is difficult to state categorically the reasons for this, but there is certainly an atmosphere in the fiction market that converges with the closing exchanges of the Napoleonic Wars, anticipating the post-war paradigm-shift in British culture. The proportionate rise in female production to 65.1 per cent (41 titles) in 1814 is, in fact, slightly misleading, and there is a subtle weakening of women’s output at this time. Owing to a fall in general production (a consequence of the economic fallout of the war and restrictive domestic measures), this rise amounts to only two extra titles from 1813 (39)—the peak imprint year for female output was actually 1810, comprising 56 per cent (51 titles) of the market. This was most likely because the Evangelical novel was running out of steam and the vagaries of reading tastes were shifting yet again, towards a more optimistic, self-reflexive sense of Britishness. Austen seized on this atmosphere the following year with Emma, but Scott managed to capture the moment far more effectively.

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28 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace 29

The period of dominance by female authors clearly begins to flounder towards the close of the decade, as novel writing is appropriated—post-Scott—as an acceptable activity for men, so that in the 1820s the positions of the preceding decade are effectively reversed, anticipating the male-dominated Victorian market of Bulwer Lytton, Dickens, and Thackeray. When considering the fact, then, that the 1810s were marked by a hitherto unseen high-point of female authorship which would never be achieved again in subsequent years, we can begin to appreciate that Austen was not publishing at a time unpropitious for women writers. Rather, she was a moderately successful author whose works appeared during what could be perceived as a heyday for female authors. The prevalence of individually prolific authors during the 1810s has already been mentioned in passing. If we now consider individual writers, the conduciveness of the decade for female authorship becomes even clearer. Generally speaking, the 1810s saw the publication of 534 titles by 320 individual authors,29 and of these the following divisions can be made: 225 authors (70.3 per cent) published only one work, 49 (15.3 per cent) released two, 22 (6.9 per cent) issued three, six (1.9 per cent) published four, and the remaining 18 (5.6 per cent) published five works or more. Table 1.1 lists those authors who published five or more separate works during the decade, and we see that only three of the 18 authors are men (responsible for 84 volumes, in contrast to 320 by women).30 More specifically, the content of their novels moves from the once popular but now declining Gothic mode towards domestic melodramas. This is further evidence of an impetus towards a genre more rooted in the immediate present and concerned with everyday matters. It is precisely here that Austen’s own novels of manners can be situated, and this broader shift in public taste, combined with her own aesthetic talent, ensured her an enduring position in the canon of fiction. While no novelist from the 1810s matched Eliza Parsons’s 1790s productivity, there were far more novelists who wrote five works or more in this later decade. It is also clear that Austen herself, whom we might naturally assume to be somehow unique during this period (with her artistic achievement in mind, of course) appears towards the bottom of the scale. Of these productive novelists, a number stand out in relation to the 1810s’ market that Austen encountered. Despite their heavy use of melodrama, Barbara Hofland’s novels had a clear domestic focus, and a strong religious–didactic element. The majority of her fiction

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30 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Author (excluding translations)

Titles

Volumes

Anthony Frederick Holstein

11

38

Barbara Hofland

10

24

Anne Julia Kemble Hatton

8

36

Sarah Green

8

24

Amelia Beauclerc

7

27

Sir Walter Scott

7

24

Mrs Ross

7

23

John Agg

7

22

Emma Parker

7

22

Selina Davenport

6

27

Elizabeth Thomas

6

19

Ann Mary Hamilton

6

18

Catherine George Ward

6

12

Mary Meeke

5

20

Louisa Sidney Stanhope

5

19

‘Medora Gordon’ Byron

5

18

Jane Austen

5

16

Jane Harvey

5

15

Source: DBF

consisted of polite moral–domestic titles, such as The Daughter-inLaw, her Father, and Family (1813), Patience and Perseverance; or, the Modern Griselda (1813), and A Visit to London; or, Emily and her Friends (1814). Many of these works went into at least two editions in Britain and the US, and Gary Kelly notes that Hofland always had a keen sense of what the market demanded, and she immediately fell in with the line of the two most successful women writers of the 1800s, Maria Edgeworth and Amelia Opie— the ‘tale’, especially the tale of domestic life.31 Hofland managed to make the transition from a market-led Regency writer for the Minerva Press to a respected author of moral fictions in the 1820s, during which decade she replaced Amelia Opie as

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Table 1.1  Most productive authors of fiction, 1810–19

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

31

Longmans’ principal female novelist. By the 1830s, Hofland returned to the mainstream novel form, writing triple-deckers for Colburn & Bentley. Anne Hatton, better known as ‘Ann of Swansea’, was the sister of actress Sarah Siddons, and enjoyed a colourful reputation as (among other things) a bigamist, a would-be suicide, and the putative mistress of Edmund Kean. Another writer who published mostly from the Minerva stable, Hatton wrote a mix of Gothic titles and fashionable mysteries, although she later muted the Gothic elements, as by this time the milieu was distinctly unfashionable, and tend towards domestic mysteries set in the higher echelons of modern life. Sarah Green’s career comprises a patchwork of fictions published by a variety of concerns (mostly Minerva), whose settings range from the Gothic past to the contemporary beau monde. Amongst Green’s most interesting works are two satires on the novel-reading culture of the early nineteenth century: Romance Readers and Romance Writers (1810) and Scotch Novel Reading (1824). Scott’s historical novels need little introduction, and Waverley (1814) is perhaps the single most influential work of the 1810s, providing male authors with the opportunity to adopt authorship of fiction as a respectable profession. Among the remaining novelists who published five works or more, the careers of most reiterate the ‘mix-and-match’ approach to popular authorship during the 1810s. A large number of their works were sentimental melodramas, varying in setting from the romantic past (Beauclerc), to the fashionable present (Davenport, Ross), as well as the more topical (Parker). Other novelists more obviously attempt to bolt the waning Gothic mode onto a domestic setting, as in Davenport’s An Angel’s Form and a Devil’s Heart (1818). Louisa Sidney Stanhope and Jane Harvey paradigmatically demonstrate the changing nature of the times: their Gothic novels from the late 1800s and early 1810s are gradually modified to reflect the popular taste. Stanhope moves from the monastic shocker Di Montranzo; or, the Novice of Corpus Domini (1810) to the The Nun of Santa Maria di Tindaro (1818), a sentimental melodrama without any supernatural elements, and finally the post-Scottian The Crusaders. An Historical Romance, of the Twelfth Century (1820). Domestic fiction was represented in the numerous didactic works of Elizabeth Thomas, while a more fashionable bent was given to the domestic novel in the writings of ‘Medora Gordon’ Byron, ‘a Modern Antique’, whose facetious works describe various aspects of aristocratic and upperclass life. It is interesting to note, however, that while these latter

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32

Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Publishers

If the Regency novel was dominated by a number of key authors, this partly resulted from the influence of a handful of publishers who also presided over the decade. Of 115 individual publishing concerns acting as the primary publisher—that is, appearing first in the publishers’ imprint on the title page—only a few made a substantial impression on the market. As Table 1.2 illustrates, a large proportion (57.6 per cent) of fiction output during the 1810s was the purview of a small number of publishing houses. The table also lists the overall market share of these successful concerns for the longer period 1800–29, demonstrating by and large that the 1810s, aside from a few instances, fit within the whole span of the early nineteenth century. Before turning to the three key publishers of the decade—Minerva, Longmans, Colburn—it is worth commenting briefly upon the remainder of these key publishers. Table 1.2     Most productive publishers of fiction, 1810–19 Publishing Concern Minerva

1810–19 1810–19 1800–29 1800–29 Count % Count % 163

24.4

522

23.0

Longmans

60

9.0

198

8.7

Colburn

43

6.4

163

7.2

Sherwood & Co.

37

5.5

51

2.2

Baldwin & Co.

16

2.4

34

1.5

J. F. Hughes

16

2.4

93

4.1

Crosby & Co.

13

1.9

56

2.5

Simpkin & Marshall

13

1.9

24

1.1

Chapple

12

1.8

31

1.4

11

1.6

16

0.7

Other

283

42.4

1084

47.7

Total

667

Hookham & Co.

2272

Source: DBF

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novelists can be loosely termed ‘domestic’—in that they focus on quotidian life in nineteenth-century Britain (or more particularly south-eastern England)—none of these 17 prolific authors seem to have produced the romans de moeurs that Austen herself wrote.

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

33

A number of these prolific concerns were publishers of long standing. The Baldwins had established themselves on the south side of the great publishing street, Paternoster Row, since the midseventeenth century. The various generations of Hookhams and their partners had been selling novels since 1772, alongside maintaining a long-running circulating library in Hanover Square. Others had entered the fiction market during the energized output of the 1790s: Benjamin Crosby, once apprenticed to the great eighteenth-century bookseller Robinsons, developed the country trade for books, until a stroke in 1814 forced him to sell much of his concern to the Baldwins and make out the remainder to two apprentices, Simpkin & Marshall.32 Beginning in 1800, Clement Chapple published a small number of novels aimed at satisfying the popular taste, composed of Gothic, historical, and domestic narratives. Another nineteenth-century concern, Sherwood & Co. succeeded to the 20-year-old business of H. D. Symonds in 1809, and continued to publish fiction in various partnerships throughout the century. One-time collaborator with Crosby & Co. (in 1803), the publisher James Fletcher Hughes belongs most particularly to the period of frenetic output of the latter 1800s. Not only was he the publisher of many controversial titles, he was himself perceived as a black sheep in the publishing world. Hughes’s career began in 1803, with mainly Gothic fictions; and, by 1805, he had become prominent enough to publish ‘Monk’ Lewis’s translation of Zschokke’s The Bravo of Venice. Hughes shifted his interest to the more risqué material of scandal fictions in 1807, with works such as Young’s A Summer at Brighton and Sedley’s The Mask of Fashion. As Garside notes: ‘In Hughes’s output it is possible to trace an accelerating movement, sometimes involving the same authors, from sentimental and Radcliffian pot-boilers, through anglicized schauerroman and Monk-like horrors, to “fashionable” anecdote and scandal’.33 For the imprint years 1806–7, Hughes was responsible for no less than 43 titles, outstripping even the Minerva Press by 14 works. Yet, by 1809, Hughes’s output had fallen to only seven titles, doubling to 15 the following year, and finally dropping to one in 1811, when his operation as an independent publisher finally ground to a halt. While Hughes’s bankruptcy serves as the most likely reason for his disappearance from the fiction market, it is worth noting that this happened to coincide with the rise of a new taste for ‘proper’ novels, for which Hughes was unable to cater.

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Of the three major publishers of the 1810s,34 the most prolific producer of cheap, popular fiction was the Minerva Press, headed by two canny entrepreneurs: William Lane, who ran the concern from its establishment in 1773 to his retirement c. 1809, and Anthony King Newman, who became a partner in 1802 following his apprenticeship, and then managing partner upon Lane’s retirement. The imprint for which Lane’s venture became (in)famous, ‘Printed at the Minerva-Press’, was actually first used in 1790, and continued to be employed until c. 1820 when Newman finally dropped the formula. In his brief history of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century literary London, first published in 1896, Thomas Rees rather sniffily commented: The ‘Minerva Press,’ by Wm. Lane, in Leadenhall Street … was noted for the number and variety of books, called novels, and distributed to all the circulating libraries in the country. From ten to twenty pounds were the sums usually paid to authors for those novels of three volumes. The Colburns and Bentleys drove this trash out of the market.35 Despite this, as Dorothy Blakey stresses, the importance of Lane’s bookselling and circulating-library enterprise cannot be denied, ‘which in the years between the death of Smollett and the rise of Scott was the chief purveyor of the circulating-library novel’.36 The relative cheapness of Minerva titles becomes clear if we consider that while the mean price for a three-volume novel during 1810–19 was approximately 17s 7d, that of a Minerva triple-decker was about 15s 9½d.37 More broadly, this is substantiated by the average price per volume for the decade, with the index price being 5s 8¼d against Minerva titles’ 5s 3½d. Although the Minerva Press was by far the most dominant operator, a clear pattern of decline can be observed from the highs of the early 1800s, when Minerva issued 214 titles (27.5 per cent). Following a significant drop towards the end of the decade, the concern managed to recoup lost ground, maintaining a healthy 163 titles (24.4 per cent) during the 1810s. In the post-Scottian 1820s, however, the firm failed to sustain the dominance of earlier years, with output falling to 145 new works (17.5 per cent). Despite this decline, however, the Minerva Press’s gradual reclamation of the market share in the early to mid-1810s correlates with the contemporaneous growth in female-authored novels. In fact, women

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34 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

35

writers were responsible for the bulk of Minerva fictions throughout its history; and of its 163 novels published during the 1810s, femaleauthored fiction accounts for 103 titles (63.2 per cent), compared to only 34 titles by male authors (20.9 per cent). One might reasonably argue that the Minerva Press was an aberration owing to its excessive output—almost equating to an industry in itself—and that its gender bias might not be representative of publishers in general. Even if we exclude Minerva output, however, there was still a significantly large proportion of fiction from the 1810s written by female hands. A number of the quintessential Minerva novelists have already been described, some publishing solely with the firm (Holstein, Gordon), others for a substantial part of their literary careers (Beauclerc, Davenport, Hofland). Similarly, the ubiquity and variety of forms embraced by Minerva would no doubt have encouraged a number of authors who might not have been willing or lucky enough to publish with other concerns. Hence, during the 1810s an eclectic mix of titles forms the Minerva melting-pot: Gothic romances, fashionable novels, domestic tales, and historical fictions. It becomes clear, then, that during this decade there occurred an intersection between a successful publishing firm, which issued cheaper-than-average novels pragmatically aimed at the popular taste, and a substantial rise in women novelists. The result was an efflorescence of female fictions in a variety of modes, manifesting a phenomenon, significant despite its relative brevity, never to be repeated again. Nonetheless, it produced a lasting impact on the fiction of later years, as well as enabling more sophisticated authors, such as Jane Austen, to engage with a market receptive to the production of women’s fictions. If the Minerva Press appealed to the popular taste for a heady and brief golden period between 1790 and 1820, Longmans charted a steady and respectable, but nevertheless substantial, course ‘at the Sign of the Ship’. The firm was founded in 1724 by Thomas Longman, who came from a West Country soap- and sugar-making background, providing him with the capital to buy three separate publishing ventures which he amalgamated into the one business.38 Managed by seven generations of Longmans spanning nearly 250 years,39 Longmans were partners in the publication of a number of significant non-fiction works, including Ephraim Chambers’s Cyclopædia of Arts and Sciences (1728), Dr Johnsons’s Dictionary of the English Language (1755), and the long-running Whig periodical, the Edinburgh Review, founded in 1802. Longmans’ association with fiction had been long-standing, but it was not until the nineteenth

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century that they engaged on a systematic policy of fiction production. Unlike the cheaper Minerva Press, Longmans were a middle-market publisher of polite triple-decker fiction, whose output gradually—rather than dramatically—increased between 1800 and 1829. Again, employing the price index of 17s 7d for tripledeckers in general, Longmans titles represent slightly costlier merchandise, amounting to just over 18s, while per-volume prices work out as a general 5s 8¼d against Longmans’ 6s 2d. Hence, it can be deduced that Longmans’ novels were perhaps aimed at a slightly more select audience, although the marginal price differentials would indicate that this was not intended to exclude middle-class readers but rather to reflect a more upmarket product. Over the first three decades of the nineteenth century, Longmans’ sure and steady course ensured that they were second only to the Minerva Press in output of new fiction (although their total of 197 still falls far behind Minerva’s 522). In terms of the gender distribution of Longmans’ titles, almost identical ratios of female-tomale authors obtain when compared with Minerva, with two-thirds of 60 Longmans’ novels bearing 1810s imprints being written by women and only 21.7 per cent being male-authored. Such figures clearly signal that the major publishing houses of the time were purposefully producing female-authored works. Serving as a key to what relatively genteel readers were looking for in polite, middle-ofthe-road, even ‘safe’ fiction, we are greeted with a much less varied collection of titles. As well as Burney’s last novel, The Wanderer (1814), the majority of Longmans’ Regency works are either national– historical or moral–domestic narratives. Examples of the former include Jane Porter’s phenomenally successful Scottish Chiefs (1810), her sister Anna Maria’s Recluse of Norway (1814), and Jane West’s Alicia de Lacy (1814). In addition, Longmans held for most of the 1810s the London management of Walter Scott’s Waverley Novels, which commenced in 1814. Of their moral–domestic fiction, representative titles include Amelia Opie’s Temper (1812), Margaret Roberts’s Duty (1814), and the London share of Mary Brunton’s bestselling Self-Control (1811). Longmans’ greater selectivity obviously paid off and they were able to command a reasonable share of the market, and they were hardly dented by the crash of 1825–6. Their approach of cherry-picking specific authors and treating them fairly ensured a certain level of respect, as well as protection from the vagaries of the fiction market.

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36 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

37

Mirroring the eighteenth-century entrepreneurialism of William Lane, Henry Colburn entered the fiction market in 1807, handling translations of fiction by Ducray-Duminil, Kotzebue, and Staël.40 Capital from an unknown source allowed Colburn (purportedly the illegitimate son of a nobleman) to establish himself at the ‘English and Foreign Circulating Library, No. 48 Conduit Street’, publishing a large body of novels in French as well as English. In 1814, Colburn jointly established the New Monthly Magazine and Universal Register, followed in 1817 by an even more successful weekly, the Literary Gazette. Although he issued a handful of (mainly translated) fictions in the 1800s, Colburn began publishing native works with greater frequency from around 1809, including Gothic, fashionable, and cosmopolitan novels. It was not until the 1810s, however, that Colburn began to make a serious impression on the fiction market, mustering 6.4 per cent of the market share (43 titles), which would double proportionately during the 1820s to 12.6 per cent (104 new titles). It was also during the 1810s that Colburn secured a group of upmarket or eye-catching novelists, who enabled him to earn a reputation as the purveyor of fashionable, often high-profile titles. As Henry Curwen notes: Round Henry Colburn clusters a body of writers, lighter and gayer, and consequently more ephemeral than any we have yet noticed—men and women, too, for the matter of that, who purchased immediate success too often with a disregard of future reputation.41 This is borne out by the fact that Colburn’s typical authors were E. S. Barrett (The Heroine, 1813), Lady Caroline Lamb (Glenarvon, 1816), and most notable of all Sydney Owenson, from whom Colburn purchased the copyrights of O’Donnel (1814) for £550 and the travelogue France (1817) for £1000. This is reflected in his slightly higher-than-average prices: during the 1810s Colburn’s tripledeckers averaged 17s 8d and his mean volume price was 5s 10½d, compared with the typical 17s 7d and 5s 8¼d respectively. Although Colburn is remarkable for his role as the keenest promoter of male-authored fictions, during the 1810s a significant proportion of his output was by female authors, most notably Owenson. In fact, it was not until the 1820s that he committed himself to male novelists, with both Colburn and male authorship of fiction flourishing throughout the 1820s and early 1830s. Whereas

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58.1 per cent of his 1810s fiction were written by women as compared to 30.2 per cent by men, in the 1820s there is a dramatic and telling shift towards male authorship, with women representing only 18.3 per cent and men commanding 75 per cent. Colburn’s success was ultimately correlative with that of male authorship during this period; hence, the sudden rise in the mid-1820s of both his productions and of novels written by men. Just as Minerva had exaggerated the tendency of the 1810s towards female authorship, Colburn similarly reified the penchant for male fictions in the postScottian 1820s. The productions of the Minerva stable, whose heyday had passed with that of female novelists, are superseded by the male-penned fictions ushered in by Colburn, who effectively absorbs the market from a declining Minerva Press in the 1820s. Colburn, then, acts metonymically for the novel industry as a whole, supporting major female writers in the mid-1810s when the general market did so, and turning to male novelists in successive years as popular taste dictated. This is most pointedly reflected during 1826– 9, when Colburn is the principal purveyor of fictions, averaging 22 novels per year, by which time the Minerva Press has been reduced to a relatively marginal status managing to publish only half this number during the same years.

Conclusion Although 1785–1819 represents a rich and complex tapestry of changing moods and reactions in the novel market, we can still draw a number of salient conclusions, which might enable a better understanding of the genre. The period was undeniably a key epoch in the gestation of the novel; moreover, it was also one which saw an unprecedented rise in female titles. Without doubt also, the mid1790s were pivotal in the history of the novel, when the paradoxical impulses of the times led both to the publication of several influential works and to the scathing responses of reviewers. Despite this, the inherently polemical nature of the genre inspired both radicals and reactionaries to recognize the novel as a serious literary form and to employ it briefly for their own ends. At the same time, however, other convulsions in more populist quarters, culminating most palpably in the publication of The Monk, inscribed the novel as excessive, decadent, and out of control. The close of the eighteenth century saw the convergence of two conservative reactions which, allied together, curtailed the

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38 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Fiction and the Literary Marketplace

39

expansion of the fiction market. There was the general political backlash led by the Anti-Jacobins against any voice of protest. There was also a reaction against the novel genre itself, which aligned itself against salacious and morally disturbing titles. As a consequence of both impulses, the 1800s saw the depolemicization (if not the depoliticization) of fiction, leading to its reconstruction as a ‘proper’ vehicle for middle-class expression. Still, it is hard to shake the impression that, after the golden period culminating in 1796, a number of serious writers were driven away by reactionary hysteria, and the popular novel acquired a trashy, downmarket reputation during the 1800s. This impetus itself culminated in an explosion of salacious titles in 1808—this time whose morals rather than politics were questionable—followed by another reactionary incursion, by conservative Evangelical writers. The energies of these 20 years of convolutions in the genre led clearly into the Regency novel market, which appropriated these various impulses and revivified the novel as a serious literary form. This in turn paved the way, from the 1820s onwards, for the novel to become the dominant literary genre of the nineteenth century. As this Introduction has established, while the 1790s have been rightly identified and discussed as a crucial moment in the history of the novel, such a focus has tended to overlook the complexities of the broader period. While actual quantities diminished during the 1810s, female novelists enjoyed a revival, reconstructing the genre into a vehicle for domestic representations of family life, which could deal with contemporary concerns through a variety of appealing narrative forms. Whereas the Jacobin/Anti-Jacobin debacle had damaged the respectability of fiction, the Evangelical incursion bolstered the status of the novel as a proper, polite literary form. A second movement, the Scottian historical novel, arose at the tail-end of the Evangelical phenomenon, marking the end of the novel as a female-dominated genre and opening up the genre to a new generation of male writers from the 1820s onwards. We see, then, two large-scale movements occurring at either end of the overlooked 1810s: first, the female, moral–domestic tale that revitalized the genre and its status, followed by the male-inscribed historical fictions led by Scott that took this newly energized form a step further, making it a professionally respectable and commercially profitable literary field.

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Yet, as much as I have argued that it would be misleading to prioritize the 1790s at the expense of the 1810s, it would be equally inappropriate to treat the latter decade itself as a ‘distinct’ period. If anything, we need to construct a much more relational framework within which to place any and all of the fiction published throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Despite the impact of the Evangelical and Scottian novels on Regency fiction, I would aver that there were no formulations of new fictions. Rather, there was a clear process of recycling and development, in which one literary form gave way to another that was itself beholden to the output of antecedent milieux. As a river consists of various tributaries which feed into it as much as they branch away from it, so a thread of continuity exists between each of the popular fictional movements. The sentimental novel of the 1780s gave way to the Gothic of the 1790s, which itself encouraged the national tales of the 1800s, culminating in Scott’s Waverley in 1814. Similarly, echoes of the sentimental are to be found in the didactic novels of the AntiJacobins and Evangelical melodramas, when a sentimental heroine’s pathetic sensibility is transformed into a Christian protagonist’s instinctive moral monitor. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the career of Amelia Opie, whose earlier sentimental tales of love and death (The Dangers of Coquetry, The Father and Daughter, Adeline Mowbray) gradually evolved into domestic melodramas evincing a religious purpose (Temper, Valentine’s Eve). Therefore, the term ‘recycling’ does not necessarily imply ‘stagnation’: rather, it encapsulates the continuity of a longer eighteenth-century tradition, distilled in a remarkable but relatively ignored 1810s. It is this aspect of the literary marketplace which I have sought to portray. It is also within such a framework that we can locate Austen’s own literary productions, whose relation to the surrounding fictional impulses cannot be overstated. With this in mind, the following chapters will consider in fuller detail Jane Austen’s literary career, engaged most especially within the two key periods discussed in this introductory chapter.

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40 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

2

I own I do not like calling [Camilla] a Novel: it gives so simply the notion of a mere love story, that I recoil a little from it. I mean it to be sketches of Characters & morals, put in action, not a Romance. Frances Burney (1795) I have received a very civil note from Mrs Martin requesting my name as a Subscriber to her Library … As an inducement to subscribe Mrs Martin tells us that her Collection is not to consist only of Novels, but of every kind of Literature &c &c—She might have spared this pretension to our family, who are great Novelreaders & not ashamed of being so;—but it was necessary I suppose to the self-consequence of half her Subscribers. Jane Austen (1798) Although the aim of my study is to contextualize Austen’s later novels in terms of the fiction of the 1810s, it is nevertheless important to examine her earlier relationship with the antecedent novel market. Such an analysis is crucial to our understanding of both the mature novels and the continuous development of her oeuvre. This chapter will consequently examine three stages in Austen’s early literary career, each demarcating her development from satirist of existing literary models to an innovating author fundamentally engaged with the contemporary fictional landscape. The first section will briefly detail Austen’s early role as an interpreter of contemporary fictions, notably through her juvenilia, while the second and third sections will discuss her unsuccessful attempts to publish in 1797 and 1803.

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Jane Austen and Fiction, 1787–1809

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Throughout her lifetime, Austen was a committed reader of novels— a fact evidenced in both her letters and her earliest fictions (in what we now call her juvenilia). While certain influential (mainly male) elements of late-eighteenth-century British society were voicing an increasing anxiety towards the novel, Austen was categorical in her praise of the genre. Witness Austen’s comment cited at the head of this chapter in response to a Mrs Martin’s invitation to join her subscription library, established near the Austen family home at Steventon in early 1799 (JAL, 26; 18 December 1798). On an earlier occasion, Austen described her father’s surreptitious reading while stopping off at the ‘Bull and George’ inn during a journey from Sittingbourne to London: ‘My father is now reading the “Midnight Bell”, which he has got from the library, and mother sitting by the fire’ (JAL, 15; 24 October 1798). Soon after settling at Southampton in 1807, Austen joined a circulating library, and whilst at her final residence in Chawton, she became a member of the Reading Society (JAL, 115–16, 198–9). What emerges from these and other references to fiction throughout her letters is evidence of how deeply the culture of novel reading had permeated both Austen’s formative and adult years. With an appreciation, then, of how well informed regarding fiction Austen was from an early age, it is worth examining how this manifests itself in her earliest writings, the juvenilia. Austen gathered together this material in three notebooks, in a manner that mimicked eighteenth-century publishing conventions, and entitled each of these: Volume the First, Volume the Second, and Volume the Third. The bulk of Volume the First, a worn notebook bound in calf, was written c. 1787–90, although Austen added some odd pieces in 1793 and appended ‘End of the first volume’ with a date signed ‘June 3d 1793’. Volume the Second, a finer quality notebook given to Austen by her father, consists of four pieces, much larger than those in Volume the First, and a few ‘Scraps’. The first piece in this notebook, ‘Love and Freindship’, is dated 13 June 1790, while the next, ‘Lesley Castle’, begins on 3 January 1792—although this might be a later addition, as the third piece, ‘A History of England’, antedates the second, closing on 26 November 1791. It seems likely, however, that as the dates of ‘Lesley Castle’ are given within the fabric of the narrative, Austen was simply post-dating the letters

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Reading and revision: Austen’s juvenilia and Lady Susan

Austen and Fiction, 1787–1809 43

which comprise the piece. This nonetheless indicates that, while the given dates do not point to specific moments, they reflect instead Austen’s typical method of reworking older materials and playing around with narrative structures. Volume the Third, dated 6 May 1792, contains only two stories: ‘Evelyn’, essentially the same size as the pieces of Volume the Second, and Austen’s most ambitious and mature work in the juvenilia, ‘Catharine, or the Bower’, written in August 1792 when she was 16. If we recall that the period 1785–93 marks a significant high-point in the history of the novel, then Austen’s own attempts at writing seem especially timely. If Austen was intimate with the tropes of contemporary fiction by 1787, she must already have been reading for a substantial period. Austen’s interest in reading fiction seems to have commenced precisely when female authors began publishing novels in significant numbers. Galvanized by her own reading of a multitude of recent fictions, Austen started composing informed satires of the prevailing modes—notably the sentimental novel, which dominated the 1780s and early 1790s. ‘Frederic and Elfrida’, ‘Edgar and Emma’, and ‘Henry and Eliza’,1 and the more prosaic ‘Jack and Alice’ echo a bevy of sentimental novels with such male–female pairings: Samuel Jackson Pratt’s Charles and Charlotte (1777), Rousseau’s sequel to Émile, Emlius and Sophia (1783), Eliza Nugent Bromley’s Laura and Augustus (1784), Jael-Henrietta Pye’s Theodosius and Arabella (1786), and the anonymous Edward and Sophia (1787). Similarly, the other pieces repeat various representative ciphers which recur in sentimental novel titles. ‘The Adventures of Mr Harley’ has its antecedents in The Story of Juliana Harley (1776) by Elizabeth Griffith, and anonymous works such as The History of Melinda Harley, Yorkshire (1777) and The Happy Release; or the History of Charles Wharton and Sophia Harley (1787). ‘Sir William Mountague’ with its surname retrospects Frances Brooke’s History of Emily Montague (1769), and the anonymous History of Miss Harriot Montague (1770) and History of Sir William Harrington (1771)—while the name was recycled as late as 1797 in The Heir of Montague. Austen’s ‘Memoirs of Mr Clifford’ is one of numerous ‘Memoir’ fictions, among them Memoirs of Lady Woodford (1771), the comtesse de Murat’s Memoirs of the Countess d’Anois (1778), and Memoirs of the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Cherington (1782) by Richard Muller. The later and more sustained ‘Love and Freindship’ not only echoes two of the most archetypal tropes of sensibility, but carries the circulating-

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library resonance of recent novels such as Love and Madness (1780) and Friendship and Matrimony (1781).2 By the time of Volume the Third, Austen’s works adopt titles from their eponymous heroines (‘Evelyn’, ‘Catharine’), once again replicating the fashion of recent domestic–sentimental novels such as Charlotte Smith’s Emmeline, the Orphan of the Castle (1788), Ethelinde, or the Recluse of the Lake (1789), and Celestina (1791). Along with this appropriation of stock sentimental titles, the contents of the juvenilia dismantle the apparatus of sensibility in illogical yet wholly appropriate ways. Austen’s policy of reductio ad absurdum demonstrates that the sentimental novel, for all its effusions and prolixity, is often a vehicle for trite and formulaic platitudes. In ‘Frederic and Elfrida’, the protagonists’ sentimental credentials are established by the fact that ‘[t]hey loved with mutual sincerity but were both determined not to transgress the rules of Propriety by owning their attachment, either to the object beloved, or to any one else’ (C&OW, 3). Such genteel disguise, however, leads to a protracted courtship between Frederic and Elfrida, lasting over 20 years because Elfrida’s ‘delicate frame’ cannot bear the trial of wedding preparations. All is brought to a conclusion when Frederic falls in love with a friend’s 18-year-old daughter: following a bout of fainting on Elfrida’s part, Frederic capitulates to his former love and ‘immediately on hearing of the dangerous way Elfrida was in, he flew to her and finding her better than he had been taught to expect, was united to her Forever—’ (10). Austen sees such female figures as unrealistic: the repining frailty of sentimental heroines can only be resolved by equally passive fainting fits. While acknowledging the hilarious, the adolescent Austen is also addressing a more serious issue: in these novels, women are expressed solely in terms of their bodies rather than their minds. Fainting and frailty replace moral and intellectual qualities to the point that they determine both the narrative and moral structures of the sentimental world. While sensibility prioritizes body over mind, it disregards the mundane necessities—such as food and money—which keep bodies functioning. The longer and more sophisticated pieces comprising Volume the Second deal with this sentimental paradox; and, more than any other work in the juvenilia, ‘Love and Freindship’ distils the essence of the circulating-library romance in a sustained and incisive manner. The purported (sentimental) heroine of the piece, Laura, now aged 55, is asked by her sensible friend Isabel to recount her youthful adventures to Isabel’s daughter Marianne (a telling

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Austen and Fiction, 1787–1809 45

name), as a warning against excessive sensibility. Laura’s account, told in a series of letters, reveals that her husband Edward had prided himself on his rebellion against supposed paternal tyranny: ‘ “It is my greatest boast that I have incurred the Displeasure of my Father!” ’ (83) Edward and Laura also avow their disdain for money: ‘But they, Exalted Creatures! scorned to reflect a moment on their pecuniary Distresses and would have blushed at the idea of paying their Debts’ (86). Such statements echo stock sentimental expressions, which differ only slightly from Austen’s own phrasings. For instance, in the epistolary School for Fathers; or, the Victim of a Curse (1788), the heroine Elvina asks: ‘ “What is grandeur, what are riches? Do we see the possessors happy? No, my Alfred, their cares and anxieties are drawbacks on their felicity and which those who live in are not liable to.” ’3 Despite the repeated expressions of distaste towards money in the juvenilia, Austen’s principals employ the language of sensibility to mask and excuse their criminality. Edward and his friend Augustus are arrested for debt and theft, while Laura’s friend Sophia is caught by her benefactor Macdonald stealing banknotes from his library. As well as peeling back the veneer that sensibility places over the financial realities of everyday life, Austen also ridicules other empty gestures and their consequences in ‘Love and Freindship’. In addition to criminality, false expectations of love are interrogated: Macdonald’s daughter Janetta is engaged to the sensible Graham, but upon arriving at Macdonald’s house, Sophia and Laura decide that the marriage must be prevented and an appropriate lover found The very circumstance of his [Graham] being her father’s choice too, was so much in his disfavour, that had he been deserving her, in every other respect yet that of itself ought to have been a sufficient reason in the Eyes of Janetta for rejecting him. (C&OW, 91) Instead, the heroines convince Janetta to settle on the sentimentalsounding M’Kenzie, and write him a letter which creates a Wertheresque Graham–Janetta–M’Kenzie love triangle. Laura and Sophia’s efforts at securing the perfect man of feeling for Janetta are deflated when it is revealed that M’Kenzie is simply a fortunehunting adventurer. Once again, Austen employs paradigmatic sentimental tropes in order to effect quotidian conclusions.

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‘Love and Freindship’ deals not only with hopes for the perfect lover that sentimental fiction might inspire in its readers, but in similar ambitions for undiscovered lineage. Following the disappearance of Edward and Augustus, Laura encounters an old nobleman in a coaching inn: ‘At his first Appearance my Sensibility was wonderfully affected and e’er I had gazed at him a 2d time, an instinctive Sympathy whispered to my Heart, that he was my Grandfather’ (88). In the bathetic sequence that follows, not only is Lord St Clair Laura’s grandfather, he is also Sophia’s, as well as that of two young men in the inn, who fit the sentimental mould. His transports of joy at this éclaircissement are hilariously disrupted in his final response, which is followed by a quick getaway: ‘ “But tell me” (continued he looking fearfully towards the Door) “tell me, have I any other Grand-Children in the House?” ’ (89–90) If this seems extreme it has its equivalent in ‘straight’ sensibility: Anna Maria Bennett’s Agnes De-Courci (1789) features a labyrinthine genealogy truly breathtaking in its consanguineous convolutions.4 Agnes DeCourci is the legitimate but discarded daughter of James Neville, the bigamous first husband and cousin of Lady Mary Ruthven. Her mother was the sister of General Moncrass, Lady Mary’s second husband; after Neville abandons her, she takes the veil at a French convent, assumes the name ‘St Clare’, and raises her daughter as an orphan, naming her Agnes De-Courci. When St Clare dies, General Moncrass takes Agnes under his protection, but is suspected of being her lover because he will not reveal her background as a point of honour. Consequently, he is separated from Lady Mary. Agnes herself is loved by Edward Harley, brother-in-law of James Butler, who happens to be the cousin of Lady Mary and James Neville. Following another three volumes of revelation, Agnes and Edward marry, with the General’s blessing. Finally, Moncrass’s son from a previous marriage, Reuben, who is in love with Lady Mary’s (illegitimate) daughter Julia Neville, elopes with her. Somehow, Bennett manages to pull all these strands together quite tolerably by the denouement. Such examples emphasize how Austen’s satire deviates only slightly from the occasionally ridiculous apparatus of the serious sentimental novel. Of course, this motif of discovered origins is to be found in any number of other sentimental novels: a typical instance of such an epiphany arising from unnatural coincidence occurs in Bennett’s earlier Anna; or, Memoirs of a Welch Heiress (1785). In this novel, the benevolent and virtuous orphan is revealed

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to be heiress to a large estate.5 Similarly, in ‘Henry and Eliza’, the heroine originally taken in as an orphan is revealed to be the heiress; however, Austen reveals the bathos inherent in sentimentalism. During the closing scene, Eliza’s mother informs her husband that fearing his displeasure at bearing a girl she leaves her in a ‘Haycock’ and ‘Satisfied within myself of the welfare of my Child, I soon forgot I had one’ (C&OW, 36). As indicated by its title, the nature of sentimental friendship, as well as love, comes under close scrutiny in ‘Love and Freindship’. Austen attempts to demonstrate that even in their more beneficial guises such effusions of immediate friendship are really rootless gestures empty of meaning. After encountering the disagreeable practicality of her sister-in-law Augusta, Laura is relieved to meet with a true friend, Sophia: After having been deprived during the course of 3 weeks of a real freind … imagine my transports at beholding one, most truly worthy of the Name. Sophia … was all Sensibility and Feeling. We flew into each others arms and after having exchanged vows of mutual Friendship for the rest of our Lives, instantly unfolded to each other the most inward Secrets of our Hearts—. (83–4) Laura’s description hardly exaggerates existing sentimental phraseology: Thomas Holcroft’s translation of the Isabelle de Montolieu’s Caroline of Lichtfield (1786) archetypically employs overloaded diction to sustain the opposite mood in the reader (appreciation rather than ridicule). Occurring after the injury of the heroine’s lover towards the end of the novel, the following passage chimes with that of ‘Love and Freindship’ quoted above: Return we to our happy travellers. The wound of Lindorf healed apace, so excellent a balsamic is happiness, and they set off for Berlin; Caroline and Matilda in one of the carriages, and the two friends in the other. Leave we these lovely ladies to speak of those they held most dear, to congratulate each other, to form plans of future delight, and to vow eternal friendship.6 The juvenilia reflect how sentimental friendships are constructed from various combinations of fainting, mortal injury, instinctive sympathy, and confessions. However, unlike their sentimental antecedents Austen’s pieces depict women who can only faint,

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

heroes who die incongruously, and heroines who steal money and lovers from their friends. In doing this, Austen’s ultimate purpose is to prove how easily the signifier (sentimental effusions) can be separated from the signified (true friendship), without losing much of the (non)sense of the original novels. The juvenilia also challenge the solipsism that is a natural consequence of such sentimental concepts of mutual and instantaneous understanding. Elizabeth Helme’s Louisa; or, the Cottage on the Moor (1787) displays all the accoutrements of sensibility: the rustic cottage, an orphaned heroine, scenes of abduction and melodrama, as well as the usual invocations to its ‘fair readers’ and tales-within-tales. Early in the novel, the benighted Louisa is received into the isolated retreat of Mrs Rivers, a middleaged woman of sensibility, and it is not long before ‘friendship, swift as the moments flew, increased in their sympathising bosoms’.7 Austen would no doubt have been aware of Helme’s novel, which was well received by critics and ran into a number of editions. Her juvenilia echo such tropes, wherein isolation from the general body of humanity is inextricably associated with this instinctive connection between individuals. The intimacy of the protagonists of ‘Love and Freindship’ clearly echoes and exaggerates this: Our time was most delightfully spent, in mutual Protestations of Freindship, and in vows of unalterable Love, in which we were secure from being interrupted, by intruding and disagreeable Visitors, as Augustus and Sophia had on their first Entrance in the Neighbourhood, taken due care to inform the surrounding Families, that as their Happiness centered wholly in themselves, they wished for no other society. (C&OW, 85) This solipsism operates as the centrepiece of many of Charlotte Smith’s novels, which are premised on some kind of retreat from the outside world—whether owing to persecution, penury, or some mystery about the heroine’s origins. Austen returns to this concept in more sophisticated ways in her later writing: in ‘Catharine, or the Bower’ and Northanger Abbey, the respective protagonists, Catharine Percival and Catherine Morland, are not the programmatic sentimental heroines of the earlier juvenilia. They are paired, however, with giddy stereotypes appropriated from sensibility—Camilla Stanley and Isabella Thorpe—both of whom are shown to be as inconsiderate as they are vapid. In these

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Austen and Fiction, 1787–1809 49

texts, Austen’s original, formalistic challenge to the solipsism of sentimental narrative evolves into a more probing social analysis of what such isolation can do to a reasonable woman’s thought processes. What Austen is attacking in her depictions of sensibility are the effusiveness, vapidity, and generally rootless gestures of these novels. However, she does not confine herself simply to the sentimental model: Austen is an accurate observer of the novel market in general, and is able to demystify other fictional topoi. ‘Evelyn’ pokes fun at the emergent Gothic of the early Charlotte Smith, Mary Robinson, and Ann Radcliffe. Similarly, Austen challenges the antisentimentalism of prudential novels such as William Hayley’s The Young Widow; or, the History of Mrs Ledwich (1785) and Jane West’s Advantages of Education, or the History of Maria Williams (1793). In ‘Lesley Castle’, the overly sentimental Margaret Lesley is compared with the excessively practical (and appositely surnamed) Charlotte Lutterall. If Austen has attacked the ways in which sentimental effusiveness covers vapidity, she also demonstrates how a concern with the practicalities of life can mask shallow materialism. In this case, when her sister’s wedding is postponed owing to her fiancé’s near-fatal injury, Charlotte’s concern is that ‘I had the mortification of finding that I had been Roasting, Broiling and Stewing both the Meat and Myself to no purpose’ (110). In ‘Catharine’, the romantic but sympathetic heroine is positively contrasted with her overbearing and starchy aunt, who, echoing the kinds of received wisdom to be found in prudential fictions, is always ready to treat Catharine as a dishonest, scheming ingrate. What Austen’s continual process of negotiating with fictional forms demonstrates is that her juvenilia do not simply isolate a single milieu and devastate it: rather, they acknowledge the power of these dominant forms, which indeed call for such parody. The relationship of Austen’s juvenilia to the novel articulates itself most clearly in an autobiographical comment made early in ‘Love and Freindship’. When Edward decides to challenge paternal tyranny for no sensible reason, his father’s incredulous response is perhaps a tongue-in-cheek reference to the author herself: ‘ “Where, Edward, in the name of wonder” (said he) “did you pick up this unmeaning Gibberish? You have been studying Novels I suspect” ’ (79). This comment reveals Austen’s ambivalent attitude towards the genre, cheekily satirizing both her own novel reading and the typical criticisms made by detractors of fiction (that novels were to

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blame for everything). Although she subverts sentimental discourse by patching it together in nonage, Austen evidently feels affection for what she disrupts. Much of the energy of the juvenilia arises from the interplay between the correct use of the lexicon of sensibility and the inappropriate context to which it is applied. Austen manages to sustain her satire so successfully because she remains so close to the formula, departing from it by only a few conceptual steps. The most sophisticated piece in the juvenilia is ‘Catharine, or the Bower’, which is much closer in tone and execution to the early novels, with the burlesque elements being more subdued. The link is still maintained to contemporary fictions, however, especially through Austen’s concern with the marginality and insecurity of young women. ‘Catharine’ was written when Austen was 16, and marks the end of the juvenilia. As well as a representation of closure, it can also be seen as the stepping-stone to her next comparable, and even more ambitious project, Lady Susan, which was first drafted around 1794–5.8 The piece occupies a mid-point between juvenile parody and the work of an aspiring novelist. Its satire is more complex and darker in overall tone than that of the juvenilia, representing a melange of Richardson’s novels, Choderlos de Laclos’ Les Liasons dangereuses (1782), and the fictions of Smith and Robinson. In its eponymous protagonist, Lady Susan’s epistolary narrative reprises the unscrupulous heroines of the earlier pieces, but with less light-hearted humour. Lady Susan Vernon is a female Lovelace who tyrannizes over her passive daughter Frederica, employing Machiavellian tactics in order to secure what is best for herself.9 Lady Susan demonstrates how thoroughly Austen’s role as a reader permeates her function as an author. Part of the story’s sophistication arises from its less specific generic ties: while ‘Love and Freindship’ takes on the sentimental, ‘Evelyn’ the Gothic, and ‘Lesley Castle’ the prudential novels, this work runs on its own internal dynamics. Austen seems to have converted the burlesques of the juvenilia into what can be clearly identified as a proto-novel, and a clear vein of continuity exists between this piece and her early novels. Despite this, Austen abandoned Lady Susan—perhaps bored of the direction in which it was heading, its satirical tone, or the epistolary format. The surviving manuscript is a fair copy written on paper watermarked 1805: while it supplies a terminus a quo for transcription, it seems likely that Austen returned to Lady Susan before resuming Sense and Sensibility in 1809. During this

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time, Austen appended a brief and lively third-person conclusion, indicative perhaps of an urge to complete the piece for her own satisfaction, while eschewing the obsolote epistolary form. In any case, within the aegis of Lady Susan’s composition and completion (1795–1805), Austen was to embark successively on the far more ambitious and ultimately satisfying projects of the early novels.

Jane Austen and her (non-)publishers, 1: Cadell & Davies Nearly two decades before they were published, Austen’s first three novels—Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, and Northanger Abbey—were repeatedly drafted and redrafted before they finally appeared in the public gaze. Owing to a critical separation between the juvenilia and the full novels, it has become almost natural to treat these as two distinct phases in Austen’s literary development. Clearly, substantial differences in purpose and execution do exist, but a closer examination of the chronology of Austen’s works from the late 1780s to the end of the century demonstrates that they were part of a continuum of writing, which proceeded virtually without interruption. Thus, the early juvenile pieces of 1787–90 give way to the novelettes of 1790–3, which themselves contribute to the ambitious Lady Susan (1794/5), written just before Austen had reached her twentieth year. The second key phase in Austen’s evolving process of writing and refinement encapsulates the first drafting of the three novels, beginning sometime in 1795 and concluding in 1799. Just as the juvenilia marked a time when Austen’s nascent interest in writing coincided with a sudden rise in women’s fictions, so the ur-novels of the 1790s cluster around the peak imprint year of 1796. After drafting Elinor and Marianne (c. 1795), Austen turned to First Impressions (the original Pride and Prejudice) between October 1796 and August 1797. When she failed in her attempt to have it published sometime after November 1797, Austen returned to her first work, renaming it Sense and Sensibility; having completed this, she worked from 1798 to 1799 on Susan, which was eventually published posthumously as Northanger Abbey. A hiatus marks the four-year period between the completion of Susan and the sale of its copyright to the firm of Crosby & Co. in 1803. This was followed by an even longer gap in creativity between the sale and Austen’s letter concerning Susan in 1809, punctuated only in 1804 by the abandoned fragment now called The Watsons. The following

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52

Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Camilla and subscription fiction

As with the juvenilia, Austen’s drafting of the proto-novels is best perceived in relation to contemporary fiction. Around the time of the transition from juvenile experiments to full novels (c. 1795), the Austen family were associated to some degree with the publication of a number of novels. This involvement is signalled by their role as ‘subscribers’: that is, consumers who made a small payment to cover the publishing costs of a particular work. In order to contextualize Austen’s first assay into the fiction market—that is, the failed attempt at publishing First Impressions through Cadell & Davies—her role as a paying subscriber to popular novels merits further inspection. Of 2435 novels issued between 1785 and 1819, only 123 (5.1 per cent) were published by subscription, and by the 1820s the practice had effectively passed into disuse.10 Authors would canvass advance payments (‘scrips’) towards the publication of a new work, employing newspaper advertisements, proposals printed for general circulation, and word-of-mouth. These payments would be made either directly to the authors or to their agents, who were typically friends and/or booksellers. Once the work was published, subscribers would collect their sets from booksellers who held the subscription lists. From extant publishing records, it appears that one year typically elapsed between the advertisement for subscribers and final publication, with subscriptions being collected throughout this period. The arrangement between author and publisher was such that the author would cover the costs of production, while the publisher (and any other agents) would take a commission, generally 10 per cent, on payments received. As a practice, publishing by subscription was not particularly appealing, either to authors (for whom it was potentially demeaning) or publishers (for whom profits were limited).11 In a letter of 30 November 1802 to Anna Seward, Walter Scott remarked that the subscription process ‘is asking the public to become bound to pay for what they have not seen, & carries with it if not in the reality at least in the appearance of personal solicitation & personal obligation.’12 Despite such negative associations, a number of authors did employ this method at least once in their literary careers, and as Peter

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sections will examine both unsuccessful attempts Austen made to get published, first in 1797 and then in 1803, and discuss the reasons why she failed to secure publication of her early novels at the close of the eighteenth century.

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Garside comments: ‘the method had its advantage in providing a way for novice authors to test the water, especially at a time when large numbers of women, often without direct means of approaching the London trade, were entering the genre.’13 Three such novels entered Jane Austen’s provincial world during the 1790s: Mary Martha Butt’s The Traditions, a Legendary Tale (1795), Frances Burney’s Camilla; or, a Picture of Youth (1796), and the anonymous Wareham Priory; or, the Will (1799). An indirect connection exists between Austen and Wareham Priory, which was subscribed to by her elder brother and his wife, entered near the start of the list as ‘Edward Austen, Esq.’ and ‘Mrs. Austen’, as well as by Edward’s patroness ‘Mrs. Knight, Canterbury’.14 A closer relationship exists between Austen and Butt’s Traditions, a sentimental novel set in mediaeval England with touches of the increasingly popular Gothic. Among 740 subscribers, one finds the name ‘Miss Austen, Steventon, near Overton’.15 Although one’s initial impulse might be to connect Jane to the subscription, it is more likely that her sister Cassandra was the subscriber, as it would have been the usual practice to name the elder sister by surname only. The most involved and direct connections occur, however, between Austen and undoubtedly the most famous subscription novel of the period: Burney’s Camilla, which boasts an immense subscription list, consisting of 1058 names. Among a bevy of dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, and baronets, Austen’s name appears on the second page of the list, entered as ‘Miss J. Austen, Steventon’. 16 Although the issue of Camilla, its subscribers, and its publication history has been looked at in some detail already,17 it is worth exploring the more specific context of the novel’s publication and its implications for Austen. According to the dating established by Cassandra, Austen had begun Elinor and Marianne sometime during 1795. This would place Austen’s first attempt at a full-length work within a period spanning the possible advertisements for subscriptions to The Traditions (summer 1794), its publication (May 1795), the actual advertisements for subscriptions to Camilla (beginning 7 July 1795), and its publication (6 July 1796). The earliest of Austen’s extant letters, dated September 1796, are filled with references to Camilla, which clearly exhibit her lively engagement with Burney’s novel. No more thoroughgoing account of the circumstances surrounding the subscription to Camilla exist than in Burney’s letters written between June and November 1795. Although the skeleton of the novel had been sketched out while Burney was Keeper of the Robes

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for Queen Charlotte (1786–91), a first draft was written in late 1794, while Camilla as we know it was developed from May 1795 to June 1796. Burney’s first letter on the subject of publication, to her younger brother Charles, echoes the negative attitudes towards subscription publication already mentioned: ‘As in some points it is very disagreeable … to take such a measure—And as in all points, it is a thing to be done but once in a Life, we wish to do it to most advantage.’18 When Edmund Burke had suggested that Burney follow this route towards the publication of Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress (1782), she had firmly refused. Anxiety for the future of her child Alexander (born in December 1794), however, led her to overcome her original reservations: We have … been led, by degrees, to listen to counsel of some friends, & to print it by subscription. This is in many—many ways unpleasant & unpalatable to us both—but the real chance of real use & benefit to our little darling overcomes all scruples, & therefore—to work we go!19 Burney received a number of proposals from would-be publishers, but by early July the main contenders were Thomas Payne, Jr and the Robinsons, with Cadell & Davies playing a less prominent role in the original stakes. Matters were further complicated by close family connections between the Burneys and the competitors: Payne was brother-in-law to Burney’s elder brother James, while the Robinsons had been her father’s publishers. Further aggravation was caused within days when the three concerns involved ultimately leagued together in a coalition that effectively suppressed competition.20 Although details of the final arrangements are missing, Charles was able to strike an advantageous arrangement with Payne and Cadell & Davies, but one which excluded the Robinsons (who were resentful at being left out). Subscriptions were set at one guinea, and the proposed date of publication was 1 July 1796. The edition was actually published on the 12th and consisted of 4000 copies. By mid-October only 500 remained, and, according to Burney’s own reckoning, the sale of Camilla had outstripped that of Cecilia— hitherto the most popular novel of the period—by a third. Although the final list of 1058 subscribers is an unusually large number, it must have been ultimately disappointing for the Burneys, who had hoped for around 3000–4000 names, and had anticipated at least 2000. Still, at one guinea per subscription (and of the 1058 subscribers,

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a number purchased multiple sets), this would have gleaned, after expenses, around £1000.21 A few months before the publication of the novel, Payne and Cadell & Davies also succeeded in securing the copyright of the novel, for an additional £1000. If we turn to the contents of the subscription list, we see that Austen’s excitement at being a subscriber to a Burney novel would have been supplemented by the pleasure of sharing company with a coterie of prestigious names. Heading the list were the Duchess of York and the Duke of Gloucester, along with another 260 aristocratic patrons, amongst them the Duke of Buccleuch, the Duchess of Devonshire, and the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough. This was further supplemented by statesmen such as Edmund Burke, George Canning, Warren Hastings, and literary figures including James Beattie, Thomas Holcroft, Harriet and Sophia Lee, and Hannah More. As well as ‘Miss J. Austen, Steventon’, from the younger generation of novelists we encounter Maria Edgeworth and Amelia Opie (listed here as ‘Miss Alderson’). A less successful aspiring novelist among the subscribers, ‘Mrs. Cooke, Bookham’, is significant for her intimate connections with both Burney and Austen.22 Four years after subscribing to Camilla, Cassandra Cooke (née Leigh) published the poorly received Battleridge: An Historical Novel through George Cawthorn in 1799. Cooke was intimate with Austen: she was Mrs Austen’s cousin and her husband was Jane’s godfather. The relationship between the Cookes and the Austens becomes apparent in a letter by Austen to her sister: Your letter was chaperoned here by one from Mrs Cooke, in which she says that Battleridge is not to come out before January; & she is so little satisfied with Cawthorn’s dilatoriness that she never means to employ him again. (JAL, 17; 27 October 1798) The Austen sisters frequently visited the Cookes, who also happened to be Burney’s immediate neighbours during her 1793–7 residence at Great Bookham, Surrey (the Revd George Cooke was vicar of St Nicholas’s Parish at Great Bookham). The families seemed on candid terms: Burney found Mrs Cooke to be ‘a very sensible & benevolent woman, & excessively kind to me’, and during the commission of Camilla Mrs Cooke, whom Burney called ‘my excellent neighbour’, was admonishing her ‘not to be again, as … I have hitherto been, the dupe of Booksellers.’ 23 Although a number of biographers have

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named George Austen as the primum mobile of the subscription to Camilla, the evidence seems to favour Austen’s maternal relatives much more persuasively.24 It is highly plausible that Mrs Cooke would have told her cousin about the ins-and-outs of Camilla, written by her personal and inestimable acquaintance, and that Austen, already a precocious commentator on the fiction genre, would have been eager to involve herself in the venture. Certainly, once Austen had received and read her own five volumes of Camilla, the novel operated as a frame of reference for her own world. While staying at her brother Edward’s home in Rowling, Kent, Austen drew parallels between her own situation and that of Burney’s heroine: To-morrow I shall be just like Camilla in Mr Dubster’s summerhouse; for my Lionel will have taken away the ladder by which I came here, or at least by which I intended to get away, and here I must stay till his return. (JAL, 6; 1 September 1796). In addition to comparing herself to Camilla, Austen gauged her acquaintances by their reactions to the novel. Commenting on a Miss Fletcher, Austen remarked: ‘There are two Traits in her Character which are pleasing; namely, she admires Camilla, & drinks no cream in her Tea’ (JAL, 9; 15 September 1796). Austen remained at Rowling for a number of months, during which time she read the novel with evident delight, even appending her own epilogue to the fifth volume. Her disapproval of Burney’s interfering Dr Marchmont, who unnecessarily prevents the marriage of the heroine to her paramour, manifests itself in a lightly pencilled postscript: ‘Since this work went to the Press | a Circumstance of some Importance to the | happiness of Camilla has taken place, | namely that Dr Marchmont has at last  …’ . The final words have been lost due to binding, but it is probably safe to assume, as R. W. Chapman has, that Austen was writing the venerable Doctor’s obituary.25 First Impressions, First Rejection

When Austen returned to Steventon, she began composing a new novel entitled First Impressions—later renamed Pride and Prejudice, once again reflecting Burney’s influence on Austen’s oeuvre.26 According to Cassandra’s retrospective memorandum of composition, written shortly after Austen’s death, First Impressions

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was begun in October 1796, three months after the publication of Camilla.27 It is likely, therefore, that Burney’s novel encouraged Austen to abandon the epistolary framework of Elinor and Marianne. Over the next ten months, she set to work on a roman de moeurs, completing it by August 1797. Although Brian Southam and others have argued that First Impressions was epistolary in its original composition, the clear influence of Camilla over Austen during 1796–7 offers a compelling case for its having been originally written in direct narrative. The high reputation of First Impressions in the Austen household led George Austen almost immediately to offer it for publication to Cadell & Davies: Sirs, I have in my possession a Manuscript Novel, comprised in three Vols. about the length of Miss Burney’s Evelina. As I am well aware of what consequence it is that a work of this sort should make its’ first appearance under a respectable name I apply to you. Shall be much obliged therefore if you will inform me whether you chuse to be concerned in it; what will be the expense of publishing at the Author’s risk; & what you will venture to advance for the Property of it, if on a perusal it is approved of? Should your answer give me encouragement I will send you the work. I am, Sirs, Yr. obt. hble. Servt: Geo Austen Steventon, near Overton Hants 1st Novr. 179728 There is no documented reason why Cadell & Davies were chosen, although a number of possibilities spring to mind. The first and most obvious is their association with Camilla: George Austen’s reference to Evelina might signal an attempt to link his daughter’s manuscript with the recently published Burney. In addition to their association with Camilla, since 1787 Cadell & Davies had also been the main publishers of the fiction of Charlotte Smith, whose novels clearly inform Sense and Sensibility. Whatever the original cause, it is interesting to note the serious belief that First Impressions would be accepted, demonstrated by George’s mention of the usual methods of publication: either at the author’s expense or through sale by copyright. Deirdre Le Faye perceives Austen’s father to be the prime

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mover behind this application, although it does not strictly follow that his agency was as unilateral as she posits (FR, 104). It is just as likely that Austen herself instigated this attempt at publication, and George was simply conveying his daughter’s wishes. Although numerous biographers have commented on this episode in Austen’s life, little attention has been paid to Cadell & Davies, beyond a throwaway comment here or there. The firm’s origins lay with a Thomas Cadell of Bristol, a minor bookseller who apprenticed his son Thomas to the successful London publisher Andrew Millar in 1758. By 1765, Thomas became a partner, finally taking over as sole proprietor two years later and consolidating the firm’s position as a leading publisher based in the fashionable West End. Whether through his own efforts or those of Millar, Cadell enjoyed connections with pre-eminent authors such as Henry Fielding, Edward Gibbon, Samuel Johnson, and James Thomson. From 1780, Cadell the Elder entered into partnership first with William Strahan and then with Strahan’s son Andrew. In 1793, he passed on the business to his son Thomas Cadell ‘the Younger’, in partnership with William Davies, who had been a senior assistant to the elder Cadell. By 1797, the roll-call of talents published under the Cadell imprint established the firm’s quality status, and as Theodore Besterman notes: ‘Cadell & Davies could reasonably feel that they belonged to at least a third generation of the highest aristocracy of the Trade.’29 In fact, according to contemporary observers, Cadell & Davies vied during the 1790s with the Robinson empire to be first among equals—something which certainly adds further interest to the Machiavellian intrigues which surrounded the publication of Camilla, especially when we remember that Robinsons were ultimately excluded.30 Cadell—and later Cadell & Davies—did not issue fiction heavily, and there are a number of hiatuses in their publication of new titles, although it is worth noting that they had accumulated a substantial backlist of novels over the years. The firm had been involved in the publication of a select number of prestigious and respectable novels, amongst them Henry Mackenzie’s Man of Feeling (1771) and Julia de Roubigné (1777), and Frances Brooke’s The Excursion (1777). During the 1780s and 1790s, the concern continued to deal with best-selling fiction, publishing Burney’s Cecilia (1782) and Camilla (1796), Sophia Lee’s The Recess (1785), six of Charlotte Smith’s novels, as well as Charlotte Lennox’s Euphemia (1790), Helen Maria Williams’s Julia (1790), and Ann Radcliffe’s The Italian (1797). Despite this, fiction

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formed only a minor part of their literary investment, as is evident from a cursory examination of representative titles issued by the firm during 1796–8. Cadell & Davies’ output was typical of an eighteenth-century publisher, consisting mainly of religious works, whether commentaries, sermons, or theological disquisitions: representative authors include Fordyce, Gilpin, Gisborne, Tomline, and Wilberforce. Poetry was clearly an important element, forming a smaller but nevertheless substantial part of the Cadell catalogue. Histories of Britain and other nations (by writers like Gibbon, Goldsmith, Hume, and Smollett), belletristic works (miscellaneous essays, dictionaries, classical works, criticism), and political–social commentaries also occupied a respectable niche. By contrast, fiction itself was low in the firm’s publishing priorities, amounting to less material than either travel writing or medical treatises. The offer of Austen’s manuscript was rejected sight unseen, with the phrase ‘declined by Return of Post’ written on George Austen’s returned letter, presumably by a representative of Cadell & Davies. A number of reasons for this rejection offer themselves up for consideration. Turning firstly to George’s letter, it becomes apparent that, despite displaying some knowledge of publishing practices, it is in some other respects clumsy and unbusinesslike.31 He seeks an immediate answer for an unseen manuscript, enquiring the terms under which they would publish: it is hardly likely that Cadell & Davies would find this anything but intrusive. Perhaps the Burney link was supposed to invoke their recent success with Camilla, but this possibly misfired, pointing to Evelina, an already old-fashioned (epistolary) novel. If we consider the relatively high standing of the firm in the booktrade at this time, it does seem risible that an unknown cleric from Hampshire should attempt to gain anything tangible on the basis of a few lines and a comparison to a superannuated novel. We might even surmise that a clash of personalities might have occurred. George Austen’s provincial attitude typifies the eighteenth-century opinion that publishers were tradesmen. Conversely, the metropolitan firm perhaps had its own sense of hauteur, having dealt with established authors for many years. Such linear, Austen-specific arguments, however, only tell one side of a very complex story. Whatever the inadequacies of the letter, there are other, external circumstances that would have militated against success. It was not typical for an important publisher to consider, let alone accept, a novel by an unknown author the first

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time around: Burney’s own Evelina had itself been rejected by Robert Dodsley, before being later accepted by Thomas Lowndes. A brief survey of the Cadell & Davies fiction lists for this period establishes that they usually worked with known authors. Although they had initially published their authors anonymously, from the late 1780s they usually announced them on title pages, and if not it was generally known who these writers were—as in Burney’s case and that of Dr John Moore, author of Zeluco (1796). In fact, it had been Cadell the Elder who had acquired these high-profile authors, and during the mid-1790s Cadell & Davies were trading on big names such as Burney, Moore, Radcliffe, and Smith—whom they had either acquired in the 1780s or who had come to them after successes in literary or other fields. A final possibility for Cadell & Davies’ rejection of Austen’s manuscript lies in the broader dynamics of the 1796–1801 period, enumerated in Chapter 1. The conditions of the publishing season 1797–8 were clearly different from those of spring 1795: by now, the novel was a problematized genre, caused most especially by the antagonism towards Jacobin fiction. There was a distinct decline in the commitment to fiction by publishers across the market. The novel had accumulated unsavoury associations, not least as a consequence of the scandal caused by M. G. Lewis’s The Monk (1796). Hence, respectable publishers like Cadell & Davies are likely to have eschewed unknown ventures at such an anxious time: in fact, the firm’s publication of fiction fell rather than increased around the turn of the century. It would seem, then, that Austen had approached the most appropriate publishers for her fiction at the most inauspicious moment possible.32 As Jan Fergus has argued (LL, 9–14), if Austen had swallowed her pride and applied to another publisher, First Impressions may have marked an earlier beginning for Austen’s publishing career. For instance, she could have turned, as had Mary Butt, to the Minerva Press for an almost guaranteed publication. Probably the Austens’ amour propre militated against such an arrangement: as she had noted nearly two years earlier, ‘I write only for Fame, and without any view to pecuniary Emolument’ (JAL, 3; 14 January 1796). Another option might have been Longmans, who were certainly supportive of first-time authors of respectable novels; however, the Austens’ provincial life at this time most likely prevented them from recognizing Longmans’ rising star. Facing rejection, then, it is conceivable that Austen was not willing to publish with a lesser firm, deciding instead to let the issue rest. If the Austens were somewhat

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naïve in approaching the eminent Cadell & Davies, they were nevertheless astute enough in selecting a firm that best represented the class of fiction she would publish two decades later. Despite this setback, Austen remained undeterred, and returned to Elinor and Marianne, applying the lessons learned in composing First Impressions to the newly styled Sense and Sensibility. Cassandra dates the reconstitution of the epistolary original into a direct-narrative version as November 1797.33 Whether this came before or after the rejection we may never know; however, Austen’s self-confidence was robust enough to bear the rejection of a manuscript which had not even been seen by the publisher. First Impressions remained a favourite with the Austens, and evidently continued to be circulated among friends and family. Austen herself makes references to it in two letters to Cassandra, neither of which demonstrate dissatisfaction with the work. The first mention is dated 9 January 1799: ‘I do not wonder at your wanting to read first impressions again, so seldom as you gone have through it, & that so long ago’ (JAL, 35). The second, more facetious than its predecessor, displays a drier irony in its topical reference: I would not let Martha read First Impressions again upon any account, & am very glad that I did not leave it in your power.— She is very cunning, but I see through her design;—she means to publish it from Memory, & one more perusal must enable her to do it.—As for Fitzalbini, when I get home she shall have it … (JAL, 44; 11 June 1799) The immediate juxtaposition of her novel with Samuel Egerton Brydges’s Arthur Fitz-Albini (1798), a novel which she viewed as comically self-aggrandizing and poorly written, implicitly indicates the status she ascribed to First Impressions. One wonders why Austen desisted from publishing what remained a popular work in her circles: no compelling evidence exists to provide us with any categorical reasons. Two coincidental episodes may have encouraged Austen to discard First Impressions in favour of newer works. The first concerns family disruptions that occurred soon after the unexpected retirement of Austen’s father from the living at Steventon Rectory, a move which led them to Bath in 1801. Family tradition has it that Austen fainted upon hearing this news—whatever the merits of this anecdote, the relocation would undeniably have stymied Austen’s creative opportunities.

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

The second circumstance was the publication of Margaret Holford’s First Impressions in 1801: far from being a domestic comedy with Burneyesque touches, this novel is a melodramatic sentimental tale, which contains the clichéd ‘vortex of dissipation’, towards which Austen felt such distaste—perhaps the appearance of the phrase in this First Impressions was the original cause of that prejudice.

Jane Austen and her (non-)publishers, 2: Crosby & Co.34 Apart from Cassandra’s memorandum, Austen’s extant correspondence contains no account of the activity that succeeded First Impressions. However, it has been generally accepted that, following the composition first of Elinor and Marianne and then of First Impressions, Austen drafted Susan (later published as Northanger Abbey) around 1798–9.35 Having burlesqued the sentimental novel from the late 1780s to the mid-1790s, it seems logical that Austen would have turned her attentions towards the newly emergent Gothic form of the late 1790s. If 1798–9 demarcates the first stage of composition, a second phase must have taken place, as a reference to Edgeworth’s Belinda (1801) makes it clear that she continued to alter the work after 1799 (NA, 34). It is also likely that the Bath sections of Susan were written post-1800, considering that Austen’s residence there commenced in May 1801. Aside from the composition of Susan, the early 1800s mark a period of restricted creativity for Austen, especially when compared to the energetic production of 1787–99. One obvious reason for this is the upheaval of her family life. The turn of the century was punctuated by trips away from the Austen home at Steventon, including a sixweek stay at Bath from May 1799 and visits to relatives at the end of that summer. In addition to a hectic itinerary, the calm of the mid1790s gave way to a variety of turmoils for Austen. Mrs Austen’s chronic illness weighed heavily, particularly on her daughters, who had to assume many of her familial responsibilities. Wishing to accommodate his new and glamorous wife Eliza, Austen’s brother Henry resigned his commission in the Oxfordshire Militia, becoming a banker and Army agent in London in January 1801. By the end of May 1802, George Austen and his family had finally settled in Bath. Of course, another important disruption would, no doubt, have been caused by the infamous ‘engagement’ the following December between Jane and Harris Bigg-Wither, which lasted all of one day. It

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is hardly surprising, then, that Austen had little time and energy to devote to her literary interests. Nevertheless, Austen finally sought to publish her third completed novel five years after the attempt with First Impressions. Instead of selecting a pre-eminent publisher like Cadell & Davies, Austen directed Susan towards a London concern that dealt overwhelmingly with popular literature: Crosby & Co. Despite the purchase of Susan by the firm in the spring of 1803, however, the novel was never published during Austen’s lifetime. In fact, the only reference to Susan in Austen’s correspondence occurs at a much later date, in a brief exchange of two letters between Austen and Crosby & Co, which took place in April 1809. The first letter, from Austen, refers to the sale of Susan six years earlier and clearly details her exasperation: Gentlemen In the Spring of the year 1803 a MS. Novel in 2 vol. entitled Susan was sold to you by a Gentleman of the name of Seymour, & the purchase money £10. recd at the same time. Six years have since passed, & this work of which I avow myself the Authoress, has never to the best of my knowledge, appeared in print, tho’ an early publication was stipulated for at the time of Sale. I can only account for such an extraordinary circumstance by supposing the MS by some carelessness to have been lost; & if that was the case, am willing to supply You with another Copy if you are disposed to avail yourselves of it, & will engage for no farther delay when it comes into your hands.—It will not be in my power from particular circumstances to command this Copy before the Month of August, but then, if you accept my proposal, you may depend on receiving it. Be so good as to send me a Line in answer, as soon as possible, as my stay in this place will not exceed a few days. Should no notice be taken of this Address, I shall feel myself at liberty to secure the publication of my work, by applying elsewhere. I am Gentlemen &c &c MAD.— Direct to Mrs Ashton Dennis Post office, Southampton

April 5. 1809. (JAL, 174)

Austen’s half-serious, half-jesting pseudonym, ‘Mrs Ashton Dennis’, enabled her to articulate her feelings towards the firm in the

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abbreviated signature ‘MAD’. The non-publication of Susan evidently and understandably angered Austen, who felt that the company had lost any moral ownership of the work through its abandonment, and if the firm did not expedite publication upon receipt of a fresh copy of the manuscript, Austen would ‘feel myself at liberty to secure the publication of my work, by applying elsewhere.’ Writing on behalf of the firm, Richard Crosby was equally intransigent: Madam We have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 5th inst. It is true that at the time mentioned we purchased of Mr Seymour a MS. novel entitled Susan and paid him for it the sum of 10£ for which we have his stamped receipt as a full consideration, but there was not any time stipulated for its publication, neither are we bound to publish it, Should you or anyone else we shall take proceedings to stop the sale. The MS. shall be yours for the same as we paid for it. For [B] Crosby & Co London I am yours etc. Ap 8 1809 Richard Crosby36 Evidently, Crosby & Co. considered the matter to be closed. By selling the copyright, the author had ceded legal ownership of the work to the firm, and Richard Crosby made it clear that his correspondent had two options before her: to repurchase Susan or to forget about it. In no financial position to argue, Austen had to swallow her pride and remained silent—at least, for the time being. In the remainder of this chapter, I wish to unravel the circumstances which led to this acrimonious exchange, by examining Austen’s reasons for approaching Crosby & Co. in the first place, and the firm’s ultimate decision not to publish. Austen’s ‘first’ publisher

The first full-length biography of Austen, her nephew James Edward Austen-Leigh’s Memoir (1870–1), does not mention Crosby at all, remarking that Susan ‘was sold, in 1803, to a publisher in Bath, for ten pounds, but it found so little favour in his eyes, that he chose to abide by his first loss rather than risk farther expense by publishing such a work’ (MJA, 105–6). Chapman reasonably concludes that the ‘author of the Memoir made a not unnatural slip when he described

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the sale as to “a publisher in Bath” ’ and possibly assumed that because Austen was living there during 1803 she approached a Bath firm.37 However, the connection to Bath is actually a valid one, although Austen-Leigh’s statement is slightly misleading: Crosby & Co. had been keen to promote its provincial links during the 1800s. Both the firm’s title-page imprints and newspaper advertisements record a number of provincial (mainly West Country) contacts as associate booksellers, while Crosby & Co. itself acted as London agent for publishers in Chester, Winchester, and Bristol.38 David Gilson expands on Crosby’s West Country associations, providing a possible point of connection with Austen in 1803: an advertisement for an account of the trial of Mrs. Leigh Perrot … establishes a connection between the London publisher Crosby and a firm in Bath by the name of Cruttwell, so [quoting Chapman] ‘it is possible that the first overtures for Susan were in fact made in Bath’ … (BJA, 83)39 It is certainly conceivable that one of Crosby’s Bath associates might have served as a contact-point between Austen and Crosby—to what extent can only be guessed. Whatever the channel through which Austen approached Crosby & Co., it would seem that the firm was contacted in the spring of 1803 by a William Seymour, who from 1801 functioned as the man of business to Henry Austen. According to some commentators, Seymour was intimate enough with the Austen family to contemplate proposing to Jane while escorting her from London to Chawton in autumn 1812.40 For over 70 years, discussions of Austen’s dealings with Crosby have maintained an inaccurate description of the firm, which has only been corrected in the last decade. From Chapman onwards, a number of commentators have named the concern as ‘Richard Crosby and Co(mpany)’, when such an imprint never existed; while Gilson describes ‘Richard Crosby & Son’, and Jane Aiken Hodge names it ‘Messrs. Crosby and Cox’.41 The ‘& Son’ ascription probably arises from a misreading of the address on Austen’s copy of her letter to Crosby—Jo Modert’s facsimile edition of Austen’s letters confirms that this reads: ‘Copy of a Letter to Messrs. Crosbie & Co.’42 Examination of publisher imprints, catalogue entries, and publishers’ directories quickly resolves the issue of the proprietorship of the company.43 Since his release from apprenticeship at Stationer’s Company on 5 November 1793,44 the senior partner of the firm was

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a Benjamin Crosby, who began trading from 1794 at 4 Stationers’ Court, Ludgate Hill simply as ‘B. Crosby’. There follow various imprint changes: ‘Crosby and Letterman’ (1799–1802), ‘B. Crosby and Co.’ (1802–11), and ‘B. and R. Crosby and Co.’ (1812–14), after which the company was dissolved. R[ichard] Crosby was most likely a son or younger brother of Benjamin, the founder. Discussing Austen’s reasons for approaching Crosby & Co. in the first place, Fergus comments that: The firm was an odd choice in any event. It was certainly not as large or as reputable a publishing house as Cadell and Davies, the publishers whom George Austen approached in 1797. It did have one advantage over them: it was prepared to look at and to accept an anonymous work, perhaps because Mr Seymour had some business connection with the firm. But Crosby and Company was not large, nor was it a very notable source for novels. At this time, it tended to produce reliable sellers like reference works, compilations and children’s books more than fiction. (LL, 112) Fergus correctly identifies Austen’s possible reasons for approaching the firm, as well as its less privileged status. However, she diminishes Crosby & Co.’s significance as a novel publisher, and the firm was, in fact, one of the principal producers of fiction during the 1800s. A cursory examination of Crosby & Co.’s titles establishes that it dealt mainly in musical pieces and songs, supported by religious discourses, sermons, and improving works for children. Amongst works wholly or part-published by Crosby & Co. were moral primers by Hester Chapone, John Gregory, and Hannah More, as well as Johnson’s Dictionary (ninth edition, 1805), and the Works of Benjamin Franklin (1809). Crosby & Co. also published a large corpus of drama, poetry, and fiction, reprinting earlier titles by Cibber, Kotzebue, Otway, Pope, Thomson, and Samuel Wesley. More recent ventures included part-publication of Byron’s Hours of Idleness in 1807. It becomes clear, then, that Crosby & Co. was certainly not as lowly as Fergus posits, although its more populist credentials are evidenced in the large number of chapbooks it published. As far as fiction is concerned, Crosby & Co. was the fourth most prolific publisher of novels during the 1800s and, despite ceasing operation in 1814, the seventh during the 1810s.45 This refutes Fergus’s dismissal of the firm as hardly the right choice for an incipient novel writer. Considering that Crosby had auspiciously begun publishing

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fiction with Godwin’s Things as They Are (1794), the company’s associations with fiction were strong enough. In fact, throughout its 20 years of business, Crosby & Co. was clearly committed to fiction, acting as primary publisher for 68 titles between 1794 and 1814. Many of its novels were run-of-the-mill fictions, with output of new titles consisting typically of sentimental romances and Gothic tales especially during the 1790s and late 1800s. Representative works include John Palmer’s Haunted Cavern (1796), Theodore Melville’s White Knight (1802), Mary Julia Young’s Moss Cliff Abbey (1803), David Carey’s Secrets of the Castle (1806), and Francis Lathom’s Fatal Vow (1807). Despite such output, however, the Gothic component of Crosby & Co.’s output has been fundamentally overstated by previous commentators,46 since most of its fiction can best be described as domestic melodramas within a broadly sentimental framework. The combination of fashionable or upper-class locales with dramatic incident and manoeuvring Machiavels is a popular formula for Crosby novels, such as The History of Netterville, a Chance Pedestrian (1802) and Ann Ker’s Mysterious Count; or, Montville Castle (1803). A number of these melodramas were historical and/or pan-European sagas: Esther Holsten, Ernestina (1801); J.-J.-M. Duperche’s Aurora; or the Mysterious Beauty (1803); Mary Julia Young’s Right and Wrong; or, the Kinsmen of Naples (1803). In addition to its Gothic romances and sentimental tales, Crosby published a number of stories with a modern setting, either comic or domestic: Horatio Smith, A Family Story (1800); Elizabeth Gunning, The Farmer’s Boy (1802); Sophia Woodfall, Frederick Montravers; or, the Adopted Son (1803). Around the time of Crosby’s purchase of Susan, its output of fiction was markedly rising, coincidental with a visible decline in output by the market giant, the Minerva Press.47 There was a time, however brief, when it seemed that Minerva had outlived its success and that newer firms might take its place.48 It was during this period that Crosby was setting himself up as a serious publisher of eye-catching, even flash, fictions. The location of the firm in Stationer’s Hall Court, Ludgate Hill, ‘near Paternoster Row’ established it at the epicentre of the London booktrade, less than 500 yards away from Longmans. In 1802–3, following his separation with Letterman, Crosby embarked upon a brief but remarkable association with James Fletcher Hughes, who would later become notorious for his shady dealings, practice of puffing, and scandalous fictions.49 Ultimately, the associates would split abruptly and acrimoniously, but their collaboration during the

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imprint year 1803 significantly influenced the way in which Crosby promoted his novels. The informal partnership between Crosby, with his provincial network, and Hughes, based in the fashionable West End, was an ideal one, and the arrangement resulted in the production of Crosby’s novels rising from four titles in 1802 to ten in 1803. A more aggressive attitude can be discerned in Crosby’s approach to fiction than in previous years, most likely a result of his collaboration with Hughes. At first, the partnership seems to have been mutually beneficial, with Hughes’s marketing skills supplementing Crosby’s provincial associations. From the change in the manner in which Crosby announced his titles, it might be possible that he had passed responsibility for handling fiction to Hughes. It was around this time that Crosby began publishing works by noteworthy authors: Mesdames de Genlis and de Staël, both no doubt pirated; Mary Julia Young, supposedly the niece of the graveyard poet Edward Young; and Charlotte Brooke, purportedly the daughter of Henry Brooke, author of A Fool of Quality (1766). If greater business acumen was gained by Crosby through his association with Hughes, this was offset by the latter’s vulgarity. This is especially the case in Crosby’s new practice of ‘puffing’—that is, exaggerating his status as a prolific producer of fictions and the importance of his authors, in a manner which anticipates by a decade the greatest puffer of the nineteenth century, Henry Colburn. A striking instance of Hughes’s intervention occurs in an unusually large list of 70 ‘Novels, Published by T. [sic] Crosby & Co. Stationers Court, London’, found at the end of the first volume of Woodfall’s Frederick Montravers.50 The list is a misleading act of puffery, in that a large number of the novels listed (implicitly as new) are actually reprints of novels by established authors, such as Frances Brooke, Charlotte Smith, and Ann Yearsley. These are balanced by newer, melodramatic-sounding titles: The Magnanimous Amazon, Mysterious Friendship, Parental Duplicity, The Victim of Friendship, and so on. However, a potential consequence of such listings might have been the assumption that Crosby & Co. was indeed a major producer of novels, on a par with Minerva. It seems hardly surprising, then, that Austen might have seen Crosby as a suitable vehicle for Susan: his works were fashionable, eye-catching, and directed towards the expanding circulating-library market. The 1800s mark Crosby & Co.’s most significant levels of output, all the more remarkable as the years before (aside from 1796 with five titles)

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and after were less propitious. Despite the puffery of the Montravers list, around the time of Austen’s initial approach and her angry follow-up, Crosby was indeed enjoying increased production (with a total of 55 titles published between 1800 and 1809). The self-promotion evidenced in the list and the firm’s increased output of fiction support the notion that, in selecting Crosby & Co. to publish Susan, Austen or her agent had been rather astute. Certainly, there is quite a difference between this approach and the earlier, more ingenuous attempt to secure Cadell & Davies. This is indicative of two possibilities: either Austen was now pragmatic enough to set her sights on a more populist publisher or she simply failed to see how downmarket Crosby & Co. was becoming as a result of its association with J. F. Hughes. Crosby abandons Susan

Unfortunately for Austen, immediately after the sale of Susan, Crosby’s fortunes were less prosperous than his output of fiction implies, and his firm ultimately did not publish Austen’s novel. Commentators have generally argued that this resulted from Crosby’s firm commitment to the Gothic mode: publishing a novel like Susan, which burlesqued the Gothic, would be sabotaging the firm’s own interests. Hodge hypothesizes that ‘[t]he Gothic romances it satirized were still best sellers, and Crosby may have decided not to foul his own nest by publishing this splendid mockery of them.’51 Similarly, Le Faye conjectures that Crosby’s publication of Susan ran the ‘double risk of, on the one hand, offending his established authors and, on the other, of losing money if the new book were ignored by unsympathetic critics and so failed to sell’ (FR, 144). Somewhat fancifully, Park Honan contends that ‘Susan surely had run counter to Crosby’s interests in seeming to be a lightsome, laughing attack on a pillar of English fiction, Crosby’s own Radcliffe. Richard [sic] Crosby was not about to cut his own throat’.52 Honan’s picture here does not match the (over-exuberant) confidence displayed by Crosby during the early 1800s, instead describing a firm that was as protective of its status as Cadell & Davies: certainly, Crosby’s collaboration with Hughes refute arguments that he was courting such respectability. The argument that Crosby & Co. abandoned Susan because of its satirical content is challenged by a number of facts. As Chapman notes, it had been advertised as being ‘In the Press’: ‘Susan; a Novel, in 2 vols.’ at the end of Crosby’s periodical miscellany, Flowers of

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Literature for 1801 & 1802 (1803).53 This advertisement has long been treated as the sole evidence of Crosby’s decision to publish Susan. As I have argued elsewhere,54 however, the Flowers of Literature advertisement is not unique. An announcement in The Dorchester and Sherborne Journal for 26 August 1803 lists 11 novels ‘Just published by Crosby and Co.’ , emphasizing the provincial network characterizing his business practice. Headed by Woodfall’s Frederick Montravers, the list concludes with an entry that notes ‘In the Press—Susan, 2 vols’. That Susan had been advertised at least twice offers compelling evidence of Crosby & Co.’s intention of publishing the novel. Additionally, given that Susan was advertised in the newspaper (August 1803) within a few months of its purchase (spring), the firm must certainly have been ready to publish it—most likely during the 1804 imprint season beginning in November 1803. For Crosby & Co. not to publish Susan after paying for the copyright because of its content simply does not accord with early-nineteenthcentury business practices (a similar case is made in LL, 112). Fergus notes ‘[t]hat Crosby chose to purchase Susan, to advertise it as in the press, but not to publish it is puzzling; surviving publishers’ records from the period offer no parallel instance’ (LL, 112). However, there is the case of Catherine Manners’s ‘Chateau of the Black Forest, 2 vols.’ , advertised at the end of John Bristed’s Edward and Anna (1806).55 Manners’s next novel was The Lords of Erith (1809), published for Richard Ryan and George Shade, and sold by Sherwood, Neely, & Jones. That Crosby did not seemingly publish a Gothic-sounding title further undermines the genrebased explanation for the firm’s unwillingness to print Susan. Of course, novels could be advertised under one title and published with another, so this observation should be treated appropriately. Alternatively, Manners may have promised a manuscript and then never delivered it, although it was advertised. Nevertheless, such caveats invalidate the argument that Crosby’s non-publication of Susan was unique to Austen. The broader dynamics of the turn-of-the-century novel market provide a better explanation for Susan’s non-appearance. Gothic was briefly in decline during 1801–4, falling from 27 titles in 1800 to 20, 22, 19, and ten in the succeeding years, before rising to 25 in 1805 with the advent of more scurrilous Gothics, influenced by The Monk and German schauerromane.56 At a period when Gothic seemed to be losing favour, Susan was especially timely in its satire, and would have appeared alongside other anti-Gothic novels, most

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notably Rachel Hunter’s Letitia: Or, the Castle without a Spectre (1801) and Mary Goldsmith’s Casualties (1804). The fact that Crosby & Co. advertised Casualties alongside Udolpho challenges the idea that the firm was especially precious about its Gothic interests.57 The most compelling evidence against Crosby’s overprotectiveness towards the Gothic emerges from an examination of fiction published by the firm prior to 1806, which consists mainly of sentimental melodramas, rather than the bevy of Gothic tales invoked by some commentators. If partisanship on behalf of the Gothic novel does not explain the non-publication of Susan, then, what does? Fergus provides a more credible alternative: The firm had traded under the name of Crosby and Letterman between 1799 and 1802. Perhaps the recent dissolution of this partnership caused financial difficulty that magnified the risk of publication. Crosby may have felt that absorbing a £10 loss was preferable to investing the money required to print Susan. Advertising the novel in his own publication [Flowers of Literature] had cost him nothing, after all, and presumably the advertisement created no demand. (LL, 112) Each of Fergus’s points are borne out by the circumstances surrounding the firm’s association with fiction at this time. While Crosby had actually advertised Susan in a publication other than his own, one line of copy would hardly have cost him much. Appearing beneath Crosby’s typically flash titles in the Dorchester and Sherborne Journal, it seems hardly surprising that the simply titled Susan would have seemed meagre in comparison. Once it became clear that there was little interest in Susan, Crosby might have deemed it wiser not to publish: after all, the copyright belonged to the firm. Compared with the £150 or so that could have been incurred in producing Susan at a troublesome time for Crosby, the original payment of £10 may have seemed a fair sacrifice. We arrive finally at the most persuasive reason for Crosby’s abandonment of Susan: financial difficulties. As Fergus notes, a short partnership with Letterman ended in 1802, after which Crosby entered into an even briefer alliance with Hughes. When the pair separated, it is likely that Hughes took a number of authors away from Crosby: this appears to be the case with Mary Julia Young and Sophia Woodfall. From 1804 onwards, Hughes was to become

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

the second most prolific publisher of the 1800s (with 77 titles, 9.9 per cent). Ultimately, Crosby’s relationship with Hughes was a troublesome one: at first he had probably overextended himself, at Hughes’s insistence, in an attempt to secure a large stake in fiction, consequently suffering after the break, and being eclipsed during the 1810s by his one-time associate. That there was bad blood between Crosby and Hughes is made evident in an acerbic announcement regarding two similarly titled novels of 1807: the anonymous A Winter in Bath published by Crosby & Co., and Mrs E. G. Bayfield’s Winter at Bath; or, Love as It May Be, and Friendship as It Ought to Be published by Hughes. At the beginning of a ‘Second Edition’ of Crosby’s Winter at Bath is an address ‘To the Booksellers and the Public at large’, entitled ‘Literary Fraud’. This states that Hughes had altered the Title of a Novel several months previously announced for Publication under the Title of “Love as it may Be”, only, to “A Winter at Bath”, … at the moment intended for the Publication of B. Crosby and Co.’s work, with a view to profit by the popularity of their Novel.58 The complaint closes with a notice that legal proceedings were pending. Such acrimony would suggest that when the pair separated, Crosby’s investment in fiction might have been substantially shaken, particularly after the break with Letterman. This hypothesis is quantifiably supported by the fact that, after the split, Crosby & Co.’s production as the primary publisher fell markedly from seven novels in 1803, to one in 1804 and two in 1805, before returning to seven in 1806. Having submitted the manuscript in spring 1803, Austen would have expected to see Susan in print by the following publishing season, which would have commenced in November 1803. If we estimate that between three and six months generally elapsed between submission of fair copy and publication, then the various economic factors which impinged on Crosby would have stacked the odds against an 1804 imprint for Susan. In fact, Crosby only published one novel in 1804, and acted as one of four London agents for a novel issued by the Bristol firm of J. Lansdown.59 Given his financial entanglements, there is a much stronger case that Crosby did not publish Susan because he was unable to, rather than because he was unwilling to. At the same time, Fergus is perhaps overstating matters to conclude that Crosby had been a bad choice

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for novel publication. As with Cadell & Davies, Austen had once again chosen the right publisher at the wrong time. One outstanding issue concerns Austen’s decision to seek restitution from Crosby after six years’ silence. As already noted, the 1800s were very much a period of limited creativity for Austen compared with the preceding and succeeding decades, and much of this was due to the confusion of her private life. Following George Austen’s decision to retire at the end of 1800, Austen faced a much more restricted, even alienated, life than previously: first at Bath (from May 1801) and then (from 1806) at Southampton. During this time, she moved at least six times and went on two-dozen visits and holidays lasting from a matter of days to nearly two months. Additionally, her mother was taken seriously ill in spring 1804, and the following December her very close friend Mrs Lefroy died in a riding accident; but the greatest blow was undoubtedly the death of her father in January 1805. These factors would have restricted Austen’s literary endeavours, and in this context her realistic hope of Susan’s publication may have drifted into a passive acceptance of its non-appearance. Austen nonetheless managed to achieve a certain level of creativity, turning her hand to a new work after the submission of Susan. Sometime in 1804 she began, but eventually abandoned, what is now known as The Watsons, a bleaker version of Pride and Prejudice running to 17,500 words. Whether personal tragedies or artistic dissatisfaction prevented completion of The Watsons, it is clear that the calm of her earlier life was occluded during her thirties. Although Austen did not attempt another original composition during the early 1800s, sometime after 1805 she gave renewed attention to Lady Susan, written ten years previously. However, it is the year 1809, beginning with the letter to Crosby, that marks a turning-point in Austen’s literary career. She returned to her juvenilia, topically amending a reference in ‘Catharine’ from Archbishop Secker’s Lectures on the Catechism of the Church of England (1769) to Hannah More’s recent best seller, Cœlebs in Search of a Wife (1808). One of the letters of ‘Evelyn’, the piece which precedes ‘Catharine’ in Volume the Third, was dated ‘Aug 19th 1809’, and is the only letter nominating a year. Austen’s letter to Crosby was written in April 1809, and the following June an anonymous Susan was published by J. Booth. It is possible that she had seen it advertised as ‘In the Press’ somewhere, instigating her angry missive. It is equally conceivable

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

that she had reached a moment of calm in her hitherto frenetic life, enabling her to release her creative energies once again. Despite this moment of revitalized productivity, Susan was to remain on the periphery until 1816, when, following the publication of Emma, Henry repurchased the copyright from Crosby & Co. for its original £10. According to the Memoir, he ‘found the purchaser very willing to receive back his money, and to resign all claim to the copyright’; once the exchange had been made, Henry ‘had the satisfaction of informing him that the work which had been so lightly esteemed was by the author of “Pride and Prejudice” ’ (106). Most likely as a result of Booth’s Susan, Austen renamed her work Catherine after its repurchase, and sometime in 1816 she inserted an ‘Advertisement’ to the novel, which stated, in a tone reminiscent of her pseudonymous letter to Crosby: This little work was finished in the year 1803, and intended for immediate publication. It was disposed of to a bookseller, it was even advertised, and why the business proceeded no farther, the author has never been able to learn. That any bookseller should think it worth while to purchase what he did not think it worth while to publish seems extraordinary. (NA, 12) Catherine was not published in Austen’s lifetime, however, and in March 1817 she noted that ‘Miss Catherine is put upon the Shelve for the present, and I do not know that she will ever come out’ (JAL, 333). The novel was published posthumously in December 1817 (post-dated ‘1818’) by John Murray with Austen’s last complete novel Persuasion. Catherine had been replaced with the much more Gothic-sounding Northanger Abbey, at a time when Gothic briefly resurfaced, in works such as William Godwin’s Mandeville (1817), Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), and C. R. Maturin’s Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), as well as Thomas Love Peacock’s satirical Nightmare Abbey (1818). Following nearly a decade of disruption and disappointment, both personal and professional, the most profound moment for Austen began with her establishment at Chawton Cottage in July 1809, together with Cassandra and their mother. Until her death in July 1817, Austen spent eight productive years at Chawton, during which she enjoyed uninterrupted and regular composition, directing her thoughts once again to publication, and blowing the dust off her first novel: Sense and Sensibility.

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3

‘Sense and Sensibility’ I have just finished reading; it certainly is interesting, & you feel quite one of the company. I think Marianne & me are very like in disposition, that certainly I am not so good, the same imprudence, etc., however remain very like. I must say it interested me much. Princess Charlotte Augusta (1812) Also read again and for the third time at least Miss Austen’s very finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice. That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary life which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. Walter Scott (1826) Soon after the bitter exchange with Crosby & Co. in April 1809, Austen embarked upon her third, and ultimately successful, attempt at publication: Sense and Sensibility. Disappointingly, there is only one extant letter regarding the novel, written after the fair copy had been sent to the printer; therefore, dates attached to this phase of redrafting are at best inferred from circumstantial evidence. It seems likely that Austen would have returned to Sense and Sensibility following her establishment at Chawton Cottage in July 1809, probably just after making alterations to her juvenilia in August. By now, the story was being drafted for a third time since its original conception as Elinor and Marianne in 1795. According to family tradition, which builds on Cassandra’s memorandum, ‘ “Sense and Sensibility” was begun, in its present form, … in November 1797; but something similar in story and character had been written earlier 75 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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in the final version the sisters are never apart at all, but it is possible to envisage a different structure of the plot whereby letters could have passed between the various characters and carried the course of action along with them. (FR, 89) Excited by the phenomenon of Camilla, however, Austen laid aside Elinor and Marianne, most likely because she was inspired to write a fresh work with Burneyesque touches: First Impressions. Following the rejection of First Impressions by Cadell & Davies, however, Austen returned almost immediately to Elinor and Marianne, signalling her unwavering commitment to her fiction. The second drafting began at the end of 1797 and lasted about a year. A vein of topicality was added by the change in title, as well as the revision of form: in 1799, a moralizing article entitled ‘Effects of Mistaken Synonymy’ appeared in the Lady’s Monthly Museum, examining the origins of what it called ‘Sense and Sensibility ’.2 Various critics have noted that the retitling registers Austen’s awareness of both the more memorable nature of the new phrase and its similarity to other titles, notably Elizabeth Inchbald’s Nature and Art (1796).3 Perhaps it is also indicative of a shift in Austen’s focus, away from the traditional epistolary techniques of sentimental fiction towards a direct-narrative novel that eschews a single vision, for or against sensibility. Elinor and Marianne echoes almost unilaterally the paired heroines of sentimental titles, such as Elizabeth Helme’s Clara and Emmeline (1788), Elizabeth Hervey’s Melissa and Marcia (1788), and Richard Sicklemore’s Agnes and Leonora (1799). Conversely, the revised title—Sense and Sensibility— makes the novel’s underlying dichotomy much clearer. Nevertheless, Austen abandoned this second draft in favour of a new work burlesquing the Gothic, which had replaced the sentimental as the dominant literary mode in the late 1790s. It is conceivable that, by 1798, Austen felt that Sense and Sensibility belonged to another age, deciding to put the novel away with her juvenilia, before returning to both in 1809. Her return to the novel 14 years later is perhaps explicable by the fact that she was now a mature, self-confident woman of 33, happily settled in comfort and security at Chawton through her brother Edward’s support. As the textual history of Sense and Sensibility has been dealt with

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under the title of “Elinor and Marianne” ’ (MJA, 43).1 Deirdre Le Faye adds:

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substantially elsewhere, I do not wish to dwell on this issue.4 It is worth noting, however, that there are clear indications of additional revisions made sometime after 1805, and numerous commentators point to later interpolations in Elinor Dashwood’s comparison of Cowper and Scott with Pope (SS, 42). If we accept that Scott was not sufficiently famous until the publication of The Lay of the Last Minstrel in 1805, it becomes clear that Austen was redrafting the novel sometime after the 1797–8 phase (namely, 1805–11). Other instances are harder to determine, however: for example, the private and energetic dialogue between John and Fanny Dashwood in Chapter 2, which would have been impossible to sustain in epistolary form, may have been written up either post-First Impressions in 1797–8 or in the later, 1800s period.

Austen’s first publisher: Thomas Egerton and Sense and Sensibility According to Henry Austen’s ‘Biographical Notice of the Author’, which prefaced Murray’s single edition of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion, ‘[i]t was with extreme difficulty that her friends, whose partiality she suspected whilst she honoured their judgement, could prevail on her to publish her first work’ (NA, 6). Despite her supposed reservations, Austen did decide to publish the novel, turning this time to Thomas Egerton, an established and respectable publisher of mainly military and political documents, rather than fiction. From extant publishing directories, it would seem that Thomas and John (possibly Thomas’s brother) Egerton acquired the 55-yearold business of John Millan sometime around 1782–3. When John Egerton died in January 1795, Thomas continued as sole proprietor for over 40 years, until being succeeded by Francis Pinkney around 1838. Egerton was situated at Charing Cross, Whitehall, but among the firm’s more significant imprint addresses was that of the ‘Military Library, “Opp. the Admiralty” ’. While the proximity of Egerton to the Admiralty initially suggests that the connection between Austen and Egerton arose through her seafaring brothers, Francis or Charles, neither was in fact situated in London around 1809.5 A likelier point of contact is, once again, Henry, who had been from 1801 a banker and an Army agent in London, first in Cleveland Court and from 1807 at Henrietta Street, Covent Garden. According to George Holbert Tucker, ‘Henry conducted all the business arrangements for the publication of Sense

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, and Emma, the four novels that came out during Jane Austen’s lifetime. He also supervised the publication of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion after his sister’s death.’6 It is possible that Egerton’s military connections, through his subscription library and publications, provide a link to Henry’s own military associations. An alternative scenario arises from a publishing arrangement between Henry and Egerton established some 20 years previously. Between 31 January 1789 and 20 March 1790, first James (Jane’s oldest brother) and then Henry, both students at Oxford, issued a short-lived weekly entitled The Loiterer, which ran to 60 numbers. It was published initially in Oxford (by C. S. Rann), but circulation soon extended to Bath, Birmingham, London, and Reading; and from the fifth number Egerton’s name appears on the imprint as one of The Loiterer’s publishers. Perhaps, some recent dealings with Egerton over Army affairs or even his decision to choose a publisher whom he knew, however little, therefore led Henry to Thomas Egerton sometime in 1809. The personal connection seems the most promising, as Egerton was hardly a significant publisher of novels, unlike both of Austen’s previous choices. Nominating himself on some imprints as a ‘military bookseller’, the bulk of Egerton’s publications deals unsurprisingly with military matters, including accounts of the continuing war with France, drill techniques, and the economics of the Armed Forces. Political pamphlets and documents also form a significant, but less substantial, part of the Egerton catalogue, from authors such as Edmund Burke, Catharine Macaulay, Sir James Mackintosh, and Joseph Priestley. A fair amount of Egerton’s publications are historical treatises on English towns, coinage, ecclesiastical buildings, and national chronicles of Britain. Two other genres which Egerton seems to have promoted are miscellaneous belletristic pieces— classical translations, literary criticism, and anthologies of writers such as Swift and Johnson—and travel writing, particularly works by the prolific Samuel Ireland. Compared to other publishing houses such as Longmans, Robinsons, Rivingtons, Cadell & Davies, even Crosby & Co., Egerton is far less representative of the eighteenthcentury publisher, apart from his political writings and travelogues: theological matter, by far the largest element of many publishers’ catalogues at the time, hardly appears in a survey of Egerton’s output.7 It is therefore unsurprising that fiction features lightly, when literary writings in general form a disproportionately small fraction

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of Egerton’s output, consisting mainly of reissues of plays by Aphra Behn, Thomas Heywood, a part-share in Johnson’s Shakespeare, and modern anthologies of older plays and poetry. Egerton’s unremarkable involvement in the publication of 16 novels out of 3322 from 1782 to 1829, establishes him as a trade publisher who participated minimally in the volatile novel market. Egerton’s first work of fiction was a collection of 37 historical stories translated from the French of Legrand d’Aussy, entitled Tales of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (1786). Egerton acted as secondary publisher to four low-profile titles during 1788–92,8 concluding with the sole publication of Claris de Florian’s didactic New Tales (1792). A hiatus of 17 years ensued, until Egerton’s co-publication with Rivingtons of Henry Kett’s successful Evangelical novel, Emily, a Moral Tale (1809). Egerton’s next three novels were those written by Austen: Sense and Sensibility (1811), Pride and Prejudice (1813), and Mansfield Park (1814). After this, the firm published a further six novels up to 1829.9 Egerton’s limited association with literary works and concentration on military–political pieces allow a few assumptions to be made. Firstly, unlike Cadell or Crosby, Egerton was clearly no publisher of fictions. Secondly, it would seem that Egerton’s audience falls into a specific niche, rather than the more generalized market of Cadell and Crosby. Instead, the firm can be seen as supplying professional men, almost certainly drawn from the Armed Forces, with political and militaristic publications and scholarly criticism, rather than belletristic works which might have attracted female readers. Finally, Egerton was neither an upmarket publisher like Cadell & Davies nor a populist bookseller like Crosby & Co.; rather, he was a competent tradesman, who published for a professional audience. Following the derisory treatment she received from two notable publishers of fiction, Austen might have preferred to enter into an arrangement with a firm that was less preoccupied with the nuances of the novel trade. That Egerton was prepared to publish a novel is as surprising as the fact that Austen chose him, as there is little apart from purely personal factors to explain the association in the first place. On the one hand, Henry might have been able to convince his sister that Egerton offered a sensible publishing opportunity. On the other, it is equally conceivable that Henry’s earlier dealings with the bookseller through The Loiterer and his status as a respected professional might have encouraged Egerton to speculate reciprocally on Austen herself.

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Although the possibilities outlined above may explain why Egerton was willing to deal with an unknown author, his arrangement with Austen for the publication of Sense and Sensibility indicates that he was only prepared to publish on the safest terms. The novel was published ‘on commission’, at Austen’s expense: hence, Egerton’s involvement in both risk and profit was minimized. Usually, such an agreement arose from a publisher’s uncertainty regarding the success of a venture, because it ensured that the author bore all the costs of producing the work (printing, paper, advertising). The author benefited by receiving the profits and retaining copyright, while the publisher gained by charging a 10 per cent commission on copies sold. From the evidence of title-page publishers’ imprints, publishing on commission accounted for about 85 works (3.7 per cent) of all new fiction produced during 1800–29. Generally speaking, works ‘published/printed for the author’ tended to be one-offs, as booksellers rarely had any vested interest in issuing subsequent editions; and, of these 85 works, only 16 achieved at least a second British edition. If a work published on commission failed to generate a profit, the author would be responsible for covering this deficit to the publisher. Despite her readiness to publish, Austen seems to have anticipated such a fate for Sense and Sensibility: Henry’s ‘Biographical Notice’ comments that ‘so persuaded was she that its sale would not repay the expense of publication, that she actually made a reserve from her very moderate income to meet the expected loss’ (NA, 6). Austen’s decision to publish at her own expense echoes her father’s letter of 1798, which had outlined two methods of publication: sale of copyright (‘to advance for the Property of it’) and publishing on commission (‘at the Author’s risk’). Austen had already tried the former with Crosby, much to her chagrin—having some financial support at this time might have enabled her to attempt the alternative. If Austen had indeed set a contingency fund aside, it is reasonable to assume that Egerton had required payment to cover costs in advance. The cost of publishing and advertising the work would have been approximately £180, and according to Fergus, the usual first sales for a novel that Austen could expect, however poor, and subsequent remaindering would ensure that she might at worst make a loss of £30 (LL, 131–2). Austen’s only regular source of income had been an annual dress income of £20, so it is hard to see where she could have come up with such money so soon after moving to Chawton. More plausibly, the source of the ‘reserve’ which Henry mentions was

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Henry himself, who would later anticipate her costs for the second edition of 1813, also published on commission, with Egerton being paid before publication: so it is probable that the same case might have applied to the untested first edition. The novel was possibly accepted for publication in the winter of 1810, and by the following April Austen was staying with Henry at his London house in Sloane Street while correcting proofs. A letter to Cassandra written at this time is the only extant mention made by Austen of the first edition of Sense and Sensibility. Her pride in the work is clear, and the imagery used to describe her feelings is both forceful and apposite: ‘I am never too busy to think of S&S. I can no more forget it, than a mother can forget her suckling child’ (JAL, 182; 25 April 1811). Austen’s pleasure in receiving proofs was mixed with dissatisfaction at the tardiness of Egerton’s printer, Charles Roworth. Her statement, ‘I have had two sheets to correct, but the last only brings us to [Willoughby’s] first appearance’, indicates that only one-third of the first volume of three had been printed by this time. Austen was clearly disappointed, having hoped for a summer appearance: Mrs K[night] regrets in the most flattering manner that she must wait till May, but I have scarcely a hope of its being out in June.—Henry does not neglect it; he has hurried the Printer, & says he will see him again today.—It will not stand still during his absence, it will be sent to Eliza [Henry’s wife]. Clearly, members of the Austen circle were relishing the prospect of the novel’s publication, and in the same letter Austen noted, ‘I am very much gratified by Mrs K[night’]s interest in it; & … sincerely wish her curiosity could be satisfied sooner than is now probable.’ The author’s growing concern that such excitement might reveal her to public knowledge (and possibly criticism) can be seen in an entry in the pocketbook of Austen’s niece Fanny Knight for 28 September 1811: ‘Letter from At. Cass. to beg we would not mention that Aunt Jane wrote Sense and Sensibility’ (BJA, 8). This entry was rather timely, as despite Austen’s hopes for a May/June publication Roworth’s delays protracted publication until the start of the next publishing season. At the same time, however, Austen may have been overly optimistic in her hopes for a midsummer appearance. Sense and Sensibility was first advertised in The Star for 30 October 1811, with similar announcements

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Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

appearing throughout the subsequent month in both The Star and The Morning Chronicle. The novel was published in three volumes, as ‘By a Lady’, retailing at 15s in boards, the typical price for a triple-decker at this time. No information exists about the size of the edition, although the general consensus amongst modern commentators of 750–1000 copies seems about right for the first work of an unknown author. Despite its author’s anticipation of failure, Sense and Sensibility sold steadily and the entire stock was exhausted in less than two years. In July 1813, she informed her brother Francis ‘that every Copy of S. & S. is sold & that it has brought me £140– beside the Copyright, if that shd ever be of any value’ (JAL, 217; 6 July 1813). As well as financial profit, Austen gained muted approbation in two Tory periodicals, the Critical Review and the British Critic. The usually stringent Critical noted that ‘[i]t reflects honour on the writer, who displays much knowledge of character, and very happily blends a great deal of good sense with the lighter matter of the piece’, while the British Critic thought ‘so favourably of this performance’ that the editors felt reluctant to allot it only the limited space of a notice rather than a full review.10 There was sufficient interest to merit a second edition, leading Austen to inform Francis, within two months of her earlier letter, that ‘[t]here is to be a 2d Edition of S. & S. Egerton advises it’ (JAL, 232; 25 September 1813). It seems that the same arrangement subsisted between author and publisher, as Austen later commented to Cassandra that ‘I shall owe dear Henry a great deal of Money for Printing &c.’ (JAL, 250; 3 November 1813). This time, the printing must have been expeditious, as the second edition was first advertised in The Star on 29 October 1813. Austen was glad to hear this news, commenting to her sister, ‘[y]our tidings of S & S. give me pleasure. I have never seen it advertised’ (248). It is unknown how large the impression was, but the success of the first edition would settle it at 750–1000 again. Austen made a number of minor and a few major changes to this edition, but an alarming number of errors not in the first edition crept in, leading scholars to infer that she must have corrected from a copy of the first edition, rather than from proofs of the second.11 Within the first week of November, Austen soon had a copy to hand and, in contrast to her pessimism regarding the first edition, hoped this one would sell well, remarking that even the respected Elizabeth Hamilton had recently received a copy (JAL, 252). Despite

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all these early excitements, the second edition did not sell as briskly as she had hoped: Egerton was still advertising it alongside Mansfield Park in May 1814, and even as late as November 1815 ‘a new Edition’ (really the second) had been advertised in The Morning Post.12 C. B. Hogan posits that following Austen’s move to Murray, Egerton was attempting to clear any remaining stock as quickly as possible.13 In any case, it seems that on top of her £140 from the first edition, Austen made about half as much on the second, with Egerton paying out three instalments every March between 1815 and 1817.14 The second edition was the last of Sense and Sensibility to be published during Austen’s lifetime, and it would be another two decades before the next edition, Bentley’s Standard Novels version of December 1832 (dated 1833), would bring Austen’s first novel back into the public gaze.

Achieving celebrity: Pride and Prejudice Between the publication of the two editions of Sense and Sensibility, Austen was revising what had once been First Impressions, now retitled Pride and Prejudice—a phrase probably borrowed from Burney’s Cecilia, as noted in the previous chapter.15 Although Brian Southam believes the original First Impressions was also epistolary, as I have argued earlier, it is seems more likely—considering its proximity to Camilla—that the novel was composed in direct narrative.16 According to Cassandra, this first phase of composition took place between October 1796 and August 1797, resulting in a work about the size of Burney’s Evelina. Following the rejection by Cadell & Davies in 1797/8, Austen did not attempt to publish the novel until after the appearance of Sense and Sensibility, when renewed self-confidence led her in the winter of 1811 to revise First Impressions into Pride and Prejudice. It is interesting to note, however, that the Memoir states this was done alongside Sense and Sensibilty during ‘[t]he first year of her residence at Chawton’ in 1809 (81). At this point Austen seems to have made a number of fundamental changes to the prototype, dealing mainly with the size of the work and its internal chronology. The published novel is shorter than Evelina, which would indicate a certain amount of cutting before publication: Austen herself told Cassandra that ‘I have lopt & cropt so successfully … that I imagine it must be rather shorter than S. & S. altogether’ (JAL, 202; 29 January 1813)—in fact, her second novel is approximately four-fifths the size of the

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first. Austen felt that the novel had perhaps been ‘lopt & cropt’ too enthusiastically, noting in the same letter that ‘[t]he 2d vol. is shorter than I cd wish—but the difference is not so much in reality as in look, there being a larger proportion of Narrative in that part.’ Whether these deletions were made to the original First Impressions, to an intermediate manuscript (worked on anytime between 1799 and 1811), or progressively through the years, is a moot point, but as R. W. Chapman has established some changes were likely made in the 1810s because Pride and Prejudice employs an 1811–12 calendar.17 In a letter to Martha Lloyd written on 30 November 1812, Austen commented that ‘P. &. P. is sold’ (JAL, 197). Encouraged by the success of Sense and Sensibility, Egerton had decided to purchase the copyright to the novel, obviously hoping to benefit substantially from its sale. Austen was a little disappointed by the settlement, but still accepted his terms: Egerton gives £110 for it.—I would rather have had £150, but we could not both be pleased, & I am not at all surprised that he should not chuse to hazard so much.—Its’ being sold will I hope be a great saving of Trouble to Henry, & therefore must be welcome to me.—The Money is to be paid at the end of the twelvemonth. Although the £140 that Austen had made on Sense and Sensibility led her to hope for a similar amount, she nonetheless appreciated her vulnerable position as a female author and accepted Egerton’s offer. The novel was published within two months of its purchase, being first advertised in The Morning Chronicle on 28 January 1813, as by ‘a Lady, the Author of Sense and Sensibility’. The size of the edition is not known, although one of 1500 seems appropriate for a second-time, reasonably successful author; the price this time was 18s, again typical for a triple-decker during 1813–17. Pride and Prejudice raised enough attention within the trade to lead to the purchase of an unspecified portion of the edition by Longmans, an indication that Austen had acquired the reputation of a respectable popular novelist (see BJA, 24–5). In order to expedite publication, no doubt because he had a far greater investment than with Sense and Sensibilty, Egerton had the last two volumes of Pride and Prejudice printed by George Sidney of the Strand, with Roworth only handling the first. By 27 January 1813, Austen had received copies of her ‘own darling Child from London’, which had been sent by Henry.18 Having had a few days to peruse her copy, Austen

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noticed a few inconsistencies in the printed version which she found irritating: ‘The greatest blunder in the Printing that I have met with is in Page 220—Vol. 3. where two speeches are made into one’ (JAL, 203; 4 February 1813). In the same letter she makes her famous comment that ‘[t]he work is rather too light & bright & sparkling;—it wants shade;—it wants to be stretched out here & there with a long Chapter—of sense if it could be had, if not of solemn specious nonsense’. It is just possible that Austen is ironically, even bitingly, reflecting some of the opinions she might have heard from connections who had been reading the book at the time, but as far as she was concerned, ‘[u]pon the whole however I am quite vain enough & well satisfied enough.’ Pride and Prejudice was reviewed in three journals: the British Critic, Critical Review, and New Review, all of which agreed that Elizabeth Bennet was perfectly executed, although Darcy appeared to some reviewers a little two-dimensional in his transformation from indifferent snob to passionate lover. All agreed that Mr Collins was excellent.19 The critical acclaim and public taste for Austen’s style of domestic comedy led Egerton to issue a second edition in October 1813, although specific details of the impression are not available.20 Because Austen had sold the copyright, she apparently had no further involvement with the publication of Pride and Prejudice. This is substantiated by the fact that the error of the conflated speeches which she had complained of was not corrected, and the emendations mainly consist of regularizations of spelling and corrections of misprints, rather than substantive changes. It seems that this edition of Pride and Prejudice did not sell as well as Egerton had hoped, as it was still advertised as late as November 1815, alongside the second edition of Sense and Sensibility.21 A third edition appeared in two volumes in 1817 by Egerton, again without any apparent intervention by Austen, and certainly with no mention of it in her letters. As David Gilson notes, it is not clear whether this edition was published posthumously or not, although a handwritten inscription on a surviving copy bears the date ‘Sept. 6. 1817’, two months after Austen’s death (BJA, 41–2). Egerton’s control of the copyright was to expire in 1841, but his executors had negotiated its sale to Richard Bentley for his Standard Novels series in 1832, when Pride and Prejudice enjoyed renewed attention from a second generation of readers. For a while, the issue of the author’s identity remained uncertain, with authorship of Pride and Prejudice being ascribed to a number

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the Secret has spread so far as to be scarcely the Shadow of a secret now—& that I beleive when the 3d appears, I shall not even attempt to tell Lies about it.—I shall rather try to make all the Money than all the Mystery I can of it.—People shall pay for their Knowledge if I can make them.—Henry heard P. & P. warmly praised in Scotland … & what does he do in the warmth of his Brotherly vanity & Love, but immediately tell them who wrote it!—A Thing once set going in that way—one knows how it spreads!—and he, dear Creature, has set it going so much more than once. (JAL, 231) Pride and Prejudice was the work that launched Austen’s career, and it was for this novel that she was most esteemed by contemporaries. Other writers of the period saw her very much as an author’s author, with commentators such as Maria Edgeworth, Susan Ferrier, and Mary Russell Mitford voicing their approbation. Walter Scott, in his review of Emma unequivocally identified Pride and Prejudice as the novel which established Austen’s credentials: The author is already known to the public by the two novels announced in her title-page, and both, the last especially, attracted, with justice, an attention from the public far superior to what is granted to the ephemeral productions which supply the regular demand of watering-places and circulating libraries.23 Henry Austen’s ‘Memoir of Miss Austen’, which accompanied Bentley’s 1833 edition of Sense and Sensibility, emphasized how the speculation surrounding the novel’s authorship ensured the author’s lasting fame in the intervening decades: When ‘Pride and Prejudice’ made its appearance, a gentleman, celebrated for his literary attainments, advised a friend of the authoress to read it, adding, with more point than gallantry, ‘I should like to know who is the author, for it is much too clever to have been written by a woman’ …24

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of people, among them Lady Boringdon (later Countess of Morley) by Mary Russell Mitford and ‘a sister of Charlotte Smith’s’ by Anne Isabella Millbanke (later Byron’s wife).22 It was not long before the question of authorship had become something of an open secret, however, as Austen’s letter to Francis of 25 September 1813 reveals:



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Despite the disappointments of 1797–1803, Austen was able, from around 1809 onwards, to remodel her earliest works in a way that accommodated the market of the 1810s. Nevertheless, the first three works do indeed belong to the 1790s, and it is a testament to Austen’s skill that they did not appear antediluvian to their readers despite this fact. Each of these novels is informed by the antecedent movements that affected the fiction market during Austen’s formative years. Sense and Sensibility, or more evocatively Elinor and Marianne, clearly continues the train of thought Austen was following in her early juvenilia. As noted in Chapter 2, the cruder burlesques—such as ‘Edgar and Emma’, ‘Jack and Alice’, and ‘Henry and Eliza’— transparently reflect in their titles, as well as dissecting in their content, the programmatic sentimental fictions of the late 1780s and the 1790s. In its various incarnations, Sense and Sensibility also analyzes sentimental discourse, but in more complex, ideologically charged terms, belonging clearly to the later 1790s, a period in which authors interrogated the sentimental novel and its subversive consequences. For instance, similar issues are dealt with by conservative novels such as Frances Jacson’s Plain Sense (1795), Jane West’s A Gossip’s Story (1796), and Mary Ann Hanway’s Ellinor (1798), which contrast misleading sensibility with practical common sense. In more marked terms, Pride and Prejudice reflects the later vogue inspired by Frances Burney’s Camilla, which had its fair share of pale imitations. Austen’s original title—First Impressions—indicates more evidently the Burneyesque accoutrements of her novel, in which a series of comic yet disruptive misunderstandings drives the praxis. At the same time, the newer title ‘Pride and Prejudice’ both invokes Burney’s influence, taken as it is from Cecilia, and follows the oppositional formulation of Sense and Sensibility—albeit less dichotomously. In a sense, the American edition, Elizabeth Bennet (1832), more appositely signals the Burneyesque focalization of the heroine as the narratological filter. Pride and Prejudice itself seems to have led to a series of ‘Austenian’ fictions, among them Eliza Coxe’s Liberality and Prejudice, a Tale (1813)—published by none other than Crosby & Co.,25 while a novelist naming herself ‘Elizabeth Bennett’, issued an Austenian-sounding novel, entitled Faith and Fiction (1816).

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Postscript

The unpublished Susan marks Austen’s engagement with lateeighteenth-century fiction Gothic, which had began to dominate the novel from Ann Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) to the mid-1800s. Burlesques of the Gothic were nothing new, although Susan (typically for Austen) represents quite an early case. In fact, Gothic satires were still appearing as late as 1813, with E. S. Barrett’s The Heroine. Hence, when Northanger Abbey finally appeared in 1818, perhaps it did not seem as superannuated as one might expect, considering it had been written two decades earlier. Still, Austen’s original title and her subsequent retitling of it as ‘Catherine’ more cogently reflect her continuing preoccupation with the heroine, rather than her adherence to genres. It was not the Gothic novel that Austen sought to satirize, but the way in which certain modes of perception can affect how we behave as social creatures. Ultimately, whether or not Austen’s concerns were articulated through sentimental, Burneyesque, or Gothic filters is less significant than the concerns themselves. Still, it remains vital that we locate the novels diachronically in order to appreciate how contemporary discourses influenced Austen’s own fiction. Placing the early novels in their late-eighteenth-century context establishes how she was able to utilize those energies two decades later and to imbue them with a presence that successfully translated into the 1810s. Yet, an erroneous consequence of this has been that critics lump together all of her novels within the same chronological framework, establishing Austen as a novelist rooted exclusively in the eighteenth century. It is my intention in Part II of this study, however, to challenge such a proposition, and to argue that as much as Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, and Northanger Abbey emerge from the crucible of the 1790s, the later works—Mansfield Park, Emma, Persuasion, and Sanditon—belong categorically to the 1810s, and are so inextricably linked with the dynamics of that decade that they simply could not have come into existence at an earlier time.

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88 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Austen’s Regency Novels

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Part II

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Making the Popular Polite: Mansfield Park and the Moral–Domestic Novel

Why should an epic or a tragedy be supposed to hold such an exalted place in composition, while a novel is almost a nickname for a book? Does not a novel admit of as noble sentiments—as lively description—as natural character—as perfect unity of action—and a moral as irresistible as either of them?  Mary Brunton (1811) I cannot suppose we differ in our ideas of the Christian Religion. You have given an excellent description of it. We only affix a different meaning to the Word Evangelical. Jane Austen (1814) ‘I do not like the Evangelicals’: Austen’s often-quoted comment has led to much speculation on her relationship with one of the most significant phenomena of the early nineteenth century (JAL, 170; 24 January 1809). There is a general feeling that, while Austen was undeniably aware of the Evangelical movement, she regarded it with distaste, if not downright abhorrence.1 Such accounts, however, neglect the complexities of her engagement with Evangelicalism: certainly, within five years, Austen was able to revise her opinion somewhat, stating ‘I am by no means convinced that we ought not all to be Evangelicals, & am at least persuaded that they who are so from Reason & Feeling must be happiest & safest’ (JAL, 280; 18 November 1814). Moreover, such critical dismissals disregard the degree to which Mansfield Park participates in a new concern with moral and domestic issues, one spearheaded by fiction with a decidedly Evangelical cast. With these considerations in mind, this chapter examines the ways in which Mansfield Park participates in 91 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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4

this larger (literary) movement and the extent to which it can be considered an ‘Evangelical’ novel. Before considering the impact of Evangelicalism on the earlynineteenth-century novel, it is perhaps worth pausing briefly over its significance as a social phenomenon.2 The roots of Evangelicalism as a pronounced movement within Anglicanism can be traced back to the early 1780s, in the beliefs of clergymen such as Samuel Walker, William Grimshawe, and William Romaine. This incipient, essentially Calvinistic Evangelicalism based its theology in Scripture, and perceived the eighteenth-century Established Church as having replaced Christ with secular benevolence at best and impious selfaggrandizement at worst—a view, very publicly expressed, which did much to alienate the influential ranks of British society. It was in 1792, however, that a second phase of Evangelicalism began to take root, led by a group of laymen later known as the Clapham Sect. While the early Evangelical clergymen had publicly condemned the profligacies of the upper ranks, this later Evangelical laity associated with, and ‘converted’, many powerful members of the Establishment. With William Wilberforce at the helm, Evangelicalism attempted to clean up polite society from the 1790s onwards, much as John Wesley had proselytized the lower ranks. Amongst its demands were the abandonment of plurality (clergymen holding more than one living at the same time), a return to Scripture as the basis of Anglican practice, and, more topically, the abolition of the slave trade. The Evangelical mission was successful partly as a result of a sophisticated and extensive publishing industry, beginning with programmatic guidebooks for proper behaviour in the 1780s and ’90s, continuing with periodicals from the 1800s, and culminating in fiction during the 1810s. The most sustained anti-radical pamphlets were the Cheap Repository Tracts (1795–7), popularized by Hannah More and directed towards the improvement of the working classes. These simple fables emphasized the importance of social conformity, realized through a life of religious zeal. The Tracts were immensely popular, with over two million copies having been circulated among the poor by March 1796. Somewhat ironically, the Evangelicals’ status as anti-revolutionary preceptors of the Establishment was reversed, and they were quickly perceived as the enemy within. A new atmosphere, clearly discrete from that of the 1790s, had crept into British society, and the threat now was not Francophilic insurgency, but ‘methodistical’ fervour. The High-Church Tories were disgusted with the Evangelicals’ antagonism to the socio-theological order

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of the Establishment, the latitudinarian Whigs angered by their condescension and exclusivity. Both elements, however, misread the Evangelical philosophy of accommodation, which posited that when matters of State did not interfere with religious conscience they were best left alone. It was the Evangelicals’ belief in the ‘Invisible Church’ of true, zealous Christians over the ‘Visible Church’ of the often nominally Christian Establishment that caused so much animosity amongst Anglicans. But were the Evangelicals more radical than they were conservative, and did they really present a threat to the Establishment? V. Kiernan distinguishes between two contemporary views of Anglican theology: ‘One was of religion as the formulary of an established society, its statement of faith in itself; the other as a catastrophic conversion of the individual. … One was fixed on this world, the other on the next.’ 3 This rather simplified view, opposing High Anglicanism and Evangelicalism, is developed by David Monaghan, who paints the Clapham Sect as a quasi-radical movement whose will-to-power was distinctly antithetical towards the eighteenthcentury parochial system.4 Monaghan describes the Clapham Sect’s ‘modern’ approach, which utilized periodicals, tracts, and pamphlets; its tactical employment of powerful connections to place Evangelical clergy in key positions; and use of MPs and legislation to further the movement’s spiritual aims. He contrasts these practices with an older system of rural communities, governed paternalistically from the great house by the gentry and aristocracy, who owed their authority and prestige to the ownership of land. Monaghan’s view is a romanticized vision of a system grounded in Burkean codes of gentlemanly conduct and good manners. Against this world of comfortable connections, he constructs an anonymous, urbanized Evangelicalism, which employs business tactics, mass propaganda, and public relations. While this is partly true, Monaghan misinterprets what were essentially innovative methods for conservative aims, arguing that Evangelicalism ‘completely deviated from the established ways of doing things in that it rejected paternalism, localism, and the system of personal contacts’.5 As we shall see, however, this model is clearly refuted in Evangelically inflected novels, which are rooted specifically in rural paternalism, local communities, and close interchange between likeminded neighbours and friends. While many studies have assessed the social context of Evangelicalism in Mansfield Park (that is, how it affected Austen

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personally or how her novel demonstrates an ‘Evangelical’ ethic), the literary models pioneered by Evangelical novelists have received scant attention, excepting infrequent articles and book chapters.6 The most sustained evaluation appears in Lisa Wood’s recent Modes of Discipline (2003), a work which contextualizes Evangelical fiction as part of a broader efflorescence of improving novels between 1793 and 1815. Nevertheless, as Wood notes, ‘[d]idacticism provided the means for women to conceive of themselves as writers, the rationale for the act of writing, and the basic form of the text produced.’7 It is precisely within this matrix that Evangelical fiction can be placed. In spite of this fact, the Evangelical novel has been perceived as an aberration, rather than as part of this broader development novel, which manifested itself in a respectable, feminized discourse particularly from the early 1800s onwards. Kathryn Sutherland implicates Austen within this formula, contrasting her three earlier novels with the later: ‘Austen’s mature Regency writings appear to strike a more constrained note, sardonic rather than witty, to caution retirement and the wisdom of second thoughts, and even to embody a spirit of unforgiveness’ (MP, vii). More recently, Peter Knox-Shaw has noted that ‘the prevailing sense of a darker and more cruel world, and of the moral strength that can be won from struggling against it, worked its way deeply into Mansfield Park’.8 The present chapter considers this new tonality in Austen’s work by examining three salient issues: the literary marketplace in which polite Evangelical literature came to light; the ideological concerns common to the key Evangelical novels of 1808–14 and Mansfield Park; and the precise site where Austen diverges from the models of Evangelical writers—in her portrayal of the heroine.

The publishing context The first full engagements between Evangelicalism and mainstream fiction had begun with the appearance of Hannah More’s influential Cœlebs in Search of a Wife (1808) and Henry Kett’s Emily, a Moral Tale (1809–11). By the time Austen was preparing Mansfield Park, ‘somewhere about Febry 1811’ until ‘soon after June 1813’,9 the popularity of the Evangelical novel was at its zenith—peaking in 1814, the year of Mansfield Park’s publication. Significant titles belonging to this group include Mary Brunton’s Self-Control (February 1811), Lætitia-Matilda Hawkins’s The Countess and Gertrude (November 1811), and Amelia Opie’s Temper, or Domestic Scenes (March 1812), a

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novel signalling a distinct shift towards Evangelicalism in an author not belonging to the movement itself. The years 1815–17 witnessed a general drop in total output of fiction, largely explaining the low-point in the moral–domestic milieu during these years. From 1817 production of Evangelically informed fiction rose again, but this new ascendancy was of a markedly different kind from the efflorescence of 1808–14, consisting of works that replaced the bulk of the mainstream novel with the smaller form of the moral fable. It is necessary to distinguish between two related, but nonetheless divergent, types of didactic fiction: the ‘Evangelical’ and the ‘moral– domestic’. Evangelical fiction in its earliest form (Cœlebs, Emily) tended towards programmatism, subordinating the fictional form to the didactic imperative: the Evangelical idea is the unifying concept of these works, with its emphasis on religious rectitude, the importance of local communities, and appropriate (domestic) models for female behaviour. In later, ‘polite’ Evangelical novels (Self-Control, Countess and Gertrude), plot is as important as moral because it leads to a fuller investigation of the mental state of the heroine, testing her moral character according to some yardstick of proper behaviour, such as self-control, discipline, duty, and so on. Polite Evangelical fiction enjoyed popularity throughout the Regency period, before its absorption into the literary mainstream or redirection towards a juvenile market. The moral–domestic novel shares many of these didactic elements, but in a muted way, representing a more diffuse shift towards a polite moral tone. It displays similar concerns with the heroine’s spiritual and moral states, but with less of a categorical focus on religion, concentrating more on appropriate codes of behaviour within the domestic sphere. These novels were written by authors coming from two opposite directions: the older type of domestic (often Anti-Jacobin) writer and a newer kind of novelist, motivated by the Evangelical phenomenon, if not really a part of it. To the moral–domestic class belong the mature fiction of Opie (Temper, 1812; Valentine’s Eve, 1816), and the later works of Anti-Jacobins such as Frances Jacson (Things by their Right Names, 1812; Rhoda, 1816). Rather than being absolutes, these terms occupy relational points in a generic continuum, with novels gravitating towards more one category than another. Consequently, the term ‘moral–domestic’ will be used in this chapter to describe the general phenomenon; however, when it is necessary to distinguish between Evangelical and moral–domestic fictions, this will be made clear.

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A principal characteristic of moral–domestic novels is a selfaffirming simplicity of approach. The more committed Evangelical titles often abandon the usual practice of providing authorial formulae (‘By the author of …’ , ‘By a lady’, etc.), instead remaining anonymous. More significantly, they employ single-word titles that embody the underlying principle of, or a key moment in, the work itself: Duty, Self-Control, Temper, Conduct, Discipline, Benignity; The Acceptance, The Decision, The Times, and The Ordeal. The lexicon of these titles is developed further by the use of certain families of words to convey specific stances and expectations. Key phrases can imply domesticity (‘cottage sketches’, ‘domestic scenes’), analysis and insight (‘comprehending observations’, ‘the most important subjects’, ‘sketches moral and religious’), community values (‘active retirement’, ‘family mansion’), verisimilitude (‘founded on fact/recent and interesting facts’), religiosity (‘a serious novel’, ‘a religious tale’), even the target audience (‘a tale for the female sex’). Such terminology belongs to a particular discursive field, one laden with Evangelical meaning, echoing a similar practice from the 1790s by both Jacobin and Anti-Jacobin writers. Novels such as Brunton’s Self-Control, Jacson’s Things by their Right Names, and Miss A. A. Hutchinson’s Friends Unmasked; or, Scenes in Real Life (1812) semantically set themselves against fictions ‘of mystery’ and ‘of fashion’, and ‘romances’, which often employed convoluted title pages and provocative subtitles. These practices can be seen as part of the attempt by moral–domestic writers to regulate an industry that was not only out of control, but which enjoyed significant influence over the middling ranks. Much of the content of these novels matches the opening title pages, focusing on the conflict between the transient, chimerical values of the fashionable world and an inner moral rectitude that guides us intuitively. Most of the protagonists are women, young and almost always displaced to the margins of society, by poverty or ill-will. Such dependence is countered by a path of righteous abstinence that the heroine must walk, resulting in moral and economic prosperity. The domestic aspects of the novels set them clearly in the present and generally within a very localized Britain of counties and villages. Melodrama and death occupy these novels, and the extent to which these are used (and abused) depends ultimately on the quality of writing, although most moral–domestic fiction avoids too much incident, preferring a more contemplative

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narrative wherein clear morality can be delineated by author and enjoined upon reader. While More’s Cœlebs can be understood as the title which gave rise to the polite Evangelical novel of the 1810s, no work more clearly encapsulates this very moment itself than Brunton’s Self-Control. Wood observes that More’s innovation was to use the domestic novel form to promote a specifically Evangelical didactic lesson. … Mary Brunton built on this model in her development of what has been termed the ‘Evangelical romance,’ which incorporates elements of romance while maintaining the central didactic purpose of More’s more strictly domestic novel.10 The wife of a Presbyterian minister in Edinburgh,11 Brunton’s expressed aim in writing Self-Control was clearly didactic and Evangelical: ‘If my book is read, its uses to the author are obvious. Nor is a work of fiction necessarily unprofitable to the readers. When the vitiated appetite refuses its proper food, the alternative way may be administered in a sweetmeat.’12 Self-Control demonstrates the centrality of Evangelical fiction to this period, making Evangelicalism best-selling material during the 1810s. Even more significantly, the novel went on sale and caused such a stir precisely when Mansfield Park was being commenced by Austen, who would herself read SelfControl at least twice (JAL, 234). In an ironic anticipation of the success to follow six months later, Brunton discussed her position as an author: To be pointed at—to be noticed and commented upon—to be suspected of literary airs—to be shunned as literary women are, by the more unpretending of my own sex; and abhorred, as literary women are, by the more pretending of the other! … I would sooner exhibit as a rope-dancer …13 Initially managed by the Edinburgh firm of Manners & Miller, once the success of Self-Control south of the border became apparent, their London partners Longmans effectively oversaw the enterprise. The first edition of 750 copies was published in February 1811 at 21s, making it the most expensive two-volume novel bearing an 1811 imprint.14 The phenomenal success of this edition was clearly not anticipated by the publishers, as rapid sales led to demand

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98 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

It has come out, the evil spirit knows how, that I am the author of Self-Control. … Mr Miller states the sale to be unexampled here. In five days 240 went out of the hands of the publishers. The remainder of the edition are [sic] sent to London. How it may do there remains to be seen.16 A second edition, containing slight alterations by Brunton, was published in May 1811, with 1000 copies made up of three volumes at 24s. The new volume structure represents a rather unprecedented state of affairs, as a novel would typically have been reduced in subsequent editions to fewer volumes. Perhaps this reifies the determined incursion by the Evangelical novel into the mainstream of fiction, but it is also possible that Longmans’ better sense of the market would have led them to favour the triple-decker as a more appropriate vehicle for such a success. In July 1811, a third edition was published with the same format and price as the second, but with an increased impression of 1250, virtually selling out within four months. A fourth edition appeared in February 1812, but the take-up was much slower, and it was not until 1821 that the entire 1250 copies were completely sold, three years after Brunton’s death, bringing the total author’s profit to £783 17s 6d. Without a doubt, Self-Control was a best seller—albeit an unexpected one. While the commercial success of Self-Control was overwhelming, the critical response was far more mixed. As the British Critic noted, ‘parties have been formed respecting it; some extolling it to the skies, and others depressing it below its real merits’.17 The Eclectic Review, a conservative Dissenting journal, downplayed the novel’s sales success, emphasizing instead its pious propriety: ‘Self Control cannot boast of leading the way, either in point of time, or of merit, and can only deserve a subordinate notice; but it is evidently written with good intentions, and maintains a constant reference to correct, devotional principles.’18 The British Critic, for its part, was more favourably inclined, but expressed similar reservations: ‘its moral is unexceptionable. That as a work of fancy it is absolutely faultless, it would be ridiculous to assert, and not very rational to expect it to be every where original.’19 Whatever its technical merits (or lack thereof), for a number of well-inclined reviews it was the underlying

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outstripping supply, and by the end of March, Longmans were requesting further copies from Manners & Miller.15 Brunton’s own reaction to her success was, typically, mixed:

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principle rather than the narrative dexterity that made the novel so significant. In other quarters, however, more extreme critiques were levelled. The Critical Review found Self-Control ‘unique in the school of methodistical palavering. Cælebs in search of a Rib is a fool to this saint in petticoats.’20 The reviewer’s vitriol against the novel’s ‘Evangelical cant’ was undiluted. He felt it necessary ‘for some selfcontroul on our parts, in order to subdue feelings of disgust’, and by the end of the article, his condemnations had reached fever pitch: ‘We must do the authoress justice in one particular; we find her as perfect a plagiarist in her way as ever set pen to paper; nor is much trouble taken to disguise the thefts.’21 While the Critical was antagonized by the religious fervour of Self-Control, other periodicals felt it was not prominent enough: the Edinburgh Christian Instructor, whilst approving its morality, felt it too modish and coarse to justify Brunton’s aspirations to serious religious sentiment, especially with its more violent scenes and references to rape. Its greatest objection was that the sympathetic portrait of the heroine’s misplaced affection for the villain overwhelms the didactic elements, to the extent that some women might see this as a justification for such behaviour: ‘her narrative will either prove uninteresting in the perusal, or immoral in its tendency’.22 For some reviewers, Self-Control ’s Christianity recuperated its failings, technical or moral; for others, its pietism was too intrusive, rendering it too obnoxious. Mirroring the mixed public reception of Self-Control, Austen’s own response intriguingly blends distaste with an acknowledgement of Brunton’s popularity. The Austens were obviously part of an eager readership attempting to get hold of the novel: ‘We have tried to get Self-controul, but in vain’ (JAL, 186; 30 April 1811). The statement that immediately follows makes clear Austen’s anxiety as an author who was very much aware of the contemporary market: she notes that she is ‘always half afraid of finding a clever novel too clever—& of finding my own story & my own people all forestalled’. A later opinion was recorded in October 1813, at a time when Austen was composing the early portions of Mansfield Park. Her judgement was one of praise, tinctured with sarcasm (or vice versa): I am looking over Self Control again, & my opinion is confirmed of its’ being an excellently-meant, elegantly-written Work, without anything of Nature or Probability in it. I declare I do not know whether Laura’s passage down the American River, is not the most natural, possible, every-day thing she ever does. (JAL, 234)

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One year later, there is a trace of bitterness in Austen’s correspondence regarding Self-Control, especially when juxtaposed with responses to Mansfield Park. Austen’s novel was overlooked by the reviews, and she took to recording ‘Opinions of Mansfield Park’ held by those in her circle of acquaintance. Reacting to one opinion, that ‘Mrs Creed—preferred S & S. and P & P.—to Mansfield Park’,23 Austen notes that Mrs Creed’s opinion is gone down on my list; but fortunately I may excuse myself from entering Mr [cut out] as my paper only relates to Mansfield Park. I will redeem my credit with him, by writing a close Imitation of ‘Self-Control’ as soon as I can;—I will improve upon it;—my Heroine shall not merely be wafted down an American river in a boat by herself, she shall cross the Atlantic in the same way, & never stop till she reaches Gravesent. (JAL, 282–3; ?24 November 1814) The fortunes of Self-Control establish that Evangelical fiction, which had begun programmatically in 1808 with Cœlebs, had reached a remarkable high-point within three years. Self-Control reflected the various trends that characterized the mode generally: a female novel published anonymously (and therefore modestly), moving paradigmatically into the mainstream triple-decker format; responses were mixed, but the novel was a best seller. Brunton’s novel fulfilled the legacy of Hannah More, which resulted in redirecting readers’ tastes from scandalous to improving fiction. In making Evangelicalism more palatable through the form of the novel, these early works also made the genre itself more acceptable. Moreover, it is at precisely this time that Austen decided to publish a work concerned with so many of the same issues. Following the successes of 1808 and 1811, the imprint year 1814 is arguably the third significant moment in the brief history of moral– domestic fiction, when production peaked with 12.7 per cent (eight works) of 63 new titles published. As noted earlier, it would appear that Mansfield Park was composed between February 1811 and June 1813, with the second half of the novel possibly being completed in the last six months of this period (JAL, 98–102, 217, 256–61). Jan Fergus discusses the gap between the novel’s completion by June 1813 and its publication in May 1814, postulating that, following delays caused by visits to various family members, Austen would have had the fair copy ready to submit for publication by January 1814, with

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proofs returned to her by March (LL, 143–5). Henry acted again as her agent, and Austen describes him reading through the manuscript at the beginning of March. Perhaps this explains the six-month gap between completion and submission: Henry’s wife had died in May 1813, and this would, no doubt, have delayed proceedings. Writing on 21 March 1814, Austen herself had anticipated a slightly earlier publication date: ‘Perhaps before the end of April, Mansfield Park by the author of S & S.—P. & P. may be in the world’ (JAL, 262). The novel, only slightly delayed, was actually published a fortnight later. Thomas Egerton issued the first edition of Mansfield Park in three volumes, despite mixed feelings about the work. On the one hand, he ‘praised it for it’s Morality, & for being so equal a Composition.—No weak parts’ (‘Opinions’, 15). At the same time, he published on commission,24 and produced it less speedily but more cheaply than Pride and Prejudice, possibly indicative of a less concerted commitment (LL, 144). On 9 May 1814, Mansfield Park was advertised as ‘This day published’ in The Star, with further announcements appearing throughout the month.25 R. W. Chapman estimates a first edition of 1250 copies, which he considers to be small; however, a figure of 1250 was certainly respectable for a professional writer: Brunton’s Self-Control itself reached an identical run as late as the third edition.26 The typical range, in fact, would have been around 500–750 for first-time novelists, averaging at 1000–1500 for established authors. Mansfield Park was sold at 18s (the standard price for a triple-decker during the mid-1810s). The first recorded response to the novel after its publication occurs in a letter from Austen to her sister, written on 14 June 1814, describing the opinions of the Austens’ Great Bookham relations, the Cookes: ‘In addition to their standing claims on me, they admire Mansfield Park exceedingly. Mr Cooke says “it is the most sensible Novel he ever read”—and the manner in which I treat the Clergy, delights them very much’ (JAL, 263). The general reaction among Austen’s circle was favourable, although many seemed to prefer the literary merits of the earlier novels. One opinion distilled most of the others concisely: Fanny Cage ‘did not much like it—not to be compared to P & P.—nothing interesting in the Characters— Language poor.—Characters natural & well supported—Improved as it went on’ (‘Opinions’, 14). When Mansfield Park was praised, it was for its morality: ‘Mrs Carrick.—“All who think deeply & feel much will give the preference to Mansfield Park” ’ (16). The whole run was sold within six months, generating a profit for Austen of

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it is not settled yet whether I do hazard a 2d Edition. We are to see Egerton today, when it will probably be determined.—People are more ready to borrow & praise, than to buy—which I cannot wonder at;—but tho’ I like praise as well as anybody, I like what Edward calls Pewter too. (JAL, 287; 30 November 1814) No second edition of Mansfield Park materialized from this trip, however, and a second—much less successful—edition was published in 1816 by John Murray, who was later responsible for issuing the remainder of Austen’s novels.

Literary conventions and social models As part of its campaign for social reform, Evangelicalism promoted a new political patriarchalism, located clearly within the emergent middle classes. Similarly, moral–domestic novels attempted to locate the appropriate position and domain for a newly perceived ‘female sphere’, which complemented, but did not encroach upon, that of the male. An Anti-Jacobin legacy is clear in these novels’ focus on ‘the neighbourhood’, in the use of restricted locales (when compared to the peripatetic pan-Europeanism of sensibility), and in the necessity of the community for the understanding of the self. Despite such commonalities, however, Evangelical fiction eschews Anti-Jacobin satire in favour of pietism, but the most significant departure from Anti-Jacobinism is the way in which Evangelicalism reconfigures romantic sensibility into moral sensitivity, moments of pathos, and a concentration on the interior life of the heroine. Anti-Jacobin didactic works, by contrast, are principally secular in approach, and any religion in these novels is subordinated to the underlying message of social conformity. Ultimately, the distinction between the Anti-Jacobins and the Evangelicals was not one of purpose but one of first causes: whereas the former viewed the profligacy and impiety of the times as resulting from the mismanagement of social institutions or from other external influences, the latter saw these as ancillary symptoms of a far deeper corruption. In his study of the social context of Austen’s novels, Oliver MacDonagh remarks that ‘Mansfield Park was not written for

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approximately £320—more than she made as a whole for the other three novels published during her lifetime (JAL, 281). Soon after, Austen noted:

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posterity. Nor was it much in tune with the novels of its day’.27 More recently, Mary Waldron distinguishes the differences between Mansfield Park and Austen’s previous novels, but Waldron’s thrust is that this is because it is an aberration in the Austenian canon.28 In light of what has been discussed in the preceding section, it is clear that such readings neglect the topicality of the novel. It is therefore worth considering how certain basic tropes in Mansfield Park also appear forcefully in moral–domestic works published between 1808 and 1814. An issue that has been debated repeatedly by Austen critics is the significance of religion in Mansfield Park. One contentious aspect of this exchange relates to Austen’s supposed reference to the theme of Mansfield Park in a letter to Cassandra. Having discussed Pride and Prejudice (published two days previously), she notes: ‘Now I will try to write of something else;—it shall be a complete change of subject—Ordination. I am glad to find your enquiries have ended so well’ (JAL, 202; 29 January 1813). It has been assumed that this change of subject indicates what Austen perceived to be the principal theme of her next novel, Mansfield Park. Reading the statement in context, however, makes it clear that this change does not refer to the novel’s subject, but to the letter’s: that is, the shift in topics from Pride and Prejudice to ordination. This argument is substantiated by Cassandra’s memorandum, which records that Mansfield Park was completed five months after the date of the letter.29 It is hard to believe that Austen would have been undecided regarding the theme of the novel throughout its first two years of composition! Nonetheless, religion is a very important concern in Mansfield Park, one that manifests itself most obviously in a consideration of the clergyman and his role in the community. Throughout Mansfield Park, the necessity of the clergyman to the social fabric underpins a recurring debate between Mary Crawford and Edmund Bertram, and is first introduced during their visit to Rushworth’s estate. Against the backdrop of Sotherton’s disused and morally redundant chapel, Mary argues with Edmund that a clergyman is of no consequence to the world at large. Edmund’s response sounds decidedly Evangelical: ‘I cannot call that situation nothing, which has the charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally and eternally,—which has

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It is important here to consider what Edmund precisely means by ‘manners’: ‘ “The manners I speak of, might rather be called conduct, perhaps, the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it is [the clergy’s] duty to teach and recommend” ’ (78). Edmund’s self-conscious conception of the clergyman’s participation in his local community is clearly coloured by the contemporaneous Evangelical discourse. Dr Barlow, Cœlebs’ exemplary clergyman, typifies Edmund’s vision: ‘ “Next to a solid piety, and a deep acquaintance with the Bible, he considers it of prime importance to a clergyman to be acquainted with human nature in general, and with the state of his own parish in particular.” ’30 The clergyman must be intimately involved with the local community in order to improve it. Irene Collins notes that ‘[i]n Mansfield Park Jane Austen herself gave the impression that she believed that the whole of English society was corrupt: religion was regarded as out of date and morality had become unfashionable.’31 While this reading exaggerates the pessimism of the novel, it is to a certain extent true: there is an undeniable religious and moral apathy in the general communities around Mansfield Park, one which Edmund seeks to counter. What is perhaps more significant is Austen’s concern with the way in which apathy affects the clergy itself, an issue that also worried the Evangelicals. Unlike her other unambiguously foolish clergymen, Collins and Elton, Dr Grant presents a less satirical, but more insidious, vision of a morally bankrupt clergy. Although he is ‘a short-neck’d, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off’, we are told that the Grants ‘entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people’ (MP, 22). The Grants are unable to sustain their own familial connections, let alone form strong ties to their community: As children, [Henry and Mary’s] sister had been always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them since. (35)

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the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their influence.’ (MP, 77)

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What is so dangerous about the Grants is that, while they are certainly ‘decent’, even well-meaning, people, they are unsuitable pastors of the community. They lack the pious commitment to the neighbourhood that is the essence of a proper clergyman like Dr Barlow. Our final vision of the Grants emphasizes that they have left the community without having made any contribution towards its improvement: Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income to answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who went, and those who staid. (386) In her first moral–domestic novel, Temper (1812), Opie’s clergyman– mentor, Mr Egerton, realizes how dangerous such social dislocation can be: He had allowed the powers of his mind to droop, unstimulated by the influence of collision; and had suffered hours, precious hours, to be wasted in the languor of unavailing regret, which he might have employed to amuse, to instruct, and to enlighten his fellow-creatures.32 It becomes clear that Mansfield Park is imbricated with Evangelical attempts to create an appropriate dialogue of improvement between clergyman and community. Dr Grant—whose demeanour reflects the more easygoing attitude of the gentleman–cleric in the eighteenth century—cannot negotiate this role, and the task must be passed on to a newer generation of fully engaged clergy, whose outlook here is represented by Edmund Bertram—and more importantly—Fanny Price. The clergyman’s importance to the community exists essentially as a public model inflected through a male discourse. Its female correlative is manifested in Evangelical fiction through the issue of the appropriate education of young women. The question of social propriety is articulated through the dichotomy between specious ‘accomplishments’ and serious principles. ‘Accomplishments’ carry markedly pejorative connotations in the Evangelical text, and such a reading is also invited in Mansfield Park. Cœlebs is especially

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antagonistic: the protagonist’s mother admonishes him, ‘ “I call education, not that which smothers a woman with accomplishments, but that which tends to consolidate a firm and regular system of character” ’ (i, 14). Similarly, Charles (Cœlebs—‘the bachelor’— himself) notes: ‘I detest the term accomplishments, since it has been warped from the true meaning in which Milton used it’ (i, 191). Here, accomplishments embody those artificial qualities acquired by young women in order to attract attention in fashionable circles or the marriage market: as well as the more obvious sense of ‘fashionableness’, accomplishments can include poetical composition, amateur dramatics, modern languages, and ostentatious musical ability. Moral–domestic novelists compare these unfavourably with the ‘serious’ qualities of piety, charitableness, deference to patriarchal familial structures, and an innate moral sense, often combined with an appreciation of poetry, nature, and more factual literature. As Kenneth Moler notes, ‘the Bertram girls, with Sir Thomas’ full approval, receive precisely the shallow, superficial kind of fashionable education that Hannah More and others opposed’.33 Sir Thomas’s misunderstanding of a woman’s education is perhaps even more disconcerting than Maria and Julia’s own moral failings: ‘His daughters he felt, while they retained the name of Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it he trusted would extend its respectable alliances’ (MP, 19). Of course, the denouement of Mansfield Park ironically demonstrates how value has been wrongly correlated with external accoutrements by the Bertrams. In Margaret Roberts’s Duty (1814), Ellen Herbert, a clergyman’s daughter, firmly states: ‘ “I possess no accomplishment of any kind: in truth, I am a plain unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised. Happy in this, I am not yet so old but I may learn.” ’34 Fanny’s education is described in similarly didactic terms, and her innate sensitivity is guided by both her own moral goodness, which derives from religiously inspired humility and attentive mentoring by Edmund. We are told that ‘[h]er elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness; Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes’ (MP, 14). In a moment of typically Austenian irony, even the decidedly un-Evangelical Henry Crawford can sense the fruits of a moral education: when he talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an observance

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Making the Popular Polite 107

Fanny’s qualities in this respect mirror the Evangelical conception that a woman’s religious sense serves as a moral litmus for her character. In Kett’s Emily, Colonel Lorton advises his daughter Emily to behave in a way which could easily describe Fanny’s own moral sense: ‘Seek a pleasure in doing your duty, and you may depend upon me you will find it, for the ways of Religion are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.’ 35 Both Mansfield Park and contemporaneous moral–domestic fiction establish the opposition between ‘accomplishments’ and ‘serious’ moral education that improves the internal principles of the mind, rather than embellishing one’s external value as a marriageable commodity. In moral–domestic fiction, religion and private morality find their narratological register in the portrayal of the estate and its relationship with the local community. As Alistair Duckworth notes, ‘estates function not only as the settings of action but as indexes to the character and social responsibility of their authors’.36 Duckworth persuasively argues that the debate concerning the improvement of the estate in Mansfield Park belongs to a tradition of conservation championed by Edmund Burke, in which the estate functions as a microcosm of the nation politic. However, Duckworth locates Austen too firmly within the crucible of the 1790s, consequently neglecting the debate which was occurring in very different (that is, Evangelical) terms during the 1810s. Rather than the Burkean public model that Duckworth employs, in which the movement is from the state down, Mansfield Park can be seen as being informed by an Evangelically private model, which filters from the village or estate up. Such an impetus ultimately makes the private inherently political, as the nation is changed not by sweeping reforms but by alterations in the moral behaviour of individuals. Nonetheless, Duckworth crucially distinguishes between ‘innovation’ (the artificial modernization of an estate at the expense of tradition) and ‘improvement’ (the gradual refinement of an estate’s enduring qualities in order to avoid stagnation). The purpose of improvement should not be to ‘innovate’ an estate for reasons of fashion and display (a concept which has its parallel in the acquisition of ‘accomplishments’), but to engage more fixedly with the community itself. On the journey to Sotherton, Maria

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of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well principled and religious. (242–3) 

pays observance to the aesthetic, rather than moral, qualities of the estate, and reveals her lack of piety, when informing Mary that she is ‘ “glad the church is not so close to the Great House as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible” ’ (MP, 69). Her concern that the village cottages ‘are really a disgrace’ will obviously not lead to their improvement, and she notes that ‘the situation of the house is dreadful’. Austen’s compelling irony resides in the double-perspective articulated in Maria’s words: she only heeds what to her is aesthetically inappropriate, whereas her words point to a moral decay. If Maria’s opinion of Sotherton functions as a negative frame of reference, it soon becomes clear what constitutes a proper estate: Mansfield and its own parsonage are ‘scarcely half a mile apart’. The motif of estate and proximate village/clerical residence is repeatedly employed in moral–domestic fictions to promote engagement between the gentry and the immediate moral landscape. Such a dynamic is essentially conservative, as the hegemonic structures are not only sustained, but they are also imbued with greater power: as the custodian of morality, the improving landowner is presented as a potent force for good. In Emily, we are told that ‘Lorton house, an old but convenient mansion, was beautifully situated … On the opposite hill stood the village church, and not far distant the parsonage house, partly concealed by tall sycamores … a few cottages checkered the prospect’ (i, 4–5). Appropriate improvements consist, then, in those gradual accretions that pay homage to tradition, culminating in moral refinement and social engagement. In Self-Control, we are pointedly told of the virtuous Montague De Courcy: ‘The profession which he had chosen was that of improving and embellishing his estate’ (i, 169). Emily concludes with its protagonists inheriting their parents’ desire to improve: Emily’s husband Edward, ‘following the useful steps of his father, but with enlarged means of doing good, acted as a magistrate and undertook the care of a neighbouring church’; while ‘[i]nfluenced by a similar motive, Emily established a school for the education of the indigent girls of the parish’ (ii, 325). Such concerns are echoed in Mansfield Park, in the various debates regarding the improvement of one’s estate—whether it is a squirearchical mansion, a gentleman’s residence, or a humble curacy. To Edmund, ‘improvement’ implies a gradualist approach, which builds upon a sediment of tradition and personal responsibility: ‘ “I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired

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Making the Popular Polite 109

progressively” ’ (48–9). This conception is contrasted with Henry’s own thoughts regarding the modifications to Thornton Lacey. He recommends that Edmund remove the farmyard, shut out the blacksmith’s forge, and realign the facing of the house: in short, he wishes to cut off the parsonage from the village, aggrandizing it through isolation. Reiterating his earlier discussion with Mary at Sotherton, Edmund counters this: ‘ “I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air of a gentleman’s residence without any very heavy expense, and that must suffice me” ’ (201). For Edmund, the parsonage must serve both a practical function, as a part of an ethically informed neighbourhood, and a private function, as an outward manifestation of the individual’s character. Henry’s approach to improvement is symptomatic of his shiftlessness and lack of self-knowledge, characteristics which also explain his aptitude as an actor. Like a moral infection, he wishes to spread this lack of identity to his peers. His recommendations for restructuring Thornton Lacey would not only geographically sever it from the village, they would disconnect Edmund from his social and personal responsibilities: ‘You may raise it into a place … and that house [will] receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great land-holder of the parish, by every creature travelling the road; especially as there is no real squire’s house to dispute the point …’ (202) Henry’s own psychology reflects this lack of purpose (hence, morality): ‘To anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike’ (36). Once again, figures similar to Henry serve as archetypal anti-heroes in moral–domestic fiction, albeit in cruder terms. Of these, perhaps the most memorable appears in Self-Control, in the figure of Laura Montreville’s dissipated suitor, Colonel Hargrave. Like Henry, Hargrave is associated with the landed interest, ‘the undoubted heir of a title, and of a fine estate’ (i, 78). Although a prospective inheritor, Hargrave is rootless and cares nothing for improvement. His lack of fixedness parallels his lack of moral self-knowledge, and he wanders the country both in search of Laura and to escape the consequences of his various seductions. Such itinerancy is repeatedly castigated as a social malady in moral–domestic fictions. For instance, the narrator of The Countess and Gertrude sees parochialism as a

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moral virtue: ‘Those who go “to play a part” at a distance from home are the most amusing set; and the contretems [sic] they are fated to experience, are sometimes to an observer of manners, most whimsically ludicrous.’ 37 This kind of rhetoric is echoed in Emily’s diatribe against the anonymous bustle of the fashionable set, ‘who are gregarious rather than sociable, and often assemble for no other purpose than to gaze at each other, and ridicule the person who gives the party’ (i, 204). At the beginning of Self-Control, Hargrave is tested by Laura: he must part from her for two years and return a reformed Christian. He is unable to discipline himself, however, and his adultery with a married woman and her subsequent pregnancy lead to national scandal. More than anything, the reader perceives a sense of desperate isolation in Hargrave, whose self-imposed social exclusion leads to moral degeneration. This dislocation culminates in his abduction of Laura to the wilds of Canada, where social discontinuity is represented through overlapping topographical and moral matrices: ‘Laura perceived through the dusk, that they were on a barren moor. Waste and level it seemed to spread before her; but the darkness prevented her from distinguishing its features or its boundaries’ (ii, 413). Less melodramatically, Henry is also tested in Portsmouth when he asks Fanny whether he should return to his estate Everingham and ‘improve’ it (in every Evangelical sense of the word). Placing the moral onus on Henry, Fanny tells him: ‘ “We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be” ’ (MP, 341). Fanny’s recommendation of the proper course of action is implicit, but Henry fails this test, returning instead to London. His decision ultimately unravels itself in the elopement with Maria, and the lovers enter their own spiritual wilderness, which isn’t too far removed from Hargrave’s. In a rather stern Evangelical pronouncement, the narrator informs us: ‘Had he done as he had intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding his own happy destiny’ (385). Characters such as Crawford and Hargrave personify what both Austen and the Evangelicals felt was an essential disparity between the actual rootlessness and social potential of a demoralized aristocracy. The inability of both men to appreciate what the Evangelicals saw as the fundamental obligation to participate in the improvement of their community is shown to lead to their inevitable—moral or literal—self-destruction.

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The twinned issues of the engagement of estate and community and the moral improving landlord are based on an ethical– entrepreneurial system which characterized the emergent middle classes, many of whom were committed Evangelicals. True to their Anti-Jacobin roots, moral–domestic novels eschew the changing locations of sentimental fiction and are firmly inscribed within small, heavily provincial communities. These parochial locales are typically juxtaposed with the anonymity of the metropolis; although the latter is not always programmatically portrayed as the seat of vice, it is certainly the source of much discomfort. The protagonist of Cœlebs leaves his estate in Northumberland to visit Stanley Grove in Hampshire, which is contrasted favourably with the bustle of London; similarly, Emily compares Cumberland with the London haut ton; in Duty, the village of Albany is contrasted with Scarborough; and, of course, in Mansfield Park, Fanny oscillates between Portsmouth and Northamptonshire, while the Crawfords belong to the London beau monde. The final arrangement of the morally proper estate implies a paternalistic and conservative vision, one which synthesizes private domestic action with national moral improvement: just as Cœlebs’ Mr Stanley arranges his world around Stanley Grove, so ultimately the Bertrams retrench themselves into a hermeticized Mansfield Park. The associated concerns of religion, education, and the estate shared by Austen and contemporary moral–domestic writers are subsumed by an overarching discourse best described as ‘domestic economy’. Rather humble-sounding, this term encapsulates the entire Evangelical enterprise: that religious duty and regulation of the self lead to moral autonomy. At its most obvious, domestic economy functions according to a business model that matches expenditure of time and money with its practical benefits, which is unsurprising considering the professional roots of middle-class Evangelicalism. I wish to focus on the role of money and charity within this structure—the importance of time to both the Evangelicals and Mansfield Park has already been discussed authoritatively by earlier criticism.38 This Evangelical conception of financial economy should not be confused with parsimony of figures such as Self-Control’s Lady Pelham and Mansfield Park’s Mrs Norris. Rather, money is to be utilized appropriately, and not dissipated negligently: ‘The more of the precious metals people possess, the more luxuries they can purchase, and the greater their luxuries the more proud and

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The multiplication of great cities also, and above all, the habit, ever increasing with the increasing wealth of the country, of frequenting a splendid and luxurious metropolis, would powerfully tend to accelerate the discontinuance of the religious habits of a purer age, and to accomplish the substitution of a more relaxed morality.39 In Evangelical thinking, luxury begets decadence, and therefore selfregulation becomes a necessity. On first arriving at Mansfield, Mary admits that she is ‘ “but coming down with the true London maxim, that every thing is to be got with money” ’ (MP, 50). Similarly, her candid letter about Henry and Maria’s scandalous behaviour to Fanny leaves the latter in no doubt that Mary ‘had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money’ (360). Throughout Mansfield Park the word ‘money’ repeatedly forms a negative index that is attached to Mrs Norris and the Crawfords: of 13 occurrences it figures only once as a positive force, naturally through the actions of Fanny. To resolve the squabble between her sisters over the silver knife, ‘[i]t had very early occurred to her, that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for ever on the sore subject’ (329). Fanny, we are told, carries out ‘works of charity and ingenuity’ (126), and it is clearly within the Evangelical compass that charity should realize itself through appropriate actions and not unthinking extravagance. For instance, Hargrave’s fine eyes had been seen to fill with tears at a tale of elegant distress: he could even compassionate the more vulgar sorrows of cold and hunger to the extent of relieving them, provided always that the relief cost nothing but money. (Self-Control, i, 81). Similarly, the negligent Lady Wills never refused the aid of her purse if appealed to, but would have thought a moment of personal attention to the sufferings of a fellow creature a sacrifice of her time, and a stigma upon her dignity. She wished every one well, and gave money to those who asked for nothing more … (Duty, i, 109–10)

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inactive they become’ (Emily, i, 78). This is stated in broader terms by Wilberforce:

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The unsurpassable Laura Montreville appositely encapsulates the Evangelical approach: ‘ “The quiet domestic generosity which is of daily use … is happily not confined to those who have money to bestow;—but may appear in any of a thousand little acts of self-denial” ’ (Self-Control, i, 125–6). Hence, the twinned issues of finance and charity are significant elements in a domestic economy which emphasizes that correct motives precede impulsive generosity, and that the application of money for charitable purposes does not negate social responsibility. A more essential principle underlies the concern with financial and temporal economy: the regulation of the self. According to Evangelical thinking, self-regulation leads to an understanding of one’s place in the Christian schema, and it is evident that Fanny observes such tenets. In Emily, the heroine’s father informs her that ‘Christianity is not designed to destroy, but to regulate our desires—not to lessen, but to increase our real pleasures’ (i, 49). In this vein, at times of moral crisis, Fanny removes herself to the East Room, retrospecting her actions and whether she was correct to act as she did. Typical here are her inner deliberations in refusing to participate in the rehearsals of Kotzebue’s Lovers’ Vows: ‘she had begun to feel undecided as to what she ought to do; and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing. Was she right in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for?’ (MP, 127) Similarly, Laura reflects on her own situation with her unsuitable lover, Hargrave: ‘Laura had long been accustomed, when assailed by any adverse circumstance, whether more trivial or more important, to seize the first opportunity of calmly considering how far she had herself contributed to the disaster’ (Self-Control, i, 39). This act of self-discipline and regulation has an immediate Evangelical context, as enunciated by Wilberforce himself: ‘There is a call on us for vigorous and continual resolution, self-denial, and activity. … Scrutinize yourself rather with rigorous strictness’.40 It is not an end in itself, but a Christian methodology, which—like the improved estate—engenders a fuller engagement with the moral life of one’s community. A lack of self-regulation is simply another form of itinerancy and irresponsibility: to function as a moral entity within society, one must judge oneself. The social concomitant of private domestic economy in its distilled form is the lauded Evangelical principle of practical and social piety. Ellen Herbert’s status as a heroine is clearly defined by her practical utility to the community, something which clearly has its source

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in religion: ‘she never felt any thing a task, any thing a business: her duties were amusements, and her amusements were instructions’ (Duty, i, 56–7). In Self-Control, we are told that Laura ‘did, indeed, possess that which, next to the overflowings of a pious heart, confers the purest happiness on this side of Heaven. She felt that she was useful’ (i, 156). Austen achieves a similar rhetorical effect in describing her own ‘exemplary’ heroine, Fanny Price, who ‘had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have managed without her’ (MP, 324). The distillation of public virtue into private action parallels the issue of the estate raised above: in Emily, we learn that Colonel Lorton ‘was actuated by motives truly amiable and praiseworthy—a sense of duty to his daughter’ (i, 38). Sir Thomas Bertram realizes that he has failed in his duty to his daughters precisely by not educating them to regulate themselves, psychologically and socially: ‘Here had been grievous mismanagement … He feared that principle, active principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught to govern their inclinations and tempers, by that sense of duty which can alone suffice’ (MP, 382). Most of Sir Thomas’s éclaircissement is phrased in terms borrowed from Evangelical discourse, and concludes with an Evangelically inflected recognition of the virtues of Fanny, William, and Susan, in whose active benevolence ‘Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and endure’ (389). Within moral–domestic novels, Evangelical language functions in one of two ways: it is either voiced by characters themselves or emanates from the narrator. Owing to her use of free indirect speech, Austen’s signifiers are far subtler than her moral–domestic counterparts’, whose usage of such terms as ‘serious’, ‘real’, ‘economical’ serve as iconographic prompts to the reader. A moment of self-reflection by Fanny regarding Henry Crawford’s intentions is revealing, voiced as it is in the morally laden language of Evangelical discourse: How could she have excited serious attachment in a man, who had seen so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely her superiors—who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him—who thought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points—who was every thing to every body, and seemed to

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The use of the word ‘serious’ here displays how Fanny’s own ruminations are influenced by her moral sense, if we bear in mind that, in Evangelical parlance, ‘serious’ imputed ‘moral sense derived from a strong Christian sensibility’. Paradoxically, the passage serves to demonstrate Fanny’s innate superiority through her own selfconscious humility: the first sentence bifurcates meaning depending upon which of its elements we place the crux. If we place the stress on the ‘she’ we understand that Fanny is categorizing experience through her typical reticence. However, a shift of emphasis shows how the subtextual impetus directs the reader away from the initial premise: ‘serious attachment in a man who …’ distends the thought from Fanny’s status and towards Henry’s past behaviour. He is a flirt, a votary of fashion, and certainly not the ‘serious’ man Fanny requires, and we are returned full-circle to Fanny and her doubts regarding Henry’s attachment—not because she is too humble for him, but because he is unworthy of her. While Austen employs Evangelical terminology at a surface level to describe Fanny’s way of perceiving the world, beneath this veneer there operates a narrative tactic which itself serves an Evangelical thesis.41 At the same time, however, Austen also employs Evangelical language ironically to describe clearly un-Evangelical characters, whose misunderstandings of the terms they apply to themselves reveals their lack of moral sense. Whereas in Self-Control, Laura is appropriately characterized by ‘an active mind, a strong sense of duty, and the habit of meeting and overcoming adverse circumstances’ (i, 4), in Mansfield Park, we find Maria Bertram associated with the same language in order to describe a clearly different ideology. Marriage to Rushworth offers ‘a larger income than her father’s’ and a ‘house in town, which was now a prime object’ (34). It becomes, ‘by the same rule of moral obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could’, while ‘Mrs. Norris was most zealous in promoting the match’. It is obvious that Maria has the wrong sense of what ‘morality’ and ‘duty’ mean, and that Mrs Norris’s ‘zeal’ is misapplied: both women are ironically associated with Evangelical rhetoric, in order to describe their clearly materialistic ambitions. The dialectic established in the linguistic relationship between Fanny and Henry mirrors that of Self-Control: Hargrave and Laura

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find no one essential to him? … Every thing might be possible rather than serious attachment or serious approbation of it towards her. (252)

are doomed at a narratological level because they do not share a common discourse. While he adopts the eighteenth-century role of the rake, promiscuously employing the melodramatic phraseology of the sentimental genre, she is an Evangelical heroine who views the world in domestic, Christian terms. Early in the novel, Hargrave attempts to arrest Laura’s morals using expostulations such as ‘ “Am I indeed so happy as to find you alone? … Suffer me to detain you … Stay but one moment” ’ (i, 66). When Laura ignores these attempts he becomes more frantic—‘Hargrave’s patience was exhausted. “By Heaven you shall hear me!” ’—and the inadequacy of his rhetoric is shown when he ultimately resorts to physical coercion to detain her. Laura’s response is calm and direct, negating the rhetorical overcharge of Hargrave’s speeches: ‘ “If my forgiveness is of any value to you, I give it to you, like a Christian—from the heart.” ’ Austen manages a similar, but far more subtly inflected effect, in the ‘Everingham’ episode that occurs during Henry’s visit to Fanny at Portsmouth: For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a large and (he believed) industrious family was at stake. He had suspected his agent of some underhand dealing—of meaning to bias him against the deserving, and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel, that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some tenants, whom he had never seen before, he had begun making acquaintance with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here, he had been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to her, and she was on the point of giving him an approving look when it was all frightened off, by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham, a somebody that would make

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The passage is important for a number of reasons. Austen’s use of free indirect discourse, rather than direct speech, allows the text to oscillate between the fact of what Henry has actually done and Fanny’s belief of what he has potentially achieved. Initially, Henry utilizes the Evangelical discourse associated throughout Mansfield Park with Fanny: terms such as ‘welfare’, ‘industrious’, ‘merits’, ‘useful’, ‘duty’ are framed within his reported speech (are these his words, the narrator’s, or even Fanny’s?). With ‘It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly’, however, the focus shifts from the neutral third-person to Fanny’s own perspective, but Austen’s readers are now one step ahead of Fanny because of the crucial, parenthetical ‘This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny.’ Here is the point of dehiscence between reader and heroine, underscored by a further bifurcation of meaning: ‘he had been acting as he ought to’—our awareness of the novel’s state of affairs is determined by where we place the emphasis. After the climactic ‘To be the friend of the poor and oppressed!’, however, both Fanny and the reader arrive at a common point through the deflating sentence that follows. In a deft masterstroke, Fanny is brought back to reality when she realizes that Henry’s report really has been a case of ‘acting’ for her benefit, and further Evangelical terms are now debased and suspect: ‘an assistant, a friend, a guide’, ‘utility or charity’, ‘making Everingham a dearer object’. Austen has crushingly proven that Henry and Fanny exist in different discursive worlds: his chimerical ability to play the right part is contrasted with Fanny’s Evangelical absolutism. The impact of Evangelical motifs upon Mansfield Park should not be underestimated: questions regarding the role of religion in society, a proper education, and the estate as metonym for private morality all underpin a model of domestic economy. Evangelical fiction evinces this domestic economy at a simple level with the careful disposal of money and time, but more fundamentally with the regulation of the self. On a narratological level, much of this concern with self-regulation is demonstrated by the employment of a specific linguistic matrix, which serves to differentiate moral from non-moral characters. Austen is not only aware of this tradition: she also invests her own narrative heavily within it, and her novel is enriched by its engagement with this Evangelical framework. With such characteristics in mind, it is worth turning now to

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Everingham and all about it, a dearer object than it had ever been yet. (MP, 335)

118 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

The Evangelical heroine and Fanny Price: fulfilment or failure? Austen’s reaction to the Evangelicals was certainly ambivalent, and one senses that while she respected—even admired—their aspirations, she was somehow dissatisfied with the way in which these motives were realized in their fiction. Early in 1809, Austen had expressed unease with Cœlebs: ‘You have by no means raised my curiosity after Caleb;—My disinclination for it before was affected, but now it is real; I do not like the Evangelicals’ (JAL, 169–70; 24 January 1809). The next sentence makes clear, however, that there is something facetious about this apparent dislike, which sounds more like snobbish resistance to commercially successful material than a considered dispute with More’s religious enthusiasm: ‘Of course I shall be delighted when I read it, like other people, but till I do, I dislike it.’ Six days later, this sardonic thread continues: ‘the only merit it could have, was in the name of Caleb, which has an honest, unpretending sound; but in Coelebs, there is pedantry & affectation.—Is it written only to Classical Scholars?’ (172) Similarly, Austen’s comments on Self-Control, which praise Brunton’s morality and decorous style, critique its lack of ‘anything of Nature or Probability’ (234, 282–3). Echoing this is her mixed reaction to Lætitia-Matilda Hawkins’s Rosanne; or, a Father’s Labour Lost (1814), which she found very good and clever, but tedious. Mrs Hawkins’ great excellence is on serious subjects. … but on lighter topics I think she falls into many absurdities; and, as to love, her heroine has very comical feelings. There are a thousand improbabilities in the story. (289) Although Austen seems to have altered her opinion concerning the inclusion of religion in fiction to some degree, she also seems to imply that while moral–domestic writers are able to carry the religious elements off, they cannot sustain the more requisite stylistic elements of realism and quotidian description. Robert Colby notes that Austen’s novel ‘could not have seemed out of place either in subject-matter or tone next to what the

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those aspects of Mansfield Park which develop, depart from, or are ultimately undermined by its participation within this moral– domestic tradition.

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literary public was then reading’.42 While Colby is correct to say that Mansfield Park has, like much contemporary fiction, an Evangelical purpose, it becomes abundantly clear that it is not an Evangelical novel in practice. Consequently, it becomes necessary to ask two fundamental questions. Firstly, to what extent is Fanny a representative Evangelical heroine? Secondly, how far does Austen’s novel itself succeed in realizing an optimistic future, based on Fanny’s personal (and putatively Evangelical) qualities? In broader terms, we must consider how Austen’s dissatisfaction with Evangelicalism, in the guise of Fanny, manifests itself in Mansfield Park, and whether the ‘good sense’ underlying the novel ultimately weakens its structure.43 Heroines in moral–domestic fictions either begin as exempla of rectitude and correct judgement (Lucilla Stanley, Laura Montreville, Gertrude Aubrey),44 or from erroneous beginnings must learn certain moral ‘lessons’, which will make them proper Christian heroines (Emily Lorton, Emma Danvers, Ellen Percy).45 They must avoid the sirens of the temporal world—vanity, accomplishments, gambling, and the like—and follow the examples set by mentor-figures. By contrast, Fanny is not simply a static heroine who is always wrong or right, and she certainly does not unilaterally exemplify the conservative ‘Heroine who is Right’ that Marilyn Butler describes.46 She does not begin as the immaculate model of all that Mansfield Park stands for, nor is she the erring female in need of a moral education. Similarly, she makes no ‘moral discovery’, neither does she bring it about in Edmund, Henry, or anyone else—these things occur outside of her. Fanny’s lessons in Mansfield Park revolve around her social integration not her moral edification: Austen is more concerned about Fanny’s relationship to the world around her than with her immortal soul. Commenting on Self-Control, the Eclectic Review remarked that ‘[i]f we are disposed to find fault with the heroine, (which upon the whole we are not) we might hint that her simplicity appears occasionally too juvenile, and her mildness provokingly placid.’47 It is Austen’s similar concern that such Evangelical heroines are too simplistic in their perfection that underlies her portrayal of Fanny Price. As she was to note towards the end of her career, ‘pictures of perfection … make me sick & wicked’ (JAL, 335; 23 March 1817). Such ‘pictures of perfection’ coalesce into Evangelical heroines, who ably contend with more fashionable women because they sparkle with greater luminosity themselves. Even Self-Control’s unimpeachable

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Laura Montreville causes her would-be seducer Hargrave to reflect on ‘her charms; and her manner, so void of all design,—the energy— the sometimes wild poetic grace of her language—the shrewdness with which she detected, and the simplicity with which she unveiled’ (i, 82). In comparison, Fanny Price is simply an orphan existing on the periphery of Mansfield life, closer to Catherine Morland than Lucilla Stanley, and certainly not part of the normative social networks of the Bertram household. Austen seems determined to portray Fanny as an anti-type to the charismatic heroine that even the Evangelicals were tempted to use. In order of appearance, Fanny’s antecedents were the grave but elegant Elinor Dashwood and the witty, iconoclastic Elizabeth Bennet, which could partly explain the disappointment felt by some of Mansfield Park’s contemporary audience: ‘could not bear Fanny. … Thought Fanny insipid. … the want of some character more striking & interesting to the generality of Readers, than Fanny was likely to be’ (‘Opinions’, 13–16). It is not simply Fanny’s social or familial states that distinguish her from her moral–domestic counterparts: she also demonstrates that she can be jealous, intractable, even snobbish, and that when necessary she can rebel against the paterfamilias so prioritized in Evangelical writings. For instance, after Edmund decides to act in Lovers’ Vows, Fanny’s reaction is unambiguous: ‘Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund’s decision; she could not acquit his unsteadiness; and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation’ (132). Fanny’s decidedly un-Evangelical feelings culminate in her unequivocal disparagement of Mary, following Edmund’s revelation that he and Mary have parted ways: ‘ “Cruel!” said Fanny—“quite cruel! At such a moment to give way to gaiety and to speak with lightness, and to you!—Absolute cruelty” ’ (376). Yet, within a few pages, Fanny herself demonstrates her own cruelty, not with gaiety and lightness, but with a certain moral superiority that verges on the sadistic: Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. (379) The close of this episode reverses the mentor–dependant roles in an almost perverse fashion: ‘Fanny’s friendship was all that he had to

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cling to.’ Fanny’s ethical estimation of Mary might be accurate but her own compassion towards both Mary and Edmund is somewhat lacking. What this demonstrates is that Fanny is not some kind of Frankenstein-like ‘monster’, as some commentators have noted;48 at the same time, however, she is also not the perfect Christian heroine, but a human being with her own desires and failings. Although many critics perceive the psychological dialogism in Fanny as one of the surest signs of her departure from the Evangelical template, it is important to qualify this somewhat. A number of moral–domestic fictions share with Mansfield Park an awareness of the psychological battles that must be fought by the heroines. In Self-Control, for instance, Laura consistently catechizes herself regarding her own mental state, torn as she is between her passionate desires to submit to Hargrave’s entreaties and her moral obligation to resist. Austen herself comments upon Fanny’s own intensely human imperfections: It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness in her affection for Edmund. … She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty; but [had] also many of the feelings of youth and nature … (MP, 219) Fanny’s own cogitations transcend Laura’s because Austen is not quite as willing as Brunton to cast her lot unilaterally with her heroine. Consequently, we face a much more complex distinction between moral correctness and psychological consistency, and without being tested Fanny will not be able to realize her status as a morally autonomous being. Perhaps the greatest dislocation Fanny experiences lies not in her feebleness as a heroine nor in her occasional pettishness, but in a broader cause of which these are merely symptoms: her inability to connect. This is most obviously realized in her silence, which Butler sees as a source of strength for the Christian heroine in the face of adversity.49 This has its origins in the Anti-Jacobinism of Evangelical fiction, setting itself against a sentimental model which prioritizes both the heroine’s effusiveness and the body as gestural mechanism. Nevertheless, alternative readings see Fanny’s silence as an instance of her hypocrisy: she could have made more of a stand against the play, she could have explained to Sir Thomas her reasons for refusing Henry, she could have encouraged Henry to go to Everingham at

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the critical juncture in Portsmouth (and consequently prevent his elopement with Maria).50 Both readings seem inadequate, as they miss the essential dialectic established in Mansfield Park, one which transcends purely personal motives, being framed instead within a broader discourse of social–behavioural patterns. Fanny’s silence is brought on by the inarticulacy she experiences as a result of her dependence on the Bertrams. Moler makes a similar point about Fanny’s stilted borrowings from conduct-books in her effusions over nature, memory, and the stars: ‘The allusiveness, the sententiousness, the rhetoric of Fanny’s speeches cause them frequently to “ring flat,” just as cynicism and oversophistication strike false notes in Mary’s conversation.’51 Such episodes demonstrate Fanny’s ingenuous morality and need for ‘experience’. Moreover, her spoken observations are awkwardly juxtaposed with her more articulated thought-processes, and this seems indicative of her inability to negotiate the socialized world of ‘decorum’. A more worrying instance of Fanny’s inarticulacy occurs when Sir Thomas confronts her over her refusal to accept Henry, resulting in her exile from Mansfield: her heart sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably non-conviction. … She had hoped that to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled dislike on her side, would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not. (262) Fanny has a deeper sense of what is right, but her frustration (and ours) lies in her inability to voice this moral awareness properly. Her silence is both a weakness and a strength, and Austen is herself aware of its double nature: while Fanny is not implicated in any of the moral failures of her companions by virtue of her silence, she is roped into participating in the play, her ‘no’ is taken as ‘yes’ by Henry, and Sir Thomas peremptorily banishes her. Hence, rather than simply being a programmatic construction designed to exemplify a didactic thesis, Fanny is a morally autonomous being who must make her own way through the world—which includes falling prey to error—before achieving self-knowledge. This is when experience becomes fundamental to Fanny, in order to modulate her voice within a social nexus. Such an éclaircissement occurs when she identifies herself as being independent enough to tend to the moral education of her sister Susan: ‘She became a

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subscriber—amazed at being anything in propria persona, amazed at her own doings in every way; to be a renter, a chuser of books!’ (330) Fanny’s nemesis, Mary Crawford, is not to be taken as representative of the kind of attainments that are socially necessary. At the same time, however, some sort of social engagement is required as a solution to Fanny’s marginality; and it is only when Sir Thomas arranges the ball for Fanny that both he and the local community begin to treat her seriously. While Mary represents the shell of these attainments (‘accomplishments’), we have no real idea of Mary as a consciousness. By contrast, Fanny represents distilled inner moral being: consequently the other characters have no awareness of what Fanny thinks. While Fanny tends to oversimplify the problems of fortune and accomplishments owing to her bookish morality, the disparity between Mary’s accomplishments and Fanny’s moral autonomy iterates the need for a proper education, which includes both social engagement and self-knowledge. Ultimately, Mansfield Park sets itself against the idealism of Evangelical fiction rather than its principles. As one of Austen’s acquaintances, Lady Gordon, noted: ‘In most novels you are amused for the time with a set of Ideal People whom you never think of afterwards or whom you the least expect to meet in common life, whereas in Miss A—s works, & especially in MP. you actually live with them, you fancy yourself one of the family’ (‘Opinions’, 17). Austen is not hostile towards the moral–domestic model, but certainly demonstrates its inadequacies. Fanny Price as heroine is a victim of both circumstances (as a dependent relative) and of human emotions (through her jealousy, love for Edmund, and tinges of snobbery), in a way that Lucilla Stanley—who is simply an idealized conduct-book vision—cannot be. A typical instance of Fanny’s occupation of the middle ground occurs when her companions partially involve her in Lovers’ Vows: ‘Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the Play as any of them;—Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to her to creep into the Theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first act’ (137). In one respect, Fanny’s involvement is not as committed and morally ambiguous as in a comparable episode in Emily, when the villains trap the heroine into the unforgivable vice of ‘gaming’. At the same time, however, Fanny is not as self-sufficient as Laura Montreville, who,

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in the similar situation of falling prey to a card-playing conspiracy, intuitively realizes that something is amiss: ‘there was something in all this which she did not comprehend; and, looking up to seek an explanation in the faces of her companions, she perceived that the whole trio seemed waiting her decision with looks of various interest’ (Self-Control, ii, 286). Unlike her Evangelical counterparts, Fanny is not the moral arbiter of the novel, because her own emotions mislead her, as they have Edmund: ‘She regarded her cousin as an example of every thing good and great, as possessing worth, which no one but herself could ever appreciate’ (MP, 33). Austen here employs a bifurcation of perspective to enhance her message: Fanny considers Edmund to be perfect, an obvious misapprehension; secondly, she colonizes Edmund by claiming herself to be the only one capable of appreciating such a paragon. Commentators on Mansfield Park have long felt a dissatisfaction with the novel, for a number of reasons. One of these—the ‘serious’ nature of the heroine and her lack of charisma, sandwiched as she is between Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse—has been examined, although it seems to me that this is less a weakness than an essential part of Fanny’s situation that Austen wishes to explore. A more sustained criticism, however, can be made of the eponymous estate occupying the core of the novel. Mansfield Park represents a last attempt by Austen to reify imaginatively a gentry world that is appropriate to women of the new century, and to this extent it follows the Evangelical manifesto of reinvigorating the gentry. Yet this impetus seems lost somehow because of an underlying feeling that the gentry are simply not fit for the role. The pervasive sense of resignation on the narrator’s part is not confined to the seemingly rushed ending of the novel, in which a single chapter seeks to rectify the problems of three volumes. Mansfield Park is replete with unequal marriages not seemingly balanced with equal ones: the previous generations of Bertrams, Norrises, Crawfords, even Prices are not ideal matrimonial models. It is only for Edmund and Fanny’s marriage that we are expected to hold out any hope. Although located in the heart of England, Mansfield Park is hardly at the centre of provincial life in Northamptonshire, and its peripherality mirrors Fanny’s own marginal status. The topographically isolated estate reflects a morally isolated gentry, and Fanny similarly exists in a paradoxical and irresolvable position both at the beginning and at the end of the novel. When bringing her into his home Sir Thomas circumspectly sustains a distinction between Fanny and

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his daughters: ‘ “I should wish to see them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorize in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals” ’ (11). Obviously, Sir Thomas’s plan does not work—his daughters are arrogant and Fanny does feel humbled: ‘her motives had been often misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; … she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect’ (126). Fanny is in fact so disenfranchised in the Bertram household that she retreats to the East Room, isolated in a world of her own creation, neglected to the extent that she isn’t even provided with the warmth of a fire, let alone the warmth of human kindness. It is not simply neglect of Fanny’s inner being, however, that characterizes Mansfield. It is matched in the later scenes by much tyranny on Sir Thomas’s part—a tyranny far removed from the benevolent patricianship of Cœlebs’ Mr Stanley. Isobel Armstrong persuasively demonstrates that at the centre of Mansfield is a concealment which obfuscates patriarchal brutality under the veil of ‘decorum’.52 The reader’s recognition of this concealment disturbs the idyll that Fanny believes Mansfield to be. Maria is its first victim, brought up as she is to believe that her duty is to marry a man she neither loves nor respects. This is symptomatic of a deeper concealment that Sir Thomas is unable to overcome, the concealment of his own paternal sensibilities: ‘Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him’ (18). What results from this concealment is the unravelling of gentry life in Mansfield itself through the elopements of both his daughters. In this clandestinism, the Crawfords are less first causes than catalysts of a deeper disaffection that pervades the Bertram household. As Claudia Johnson notes: Sir Thomas’s gravity operates only as an external check, not as an internal inhibition, upon the behavior of his children. He quiets but he does not quell lawlessness; his children tremble at the detection, rather than the commission, of wrongs.53 The future does hold some hope, however, as Edmund tacitly discards such attempts at concealment in his rejection of Henry’s advice to make Thornton Lacey appear the home of a great squire. While Sir Thomas is not as sinister as such portraits imply, his essential failure

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is not unkindness, nor even inconsiderateness; rather, it is his ambivalent wavering, as a nominal Christian, between concealment and morality. More disruptive than this blindness to his own children’s needs, however, is his banishment of Fanny to Portsmouth, which presages the cataclysm at Mansfield Park. There is a disconcerting similarity between this and the expulsion of Catherine Morland by the more obviously despotic General Tilney in Northanger Abbey, and both banishments have an unhealthy association with material gain. Sir Thomas’s dictatorial qualities are much more subtly delineated, but they are unequivocal nonetheless: when Fanny refuses to accept Henry, we are told that ‘[s]hortly afterwards, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power’ (232). The exile that follows reinscribes Fanny’s problematized status as a dependant alienated from both her familial and her adoptive homes. At first, she correlates poverty with morality, but is proven wrong by her visit to Portsmouth, through the Prices’ lack of domestic economy: ‘Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents, as she had hoped’ (322). The narrator’s ironic observations are superficially levelled at Sir Thomas, but more subtextually at Fanny herself: Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head … The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony—and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of every thing opposite to them here. (324–5) Sir Thomas has sent her to Portsmouth not to forget the merits of Mansfield, but to be reminded of them. However, a deeper irony arises from Fanny’s misapprehension that Mansfield is indeed an idyllic world—something that the praxis of the novel has established is certainly not the case. Nina Auerbach notes that, ‘[u]pon her return, Fanny compels the gutted Mansfield to be her home by an act of will, but in its shrunken regenerate state it bears little resemblance to the place in which she grew up.’54 Johnson makes a similar case for Austen’s anticonservatism: ‘The stately household [Fanny] pines for from afar is about to explode; as we well know, it has never been “cheerful” or

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orderly, and “every one’s” feelings there are not consulted, Fanny’s least of all.’55 Yet, there is also that inherent discomfort which Austen feels with her material, one that lies deeper than these readings: the novel’s conclusion is symptomatic of its beginnings, and it is more a case of the narrative not holding together, rather than Fanny simply reconstituting a new myth of a revivified Mansfield. Austen’s interrogation of the Evangelical paradox of feminine virtue, as discussed by Johnson, offers a better explanation.56 Such a myth of womanly purity subsumes female desire whilst encouraging that of the male; demureness is simultaneously demanded and disbelieved as affected. Cœlebs itself partakes self-consciously in praising a woman’s appearance of purity, even if she might not be pure in heart: Oh! if women in general knew what was their real interest! if they could guess with what a charm even the appearance of a modesty invests its possessor, they would dress decorously from mere selflove, if not from principle. The designing would assume modesty as an artifice, the coquet would adopt it as an allurement, the pure as her appropriate attraction, and the voluptuous as the most infallible art of seduction. (i, 189) Obviously, this statement somewhat mitigates Evangelical essentialism: if even the coquette assumes the guise of morality, how would Charles differentiate a Maria Bertram from a Fanny Price? In similar terms, Fanny’s own language militates against her, and her diffidence, gentleness, self-effacement—all lauded attributes— subvert her autonomy during Henry’s proposal. He believes that she is exercising woman’s right to resist before acquiescing, while Sir Thomas simply sees it as pig-headed ingratitude. More transparently, Maria follows Sir Thomas’s rules for appearance’s sake but ultimately cannot sustain them. Both cases illustrate how the patriarchal discourse of ‘Mansfield Park’ (as estate/as novel) is dependent on female submission and silence. We are faced with the unresolvable quandary that if Henry had been a little more patient, Fanny might have capitulated and her reward would have been greater freedom of action as the wife of a landowner. Yet, this praxis is subverted because her function is synecdochic for the moral values that Mansfield is supposed to sustain, but cannot without Fanny’s input. Colby concludes that ‘[e]ssentially, Jane Austen applied the moral ideals of the evangelical ladies to a real and imperfect world and

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substituted dynamic characters for their static ones.’57 While it is undeniable that Austen partakes of a contemporary didactic tradition, complicating and thereby energizing it, she also compromises the fabric of her own narrative. If there is an underlying weakness in the novel, it arises less from Fanny’s ‘priggishness’ than from Austen’s application of an exemplary form in order to portray a less-thanexemplary heroine. Consequently, we can sense that Austen herself becomes clearly frustrated with Evangelical paradigms, resulting in a dichotomized novel. As Butler notes, we encounter a first part that is both dramatic and realistic, one in which Fanny is bystander and reader-surrogate; the second, didactic part moves Fanny into the centre as exemplary heroine, who is rewarded for her early pains and must face further Evangelical trials of temperament. This second part is therefore neither dramatic nor open-ended, and ‘[a]lthough the focus of the last two volumes is intentionally more inward, the reader feels with regret the lack of external, circumstantial life.’ 58 Hence, we perceive that the novel constitutes a somewhat awkward strapping together of a subjective, Fanny-centred novel in which she learns about the world around her, and an objective, didactic tale meant to exemplify an Evangelical ideology. Whilst not an Evangelical novel, Mansfield Park—the first of Austen’s later novels—participates in and negotiates with that tradition and its motifs of female dislocation and social continuity. This awareness initially propels Mansfield Park towards the gentry, but by the end of the novel militates against it: the dislocation somewhat overwhelms the continuity in a disconcerting manner. In Emma, Austen repositions her heroine from this uncomfortably peripheral position, by recasting her as an heiress. The aristocratical, Whiggish-sounding Churchills of the novel are as disengaged from their environs as the Bertrams, but unlike Mansfield Park the Churchills’ Yorkshire estate, Enscombe, no longer occupies the centre of the novel. Much talked-of but never visited, it acts as a negative frame of reference when compared to the village of Highbury, which operates as a thriving network of social interaction and self-definition. Moler notes that Mansfield Park, ‘in spirit, does not seem to differ as dramatically from the works it resembles as many of Jane Austen’s other works do’.59 At the same time, Butler’s postulation also stands: ‘Jane Austen’s achievement is to naturalize a didactic tradition; but she relies on our sharing her beliefs, or at least identifying what they are.’60 Yet, the exigencies of both impulses—the first which sustains

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an extant contemporary tradition so committedly, the second which challenges and energizes it—create a dehiscence that somehow mitigates our appreciation of Mansfield Park. Austen is caught within the tension of admitting the wisdom of the Evangelical myth while disavowing its feasibility. The Evangelical paradox, as Austen sees it, exists because women are not allowed empowerment as individuals, while simultaneously having to adopt social roles as signifiers of morality. Fanny’s example is neglected throughout the novel, and if the world has ultimately resolved itself to suit her, this is not because Fanny has changed that world herself. An essential part of the dialogic nature of Mansfield Park lies in its engagement with contemporary fictions, employing their motifs and energies as a fundamental part of its enterprise, while rationalizing (and thereby qualifying) them into realistic and psychologized terms. Austen does not sustain the conservative manifesto, and Mansfield Park instead demonstrates the inadequacies of moral–domestic discourse. Through her depiction of ‘mixed’ characters, Austen substitutes the broad strokes of Evangelicalism with a fine wash, while painting essentially the same moral landscape: the bold, easily delineated colours of the former are replaced by graduations of subtle distinction, which often blend together in the intriguing combinations of Mansfield Park.

*

Published within seven months of Mansfield Park, Mary Brunton’s second novel Discipline was an artistically more mature work than Self-Control, yet it failed to attract the same critical attention or public response, selling just under 3000 copies in four years, compared with Self-Control’s 3500 in one. Evangelical fiction was perhaps a victim of the success of its early years, as nothing like the impression caused by Cœlebs and Self-Control would occur again, despite the rising quantities of such novels. By now the Evangelical foray into fiction had become a case of many novels being published successively, rather than a few novels published successfully. As noted earlier, the second edition of Mansfield Park failed to sell well, signalling that Austen’s first experiment with contemporary literary models was perhaps not the success she hoped it would be. Noticeably, John Murray himself seems to have been less keen on its prospect, limiting the second edition of the work to 750 copies, and later electing to promote her next novel, Emma, as ‘By the Author

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of “Pride & Prejudice” ’, rather than ‘By the Author of “Mansfield Park” ’. Inhabiting what seems now to be a fairly insulated moment in the history of the novel, the Evangelical discourse moved surely but briefly into the fictional mainstream of the early nineteenth century. The apparatus attached to these novels—the simple, morally laden titles, the triple-decker structure, the occasional use of the prestigious octavo format and expensive pricing—moved these artefacts away from the eighteenth-century circulating-library model towards sale items for individual purchase and personal edification. Moral–domestic fiction continued well into the 1820s and beyond in a variety of guises, but with their period of dominance at an end, overtly Evangelical novels had fragmented into three distinct types. Firstly, much of the Evangelical impetus behind moral–domestic fiction was effectively reabsorbed into a broader didactic tradition, which had existed since the eighteenth century. Secondly, some works retained the triple-decker form but became more severely Evangelical, echoing the programmatism of the 1808–9 period. Finally, a number of Evangelical authors moved into the singlevolume format, which was often accompanied by a frontispiece offering a tableau taken from the narrative, supposedly providing an encapsulation of its moral vision. Generally, such moralistic works were bought by parents for their adolescent children; and, in the process, they had moved almost retrogressively into a simplified form far more comparable to More’s Cheap Repository Tracts of the 1790s than to the successful triple-deckers of Brunton, let alone Austen’s own ‘serious’ excursion, Mansfield Park.

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130 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Woman as Genius/Genius Loci: Emma as an English National Tale

‘What is happiness?’ I would say to myself. ‘Is it not the development of our talents? Is it not as bad to kill oneself mentally as physically? And if I have to stifle my mind and my soul, what is the use of preserving the miserable remainder of my life, which troubles me to no purpose?’ Germaine de Staël, Corinne (1807) We have got Ida of Athens by Miss Owenson; which must be very clever, because it was written as the Authoress says, in three months.—We have only read the Preface yet; but her Irish Girl does not make me expect much.—If the warmth of her Language could affect the Body, it might be worth reading in this weather. Jane Austen (1809) Between the completion of Mansfield Park in June 1813 and its publication the following May, Austen embarked upon her second mature novel, Emma, in January 1814. Upon commencing the work, the author commented that she was ‘going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like’ (MJA, 119). Certainly, Emma Woodhouse’s self-assured complacency is diametrically opposed to the neurotic self-abnegation of her antecedent, Fanny Price. There are traces of Austen’s first, and most subversive, heroine—Elizabeth Bennet—in Emma, although Elizabeth’s iconoclastic charm and the reader’s consequent empathy with her are transformed into an overconfident méconnaissance which might indeed alienate readers. Emma’s behaviour arises from her secure and central position in society, especially when compared to the pronounced marginalization of Austen’s other heroines: Emma has ‘lived nearly 131 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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5

twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her’ (E, 7). Contained within this first sentence, however, is an index to the novel’s theme: Emma’s misconceived vanity causes confusions and tribulations which will certainly distress and vex her. In fact, much of Emma’s conceit arises from her privileged position within the small demesne encompassed by Hartfield, Highbury, and Donwell Abbey. The narrator informs us that ‘[t]he real evils indeed of Emma’s situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself’. In sketching out the world of Emma, Austen extends beyond the restricted country-house setting of Mansfield Park, practically realizing the advice she gave to her niece Anna halfway through the composition of Emma: ‘3 or 4 Families in a Country Village is the very thing to work on’ (JAL, 275; 9 September 1814). In both cases, then—the less sympathetic presentation of a heroine and, more particularly, the expanded depiction of busy county life—Austen departs from the model established in her previous novels. The reconstructed fictional topos of Emma is of course explicable by the author’s own process of consistent redefinition and refinement. However, Austen’s depiction of ‘3 or 4 families’ can be read as a response to the ‘national tales’ of writers such as Sydney Owenson (later Lady Morgan) and Germaine de Staël. The national tale can be seen as one of the most important trends affecting the market for fiction during the late 1800s and 1810s—one certainly of equal significance to that of Evangelicalism, as discussed in Chapter 4. In these fictions, the heroines act as both genius and genius loci—in that they inextricably embody both commanding, mysterious femininity and the nation in which the novel is set. Hence, Staël’s Corinne can be seen as personifying certain images of Italy, while Owenson’s Wild Irish Girl Glorvina represents the hitherto neglected spirit of Ireland and its bardic legacy. Within this matrix, Emma can be seen as interrogating such significations of heroinedom, by creating a heroine who thinks she is perfect and commanding, in a society clearly demarcated as English. From the exposition onwards, Austen deconstructs Emma’s assumptions about herself and the world around her in order to demonstrate that—unlike the enigmatic heroines of Owenson and Staël, whose imaginative instincts are shown to be perfect and unequivocal—‘pictures of perfection’ are impossible and misleading. At the same time, while Emma-the-heroine subverts the discourse of the national tale, Emma-the-novel dialogically adopts specific

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modes of representation inherent in the national tale. So much so, in fact, that in its very act of establishing its discursive opposition to these fictions, Austen’s novel inscribes itself as an English national tale that celebrates certain Tory, gentry-specific values against the charged backdrop of the Napoleonic Wars. In order to examine the direct connection between Emma and national fictions, this chapter will address three fundamental issues. The first section will deal with a number of factors that converged around the composition and publication of Emma: specifically, the culmination of the Napoleonic Wars and Austen’s move from the small firm of Thomas Egerton to the high-profile John Murray. This will be followed by a consideration of the development and the essential qualities of the national tale against which Emma sets itself. The final section investigates the ways in which Emma can be identified as part of a broader challenge to the novels of Owenson, Staël, and their imitators.

The social and literary contexts of Emma A number of momentous factors coalesce around the creation of Emma, underpinning the association between Austen’s novel and the national tale. Turning first to the specific publishing history of Emma, it becomes clear that the work marks a transformation in Austen’s literary career. Her move to the highly respected firm of John Murray and her subsequent communications with the Prince Regent’s librarian signal her entry into a more professional world of authorship. In broader terms, these events can be linked to a watershed in the publication of fiction, marked by a confident market and anticipating the appearance of Scott’s historical fictions. As far as the composition of Emma is concerned, very little direct information exists, since there are no references to the writing of the novel in Austen’s extant correspondence, as there had been for Mansfield Park. Cassandra’s memorandum documents that Emma was begun on 21 January 1814 and completed on 29 March 1815.1 As noted in Chapter 1, various national crises were culminating around the mid-1810s in hitherto unforeseen ways, and more specifically through 1814.2 An unremitting war, originating in the events of 1789 and spanning three decades, had been fought, with battles being lost and won in large quantities. Napoleon, the omnipresent bogeyman, dominated national thinking, being read variously as egalitarian iconoclast challenging the ancien régime by idealistic

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Whigs and as tyrannical despot by Tories. As if Gallic insurgency around British shores were not enough, Britons faced war with the US owing to border disputes over the Canadian territories. At home, challenges to domestic stability arose from the complete mental incapacitation of George III and the subsequent Second Regency, Luddite insurrections in 1811, and the assassination of the Prime Minister Spencer Perceval in 1812. Unsurprisingly, then, the increasing domestication and conservatism of the novel during this period reflects an anxious society desperately turning to an image of nationhood, which had been until now a rather nebulous concept. Whereas women’s fiction had posed a revolutionary threat in the 1790s, in the 1810s it offered a new conceptualization of the domestic–conservative paradigm. This precipitated the redefinition of a specific Englishness grounded in domestic village life, most palpably realized a decade later in Mary Russell Mitford’s Our Village (1824–32). As Linda Colley has argued,3 the influence of the Napoleonic threat was in no small measure responsible for the reconstruction of an identifiable sense of Britishness. George III’s subjects—they were certainly not citizens—participated in an unprecedented national effort, which served to bind the community together at various levels. Not only was there a standing army peaking at over 750,000 men, but a domestic workforce had been mobilized to reshape the countryside; women joined war committees; patriotic crowds gathered in immense numbers at ceremonies throughout Britain. These actions ballasted a Britishness—and more particularly an Englishness—already grounded in a strong monarchist, Parliamentarian, and Protestant ethos which had been in development since 1688. At the same time, however, such patriotism belied an increasingly disaffected domestic populace, partly demonstrating how Britain did in fact balance on the razor’s edge between irrevocable collapse and triumphant victory. This dissatisfaction manifests itself most obviously in the growth of Radical agitation, trade unionism, Ludditism, and Dissent, all of which were inextricably linked. Nonetheless, the sense of Englishness enunciated during the 1810s can be seen principally as a defensive reaction grounded in the 1790s. It was an emphatic counter to the insidious claims of Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité! made by the French mob, glorifying instead the Protestant freedom of the individual and his community spirit. Reclaimed from the verge of defeat, what was perceived to

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be a quintessentially British victory over France had a profound influence over the mood of the country, translating the desperate fears of invasion of the early period into the euphoric celebration of national steadfastness. Having heard so much of the glorious exploits of the British forces on the Continent, the readership at home was ready for the momentous fictions of national change and accommodation, which Scott was to publish within months of Napoleon’s first defeat. In many ways, the Scottian historical novel that commenced with Waverley in 1814 refracted both the anxiety and the complacency of Britain’s self-image at this time. The Battle of Waterloo (June 1815) itself provides an even clearer frame within which Scott’s continuing successes—with Guy Mannering (February 1815) and The Antiquary (May 1816)—can be placed. At the same time, Emma sits so precisely at the transition point (before Scott claimed the novel market for men and after the national strivings of great heroes), that it occupies a significant and revealing position. While the threat of Napoleon could not force a true rapprochement between the various ranks of society in Britain, his presence certainly enabled the formulation of an effective and anti-Continental concept of nationhood. Specifically, it was one located in the middling classes, supporting Tory–gentry politics, and enshrining Englishness of a particularly ‘domestic’— that is, insular and self-reflexive—nature. This nexus of imperatives coincides with the publication of discrete but intertwined definitions of ‘Britishness’ in Waverley and ‘Englishness’ in Emma. Indeed, it is within this synergistic and complex negotiation of conflict and victory between nations that Emma is to be located. Following her completion of Emma in March 1815, Austen was now in a position to seek a publisher. It would appear that she went to London in August 1815 to make arrangements, which were finalized with John Murray by the end of September. Deirdre Le Faye notes: ‘It is not known whether Emma was first offered to Egerton or whether, after his refusal to reprint Mansfield Park the previous year, Jane had decided to have nothing more to do with him’ (FR, 223). Austen’s decision to leave Egerton seems straightforward: she had gone to London to discuss a possible second edition of Mansfield Park with him on 30 November 1814, while in the midst of writing Emma. This came to nothing, which Austen herself seemed to have already anticipated in a letter to her niece Fanny, written just before the planned conference: ‘it is not settled yet whether I do hazard a 2d Edition. … People are more ready to borrow & praise, than to

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buy’ (JAL, 287). In the end, a second edition of Mansfield Park was published in February 1816, at the author’s expense with Murray taking the usual 10 per cent commission. With hindsight, Egerton’s reluctance seems to have been well founded, as the take-up of the 750 copies—a much smaller impression than the first—was desultory. Austen ended up owing Murray £182 8s 3d, which was set against the first profits of Emma, and 498 copies still remained unsold as late as January 1820. The entire profits for this second edition of Mansfield Park were relatively low, amounting only to £118 18s 4d. Despite such poor financial results, Austen’s association with Murray would certainly have carried practical benefits to her as an author. Murray’s firm had been founded in November 1768, when John MacMurray, a Scottish ex-marine, had purchased the Fleet Street concern of William Sandby, a fairly influential member of the booktrade.4 MacMurray anglicized his name in order to obviate any troubles with the London market, for which Henry Curwen provides a possible reason: ‘It was a time when, through Wilkes and Bute, national feeling seems to have run very high, and to be a Scotchman was hardly a recommendation to a beginner’.5 According to Curwen’s rather effusive terms, over the next 25 years, Murray built up the firm to a business which was destined to carry the name of John Murray wherever the English language was spoken, and wherever English books were read, as the most venturesome and yet the most successful publisher who has ever, in London at all events, encouraged the struggles of authorship and gratified the tastes of half a world of readers.6 On his father’s death in 1793, John Murray II inherited the company at the age of 15, with Samuel Highley acting as managing partner until Murray came of age in 1799. By 1803, the firm of ‘Murray and Highley’ was formally dissolved, with Murray taking the Fleet Street premises and Highley the medical publications of the concern. Murray’s first major successes came in the mid-1800s, with the publication of Mrs Rundell’s Domestic Cookery Book in 1806 and then through his association with the Edinburgh publisher Archibald Constable. As a result of this connection, Murray and Constable acted as respective London and Edinburgh agents for a succession of publications, while Constable invited Murray to take a quarter-share in the publication of Scott’s high-profile poem

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Marmion (1808), and for a brief period Murray was part-publisher of Constable’s Edinburgh Review (April 1807–October 1808). Owing to Constable’s habit of drawing accommodation bills, renewals of bills, and promissory notes from Murray, however, a breach occurred between the pair in 1808, and, although their association resumed in 1810, it ended irrevocably in 1813. The split with Constable benefited Murray in two ways, serving to increase his already high standing as a fashionable West-End publisher. Although Murray had part-published the Edinburgh Review, he didn’t share its Whig beliefs, and as early as September 1807 he was writing to the Tory Foreign Minister George Canning about the foundation of a rival journal supporting the principles of monarchy and government. Murray enlisted William Gifford, the one-time editor of the Anti-Jacobin, to manage the Quarterly Review, although Scott was a fundamental influence on its inception as a pro-Establishment mouthpiece. The first number of the Quarterly appeared in February 1809, becoming the pre-eminent periodical of the early nineteenth century. Combined with the founding of the Quarterly was Murray’s increasingly closer connection with Scott, whom he had courted for a number of years. Murray was disgruntled with the comments on both Marmion and foreign politics made in the twelfth number of the Edinburgh in 1808, and used Scott’s own dissatisfaction to form an alliance with the Edinburgh publisher John Ballantyne. Scott himself had been both silent partner and guiding light in Ballantyne’s concern since its founding in 1808, and his increasing interest in fiction manifests itself in a scheme planned by Murray and John and James Ballantyne of a uniform series of ‘British Novelists’, which would be edited by Scott. The series was to begin with Defoe and span over 200 volumes, ending with more recent authors such as Burney, Radcliffe, and Smith. Despite Scott’s enthusiasm, Murray himself was reluctant regarding the immense financial commitment that the scheme would involve. The project collapsed, with only the works of Defoe being published, leading to a breakdown of relations between Ballantyne and Murray. Nevertheless, Murray and Scott remained in close contact over the Quarterly; and certainly the interest shown by both men is indicative of the increasing importance that was being accorded the novel by the close of the 1800s. By the mid-1810s, Murray could also have congratulated himself on being the publisher and intimate friend of Lord Byron, who had come into his hands through the publication of the first cantos of

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Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812). Although Murray’s commitment to fiction was low, with only 18 new novels published during 1800– 29, his works were certainly marketed as quality items: his average triple-decker prices during the 1810s were around 1s 9d higher than the average. Moreover, Murray was the first publisher to issue a triple decker (Thomas Hope’s Anastasius) at the watershed price of a guinea-and-a-half (31s 6d) in 1819, with Robert Cadell exhorting his partner Archibald Constable: ‘Murray yesterday subscribed a book in three volumes crown 8vo at £1 11s 6d!!! … it is a novel, and why may we not do the same thing [for Scott’s forthcoming Ivanhoe]?’ (EN, ii, 480, item 1819: 42) Considering Murray’s eminent credentials, Austen’s move from Egerton seems all the more propitious. Although there is no precise information about the lead-up to their arrangement, by the early autumn of 1815 a dialogue had been established regarding the publication of Emma. Certainly, Murray must have been in possession of the manuscript no later than September 1815; a letter dated the 29th from William Gifford, who had acted as his reader, bestows muted praise on Emma: Of ‘Emma,’ I have nothing but good to say. I was sure of the writer before you mentioned her. The MS., though plainly written, has yet some, indeed many little omissions; and an expression may now and then be amended in passing through the press. I will readily undertake the revision.7 Murray was clearly encouraged by Gifford’s response, as is evident from the author’s letter to her sister from London three weeks later: Mr Murray’s Letter is come [probably on 15 October]; he is a Rogue of course, but a civil one. He offers £450- but wants to have the Copyright of MP. & S&S included. It will end in my publishing for myself I dare say.—He sends more praise however than I expected. (JAL, 291; 17–18 October 1815) Austen’s decision to decline Murray’s offer for the three novels seems reasonable: she had sold Susan to Crosby and never saw it published; Egerton had bought the copyright to Pride and Prejudice, and had recently issued a second edition without consulting the author; and her profits from two editions of Sense and Sensibility and one of

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Mansfield Park amounted to £530. At the same time, Murray’s own offer seems liberal enough, considering that Sense and Sensibility had already seen two editions, while Mansfield Park had received no critical attention. These negotiations were delayed by the serious illness of Austen’s agent, her brother Henry, and by early November 1815, Austen had taken matters into her own hands and wrote to arrange an appointment in person, commenting that ‘[a] short conversation may perhaps do more than much writing’ (JAL, 295). However, it is unclear whether a decisive arrangement had been made regarding the method of publication. Henry had drafted a letter responding to Murray’s terms probably a week after the latter’s original missive of c. 15 October, but this was not sent until perhaps as late as 20 November, owing to Henry’s protracted illness (see JAL, 446). In it, he remarks that: The Terms you offer are so very inferior to what we had expected … Documents in my possession appear to prove that the Sum offered by you for the Copyright of Sense & Sensibility, Mansfield Park & Emma, is not equal to the Money which my Sister has actually cleared by one very moderate Edition of Mansfield Park—(You Yourself expressed astonishment that so small an Edit: of such a work should have been sent into the World.) (293–4) We can infer that the publisher’s offer did not improve, however, and Austen’s original expectations about publishing at her own expense proved true, with Murray taking a 10 per cent commission. During his illness, Henry had been attended by one of the Prince Regent’s own physicians; and, as a consequence, an invitation was made to Austen to visit Carlton House and its library under the auspices of its keeper, the Revd James Stanier Clarke, which led to a visit by Austen on 13 November 1815. At this time, according to Caroline Austen, Clarke informed Austen that if she ‘ “had any other novel forthcoming, she was quite at liberty to dedicate it to the Prince” ’ (FR, 226). Initially, Austen’s aversion to the Regent prevented her from considering this suggestion seriously, but Henry and Cassandra advised her of the necessity of a dedication.8 To clarify matters, she wrote to Clarke two days later, asking ‘whether it is incumbent on me to shew my sense of the Honour, by inscribing the Work now in the Press, to H. R. H.—I shd be equally concerned

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to appear either presumptuous or Ungrateful’ (JAL, 296). This letter opened up an entertaining correspondence between the pair, in which Clarke egotistically recommended numerous subjects for Austen’s next novel.9 At any rate, Clarke’s response to her query was unequivocal: ‘I am happy to send you that permission which need not require any more trouble or solicitation on your Part’ (296). Despite her initial disinclination to dedicate to the Regent, it can be seen as serving Austen positively in a number of ways. Firstly, her mention of it to Murray enabled her to hurry on his printers: ‘Is it likely that the Printers will be influenced to greater Dispatch & Punctuality by knowing that the Work is to be dedicated, by Permission, to the Prince Regent?’ (297) By 24 November 1815, Austen had already received three sheets of proofs (about 72 pages) and another sheet came by the end of the day (299). A few days later, she was able to tell Cassandra, ‘I did mention the P.R– in my note to Mr Murray, it brought me a fine compliment in return; whether it has done any other good I do not know, but Henry thought it worth trying’ (300). The printers were now expediting matters, and by 26 November 1815 Austen had already proceeded in her proofing to at least Chapter 9 of Volume 3.10 The dedication also chimes with Austen’s move to the carriage-trade market of Murray at a time when other prestigious novels were becoming the order of the day. This new world could be confusing, however, and an out-of-depth Austen was unaware of some of the niceties of publishing practice. Writing to Murray on 11 December 1815, as the novel was nearing publication, she discusses the dedication: ‘The Title page must be, Emma, Dedicated by Permission to H. R. H. The Prince Regent’ (304). Perhaps in the excitement of Emma’s imminent appearance, Austen’s usual perceptiveness escaped her, and Murray offered an immediate corrective: As to my direction about the title-page, it was arising from my ignorance only, and from my having never noticed the proper place for a dedication. I thank you for putting me right. Any deviation from what is usually done in such cases is the last thing I should wish for. I feel happy in having a friend to save me from the ill effect of my own blunder. (305) Emma was first announced as forthcoming in The Morning Post on 2 December 1815, although according to an item in The Observer on the 10th (which Austen refers to in the letter quoted above),

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the original publication date was to have been 16 December (BJA, 67–8). From the evidence of remaining newspaper advertisements, publication seems to have been delayed by a week, with Emma finally appearing on Saturday, 23 December 1815.11 Murray’s Sales Book for 1812–17 has an entry recording: ‘Emma, | A Novel in 3 Volumes | by the Author of Pride & Prejudice | Sells at 21/– Subscribed at 14/9 | 348 copies Subscribed on 20 December 1815’.12 2000 copies were printed, a clear indication of both Austen and Murray’s confidence in the likelihood of success. It is interesting to note that the title page and Murray’s spine labels for Emma record that the novel is ‘By the Author of “Pride and Prejudice” ’, omitting mention of Mansfield Park altogether. Perhaps Murray decided that it would be more sensible commercially if Emma were associated with Austen’s most successful book to date, rather than a work which had been overlooked by the reviewers. As it turned out, Emma was reasonably successful, selling 1248 copies by October 1816, a further 187 by December 1818, and 26 over the next year or so, before the residual 539 were remaindered at 2s in 1820. Austen’s total profit on the first edition was £372 12s 11d, although she only saw £221 6s 4d during her lifetime. Owing to the initial losses incurred by the second edition of Mansfield Park, however, she records only £38 18s of real profit.13 Despite the relative success of Emma and Austen’s entrance into the world of fashionable fiction, the gamble with the new edition of Mansfield Park was disastrous, and she saw little fiscal benefit from her labours with Emma. Ameliorating the disappointment with Mansfield Park, however, must have been the rapid sales of Emma, which also received more reviews than her previous novels.

National heroinism Over the last 20 years, increasing critical attention has been paid to the development and influence of the national (particularly the Irish) tale. Most noticeably, this debate centres on the dialectic between the conservative, rationalist fictions of Maria Edgeworth and the liberal, romantic tales of Sydney Owenson.14 Complementing such analyses, I wish here to consider the heroine’s portrayal in the national tales of Owenson and Staël, in which potent representations of womanhood are collocated with equally reified images of nationhood. Owenson made her presence felt in the literary marketplace with the publication of The Wild Irish Girl (1806),15 a novel which

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fuses epistolary sentimental fiction with nationalist Irish polemic, crystallizing around Glorvina, the harp-playing antiquarian heroine. A runaway success, the novel ensured a place for Owenson within aristocratic Whig circles, in which she made numerous appearances dressed as Glorvina. Following the success of her first novel Delphine (1802), Staël enjoyed greater prominence (and notoriety) with the publication of her own national tale, Corinne, ou l’Italie (1807). In both Britain and France, the national tale was precipitated by pivotal events that took place during the fin de siècle. Staël’s Delphine and Corinne embed themselves discursively in response to the French Revolution and Napoleon’s ascendancy as Emperor. So intimate, in fact, were the links between these novels and post-Revolutionary France that the publication of Delphine resulted in Staël’s exile from Paris, and Napoleon later suppressed her De l’Allemagne (1810) on the Continent, exiling her for a second time. Similarly, Owenson’s novels can be seen partly as a response to the 1800 Act of Union, which joined Britain and Ireland as a single nation, itself a reaction to the United Irishmen’s Rebellion of 1798. Yet, as Ina Ferris posits, writers of the national tale did not necessarily seek to expunge the colonizing presence from native consciousness: the early national novel typically sought recognition for colonized groups within the current imperial arrangement of things. Even the liberal Morgan, agitating for Catholic emancipation and other national causes, was … firmly conservative in her acceptance of Irish dependence on England.16 Despite its acquiescence to the status quo, the national tale nevertheless challenged contemporary conceptions about cultural identity and political structures. The national tale is caught in the tension between a politically conservative acceptance of the nation’s place within an imperial context (the United Kingdom, Napoleonic Europe) on the one hand, and an individualistic, Romantic vision of discrete cultural identity accreted through layers of history and prehistory on the other (Ireland, Italy). The result is a bifurcated narrative which contrasts two worlds: that of the modern, metropolitan colonizer (figured in the male protagonist) and that of the idyllic, enclosed colonized (represented by the female heroine). Katie Trumpener locates the synchronic operation of this dual perspective: ‘The national tale before Waverley maps developmental

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stages topographically, as adjacent worlds in which characters move and then choose between; the movement is geographical rather than historical.’17 In fact, what is perhaps most significant about the national tale is its combination of sentimentalism (focusing on the depiction of the heroine), travelogue (focusing on the depiction of the landscape), and realism (attempting in some way to give a texture of verisimilitude to the narratives, which competes with the sentimentalism for ascendancy over the travelogue elements). In many ways, the heroine of the national tale inherits a number of the traits and postures of eighteenth-century sentimental femininity. Despite her intellectual achievements, she exists very much in the world of affect—her tutelage of the male protagonist realizes itself through her emotional influence, rather than her rational powers of mind. For instance, Oswald Nelvil’s first vision of Corinne presents her in archetypal—rather than specific—terms, merging her with static and mythic objects: She was dressed like Domenichino’s Sibyl. … her tall, slightly plump figure, in the style of a Greek statue, gave a keen impression of youth and happiness; … At one and the same time she gave the impression of a priestess of Apollo who approaches the sun-god’s temple, and of a woman who is completely natural in the ordinary relationships of life.18 This kind of portraiture also occurs in Owenson’s Wild Irish Girl and Ida of Athens, where timeless femininity is eulogized and foregrounded, forming a counter to the ennui of the male protagonist. Our first sight of Ida is as ‘the beautiful personification of Bashfulness by Corradini; … something so delicate, so ideal in her form, that the very drapery that veiled it seemed to partake of its aerial character’.19 The images of Glorvina, as Princess of Inismore, attending mass and then playing the harp, lead the Anglo–Irish protagonist Horatio to exclaim, ‘Oh! could I but seize the touching features—could I but realize the vivid tints of this enchanting picture, as they then glowed on my fancy!’20 The first glimpse of the national heroine is a static depiction of a timelessness which can only be defined by freezing her within various historical or aesthetic tableaux—something that Horatio reiterates upon his first sight of Glorvina: ‘What a picture!’ (WIG, 50). This technique echoes the typical sentimental trope of figuring woman as both eternal and

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physicalized—a body which perfectly expresses universal emotion, thereby transcending linguistic (and intellectual) frames. This act of fixing the heroine in stasis is resisted by the broader exigencies of the text, however, and the heroine is consequently neither wilting nor defiant, but a curious mixture of both. This manifests itself most potently through the varied accomplishments of the heroine: as an artist, a musician, and a belletriste. Her intellectual powers transcend the emotional associations first called up in the narrative, and the heroine transfigures herself from object into subject, from created into creator. To some extent, these qualities are already adumbrated, at second-hand: Oswald hears about Corinne before seeing her (Corinne, 22), much as Horatio hears about the Princess of Inismore from the Irish peasant James Tyral (WIG, 41). Although the heroine’s abilities as a performer are the prima facie cause of the protagonist’s interest in her, paradoxically they are also the locus of her resistance to patriarchal strictures, empowering her to defy conventional social rules, as in the case of Corinne, or to exist in a world not governed by them, as Glorvina makes clear. A perpetual fear of the male protagonist is that the heroine’s achievements will vitiate her femininity. In Ida, the English traveller observes that ‘Genius, feminine genius, the offspring of warm feelings and brilliant fancy, he adored in woman, but at pedantry he shuddered.’21 It is precisely in feminized terms that the woman of genius is presented: her accomplishments support, rather than detract from, her charisma, enabling her to act as instructress to the jaded male protagonist, removing prejudice and inculcating tolerance. While Horatio, disguising himself as an itinerant artist, is ostensibly Glorvina’s art tutor, it is she, in fact, who educates him about Ireland. He acclaims, in reverential if not blasphemous terms, ‘that all was gloom and chaos until she said, “let there be light” ’ (WIG, 203). Similarly, Corinne re-educates Oswald about Italy through both intellectual debate and passion, removing many of his English prejudices against perceived Italian indolence. The heroine’s individualism is marked not only by her accomplishments, but also by the passionate challenge she presents to the male protagonist. This arises from a force of personality and self-assurance that differentiates the national romance from any putative sentimentalism. A representative instance occurs in Lady Charlotte Bury’s Self-Indulgence, an exaggerated re-enactment of Corinne’s melodramatic elements: Corissande la Roche is a

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Corissande’s anger blazed in every glance of her speaking eye; her tall majestic port seemed to tower on high, as she stedfastly [sic] fixed a chilling regard upon her lover, as, in a voice that silenced even the turbulence of his senses, she said,—‘Insulting madman! Self is the object of your adoration, and vanity the idol you worship. Be it so: but never again dare to pollute my ears with vows of love, that debase the lips that utter them, and withers the purity of her who will never subject herself to their blasting influence.’22 Although they marry and have a child, Corissande ultimately dies, in true Corinne fashion, upon discovering that Donneraile is already married. Despite her tragic fate, however, the national heroine articulates an intellectual and emotional challenge to the protagonist. Accomplishments and passion are not the only credentials of the woman of genius. Harking back to sentimental antecedents, there is a typically melodramatic mystery surrounding the heroine which preoccupies the male protagonist: much of the limited praxis of national romances relies on his unravelling of this secrecy. Horatio learns that Glorvina has a ‘mysterious correspondent’, and the remainder of the novel concerns itself with the resolution of this enigma, in which it transpires that this secret lover is in fact Horatio’s father, the Earl of M—. The Earl had disguised himself as a rebel after the United Irishmen’s rising of 1798, seeking the Prince’s protection, with the secret aim of bringing about a rapprochement with his hereditary enemy. His solution is to sublimate national concerns into the domestic field, solving hereditary animosity by marrying Glorvina. Horatio discovers the identity of the mysterious benefactor on his father’s wedding day, and the Earl of M— willingly renounces his claims of Glorvina in favour of his son—following the melodramatic, but poignant, death of the Prince upon his discovery of the identities of these two favoured men. Similarly, a significant portion of Corinne is devoted to the mystery of the heroine’s origins, which functions as a barrier to the consummation of her relationship with Oswald. Corinne repeatedly defers revelation of her secret until Book xiv: that she is the daughter of the friend of Oswald’s father.

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virtuosa with whom the protagonist Donneraile has an affair, before returning to his virtuous wife Sophia. When Donneraile petulantly demands his own way, Corissande renounces him:

At one time, she had been considered a suitable match for Oswald, but was then rejected for seeming ‘too lively’ (that is, ‘European’) to Lord Nelvil. Whereas in The Wild Irish Girl, the mystery hanging over the heroine is resolved happily, for Staël the only conclusion is a tragic one. Torn between his love for Corinne and honour to his dead father, Oswald vacillates about marriage, a passive rejection of the passionate woman of genius, concluding with his marriage to her domesticated and silent half-sister Lucile and the death of Corinne herself. The contrast between the woman of genius and the domesticated, submissive (‘English’) woman is one made almost paradigmatically. The sangfroid of the latter is shown to mask either rigidity or hypocrisy. The most obvious exponent of this conventionality in Corinne is Lady Edgermond, Corinne’s stepmother, whose sense of propriety constricts the lives of herself, her daughter Lucile, and Corinne. Her sense of duty masks a ruthless selfishness that is revealed throughout the narrative, and leads Corinne to expostulate: ‘There is nothing so easy as assuming a very moral attitude, by condemning everything which is the mark of a lofty soul. Duty, man’s most noble objective, can be distorted, like every other idea, and become an offensive weapon which narrow-minded and mediocre people, who are content to be so, use to impose silence on talent and rid themselves of enthusiasm and genius, indeed of all their enemies.’ (246) As Ellen Moers has noted, Corinne and Lucile initially polarize into paired binaries: against Corinne’s Catholic, Italianate freedom is Lucile’s Protestant, English apotheosis of the home; Corinne’s brilliance is compared with Lucile’s desire for nullity; Corinne’s sexual ripeness underscores Lucile’s virginity; Corinne has no family while Lucile has no existence beyond the family; Corinne is for the city and art, Lucile for country retirement and domesticity.23 Oswald himself realizes this, musing, ‘ “You need either Corinne’s genius, which surpasses everything the imagination can wish for, or mysterious veils of silence and modesty, which allow every man to infer whatever virtues and feelings he desires” ’ (308). Unlike the moral–domestic novel, the national tale equates silence not with submissiveness but shallowness, in contrast to the depth and substance of the passionate woman.

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The delineation of the heroine as an accomplished individual is only one of two key elements in her representation in the national tale. Equally as vital is the dialectical connection of heroine to nation: it is Glorvina’s Gaelic Irishness that makes her a romantic figure, and Corinne’s Italian origins that make her an improvisatrice. As Corinne’s friend, Prince Castel-Forte tells Oswald: ‘We say to foreigners: “Look at her, she is the image of our beautiful Italy; she is what we would be but for the ignorance, the envy, the discord, and the indolence to which our fate has condemned us.” We delight in gazing at her as an admirable product of our climate and of our arts, as an offshoot of the past, as a harbinger of the future.’ (27) This association is reiterated continuously, underscoring how contingent the national heroine’s talents are upon her umbilical link to the land, both geographically and historically. Corinne is associated with the oracular tradition, as a priestess of Apollo, as a Pythian, and the Cumaean Sibyl: not only is the national heroine steeped in antiquity, but she is almost preternatural in her genius, which is a combination of individual talent and national feeling. Corinne herself makes it clear that her Italianate qualities are what differentiate her from other (specifically English) women, asking Oswald: ‘Do you not think that nature in Italy makes you daydream more than anywhere else? … It is as if it were in a closer relationship with man here, and the Creator uses it as a means of communication between his creatures and himself.’ (85) The bulk of Book xiv, ‘Corinne’s Story’, reiterates the differences in temperament between England and Italy, and how, like a plant torn from its native soil, Corinne cannot flourish until she is transplanted back to Italy. Similarly, Horatio associates his interest in Glorvina as synecdochic of his investigation of Ireland: the sentiment the daughter of the Prince inspired, only made a part in that general feeling of curiosity, which every thing in this new region of wonders continued to nourish into existence. What had I to expect from the unpolished manners, the confined ideas of this Wild Irish Girl? (60)

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Through their heroines, both Staël and Owenson attempt to depict the superlative qualities of their nations: spontaneity, passion, lyricism, culture over materialism. The heroine’s qualities are shared dialectically with her nationality, and such approaches are enacted in the long passages of travelogue that encapsulate the depictions of Corinne and Glorvina, aligning topography with romance in a new way. In both Corinne and The Wild Irish Girl, the hero’s prejudices about the nation (Ireland as barbaric, Italy as indolent) intermesh with their prejudices about the unseen heroine (Glorvina as a rustic pedant, Corinne as inappropriately public): ‘There was certainly nothing more contrary to the customs and opinions of the English than this publicity given to the fortunes of a woman’ (Corinne, 21) Yet, as the protagonist ventures deeper into the texts of femininity and nation, the praxis is one of gradual revelation: as he learns to love the heroine, he learns to appreciate her nation. As Moers observes: All Oswald’s British respectability, dignity, impassivity, and taciturnity; all his essentially religious deference to the sacred idols of the home—privacy, discretion, solitude, patriotism, paternal ancestry—are shaken by a threefold experience: Italy, its climate and culture; applause by the masses of spiritual rather than military genius; and the woman of genius.24 Repeatedly, the heroine is framed against a broader national backdrop, often a ruin: Corinne is first seen at the Capitol, finally at the Florence Academy; Horatio’s initial glimpse of Glorvina is at mass in a ruined chapel, and then playing the harp in the picturesque Castle of Inismore. Moreover, in the national tale there is a correlation between gender and nation: being a woman and being Irish are analogical. By electing to name herself ‘Corinne’, after a reputed Greek poet, Staël’s heroine is not only actively choosing nationhood, she is choosing womanhood. Her choice is an unhesitating rejection of the patronymic: not only does she refute her Englishness, she refutes the name ‘Miss Edgermond’; and after her return to Italy, she is announced in the English papers as dead. The classically laden (historical, national) name of ‘Corinne’ prioritizes her matrilocal, Continental heritage. Hence, the choice of mother above father can be seen as metonymic and correlative with the choice of nation above empire.

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The premises of the national tale established at this most basic level are continually challenged, however, by the sentimental romance narrative itself, which is represented as an act of colonization. Corinne herself understands this, and attempts to counter such undesirable side-effects, but she is ultimately defeated and dies silenced by her mortifying love for Oswald: ‘only in domestic life can it be pleasant to feel dominated in this way by a single affection. Yet I need my talents, my wit, and my imagination to sustain the brilliant life I have adopted, and it does me harm, much harm, to love as I love you.’ (89)25 In similar terms, Glorvina also becomes partially complicit in her own colonial subjugation by her marriage to Horatio. As Marie-Claire Vallois remarks, the nation–woman paradigm is figured dialogically in both the romance plot and in the travelogue elements: Not only does the goal of the voyage turn out to be a feminine figure, but in a curious twist of representation, the description of the country metamorphoses into the description of the woman. In a troubling transmutation, toponymy becomes anatomy.26 Despite such constraints, both novels provide the heroines one final aperture through which to vocalize their resistance to such acts of imperialism before being silenced forever: Corinne colonizes Juliet and Lucile herself, while Glorvina accusingly demands of Horatio and the Earl of M—, ‘ “Which of you murdered my father?” ’ (WIG, 242) Unlike Owenson, whose Whig view attempts to impose an ameliorist framework of national and imperial conjunction, Staël’s vision—arising from her disenchantment with the Republic and Napoleon’s ascendancy—openly enunciates the tragic results of such a union of conflicting minds: For her happiness, Corinne was wrong to become attached to a man who was bound to oppose the life that was natural to her, and repress rather than stimulate her talents. … Community of feeling and opposite characters are required for love to arise both from fellow-feeling and diversity … (293)

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The act of marriage, or in Corinne’s case that of simply loving, denies the woman her genius because it sublimates her qualities, becoming another form of colonization.27 The textual subtlety of the national tale, at once its weakness and its achievement, is such that, while the sentimental plot silences the socio-political resistance framed on the title page, even this containment is challenged at the level of narrative. If the colonizer can dominate the nation–woman by occupying her and enforcing her submission, he must carry the fear that the native will rebel or— more insidiously—colonize him. After his initial infatuation with Glorvina, Horatio’s dream refigures her mythological significance, from Elysian goddess (‘my ministering angel’) to man-eating demon: I fell into a gentle slumber, in which I dreamed that the Princess of Inismore approached my bed, drew aside the curtains, and raising her veil, discovered a face I had hitherto rather guessed at, than seen. Imagine my horror—it was the face, the head, of a Gorgon! (WIG, 60) Lord Nelvil’s great fear for his son is that a relationship with Corinne will emasculate him, by watering down his Englishness and thus rendering him effeminate and under the dominance of his accomplished wife: ‘If my son married Miss Edgermond, he would certainly love her greatly, for no one could be more attractive, and then, to please her, he would try to introduce foreign ways into his house. Soon he would lose the national spirit, the prejudices, if you like, which unite us and our nation; we are a group, a community, which is free but indissoluble, and can perish only with the last one of us.’ (Corinne, 318) The threat of Corinne’s ascendancy over his personality is an anxiety Oswald experiences from the very start of his relationship with her, and her obdurate Italian individuality vitiates his English domesticity: ‘ “One is inclined to think that in this country women are the sultan and men the harem” ’ (97). To an extent, some of these fears are realized by the end of the novel, when Oswald’s obsession with Corinne negates his role as husband and father: he is willing to endanger the lives of both Lucile

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For a long time he shut himself up at Tivoli without wanting his wife or daughter to go there with him. In the end, his affection and his duty brought him back to them. They went back to England together. Lord Nelvil was a model of the purest and most orderly domestic life. But did he forgive himself for his past behaviour? Was he consoled by society’s approval? Was he content with the common lot after what he had lost? I do not know, and, on that matter, I want neither to blame nor to absolve him. (404) While indeterminate, certain linked terms do subtly bias the narrator’s supposed neutrality: his ‘duty’ is the agent which brings the passive Oswald back and he is a ‘model’ of ‘orderly domestic life’. The closing questions are almost rhetorical in the manner in which they are phrased: how can Oswald be content with the common lot after having known the transcendental Corinne? If Owenson leaves hanging a number of questions by the silencing of Glorvina’s voice with Earl M—’s admonition to his son on good landlordship, Staël ironically provides many answers in the barrage of leading questions that close her tragedy. The portrayal of the woman of genius as the accomplished, mysterious signifier of gendered nationhood tends to fragment the early national tale into competing discourses of realism and melodrama. Although both imperatives serve the same purpose (that of demonstrating women’s equality to men) their uncomfortable juxtaposition results in a disjunction that is never resolved, thus undermining the narrative thrust. Glorvina’s reeducation of Horatio is overshadowed in the last volume by her mysterious relationship with his father. On the one hand, Corinne’s secret elucidates certain psychological elements of the novel, such as her tragic inclination for suffering and Oswald’s procrastinating nature. On the other, her history militates against psychological veracity, owing to its unwieldy combinations of coincidence and monochromatic contrasts. The national heroine’s affective origins underline her hesitation between two worlds: the native, mysterious, artistic and the imperial, conventional, domestic. She is suspended interstitially between realistic specificity (as an individual woman,

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and Juliet to brave a winter crossing through the Mont Cenis pass to reach Corinne. The novel’s conclusion remains unsettled, and the lingering image is of a man even more isolated than when he commenced his travels through Italy:

as Miss Edgermond, as Glorvina O’Malley) and allegorical universalism (as nation-surrogate, as ‘Corinne’, as Princess of Inismore). Paradoxically, it is this insoluble hesitation which both weakens the narrative development, with the realistic and mythic elements decentring the holistic needs of the text, and lends the national heroine so much of her mysterious charm, caught as she is between modern life and symbolic transcendence.

‘To be a true citizen of Highbury’ In literary terms, Emma challenges Staël and Owenson’s models of nationhood and romantic individualism, offering its own peculiarly English national tale and conception of the heroine. As Miranda Burgess has commented: Austen’s national romances reveal an often overlooked English thread among the early-nineteenth-century fictions of national character produced by such Scottish and Anglo-Irish writers as Scott, Susan Ferrier, Edgeworth, and Sydney Owenson. … Her works stretch the borders of the genre Owenson named ‘the national tale’: it was not only England’s colonies and dominions that produced fictions of resistance to ‘foreign’ usurpation and cultural conquest, but also England itself.28 Throughout her narrative, Austen repeatedly contrasts competing discourses of individualism and communality, all the while articulating this tension with a quiet consciousness of the Napoleonic Wars that were culminating in the mid-1810s. During the time of Emma’s composition, Austen exchanged a series of letters with her niece Anna, who was herself writing a novel and sought advice from her aunt. These letters form an interesting adjunct to Austen’s development of Emma and cast light on her own technique in creating the Highbury community. In one of six extant letters dealing with Anna’s novel, Austen admonishes: Let the Portmans go to Ireland, but as you know nothing of the Manners there, you had better not go with them. You will be in danger of giving false representations. Stick to Bath & the Foresters. There you will be quite at home. (JAL, 269; 18 August 1814)

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Austen’s aim in writing fiction is clearly to depict a quotidian world drawn from her own immediate experience, one divorced from the melodramatic exoticism of Staël’s Italy or Owenson’s Ireland, and based on her own empirical perceptions of provincial English life. That Austen’s fiction is antithetical to the portraits of heroinedom drawn by Owenson and Staël is adumbrated by details from her personal life. She had read both The Wild Irish Girl and Corinne, having commented on both in her correspondence. As the quotation at the start of this chapter makes clear, Austen perceived Owenson to be something of a primadonna, whose talents lay in writing overwrought and eroticized prose, rather than as an accomplished author in the Edgeworthian manner (JAL, 166; 17 January 1809). Her reaction to Staël is harder to decipher, as her comments were less direct. In December 1808, she recommended that an acquaintance read ‘Corinna’;29 yet, when Austen was given the opportunity to meet with Staël in October 1813, she declined.30 Staël’s own reaction to Austen was itself ambivalent: on the one hand, she declared that Austen’s fiction was ‘vulgaire’—that is, commonplace as opposed to metaphysical—yet she kept a copy of Mansfield Park at her family home in Switzerland (BJA, 135). Outside the confines of their fictional discourses, then, it seems that a dialectical relationship operated between these three authors, much like Austen’s engagement with Evangelicalism. Nevertheless, Emma is less an instinctive reaction against such ‘Continental’ conceptions of femininity, as an engaged response to the novelistic framework within which such heroines are cast. Austen subtly dismantles the apparatus of the national tale by providing a counter-narrative which contrasts melodrama with realism, rather than satire, and grandiose mythmaking with psychosocial depth, rather than bathetic caricature. The static perfections of Glorvina, Ida, and Corinne can be contrasted with the development of the Austenian protagonist. Whereas the enduring accomplishments of the heroine direct the national romance, Austen’s novel is driven by an examination of the heroine’s imperfections. Emma is the only one of Austen’s novels to be published featuring the heroine’s name as its title: like the unpublished Susan, its focus is on the re-education of a misguided figure who must learn to distinguish romance from reality, fiction from fact. The title of the national romances themselves enunciate the correlation between heroine and nation—‘Corinne or Italy’—an act that establishes a dialectical paradigm connecting woman to nation. Is the novel about the

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heroine or the country? Does a sense of the heroine adumbrate our sense of the nation, or does our reading of the travelogue about Italy open up readings of the heroine? By contrast, the title of Austen’s novel ironically reinflects the practices of the national tale, so that eponymity represents not the locus of perfection but the site of social re-education and psychological re-evaluation. Unlike Corinne, there is no parity between heroine and nation here: Emma is certainly not representative of England, and must instead divest herself of excessive individuality, inscribing herself communally within the English provincial world that consistently undercuts Emma’s romantic narratives. Emma presents three potential paradigms of heroinedom, each of which is ultimately demonstrated as lacking in one way or another. The first model is one supplied by Emma herself: she takes the simple Harriet Smith and attempts to establish her as a putative heroine, providing various rejected or sought-after lovers. Harriet conforms to the eighteenth-century Rousseauvian model of femininity as simple and natural, ‘short, plump and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness’ (21).31 Harriet’s ambiguous social status situates her ideally as the locus for Emma’s romantic narrative, and anticipating Mrs Elton’s more noticeably obnoxious patronage of Jane Fairfax, Emma’s reasons for taking Harriet up are shown to be self-congratulating: She would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers. (22) Hence, Emma’s romanticism is both located within the social context and demonstrated as arrogant. Knightley unequivocally invalidates Emma’s act of creating heroines because it is paradoxically contingent upon (in Emma’s case) and antagonistic towards (in Harriet’s case) hegemonic social structures: ‘You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. … You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her.’ (54–5)

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Knightley’s criticism returns to haunt Emma, when Harriet fixes upon him as a prospective husband. It is this realization which precipitates Emma herself into understanding her own feelings for Knightley, but not before regretting the intimacy with Harriet: ‘Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!’ (340) Emma is saved from humiliation, and her romantic heroine is returned to the realms of social convention, by Harriet’s engagement to Robert Martin and the revelation of her origins as a tradesman’s daughter: Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!—It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connection had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed. (394) The second potential heroine presented in Emma is Jane Fairfax, a woman portrayed in the same vein as Frances Burney’s Wanderer (1814): accomplished yet harbouring a mysterious secret. If Harriet Smith is representative of natural simplicity, then Jane Fairfax can be seen as cultivated accomplishment. Had Austen chosen to write a romantic narrative, then Jane Fairfax, rather than Emma Woodhouse, would have been the natural heroine—even Emma herself acknowledges that she falls short in comparison. Jane is less important for her accomplishments, however, than for the romantic subplot within which she performs the role of heroine. Austen’s ironic sense is in full operation here: in a main narrative depicting Emma’s trajectory from romanticism into reality, a second story abounding with romantic potential is presented. All the usual apparatus of the sentimental tale of separated lovers is made available: an eligible heir and an impoverished heroine, a tyrannical guardian preventing their union, the death of that guardian, and the ultimate victory of the lovers. Yet, Emma neglects it; or, rather, she chooses to marginalize Jane’s story by making it more illicit than it actually is, so that the socially inappropriate romance between Jane and Frank is transformed into the adulterous proto-affair with Mr Dixon. When the final revelation is made, Emma can only think of the whole affair as ‘a very abominable sort of proceeding’, ‘a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage and treachery’ (328–9). As a

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heroine, then, despite her vulnerable position, intelligence, and sensibility, Jane is found to be as lacking as Harriet Smith. In the final configuration, Emma perceives herself to be a heroine, whose perfection and status allow her to enjoy an unparalleled individuality at the expense of social responsibility. As a result of her privileged position, Emma has leisure to play the heroine, although it is quite clear that she is no Corinne or Glorvina. While she has some native talent, Emma candidly admits (to herself) that her abilities are limited, and that she was not born to excel: She played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of. (39) Such desultory achievement in the arts hardly makes for the perfect heroine she thinks she is—at least, not in the terms set up by the national tale. Where Emma does manifest the qualities normally associated with the Staëlian heroine is in her attempt to shape the world around her: her manner of substituting a fictional world for the quotidian Highbury aligns her more closely with the national heroine than one might assume. Much as Corinne is an improvisatrice of poetry and a reconstructor of her own history, Emma is an improvisatrice when it comes to other people’s histories and relationships. Whereas the national heroine’s canvas is the arts and her own identity, Emma’s is the network of relationships between the people that surround her. A paradigmatic example concerns the aftermath of Harriet’s rescue from the gypsies by Frank. Even in the normal course of things such an event could be construed as somewhat romantic, but Emma’s affliction exaggerates such speculations: Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. … How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!— especially with such a ground-work of anticipation as her mind had already made. (277; emphasis mine)

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Emma’s ‘imaginism’ isolates her from the emotional sympathy that is necessary to function appropriately within the community. Her romantic mythmaking about Harriet and Jane leads her to disregard the social disruption she causes by her interference and speculation. Emma’s romanticism and its consequent snobbery disconnect her from the social world which the text validates as the appropriate milieu of existence. An obvious instance occurs in her painting of Harriet, ostensibly for Mr Elton’s benefit. Emma is aware of Harriet’s deficiencies, but her wilful romanticizing leads her to depart from the original in her portraiture: ‘There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and … she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance’ (41). Emma’s function as an author of romantic texts is partially contingent on generating an appropriate audience, whose reactions inform us more about their own characters than about Harriet’s. Of the four viewers, Mrs Weston, Mr Elton, and Mr Woodhouse indulge Emma in overlooking the painting’s inadequacies, and it falls to Mr Knightley, that bluff guardian of truth and social civility, to state the obvious: ‘ “You have made her too tall, Emma.” ’ This last statement has an ironic sense of prophecy about it, when we appreciate the metaphorical truth which underlies the literal fact: Emma’s patronage of Harriet will eventually give her ideas above her station, transposing her desire from the tenant (Robert Martin) to the landlord (George Knightley). Emma begins the novel at the centre of Highbury, but is partially isolated from it, and her sense of self functions in a similar manner to the valetudinarianism that circumscribes her father’s social compass. In the first chapter, Mr Woodhouse argues that the Westons’ house is too far to visit on foot and too near to visit by carriage from his home. This kind of self-imposed isolation mirrors the social disconnection underlying the national tale: Staël’s Delphine and Corinne begin their lives as part of the privileged classes, and their narratives chart the increasing isolation from society that forms an integral part of their tragedy, concluding ultimately in their deaths. This is perhaps less the case with Owenson’s plots, whose resolutions are broadly optimistic; as Ferris notes, however, ‘[w]ith the entry into Inismore, the narrative moves into the world of the idyll—and stays there.’32 There is a need, then, for Emma to integrate herself into the social life of Highbury: such an impetus is at odds with her

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attempt to control the world around her, which is itself shown to be both misleading to the heroine and disruptive to the community. Emma’s mythmaking gives an impossible romantic edge to the circumscribed world that women existed within during the early nineteenth century. Rather than denying women power altogether, mythmaking misleads them into believing they have inappropriate kinds of power (in Austen’s view). Consequently, Emma neglects the social consequences of her position, in favour of the personal privilege arising from it. On the one hand, havoc can be wreaked by mythmaking on other members of the community (Harriet and Miss Bates). On the other, mythmaking masks the larger powerlessness of nineteenth-century women, who cannot control the circumstances around them: Jane seems destined to poverty or governessing, Highbury takes the Eltons at face value, Emma is duped by Frank Churchill. As William Galperin has observed: At the heart of Emma’s fantasies is less a vision of the world as it is where, as the novel makes clear, women are continually at risk. Driving Emma’s imaginings, at least initially, is a vision of the world as it should be and perhaps can be, where women, who may have already enjoyed a modicum of security, can be confident of retaining it indefinitely.33 Defiant individualism is also dangerous, because Emma’s sense of her own power alienates her from the community which both sustains her and supplies her the complacency to believe herself above it. Once isolated from both the community and her mentor, she acknowledges how much ‘Emma Woodhouse’ has been sustained by the village of Highbury, realizing the concomitant responsibilities she must carry. In its review of Emma, the Gentleman’s Magazine commented that the novel ‘delineates with great accuracy the habits and the manners of a middle class of gentry; and of the inhabitants of a country village at one degree of rank and gentility beneath them’.34 Moreover, ‘instead of the splendid scenes of an imaginary world’, the reviewer notes that the novel supplies ‘a correct and striking representation of that which is daily taking place.’ Austen’s novel is not simply a mimetic portrait of provincial English life, it also functions as a manifesto for correct English behaviour, evincing specific conceptions of national identity. However, it is an identity particularly enclosed within the gentry context of Austen’s

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immediate experience, remaining fixed within the triangle of Highbury, Hartfield, and Randalls. Austen is quite specific about the fixity of Emma’s environs, locating Highbury—‘the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town’ (9)—in Surrey, and in relation to three actual locations: 16 miles away from London, nine miles from Richmond, and seven from Box Hill. Mrs Elton calls Surrey ‘the garden of England’, while Emma responds that ‘ “we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry” ’ (225). The term ‘garden of England’ can be taken not only to encapsulate the prettiest landscape of the nation, but also as the distillation of what is quintessentially English. While Highbury is presented very much as a provincial English town, it is not the allegorical English town any more than Emma is the allegorical English heroine. Nevertheless, because it is one of many such places which can call themselves the ‘garden of England’, its typicality provides it with a representativeness that makes ‘Surry’ metonymic for the nation as a whole. Unlike the hermetically enclosed Mansfield Park, the Woodhouse home is figured as an integral part of Highbury, only nominally separated: ‘Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn and shrubberies and name, did really belong [to Highbury]’ (9). Randalls is within a ‘very easy distance’ from Hartfield (18), and even Donwell Abbey, while in the adjoining parish, actually subsumes both Highbury and Hartfield (113). Thus, the immediate, first-hand world of Emma is presented as an organism, both self-contained and self-sustaining. The distances between the essential elements of Highbury life are quite small, while being distended enough to provide a bustling world of activity and gossip. Austen’s fictional taxonomy is based on an inherent realism that sustains the created world: topographical realities must be observed, as must social gradations. A sentimentalized departure from these rules would be a case of bad faith, much in the line of Emma’s own romanticism which attempts to vitiate such structures of verisimilitude. Clearly, then, the Austenian narrator’s role is to counter such bad fictionalizing and replace it with precision and scrupulosity. Unlike Austen’s other novels, Highbury (and its immediate environs) is the epicentre of Emma: other characters move into it from the peripheries, but the heroine never leaves it.35 Although this is not quite the same as the national tale’s practice of equating heroine with landscape, this motif certainly underlines the mutual exchange between Emma

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a pattern does indeed emerge here: of exclusion. No ‘Celtic fringe’  … only England: a much smaller space than the United Kingdom as a whole. And not even all of England: Lancashire, the North, the industrial revolution—all missing. Instead, we have here the much older England celebrated by the ‘estate poems’ of topographical poetry: hills, parks, country houses.36 Highbury is a particularized portrait of English life, circumscribed and isolated from other parts of England and the rest of the world. A quiet contrast is drawn between ‘here’ and ‘there’, between the provincial world drawn by Austen and those metropolitan parts of the country which are mainly seen as negative. Modern cities like London and Bath are shown to have adverse influences on characters: John Knightley is impatient and money-minded; Mrs Elton is vulgar and arrogant; Frank’s trip to London for a haircut is perceived even by Emma to be frivolous and a sign of moral ambiguity. Other locations, further afield but still specifically English, are introduced. The Churchills’ Yorkshire seat, Enscombe, can be perceived as a grander version of the Bertrams’ isolated Mansfield Park; and even when they come to Surrey, the Churchills are disdainfully aloof from the gentry world of Highbury, preferring to remain in Richmond. As a resort town, Weymouth is a putative land of romance, initially the romantic scene of illicit love for Jane and Mr Dixon (itself indirectly, but tellingly, linked to Ireland), ultimately shown to be the place of Frank and Jane’s secret engagement.37 In addition to disconnecting Highbury from other regions, Austen also restricts the social fabric of the novel to the fluid but identifiable world of the gentry. The stability and ordinariness of provincial life is staunchly defended by the narrative, for instance in the anti-picturesqueness of the landscape. As Emma comments: ‘We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure.’ (225)

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and Highbury—a lesson that Emma must learn herself through the course of the novel. In Atlas of the European Novel 1800–1900, Franco Moretti locates how Austen’s England takes on a specifically parochial and HomeCounties inflection:

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Highbury is not a land of frivolity and metropolitan excursions, but a scene of domestic virtue. Outsiders are not incorporated, representing little more than ciphers: the poor of the village form only an object of Emma’s charity; the gypsies (representative of anything from travelling vagabonds to the itinerant poor) are delineated third-hand as a threat to be excised from village circles; the poultry thief conveniently brings Mr Woodhouse around to Emma and Knightley’s pending marriage. In this way, Emma clearly establishes a dialectical paradigm, in which all that is positive centres around Highbury, while any subversive currents are excluded from it. Emma, at the centre of Highbury life, must detach herself from her grandiose snobbery and romanticism and integrate herself into community life, symbolized through her union with Knightley.38 Although Highbury constitutes a stratified world that omits certain sectors (such as the working classes and the aristocracy), a certain level of interchange exists within the restricted ranks of its social circles. Austen’s overall aim is to depict the synthesis between the emergent middle class and the existing gentry as the way forward for provincial England. Hence, we are told that Weston ‘was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property’ (15; my emphasis). Similarly, the Coles have risen from their origins in trade to being second only to the Woodhouses. Mr Perry, the village apothecary, is planning to set up his own carriage: either a sign of gentility or social climbing. Such indicators imply opportunity for the honest ‘yeoman’ Robert Martin, whose family might in a few generations, by its own exertions and Knightley’s patronage, aspire to the same success as the Westons and Coles. T. B. Tomlinson discriminates the difference in Austen’s world between social acceptance and social integration, however, noting that people like the Coles and the Martins ‘must assimilate themselves to Mr Knightley’s world, not at all he to theirs. If the Coles keep their proper distance they may, the novel implies, grow into the neighbourhood and share some of its virtues.’39 Within such a context of limited fluidity, Emma’s snobbery and romanticism allow her to indulge in a fantasy world which occludes this kind of social mobility and ballasts existing structures. Although it is essentially sound, Highbury is shown to be a fragile and vulnerable community, threatened by outsiders—most obviously the gypsies and poultry thieves—who are generally excluded from its social make-up. It is also subverted, however, by people who

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are accommodated within that network, notably Augusta Elton and Frank Churchill. Highbury is also vulnerable because of its own stasis, although the appearance of characters such as Weston, the Coles, and even Robert Martin points to a fluidity that has the potential to nurture and sustain provincial English life, granting that this accommodates the gentry as well. In fact, the novel is nothing if not concerned with drawing out the gentry figures more into the community, in contrast to the isolation of Mansfield Park. Deidre Lynch appositely observes: Austen makes community—in both the narrow circle of acquaintance we discover in Highbury and England at large— depend on human disclosure, or, more precisely, on what approximates it. … Either as near neighbors or as compatriots, we cannot know one another’s feelings—but we need to imagine that we can and we need to act as if we do.40 In this context, Emma must learn that the accepted order is based on an appreciation of the rules that govern it and that romantic individualism can subvert these borders of understanding to such an extent that it endangers the fabric of social convention. Complementing Austen’s general depiction of Highbury are the two set pieces which occur in adjacent chapters in Volume 3 of Emma. One informs the other, contrasting a vignette of selfenclosing and halcyon English parochialism with a tableau of social exclusion and fragmentation dominated by metropolitan influences. The first of these occurs in the strawberry-picking trip to Donwell Abbey, hosted by Knightley. In making the invitation, he observes an appropriate concern for his guests, ensuring that meals will be eaten indoors not to exclude Mr Woodhouse, and taking the responsibility for the project himself, rather than inappropriately submitting to Mrs Elton’s desire to take charge (295). Once at Donwell, Emma focalizes the experience in idyllic terms, which at the same time carry an ironic polyvalence: ‘She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant’ (my emphasis). The prospect is ‘low and sheltered’, but the rambling Donwell estate includes a stream, an ‘abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up’ (296), and, integrating the social with the topographical, it incorporates the Abbey-Mill Farm of Robert Martin within its demesne. In a key passage that concludes

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Emma’s initial survey of the landscape, Austen establishes a silent dichotomy between the liberality of the English nation–state, metonymically realized as Donwell Abbey, and ‘Elsewhere’, in this context tyrannical Napoleonic Europe: ‘It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive’ (297).41 In fact, Austen’s use of ‘English/England’ throughout Emma inflects a specific polemical model, with the majority of its 18 references emphasizing Englishness as a conceptual, rather than a geographical or linguistic, frame of reference. John and George Knightley greet each other in the ‘true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other’ (84). Donwell’s strawberries are, according to Mrs Elton, ‘ “[t]he best fruit in England—every body’s favourite— always wholesome” ’ (296). Much as Pemberley is associated integrally with Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, so Knightley and Donwell Abbey are both synecdochic of a larger national concept of Englishness, which itself carries overtones of provincialism, honesty, and integrity. Englishness, like Highbury, however is an ethereal, fragile concept, transcending signification. More particularly, when Knightley tells Emma: ‘ “I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it” ’ (353), this is to be understood as superlative praise. Despite her initial méconnaissance, Emma has come through in the end, and sterling English virtue has triumphed over un-English imaginism, redeeming Emma from her errors. After the quintessential Englishness of Donwell Abbey, Austen immediately presents us with its opposite: the trip to Box Hill. Box Hill is not only miles away from the enclosed world of Highbury, but the excursion also arises from the self-interested wish for entertainment. Moreover, the matter is superintended by Mrs Elton and Mr Weston, whose undiscriminating friendliness is implicitly compared with Knightley’s genteel benevolence. Once the party arrives, the scene is as different from that at Donwell as possible: ‘There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of unison, which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties’ (303). Knightley had taken pains to ensure the comfort of all parties, but on Box Hill there operates ‘a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.’ Whereas a true gentleman of

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established gentry heritage like Knightley can direct a situation for the benefit of the community, an arriviste like Weston is powerless. The mutual exclusion practised on Box Hill engenders a dangerous individualism that asserts itself at the expense of social cohesion and comfort. Its principal victims are shown to be those marginalized figures who, more than any other, require the protection of the privileged. Once again, the mis-en-scène can be read in terms of a nationalist discourse. While Knightley was the primum mobile of the previous outing, here Frank Churchill can be viewed as its presiding influence. Having been absent from the visit to Donwell until the very end, he arrives in bad spirits and ‘sick of England’: a telling confession after the celebration of all things English that has preceded his appearance. There is an ironic modulation in the name of Frank: he is hardly ‘frank’ in his dealings with Highbury, keeping his engagement to Jane secret and toying with her feelings; however, he can be seen as ‘Frank-ish’, that is French in his attitude. Such concepts of nationhood are polarized into a dichotomy between Frank and George Knightley, whose own name carries a sense of true English valour and kingship. Before he even arrives at Highbury, Frank has already been associated with France, in the debate between Knightley and Emma about his ‘amiable’ qualities. Again, this must be understood as significant because it is one of the passages which introduces concepts of Englishness: ‘Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very ‘aimable,’ have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him.’ (124) As Fiona Stafford has noted, that Frank wishes to be a ‘citizen’ of Highbury might ironically carry its own Francophile subtext.42 Much like the national heroine, Frank is an indeterminate character, whose patronymic is detached (is he a Weston or a Churchill?), and who oscillates between Highbury and Enscombe without being fixed in either. Although charming and pleasant, Frank has none of the social sympathy that the narrative characterizes as belonging to the true English gentleman, much as his father demonstrates vacuous friendliness rather than active benevolence.

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in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. ‘Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively.’ They were laying themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. (304) Frank’s confederacy with Emma on Box Hill is linked directly with her own supposed perfection. Weston and Frank both play upon Emma’s self-importance, the father voicing his fatuous riddle about ‘M. and A.’ expressing ‘perfection’; and, as usual, Knightley’s response is typically direct and honest: ‘ “Perfection should not have come quite so soon” ’ (306). Emma’s unknowing cruelty to Jane and her disregard of Knightley’s advice lead her into a greater sin: that of the knowing abuse of Miss Bates. This complete and final flouting of social decency is the key moment in Emma’s social re-education: by selecting the most vulnerable person in her immediate community as the victim of her wit, Emma has reached a crisis point in her moral and social existence. Ultimately, however, Emma is shown to be redeemable because she is essentially right-minded. Each of the episodes open Emma’s eyes to the truth of a situation, representing stages in her inclusion within the moral and social fabric of Highbury: her mistake about Elton stops her matchmaking, as the dea ex machina superintending other people’s lives; her humiliation of Miss Bates at Box Hill and Knightley’s subsequent lecture correct her egotistical superiority; the revelation about Frank and Jane’s engagement emphasizes that she is not quite the centre of the Highbury world she had assumed. These culminate in a final realization: With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of everybody’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. (339)

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A second foregrounding of linguistic associations occurs on Box Hill, and is of a far more serious nature, concerning Frank and Emma’s flouting of social propriety:

Whereas Knightley involves himself in all the worlds—Donwell, Hartfield, Highbury—Emma initially imagines herself as the queen of the village, aloof and inaccessible. She must learn to abandon her romantic idealizations and correlative snobbery in favour of more positive social skills. Of course, this process will not be an immediate one: if the transformation were instantaneous, then the moral imperative governing the novel’s praxis would be meaningless. In many ways, Emma is actually shown to be intuitively right about characters, although when it comes to the detail her more immediate failings vitiate such insight. She can appreciate Harriet’s admirable qualities and she knows that Jane is bearing a secret: observations which even Knightley must acquiesce to. The marriage of Emma and Knightley should consequently be seen not as a sacrifice of female liberty to conservative patriarchy, but a case of in concordia discors: that is, as a partnership of equals within which Emma’s intuitive energy will be balanced by Knightley’s social engagement. The marriage is even more significant because of Knightley’s willingness to submit to the needs of his wife, and transpose himself from Donwell to Hartfield, ushering in an age of integration between the Woodhouses and Highbury life. It is telling that the novel’s closing words describe the marriage from the perspective of the ‘small band of true friends’ that make up the Knightleys’ social fabric (396).43

*

To a certain extent, Austen’s Highbury is an idealized world, but it is certainly not depicted in the same manner as Owenson’s Inismore, an idyllic retreat sealed off from social networks in favour of paired lovers. In addition, Highbury offers a counter-narrative to Staël’s conception of tragic heroinedom. Still, as Lynch notes, ‘Austen is … highly conscious about how, within the Highburian context, every body can designate a very restricted circle of acquaintance.’44 Within this principle of specificity, Austen’s novel eschews paradigmatic contrasts between good and bad heroines, neither does she present a heroine who must undergo a complete shift in her view of the world. It is a much subtler portrait of a young woman who must learn to integrate herself actively into a specifically English world, without changing a great deal of her own nature. If such a reading of Austen’s response to the national tale implies a conservative reinflection of femininity, I would argue that this is only part of her vision in constructing the fixed world of Highbury. As in her engagement with Evangelicalism, Austen’s text is dialogic in

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166 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Woman as Genius/Genius Loci 167

nature, and not only replies to but also interrogates the national tale. For all its celebration of womanhood, the national tale itself can be seen as circumscribed and limiting. Despite their accomplishments, Glorvina and Corinne are objects to be gazed upon by their male counterparts. In fact, such objectification is partially necessary in order to maintain the mystique of the national heroine. There seems little psychological depth to the national heroines, and their melodramatic depiction fixes them in aestheticized poses, underpinning their role as signifiers for nationhood. Austen’s heroines are nothing if not concerned with their moral states, and, as a consequence, allegorical significance is replaced by quotidian typicality. The tension in Austen’s novels is not that between the subjectivity of the hero and the objectification of the heroine, but rather the ironic separation between the third-person narration and Emma’s focalization. Emma is in many ways a continuation of the project begun with Mansfield Park, which sought to interrogate the social and moral lives of the gentry, finding the right kind of heroine for the novel and the right kind of role for the gentry. The isolated world of the single estate collapses in Mansfield Park, so Austen turns instead to the heroine—and in the title itself, the protagonist substitutes the setting. In Emma, the dynamic is figured through the integration of the gentry within the hustle-and-bustle of village life. Austen’s text presents a heroine in a position of security, who experiences a different kind of anxiety from the marginalization of Fanny Price. Instead, Emma must confront the possibility of stultifying into another Mr Woodhouse, a man whose conservatism pre-empts his engagement with the world at large. Emma attempts to reinvigorate existing social structures within the broader village community, offering a network of gentry, professionals, and the middle ranks as an alternative to the aristocrats and self-inventing heroines of Owenson and Staël. In a final analysis, the key to Austen’s depiction of heroinedom is voiced by the heroine herself: ‘ “You have drawn two pretty pictures—but I think there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing and the do-all” ’ (13). This principle inflects the transformation from the eighteenth-century estate-centric philosophy of Mansfield Park to the nineteenth-century community ethic of Highbury. In later decades, such a refiguring of organic parochialism gives birth to the quintessentially provincial portraits of Mary Russell Mitford’s Our Village (1824–32), Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford (1851–3), and George Eliot’s Middlemarch (1871–2).

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The Business of Novel Writing: Walter Scott and Persuasion

Waverley is the best & most interesting novel I have redde since—I don’t know when—I like it as much as I hate Patronage & Wanderer—& O’Donnel and all the feminine trash of the last four months. George Gordon, Lord Byron (1814) Walter Scott has no business to write novels, especially good ones. It is not fair.—He has Fame & Profit enough as a Poet, and should not be taking the bread out of other people’s mouths.—I do not like him, & do not mean to like Waverley if I can help it—but fear I must. Jane Austen (1814) Two months after the publication of Waverley, Austen made the complaint cited above to her niece Anna (JAL, 227; 28 September 1814). Her statement is certainly not without justification, and has as much of prophecy as it does of mock-peevishness. Perceiving the novel as the only discursive field available to women, both artistically and financially, Austen articulates a general anxiety that must have been experienced by female novelists upon Scott’s entrance into the genre. Scott can be seen as legitimating the genre for men over the course of a few years, enabling them to become novel readers without feeling emasculated. Byron’s comment, also quoted above, is clearly indicative of this, merging a frank compliment to Scott with vitriolic contempt towards female novelists.1 In many ways, Scott’s arrival precipitated the end of a femaledominated novel market, one particularly rooted in the earlier 1810s. As Ina Ferris remarks: ‘The name of Walter Scott—name 168 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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6

The Business of Novel Writing 169

of a famous poet, respected scholar, and undisputed gentleman— immediately distinguished Waverley from “the rubbish of provincial romances” and positioned it within reach of—if not inside—the republic of letters.’2 Following this post-Scottian realignment of the genre, women were obliged to walk in the shadow of male authors, contending with the historical, military, and silver-fork narratives that characterized 1820s’ fiction. While Scott’s pivotal role in transfiguring this market from the female circulating library to the male private library is without question, recent studies have sought to assess his interactions with women’s fiction in general,3 as well as examining his association to Austen herself.4 In writing Mansfield Park and Emma, Austen had engaged with the two impulses governing the domestication of women’s fiction during the early 1810s: bringing the novel to the fireside; focusing on concepts of British/Englishness. In this context, Scott’s entrance into the novel market represents a transformative moment, and Austen’s last published novel responds pointedly to this incursion. From her comments, it is almost certain that by the time Austen commenced writing Persuasion, she had read the first three Waverley Novels (1814–16), which undoubtedly affected its composition. I wish to build on previous analyses of Scott’s involvement in women’s fiction by examining two salient issues. The first section discusses the ways in which Scott and Austen’s paths crossed in the literary marketplace during 1814–16, particularly through the advertising of their works in newspapers and their respective theories of novel writing. The second section considers how this interchange manifests itself at a narrative level, in the dialectic between Persuasion and the earlier Waverley Novels.

Fame, profit, and ‘The Great Unknown’5 Although Austen’s contemporary success can be gauged through the recognition of ‘the author of Pride and Prejudice’, her first new literary exercise in the 1810s was Mansfield Park. The response to the novel must have been disappointing: it was neglected in the reviews, sales were not as speedy as she might have expected, the quality of the publication was unsatisfactory, and it would appear that Egerton was reluctant to publish a second edition. Moreover, Mansfield Park is enmeshed in the larger literary context, with the plight of key novels by other women writers being equally, if not more, disappointing. For instance, Edgeworth’s Patronage failed

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170 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

11 10

Austen

9

Scott

8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0

May

Jul

Sep Nov Jan 1814

Mar May

Jul 1815

Sep Nov Jan Mar May 1816

Figure 6.1  Scott and Austen’s fiction in the newspapers, May 1814–June 1816

Combined with this dissatisfying reception of female fiction was the appearance of Scott’s Waverley, published in July 1814—the ‘dead’ period of the publishing season, which ran from November to May.7 Waverley had been advertised as early as 1810, and again, more recently, in February 1814.8 It was not until June 1814, however, that the novel began to be regularly and heavily publicized in the London newspapers, although one must not neglect the strong Edinburgh dimension underlying its publication. Figure 6.1 charts all traceable appearances of Scott and Austen’s novels in three of the main London newspapers—The Morning Chronicle, The Morning Post, and The Star—from February 1814 to July 1816. This period encapsulates the publication of the first three Waverley Novels (Waverley, July 1814; Guy Mannering, February 1815; The Antiquary, May 1816), as well as both of Austen’s novels which were written in the 1810s and issued during her lifetime (Mansfield Park, May 1814; Emma, December 1815). More importantly, it was during this time

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to impress contemporary readers; and, although the first edition of Burney’s Wanderer was sold out before publication, its publisher Longmans felt it would be necessary to pulp copies of the second, despite Burney’s resistance.6

The Business of Novel Writing 171

that Austen composed Persuasion (8 August 1815–6 August 1816). It becomes immediately evident that these advertisements can be divided into three phases, each possessing its own characteristics: May–October 1814, November 1814–May 1815, and November 1815–June 1816. During the first phase, Egerton appears to have publicized Mansfield Park quite vigorously, especially in the immediate months of its publication (May–August 1814). Advertisements appeared throughout May roughly once per week, and continued into the first week of June, then clustered around the end of that month and the beginning of July. From mid-July to mid-August, announcements for the novel were more dispersed, and by late August/early September Mansfield Park appeared in the newspapers only five times. More significant are the juxtapositions of Austen and Scott in the same issues of the newspapers, something which occurred twice during this phase. The Morning Post for 8 July 1814 listed both Waverley and Mansfield Park within three entries of each other (unsurprisingly, Scott’s novel appeared at the top of the column). Nearly a month later, Austen’s novel preceded Scott’s in the listings in the Post (6 August), although Waverley still appeared prominently at the top of the next column. As the chart makes clear, Scott and Austen’s novels were being publicized on equal terms. Towards the end of this first phase, however, advertisements for Waverley eclipse those for Mansfield Park—most particularly, in September 1814. It is hardly surprising, then, that Austen’s reaction to Scott, coming as it did in the same month, was so ambivalent. The second phase, November 1814–May 1815, spans the protracted composition and publication of Emma, as discussed in the previous chapter. Scott’s novels—the third edition of Waverley, the first and second editions of Guy Mannering—were listed in the London newspapers unchallenged by Austen. This time, Guy appeared at the very heart of the publishing season, representing a less risky venture than Waverley. Of course, novels by other female authors were also being heavily advertised: Burney’s Wanderer, Edgeworth’s Patronage, Owenson’s O’Donnel, and Anna Maria Porter’s Recluse of Norway. Still, the dialogue between Austen and Scott had shifted unilaterally in Scott’s favour during this middle phase. Although contemporary observers would hardly have noticed these dynamics, their implications would not have been missed by Austen herself. The final period of interchange between the pair centres around the publication of Emma (December 1815). Scott’s presence continued

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in the London dailies, mainly in early November for the third edition of Guy. At the same time, however, such sustained publicity arose more from the vicissitudes of publishing multiple editions rather than from a surfeit of demand. The firms involved, notably Longmans, elected to delay publicizing the third edition, which had been printed in May 1815, until the second had sold out.9 In this phase, advertisements placed by Murray for Emma predominate, with ten appearing in November 1815. In January 1816, the third editions of Waverley and Guy appeared five times, with Emma being announced only once. However, a renewed campaign was embarked upon in February, with 11 advertisements for Emma and the second edition of Mansfield Park, while no mention was made of Scott’s novels. In a last burst for March 1816, Murray published announcements in the three dailies another nine times, outstripping seven Scott notices. Murray was certainly zealous in promoting Austen, much more than Egerton had been: both Emma and Mansfield Park were advertised alongside each other three times in the Chronicle and twice in the Post—something which even Scott’s publishers had so far not done. Despite such publicity, however, the second edition of Mansfield Park failed to sell expeditiously, generating an initial loss for Austen, which Murray offset against the first profits of Emma. It becomes evident then that novels by Scott and Austen were competing for publicity, a fact that Austen herself would have been aware of during the crucial period of Persuasion’s composition.10 It is apparent, then, that the relationship between the advertisements of Scott and Austen’s novels was a synergistic one. Scott did not immediately appropriate the public space of the newspaper advertisements, and competed with Austen on equal terms, their precedence ebbing and flowing in a discernible pattern. These fluctuations are metonymic for Scott’s general achievement during the mid-1810s, which was not as overwhelming as one might assume. In her extensive analysis of the critical reception of the Waverley Novels, Ferris has pointed out that, while Scott met with general approbation, he was not as phenomenally successful as writers in the following decade made out: What matters is not so much that the 1814 reviews did not form quite the ‘guard of honor’ claimed … as that within six years the Waverley Novels had achieved such authority and prestige that the moment of their entrance into the literary field was already legendary.11

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172 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

The Business of Novel Writing 173

Nevertheless, as Austen herself noted, once he had made his initial foray into novel writing it was only a matter of time before ‘the Author of Waverley’ would preside unchallenged over the genre. The interchange between Austen and Scott in the literary marketplace does not end in the newspapers. On 25 December 1815, Murray approached Scott about writing a review of Emma for the Quarterly Review: ‘Have you any fancy to dash off an article on “Emma”? it wants incident and romance, does it not? None of the author’s other novels have been noticed [in the Quarterly] and surely “Pride and Prejudice” merits high commendation.’12 Scott accepted, sending his review on 19 January 1816 to Murray, commenting that ‘[i]t will be quite unnecessary to send proofs of “Emma”, as Mr. Gifford [the Quarterly’s editor] will correct all obvious errors, and abridge it where necessary.’13 The review appeared anonymously in the Quarterly for October 1815, which was actually published in March 1816, hence antedating in print the December publication of Emma.14 A copy of the review was sent to Austen by Murray sometime in March: I return you the Quarterly Review with many Thanks. The Authoress of Emma has no reason I think to complain of her treatment in it—except in the total omission of Mansfield Park.— I cannot but be sorry that so clever a Man as the Reviewer of Emma, should consider it as unworthy of being noticed. (JAL, 313; 1 April 1816) Given that the very novel neglected in Scott’s review was the one against which his own Waverley was competing for publicity in the newspaper adverts of mid-1814, the ‘total omission’ must have been doubly irritating from Austen’s perspective: in production it had competed with Scott’s novel, while its critical reception a year later had been non-existent. In the review itself, Scott begins by making a general comment on the unique nature of the novel market, locating fiction as a genre that is both popular and of inconsistent quality. More significantly, he establishes a dialectical opposition between fiction and other modes of writing, raising issues of leisure and an undiscriminating (implicitly female) readership: ‘such is the universal charm of narrative, that the worst novel ever written will find some gentle reader content to yawn over it, rather than to open the page of the historian, moralist, or poet’ (287). Charting the explosion in novel

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reading, Scott emphasizes the inherently intertextual practice it has become: ‘gradually he [the reader] became familiar with the land of fiction, and adventures of which he assimilated not with those of real life, but with each other’ (289). Scott significantly posits his general reader as male rather than female, continuing the legitimization of novel reading he had begun with Waverley. Nevertheless, he argues that modern-day imitators have diminished the conceptual distance of an earlier age between author and reader, in which the latter submitted to the greatness of the former: ‘Time and imitation speedily diminish the wonder, and each successive attempt establishes a kind of progressive scale of ascent between the lately deified author, and the reader, who had deemed his excellence inaccessible’ (291). Tension is further generated between Scott’s ideal (male) reader, who recognizes quality when he sees it, and more recent readers, marked by their undiscriminating appetites for the derivative fictions that have since been spawned. Throughout the review, Scott establishes present-day fiction as mediocre at best and trite in general, comparing it generically against other models (which, he implies, resist imitation and passive readership far more than fiction) and diachronically against past masters (in which the novelist enjoyed the respect, if not worship, of the general reader). The review of Emma, however, does more than pass judgements on contemporary fiction, and attempts to chart the transformation of the novel from romance to realism, although the ‘realism’ under discussion is not quite the realism Scott would like it to be. Austen’s works ‘belong to a class of fictions which has arisen almost in our own times, and which draws characters and incidents introduced more immediately from the current of ordinary life than was permitted by the former rules of the novel’ (288). Recent fiction is initially defined by negatives, ‘neither alarming our credulity nor amusing our imagination of wild variety of incident, or by those pictures of romantic affection and sensibility’ (291). It is far more quotidian and commonplace, ‘copying from nature’ and replacing ‘the splendid scenes of an imaginary world’, with ‘a correct and striking representation of that which is daily taking place’. Scott’s implicit assumption is that, while depictions of everyday life are perhaps more consistent, they lose that affective power which gave authors their pre-eminence in the first place. The best that modern novelists can hope to achieve, therefore, is the precise, but only mildly interesting, documentation of contemporary manners.

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174 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

The Business of Novel Writing 175

It is precisely within this matrix that Scott places Emma, which remains ‘close to common incidents, and to such characters as occupy the ordinary walks of life’ (292). Scott partially overcomes his sublimated dissatisfaction with domestic fiction and praises her skill, which more than compensates for the lack of variety and incident. Hence, Austen’s readers will ‘never miss the excitation which depends upon a narrative of uncommon events, arising from the consideration of minds, manners, and sentiments, greatly above our own.’ Scott perceives that her depiction of ‘the middling classes of society’ restricts both plot and incident, and in an evocative passage we are told that ‘at Highbury Cupid walks decorously, and with good discretion, bearing his torch under a lanthorn, instead of flourishing it around to set the house on fire’ (294). Despite his initial reservations about domestic fiction in general and Austen’s restricted focus in particular, Scott’s overall view of Emma is positive, but concedes its limitations. The lexicon used to define Austen’s aesthetics is a restricted and feminized one: the story has a ‘simple plan’; ‘[t]he subjects are not often elegant, and certainly never grand’; the author’s merit ‘consists much in the force of a narrative conducted with much neatness and point, and a quiet yet comic dialogue’ (295; my emphases). In Scott’s schema, Austen’s fiction replaces the grandeur of romance plots with a narrative grounded in minutiae, resulting in a precision through which ‘the characters of the speakers evolve themselves with dramatic effect’ (295). The compliments paid Austen are more substantial and less condescending than she and other women writers were typically treated with in the periodical press. It is clear that Scott takes her seriously, yet at a more fundamental level he praises her technical achievement as skilful but nonetheless humble. The power of the earlier romances rested in their eschewal of quotidian detail and imaginative scope, whereas Austen’s attention to detail (somewhat distinct from ‘general accuracy’) can lead to a smallness that irritates the reader: Characters of folly or simplicity, such as those of old Woodhouse and Miss Bates, are ridiculous when first presented, but if too often brought forward or too long dwelt upon, their prosing is apt to become as tiresome in fiction as in real society. (295)  At the same time, Scott readily acknowledges that, while the author of Emma lacks imaginative prescience, her technical credentials

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176 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Such is the simple plan of a story which we peruse with pleasure, if not with deep interest, and which we might more willingly resume than one of those narratives where the attention is strongly riveted, during the first perusal, by the powerful excitement of curiosity. (295) Ultimately, Scott’s review offers was an ambiguous validation of Austen’s career: it both praises her technical achievement, but remains dissatisfied with the domestic milieu out of which her novels evolved. Beginning with a correlation between the ‘epithet of a debauchee or a drunkard’ and novel reader (287), and emphasizing the undistinguished masses of novel writers and readers, Scott’s review functions as a manifesto for his own brand of fiction. He diametrically opposes Austen’s microcosmic attention to detail with a more general, ‘historical’ realism. This latter model of verisimilitude is conceptual and panoramic, rather than specific and domesticated— the sweep of a broad landscape rather than the communal life within it. If Austen’s fiction resembles the ‘cornfields and cottages and meadows’, we are clear whose aesthetics he has in mind when he mentions, by comparison, the ‘highly adorned grounds of a show mansion, or the rugged sublimities of a mountain landscape’ (295). Throughout the review, the word ‘history’ recurs in meaningful ways. As mentioned earlier, it is first introduced in opposition to the yawning reader, who neglects ‘the historian, moralist, or poet’ (287). Within the novelistic framework, however, the closest fiction can approximate to history is in the form of romance: Such a history [as romance] resembles an ingenious, fictitious narrative, exactly in the degree in which an old dramatic chronicle of the life and death of some distinguished character, where all the various agents appear and disappear as in the page of history … (290) Scott’s opinions on fiction voiced in his review of Emma manifest themselves on a practical level in the Waverley Novels. For instance, romantic and tragic figures—such as Fergus Mac-Ivor and Charles

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establish her intellectual abilities. His image of the (male) romance reader indirectly echoes his opening image of the yawning but addicted (female) reader:

The Business of Novel Writing 177

Edward Stuart—are introduced in order to illustrate the workings of history upon men. Irresponsibly and idealistically joining the 1745 Jacobite insurrection, Edward Waverley endangers the delicate social fabric of a newly formed ‘Britain’. The novel’s conclusion detaches Waverley from his romantic imaginings (and the unfeasible, bygone world that Mac-Ivor and Stuart represent), bringing him into the real world of Hanoverian Britain. As Scott notes in his review: The man of mark and of adventure … resembles, in the course of his life, the river whose mid-current and discharge into the ocean are widely removed from each other, as well as from the rocks and wild flowers which its fountains first reflected; violent changes of time, of place, and of circumstances, hurry him forward from one scene to another, and his adventures will usually be found only connected with each other because they have happened to the same individual. (290) Similarly, the earliest kind of novel—‘the legitimate child of the romance’ (288)—is described as a ‘history’ that appeals to readers by taking them outside of their own conceptual worlds. The romance excites the imagination through its sublimity and grandeur, while the sentimental tale appeals to one’s better nature in celebrating the power of virtue. In a similar vein, Scott’s historical novels transpose the English hero, a nineteenth-century reader-surrogate, from the familiar world into one permeated with historicity. As a result, Scott’s historical fiction does not subscribe to the specificity of Austenian realism, offering instead a broad chronicle that juxtaposes events and characters. Such a model is essentially public and transformative, and lends itself to male discourse, in opposition to the private and domestic delimiters of female experience. While the reviews were generally, but not overwhelmingly, well disposed to Waverley, more enthusiastic private comments from (male) contemporary readers substantiate Byron’s opinion that Scott had usurped the genre from female circulating-library hacks. For instance, Scott’s friend J. B. S. Morritt informed him in July 1814: Your manner of narrating is so different from the slipshod sauntering verbiage of common novels, and from the stiff, precise and prim sententiousness of some of our female novelists that it cannot, I think, fail to strike anybody who knows what stile is, though amongst the gentle class of readers, who swallow every

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178 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Employing a paradigm similar to that in Scott’s review of Emma, male readers of the Waverley Novels themselves distinguished his masculine ‘stile’, which was for them neither clumsy hack-work nor stale moralizing. The realism of Scott’s fiction consists not so much in an accurate depiction of everyday life (the realism we now associate most especially with the Victorian novel), but its attention to the public field. As John Wilson Croker noted in May 1817, the Waverley Novels ‘are indeed almost histories rather than novels.’16 For many of his contemporaries, Scott’s originality arose from his ability to merge a masculine voice with a feminine genre, and to inscribe learned, public discourse within leisured, private fiction. In the midst of this praise, Austen’s two recorded opinions on Scott are far more ambivalent, in some ways mirroring Scott’s own double-view of her fiction. Before reading Waverley, she had already perceived the threat he presented to women writers like herself. Austen’s second remark is of an intertextual nature, and demonstrates that she did read the Waverley Novels, despite her initial resistance, while at the same time perceptively noting what was not new and innovative in them. Writing to her nephew James Edward, she comments: Uncle Henry writes very superior Sermons.—You & I must try to get hold of one or two, & put them into our Novels;—it would be a fine help to a volume; & we could make our heroine read it aloud of a Sunday Evening, just as well as Isabella Wardour in the Antiquary, is made to read the History of the Hartz Demon in the ruins of St Ruth—tho’ I beleive, upon recollection, Lovell [sic] is the Reader. (JAL, 323; 16–17 December 1816) This echoes her earlier comments on Brunton’s popular Self-Control, in which she remarked that she would write an imitation of the novel, and improve on the melodrama by making her heroine cross the entire Atlantic, not just an American river.17 In the Brunton comment, Austen was criticizing the popular taste for a novel in which exceedingly improbable events took place as a matter of course. Here, Austen jibes at Isabella Wardour’s Gothic tale-withina-tale, ‘The Fortunes of Martin Waldeck’, which appears early in

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blue-backed book in a circulating library for the sake of the story, I should fear that half the knowledge of nature it contains and all the Humour would be thrown away.15

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Volume 2 of The Antiquary, and is read aloud by her erstwhile suitor Lovel, against the backdrop of a decaying convent.18 By 1815, the inset tale was an old motif, which many recent women novelists had abandoned, in favour of direct, uninterrupted narrative. Whether Scott was intentionally, even ironically, pastiching his romance predecessors or not, Austen considered this device to be an outmoded one, which could be used just as arbitrarily to spice up some sermons as it did purportedly pioneering fiction. This dialectical difference between Scott and Austen is distilled most cogently in the metafictive models scrutinized in the former’s Waverley and the latter’s Plan of a Novel, according to hints from various quarters (c. 1816). Waverley’s ‘Introductory’ chapter demonstrates the author’s intimate knowledge of antecedent fictional traditions and his reasons for eschewing them. Mulling over a name for his eponymous hero, ‘according to the example of my predecessors, I had only to seize upon the most sounding and euphonic surname that English history or topography affords’.19 Names derived from romance and sensibility are rejected owing to their predictability, which would lead readers to expect nothing ‘but pages of inanity, similar to those which have been so christened for half a century past’ (3). He elects instead for the neutral ‘Waverley, an uncontaminated name’—although such a claim is itself disingenuous, as his Introduction has itself inscribed the choice of name distinctly against its predecessors. Scott also dissects the more recently popular Radcliffean Gothic, by discarding potential subtitles such as ‘a Tale of other Days’ and facetiously itemizing the stereotypical contents which these descriptives would conjure. His most sustained coup de maître synecdochically captures the nuances of the Gothic while satirizing it: ‘Would not the owl have shrieked and the cricket cried in my very title-page?’ Similarly, Monk-ish horror-novels are also disposed of in his inventorizing of ‘a Romance from the German’: ‘a profligate abbot, an oppressive duke, a secret and mysterious association of Rosycrucians and illuminati’? Scott concludes his survey of milieux by rejecting the opposite pole to the sentimental: the novel of modern life, ‘a dashing sketch of the fashionable world’ (4). At the same time, his own narrative will decidedly not be a domestic story. Rather, he wishes to sketch those passions common to men in all stages of society, and which have alike agitated the human heart, whether it throbbed under

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In other words, Waverley is not a historical novel per se, either for its own dramatic sake (as perhaps Gothic fiction is) or as a description of the manners of a bygone age. Nor is it like the fashionable tale, whose contemporaneity is itself as specific to one temporal era as the pastness of the Gothic. Scottian historicity delineates the congruence, rather than difference, between past and present, and his focus on ‘Sixty Years since’ (5) clearly fixes, on a panoramic scale, the skein of continuity that stretches through all epochs. Austen’s own mocking pseudo-model of fiction, Plan of a Novel, utilizes the same kind of logic as Waverley’s opening gambit. Unlike Scott’s consideration of putative models which have been rejected, Austen’s piece concatenates all rejected elements into a thoroughly un-Austenian narrative, and it is the excessiveness of the piece which embodies the rejection of its contents. The Plan seems to have arisen from various suggestions made to the author, some serious, others perhaps playfully. Austen actually referenced many of her sources in her manuscript, which range eclectically from her niece Fanny Knight to William Gifford. One of the unconscious contributors to the Plan was James Stanier Clarke, the Prince Regent’s Librarian, who had suggested that Austen dedicate her next novel to his patron during Austen’s visit to Carlton House. Six letters exchanged between the pair from 15 November 1815 to 1 April 1816 demonstrate Austen’s resistance to Clarke’s blasé attempts to direct the subject-matter of her future works. Following Austen’s initial query regarding the dedication, Clarke took it upon himself to ask her ‘to delineate in some future Work the Habits of Life and Character and enthusiasm of a Clergyman’—one obviously modelled on Clarke himself (JAL, 296; 16 November 1815). Austen’s response was as firm as it was self-deprecating: ‘I am quite honoured by your thinking me capable of drawing such a clergyman … But I assure you I am not’ (JAL, 306; 11 December 1815). With perhaps too much point for the obtuse Clarke, Austen added: ‘The comic part of the Character I might be equal to, but not the Good, the Enthusiastic, the Literary.’ Clarke was dauntless, requesting ‘an English Clergyman after your fancy’, and offering his own topics for inclusion: ‘Tythes’, the burial of the hero’s mother, and naval adventures (JAL, 307; ?21 December 1815).

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the steel corslet of the fifteenth century, the brocaded coat of the eighteenth, or the blue frock and white dimity waistcoat of the present day. (5)

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Obviously, Austen did not take up this suggestion, and Clarke’s final communiqué indicates his realization that no such clergyman–hero would be forthcoming. His persistence must be credited, however, as three months later he informed Austen that he had been appointed ‘Chaplain and Private English Secretary to the Prince of Cobourg [the Regent’s son-in-law, Leopold]’, and that ‘you may chuse to dedicate your Volumes to Prince Leopold: any Historical Romance illustrative of the History of the august house of Cobourg, would just now be very interesting’ (JAL, 311; 27 March 1816). Unlike Scott, however, neither Austen’s inclination nor her metier lay in writing such chronicles. While such a romance, she remarked, ‘might be much more to the purpose of Profit or Popularity, than such pictures of domestic Life in Country Villages as I deal in’, Austen stated that, even if her life depended upon it, she would not be up to the task: I am sure I should be hung before I had finished the first Chapter.— No—I must keep to my own style & go on in my own Way; And though I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other. (JAL, 312; 1 April 1816) It is likely that this correspondence was the catalyst for her composition of her satirical Plan of a Novel, which incorporates almost verbatim Clarke’s suggestions. The Plan itself at the same time intertextually deconstructs many of the popular fictional forms of the 1810s: the peripatetic historical romances of the Porters, the national tales of Owenson and Staël, the melodrama of Mary Brunton. The heroine, ‘a faultless Character … perfectly good, with much tenderness & sentiment, & not the least Wit’, can speak modern languages, play the harp and piano, and sing.20 Similarly, the heroine’s father, a clergyman founded on the Clarkean model, apotheosizes all that is good and wise. Not only does Austen’s Plan describe the content, it also delineates the textual strategies that will be employed in the narration: ‘The Father to be induced, at his Daughter’s earnest request, to relate to her the past events of his Life. This Narrative will reach through the greatest part of the 1st vol.’ (9). Austen is parodying a number of devices employed within contemporary fiction: among them, the retrospective narrative, often a tale-within-a-tale, more likely volume-filling matter than an essential part of the praxis. The Plan then introduces a profligate doppelgänger of the heroine, a witty and shrewd woman of the world who seeks out the heroine’s company, but from whom the

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virtuous protagonist shrinks. While Austen’s published heroines are not ‘worldly’, Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse have their share of wit, while shrewdness characterizes both Fanny Price and Anne Elliot. Obviously, Austen’s protagonists display attributes that usually define the anti-heroines of the popular fiction read by both the author and her acquaintances. Once Austen’s narrative moves from exposition to action, she dissects the popular novel mercilessly: ‘Heroine & her Father never above a fortnight together in one place, he being driven from his Curacy by the vile arts of some totally unprincipled & heart-less young Man’ (10). The anti-hero must pursue the heroine ‘with unrelenting passion’, while the topography will be ever-changing in Porteresque fashion: ‘no sooner settled in one Country of Europe than they are necessitated to quit it & retire to another’. Variety of scene is matched by a large dramatis personae: ‘there will be no mixture; the scene will be for ever shifting from one Set of People to another’. All the figures will be morally polarized: ‘the Good will be unexceptionable in every respect’, ‘the Wicked … will be completely depraved & infamous, hardly a resemblance of Humanity left in them’—no Mary Crawfords or Frank Churchills in this world, then. A hero, ‘all perfection of course’, is introduced, ‘only [to be] prevented from paying his addresses to her, by some excess of refinement’— shades of Camilla’s Edgar Mandlebert here (11). The high drama of the heroine’s repeated abductions and rescues, typical of any of the popular milieux of Austen’s time—whether sentimental, Gothic, moral–domestic, or fashionable—also plays its part in the Plan. Additionally, Austen reprises more recent fictions such as Brunton’s Self-Control, when the heroine is ‘often reduced to support herself & her Father by her Talents & work for her Bread’—as well as Burney’s Wanderer, when she tells us that the heroine will be ‘continually cheated & defrauded of her hire’. Plan of a Novel, written by a 40-year-old Austen, is heavily reminiscent of the juvenilia written nearly three decades previously, with its heroine ‘now & then starved to death’ and her dying father giving ‘4 or 5 hours of tender advice & parental Admonition’ in high Clarkean style (a fantasy of doing away with the tiresome librarian himself, perhaps?). As ‘Nature’ and ‘Probability’ have been entirely sacrificed, there will be the ‘Tenderest & completest Eclaircissement’, which marries off the protagonists, while the heroine’s decorum, despite abduction, penury, and starvation, will be maintained: ‘Throughout the whole work, Heroine to be in the most elegant

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Society & living in high style’ (11). Although these ingredients are ludicrously juxtaposed with one another, the majority of them can be found in various permutations in any number of the contemporary novels that enjoyed popular acclaim. Burney, the Porter sisters, and Brunton employed such devices with differing degrees of restraint, and despite her obvious enjoyment of such tales, Austen identifies a certain formulism that underlies them. Possibly, she perceives that the skill of the author lies not in the originality of the work, but in masking its derivativeness. One thing, however, is sure: the Plan is the anti-type to the Austenian novel. Unlike her mixed protagonists, the Plan’s hero and heroine are perfect, while the villains are blackguards; in contrast to the careful development of character, a plethora of figures are introduced and dismissed; whereas Austen’s topographies are restricted and parochial, those of the Plan are distended and panoramic; whereas the greatest drama in Austen’s world is Louisa Musgrove’s fall down the Cobb in Lyme Regis, the Plan’s heroine must starve and face physical threats on a daily basis. In Waverley, Scott rejects the sentimental, Gothic, and fashionable models, in favour of one that is masculine and historiographical. Despite Austen’s own similar rejection of melodramatic tropes, unlike Scott, she invokes a restricted, private world that is essentially feminine. Her interest lies in ‘the little bit (two Inches wide) of Ivory on which I work with so fine a brush’ (JAL, 323). Conversely, Scott sees himself as dealing solely in ‘[t]he Big Bow-wow strain’, in comparison with Austen’s ‘exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment … denied to me.’21 Despite the fact that Austen had completed the manuscript of Persuasion by 6 August 1816, it had not reached print by the time she died less than a year later from what appears to have been Addison’s disease, an adrenal deficiency syndrome. In addition to her illness, publication was prevented owing to the various financial troubles that the family faced: among them Henry’s bankruptcy, the shock that Uncle Perrot had bequeathed nothing to his sister Mrs Austen, and, more directly, the poor first profits netted from Emma. Although Austen anticipated that she would be financially unable to publish Persuasion until about spring 1818,22 such an obstacle did not prevent the drafting of 12 chapters of a new novel, now entitled Sanditon, between 27 January and 17 March 1817. The acceleration of her disease prevented further serious composition,

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especially during its latter stages when Austen removed in May to Winchester for medical treatment that proved fruitless, and she died on 18 July 1817. The following December, both Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were published together in four volumes by Murray (post-dated ‘1818’) at 24s, with a brief biographical preface by Henry. An impression of 1750 was printed: initial sales proved rapid, leaving only 321 copies at the end of 1818, followed by a steady trickle, the final 282 copies being remaindered by January 1821 (BJA, 84–5). The total profits received by Cassandra for the two novels was £515 17s 6d: and, as Fergus notes: ‘The sale of the five remaining copyrights to Richard Bentley in 1832 for £210 brought Austen’s overall literary earnings to at least £1625, most of which was received after her death’ (LL, 171). Only one full review appeared in the wake of the novels’ publication,23 and it was not until 1821, with Richard Whately’s retrospective eulogium in the Quarterly Review, that Northanger Abbey and Persuasion received any depth of analysis.24

Heirs presumptive and presuming heirs: Scott, Austen, and the work of history In the Waverley Novels, Scott reinflects the discursive model of Romantic-era fiction as masculine, historical, and fundamentally public, distancing it from the feminine, didactic, and essentially private. Approximating the non-fictional voice of the historical chronicle, his novels reinvest the eighteenth-century romance with what contemporaries labelled ‘accuracy’ and ‘variety’ of incident, contextualized within a broader historical framework. Scott’s heavily intertextual allusions to a male literary tradition—based in the classics, folk ballads, Shakespeare, and other canonical writers— further locate his novels, as Ferris notes, ‘in a literary mainstream that was neither precisely modern nor exclusively novelistic.’25 Against these dynamics, Austen’s own texts refuse to engage in such a manifestly male, public field, maintaining a fictional enclave that is female, private, and internalized. Nevertheless, as Jane Millgate contents: Persuasion does at least glance in an historical direction through its allusions to those naval engagements of the recent past by which Wentworth has made his fortune and its hints of possible future conflicts in which his life may be endangered.26

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History concerns itself with the past, but not only that. History implies a movement in time, the view that the present evolves from the past and that we understand our own predicament better for seeing the historical factors which have shaped it.27 Within this matrix, Persuasion negotiates discursively with the Waverley Novels in very specific, if indirect, ways. In this section, I wish to focus on three key issues which can be seen as forming the crux of this dialogue between Austen’s Persuasion and Scott’s Guy Mannering and The Antiquary: their depictions of the heir, their treatment of history and the past, and finally their respective attitudes to the private and public spheres. The focus of Guy Mannering falls upon the dispossessed heir of the estate of Ellangowan, Harry Bertram. At a most basic level, this concern is deployed within the narrative through the multiple names that the hero employs. Whereas Edward Waverley’s claim to his uncle’s estate is never questioned, Bertram’s story recounts the double-reclamation of both personal identity and aristocratic privilege. Kidnapped in an act of revenge against his father, Bertram is brought up in Holland as ‘Vanbeest Brown’, renamed after one of his kidnappers. Much is made of the discordant nature of his name, by both Guy Mannering and his daughter Julia (Bertram’s inamorata), the latter noting that ‘ “Mrs Vanbeest Brown?—the name has little to recommend it. … he has a bad choice in names, that must be allowed.” ’28 He voluntarily dispenses with the appellation ‘Brown’, renaming himself ‘Dawson’ and later ‘Dudley’. His real patronymic has multiplied over the course of history, beginning as the native ‘Mac-Dingawaie’, before its transformation into the Norman ‘Bertram’, as well as the titular ‘Laird of Ellangowan’. In fact, it is not until the start of the final volume that the narrator decides to bestow upon Bertram his real name, ‘since he has set foot upon the property of his fathers’ (243). Similarly, in The Antiquary the hero is initially introduced simply as ‘Lovel’, before being revealed as ‘Major Neville’, and finally as rightful heir to the Earls of Glenallan. As the narrator tells us early in the novel, ‘there was never a Master Lovel of whom so little positive was known, and who was so universally described by negatives’ (35). Significantly, name and identity are shown to have a contingent relationship with each other, and the issue of inheritance functions

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Similarly, Claire Lamont has recently pointed out that

most fundamentally in the correlation between signifier (name) and signified (heir). This is given a physiognomical dimension later in the novel, when—owing to his physical similarity to his father Godfrey—Bertram is instantly recognized by his old tutor Dominie Sampson, the local villagers, and the agent of his restitution Meg Merrilies. The paradigm of multiple identities is mirrored in the issues surrounding the ownership of the Ellangowan estate, which is itself bifurcated into ‘The Old Place’ and ‘The New Place’. It passes from its rightful owners (the Bertrams) to a sly usurper (Gilbert Glossin). Scott ironically subverts readers’ expectations by naming both novels after the agents of the heirs’ restitution rather than the subjects of that process. This ironic deconstruction of the novel’s conventional correlation of title and hero (as in Waverley) underscores the significance of Bertram and Lovel’s quests for reinstatement through a name. In Guy, the significance of the heir presumptive (of both the Estate and the Text) is adumbrated through the early second-hand reportage that precedes Bertram–Brown’s appearance within the novel. The absent Brown is first described by Mannering in a letter to a Mervyn (with whom he has left his daughter Julia), partly blaming him for his personal tragedy. Mannering had been misled into believing that Bertram (still Brown at this point) was paying attentions to his wife Sophia, which resulted in a duel between the pair, and the death of Sophia: ‘ “if he discovered my silly jealousy, he probably considered the fretting me in that sore point of my character, as one means of avenging the petty indignities to which I had it in my power to subject him” ’ (71). Bertram’s second appearance is more heavily veiled, occurring in a letter from Mervyn to Mannering which describes an interrupted balcony scene between Julia and an unknown admirer (although Scott probably expects us to deduce immediately the identity of this erstwhile Romeo). Situated opposite Mervyn-Hall is ‘ “the resort of walking gentlemen of all descriptions, poets, players, painters, musicians, who come to rave, and recite, and madden, about this picturesque land of ours” ’, and Bertram is unknowingly compared to ‘ “one of these sort of fellows” ’, who are a ‘ “swarm of coxcombs” ’ (90). Bertram’s third incarnation occurs in the romantic tale related by Julia to her correspondent Matilda. In this version, he is the sentimental lover whose fidelity leads him to cross continents and serenade his mistress beneath the stars. Julia rhapsodizes: ‘ “I knew his appearance after so long an absence, and through the shadow of the night, as perfectly as if we had parted

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yesterday, and met again in the broad sun-shine!” ’ (95) In each of the three narratives, Bertram is presented in a variety of guises: first as an interloper into the domestic bosom, then as a dandyish seducer, and finally as a romantic hero—yet, each story is distorted by the perception of the narrator. As we do not encounter Bertram directly until the beginning of Volume 2, he functions essentially as a tabula rasa, which heightens our interest by the time he finally makes his appearance as the novel’s protagonist. It is telling that Bertram’s arrival in the Scottish landscape echoes that of Mannering’s at the start of Volume 1. Through this connection, the contingency of past and present is amplified, as he is, like Mannering, a stranger in a strange land. Thus, as we have first perceived the Galloway landscape through the youthful Mannering’s eyes, we shall do the same through Bertram’s. This echo is not merely imitation: anticipating the later tragedy of his middle years, Mannering first appears as the sightseeing traveller who is benighted on his way to Kippletringan and ends up on that portentous night at Ellangowan. By contrast, Bertram’s happy fate is anticipated by his arrival on ‘a clear frosty November morning, the scene an open heath’ (117). In setting up the contiguous link between the two parts of the novel, Scott demonstrates how the textual past can inform the reader about the textual present: the act of reading a Waverley Novel itself is hermeneutically refigured as historiographical analysis. Although Bertram is the protagonist of the novel, Scott is keen to establish his passivity: his role is to receive his inheritance, not to create it. The Scottian hero does not simply valorize the stability of contemporary society: his passivity both establishes him as a reader-surrogate and allows him to travel the topography at the author’s whim, enabling much of the ‘variety’ lauded by Scott’s contemporaries. As a result, the geohistorical fabric of the narrative is more forcefully rendered, because the movement in the Waverley Novels is outwards from the hero into the public arena, unlike Austen’s novels which move inwards into the heroine’s private psychology. Creating one’s own legacy belongs to the wild, barbaric past, when violence guaranteed the spoils of bloody conquest to the victor. Bertram’s contemporary world has no room for such violence, and those who represent it—the villainous smuggler Dirk Hattaraick, his cronies, and the gypsies of Derncleugh—are ejected from the world that closes the novel. The civilized world is based on concepts such as entailship, due process of the law, and, more particularly,

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an understanding of history and the connections between past and present. As the lawyer Pleydell remarks, in a particularly striking metaphor: ‘In civilized society, law is the chimney through which all that smoke discharges itself that used to circulate through the whole house, and put every one’s eyes out’ (225). Despite his military valour in India and his bravery in rescuing Dandie Dinmont from footpads, Bertram is more than willing to be led by the nose when the occasion demands it. When imprisoned in The Old Place by Glossin, he must rely on the machinations of Meg Merrilies, unwittingly abetted by Mannering, to obtain egress. Earlier, he hides from the smugglers at Meg’s behest in the Kaim of Derncleugh, and then in the final stages of the narrative acquiesces to her once more, when she demands he follow her to Hattaraick’s hiding-place. When he finally encounters Hattaraick, accompanied by Dinmont and Hazelwood, Bertram clumsily trips, and it is up to Dinmont to secure the villain; but even this accident saves his life: Bertram, in his haste, slipped his foot upon the uneven rock which floored the cave; a fortunate stumble, for Hattaraick’s second bullet whistled over him with so cool and steady an aim, that had he been standing upright, it must have lodged in his brain. (334) Essentially, the passive hero relies on the fabric of society to achieve his ends, and this fabric is made up by a broad coalition of the community: Bertram’s inheritance is regained by Meg the outsider, Dandie the honest yeoman, Sampson the ludicrous tutor, Mannering the soldier, Pleydell the professional, and Hazelwood the aristocrat. In The Antiquary, the even more passive Lovel, who is absent for much of the novel, is aided by the binary combination of the community repository Edie Ochiltree and the pedantic antiquarian Jonathan Oldbuck. The colourful but anarchic world of the past is safely contained within the master-narrative of the historical chronicle, consequently serving the present without threatening it. In these terms, Scott’s passive heroes are synechdochic of contemporary society, establishing their rights within the context of social structures rather than beyond them. As Alexander Welsh has pointed out, ‘Instead of a commander, this hero is an ideal member of society. … His nearly complete passivity is a function of his morality—the public and accepted morality of rational self-restraint.’29 Welsh argues that

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Scott’s realism is essentially projective: that is, rather than critically seeking to portray the world as it is, the Waverley Novels aim to depict the world as it could be. If Scott presents passive heroes whose reinstatement to their inheritance generates the impetus of the novel, Austen’s response is to dismantle subversively such apparatus. While Guy Mannering and The Antiquary revolve around and resolve themselves upon the ‘heir presumptive’, Persuasion portrays the ‘presuming heir’. William Walter Elliot is the legitimately entailed heir of the novel, whose social right to Kellynch Hall is undisputed by both the community and Austen herself. As in Guy, Mr Elliot is presented in absentia, as an entry in Sir Walter Elliot’s beloved Baronetage: ‘ “Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the second Sir Walter” ’ (P, 6). Austen maintains this quasi-Scottian sense of historicity in the first chapter, by providing a chronicle of the past of the living generations of Elliots. Unlike the Scottian hero, however, Mr Elliot disregards Sir Walter, despite being courted by the baronet as a match for his eldest daughter, Elizabeth: Instead of pushing his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth. … Mr. Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them had ceased. (9) If the Laird of Ellangowan and the Earl of Glenallan are wracked by grief at the loss of their heirs, who return seeking restitution, then the baronet of Kellynch has for 13 years disdained communication with an heir, who has deemed it unnecessary to visit the paternal home: ‘He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked of and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came.’ When Mr Elliot re-enters the Elliot circle, he seems a changed man and even the observant Anne Elliot commends his outward face. He has ‘strong feelings of family-attachment and familyhonour, without pride or weakness’, lives ‘with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display’, judges ‘for himself in every thing essential, without defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum’ (131). He seems prudent and rational, ungoverned by passions, certainly not a man of extremes, ‘steady, observant, moderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,

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which fancied itself strong feeling’. He fits perfectly into the mould of the ideal Scottian hero, as identified by Welsh: ‘The antithesis of rash desperation is prudence. … Prudence governs the mode in which the Waverley Novels were designed.’30 Even so, Anne feels that there is something amiss in his private persona: ‘He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the present’ (143; emphasis mine). Anne soon discovers that her instincts were correct and that Mr Elliot is merely a mask of social decorum, when her schoolfriend Mrs Smith reveals his duplicity and hypocrisy. The historical perspective emerges liminally in Persuasion, with the past presenting a key to the present, offering the promise of revelation as well as resolution. As Mrs Smith informs Anne: whatever esteem Mr. Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it. His chance of the Kellynch estate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap as dirt. (178) Mr Elliot’s attitude operates as an absolute inverse to those of the Waverley heroes: while the latter search for their identities through their names, he wishes to shed both of his like a skin, commenting in a youthful letter: ‘ “I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The name of Walter I can drop, thank God!” ’ (179) Not only is this a snub towards the present owner of Kellynch, as ‘Walter’ is the ancestral patronymic of the family, Mr Elliot actually wishes to obliterate his entire familial identity, with Mrs Smith stating: ‘ “I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were saleable, any body should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto, name and livery included” ’ (178). If Anne and the reader have assumed that past and present are potentially separable, and that Mr Elliot is a redeemed character, two events subsequent to Mrs Smith’s revelation reveal how little he has changed. Firstly, Anne witnesses his clandestine meeting with the scheming Mrs Clay in the Pump Yard, three hours after he was supposed to have quitted Bath (200). More significantly, when Mr Elliot hears about Anne’s engagement to Wentworth, his fears that he might lose his entail by Sir Walter marrying Mrs Clay and producing an heir prompt him to take her on as his mistress:

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Unlike the Waverely heroes, Mr Elliot is all po(i)se: his inheritance serves as an extension of this, the emanation of an ego devoid of true inner moral being. For Scott, the heir redeems the mistakes of his ancestors, and in doing so unites a cross-section of the community. Glossin, the unaristocratical professional and interloper, is a bad landlord, while true social value returns when Bertram is reinstated to his ancestral home. In The Antiquary, Lovel similarly evinces Scott’s accommodationism by bringing the antediluvian Glenallan family out of their isolated, Catholic past into a modern, Protestant present. In Persuasion, however, the heir does not redeem the estate, but replicates the vanity of its original owner, while ‘interlopers’ like the Crofts are shown to be worthier superintendents of the estate. Whereas the entail works in Bertram’s favour and is socially approved, in Persuasion it represents the failure of a decadent gentry. The foolishness of abdicating Ellangowan to a middling-class interloper kills Godfrey Bertram, but Sir Walter is more than happy to live in exile rather than give up his luxuries; Godfrey’s loss is also shown to be caused partly by Glossin’s duplicity, Sir Walter’s is due to his extravagance. Mr Elliot is no redeemer, and unlike Bertram or Lovel, he does not bring the various elements of his community together. While he is all things to all people, his presence is divisive, breaking up the ménage of Sir Walter, Elizabeth, and Mrs Clay to protect his own interests. Mr Elliot’s success in maintaining the external equanimity necessary for social decorum demonstrates that, for Austen, the presuming heir of the estate is not necessarily the heir presumptive of the text. Whereas the Scottian plot correlates sociability with decency, underscoring the hero’s legitimate and moral rights to inherit, Persuasion subversively bifurcates the social and moral strands into mutually dichotomous energies. If Austen diminishes the demands of patrilineal inheritance as much as Scott favours them, what does she replace them with? Persuasion provides a number of potential male heroes, drawn essentially from the professional classes: Wentworth the active and ambitious sailor, Harville the devoted family man, and Benwick the sentimental reader. David Monaghan notes that ‘[b]y the time

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He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs. Clay’s quitting it likewise soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his protection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been playing, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out by one artful woman, at least. (220)

she wrote Persuasion, Jane Austen seems to have lost faith in the gentry’.31 Certainly, the gentry figures seem unable to supply heroic material: Mr Elliot is an egoist, Charles Musgrove is well meaning but desultory; even the gentleman–cleric Charles Hayter is a passive figure, who quickly surrenders his claim on Henrietta Musgrove when Wentworth begins flirting with her. Despite his passivity, the Waverley hero still remains the protagonist: he might begin the story as an outcast, with neither property nor heroine, but he gets both by the end. In Persuasion, however, Wentworth is initially rejected, before gaining the heroine through his labours as a self-made man: Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him, was no longer nobody. He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which Providence had placed him … (218) At the same time, however, the professional men are also demonstrated as having their failings. Benwick is portrayed as oversentimental and introverted while mourning the loss of his fiancée, deriving his behaviour from reading too much Scott and Byron. Anne indirectly advises him to cure his sentimentalism with ‘a larger allowance of prose in his daily study’, notably works of moral and religious edification (90). Her reservations regarding Benwick are borne out when he quickly transfers his affections to Louisa Musgrove while she recuperates at the Cobb. Although Harville is certainly pleasant and affable, Anne notices that he does not possess the manners of Wentworth, and his chaotic style of living is perhaps too far distanced from the forms of polite gentry society that Anne is used to. While Wentworth’s passion, as demonstrated through both his jealousy and courage, is favourably compared with Mr Elliot’s sangfroid, he is shown as somewhat weak-willed when he inadvertently precipitates Louisa Musgrove’s life-threatening fall down the steps of the Cobb at Lyme Regis, then fails to act when she is unconscious: ‘ “Is there no one to help me?” were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone’ (98). He is shown to be petty when he admits that much of his flirtation with the Musgrove sisters resulted from resentment towards Anne, and that his hesitation in acknowledging his rekindled love for her was caused by jealousy of

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Mr Elliot: ‘He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them’ (212). While the professional sailors of Persuasion succeed as men of action, in the romantic and domestic spheres it is the wisdom of women that is valorized. The focus of Persuasion is on the domestic, the private, and the romantic—what Scott no doubt perceived were female concerns. As a consequence, Austen challenges Scott’s conception of the heir presumptive by interrogating the moral integrity of the socially legitimate heir, offering instead potential heroes who are self-made men, non-inheritors who must create their own fortune. At the same time, these men also lack, psychologically if not morally, the full approval of the text. Austen’s fuller solution is to refigure the issue of inheritance around the heroine and her social function. Anne Elliot is the most active figure in Persuasion: she moves around various communities, from Kellynch Hall to Uppercross, from Lyme to the Cobb, and in each fulfils a specific and useful duty, whether recognized or not. Two key instances occur, the first after Louisa’s fall, when Anne directs the resuscitation attempt, the second when she engages her fiancé Wentworth to secure the rightful property of the impoverished Mrs Smith, a service which Mr Elliot refused, despite his obligation to do so. Anne is not defined simply through her activeness: the issue of inheritance also plays an important part in the narrator’s discussions about her thoughts. Although she is not attracted to Mr Elliot, Anne enjoys a brief moment of wishful thinking about what a union with him would offer: For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of ‘Lady Elliot’ first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. (143) Of course, as is characteristic of Anne, this momentary flight of fancy is followed by a lengthy and detailed consideration of why she cannot accept a man like Mr Elliot. The conclusion of the novel, ending with the engagement of Anne and Wentworth, is described in terms of heritage and property. Her sister Mary’s anxiety that Anne Wentworth, the Captain’s wife, will eclipse Mary Musgrove, wife of the Uppercross heir, inverts Scottian concepts of social regeneration

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through personal inheritance: ‘Anne had no Uppercross-hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family’ (219). Instead, the whole impetus of Persuasion has militated against restitution of the lost estate and worked towards establishing a new destiny based on knowledge of past mistakes. For Austen, true inheritance is not the retention of property and privilege, but true understanding and communion between individuals. Despite their different presentations of the heir, both Austen and Scott scrutinize the relationship between individuals and historical awareness. Ignoring the lessons of the past or locking oneself within it, which both Scott and Austen show to be much the same thing, can lead to paralysis and stultification. The Antiquary’s Sir Arthur Wardour isolates himself from the Fairport community by an obsessive adherence to past glories, despite the fact that he is on the verge of bankruptcy. As Oldbuck tells him late in the story, ‘ “the gratitude of the poor people naturally turns to the civil virtues of your family. You don’t hear them talk of Redhand, or Hell-in-Harness [Sir Arthur’s ancestors]” ’ (339). Similarly, the Earl of Glenallan is destroyed, both emotionally and physically, by a history of supposed incest, kidnapping, and suicide. As Joan Elbers comments, ‘the ancient family of Glenallan illustrates a gothic form of isolation born of exclusive pride and preoccupation with the past that, left unchanged, can end only in the withering of their line.’32 This extends, almost like a contagion, through all who have touched the Glenallan clan. We are told that the scheming Countess of Glenallan, whose funeral is conducted in the secrecy of night, ‘partly from a haughty contempt of the times in which she lived, partly from her sense of family pride, had not permitted the furniture to be altered or modernized during her residence at Glenallan-house’ (224). Elspeth Mucklebackit, criminally devoted to a feudal past and the Countess’s accomplice in the abduction of Lovel, exists interstitially between life and death; as Jenny Rintherout remarks when Elspeth begins to speak, ‘ “it’s like the dead speaking to the living” ’ (214). In The Antiquary, the obsession of the older generation with the past occludes an understanding of the present. In the comic strand, Jonathan Oldbuck begins as a disinterested observer of Fairport life, pedantically fixated on an antediluvian past, but he is forced by his attachment to Lovel to employ his antiquarian skills in unravelling the mysteries of the present. In the melodramatic narrative concerning the fortunes of the Wardour family, the self-important

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Sir Arthur is swindled by the German conman Dousterswivel and ends up imprisoned. In the Glenallan story, Scott employs high Gothic tragedy to depict the paralysis of the Earl. The galvanization of Oldbuck, in which Edie Ochiltree acts as a catalyst, enables him to escape the trammels of the past and gain an empathic awareness of the present. Nowhere is this more apparent than when he goes to observe the funeral of Steenie Mucklebackit as a detached observer, but volunteers to be one of the coffin’s pallbearers owing to his sensitive connection to the mourning father. Millgate notes: ‘Oldbuck and Edie are both sharply distinguished from those whose paralysing inability to connect past and present keeps them trapped within their own solipsistic universe.’33 Of course, the locus of all three strands, the point of resolution, is Lovel, the heir presumptive of Glenallan, lover of Isabella Wardour, and surrogate son of Oldbuck. Austen’s own foolish baronet, Sir Walter Elliot, is as obsessed with the glories of the past and blind to the responsibilities of the present as Sir Arthur Wardour. We first see him poring over the Baronetage, his only reading matter, which serves as both an exercise in selfaggrandizement and an evasion of his duties as a landlord: ‘there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs, changed naturally into pity and contempt’ (5). His interest is purely solipsistic (‘he could read his own history with an interest which never failed’), and Kellynch Hall is shown to be an enervating social arena of decorum-turnedritual. The stultification of Sir Walter’s habits is underlined by the Elliot entry in the Baronetage, which significantly notes his inability to produce a direct male heir: ‘ “a still-born son, Nov. 5, 1789” ’. This takes on added resonance in Mrs Clay’s polyvalent remark regarding the congruence between the current baronet and his heir, who are ‘ “[e]xactly like father and son” ’ (188). If Mr Elliot is not the ideal inheritor in Scottian terms, he certainly is the appropriate heir of Kellynch Hall. Just as Sir Arthur Wardour’s obsession with the past leads him to lose his own estate, so Sir Walter would rather revel in the eminence entailed upon him from the past rather than secure his property present. It becomes clear that the Elliots will have to abandon Kellynch, as Sir Walter

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Anne enjoins upon her father the necessity of sacrificing some of his luxuries to maintain his estate with due dignity and reverence, and Lady Russell notes that ‘ “the true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened, in the eyes of sensible people, by his acting like a man of principle” ’ (13). But Sir Walter is not a man of principle, and his response is to sacrifice the dignity of the family for the luxuries of the day:   ‘What! Every comfort of life knocked off! Journeys, London, servants, horses, table,—contractions and restrictions every where. To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch-hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms.’ (14) Alistair Duckworth notes that ‘[i]n terms of Jane Austen’s own previous attitudes to the estate, Sir Walter’s agreement to rent Kellynch is tantamount to his rejecting an entire cultural heritage’.34 For Sir Walter, the estate does not represent the social inscription of the prerogatives and obligations of the landed interest, but an index of the individual’s right to eminence and privilege. Similarly, for Sir Arthur, the promise of renewed prosperity that arises from the Misticot treasure is not a provision against the errors of the past, but a chance for self-aggrandizement: ‘He corresponded with an architect of eminence, upon a plan of renovating the castle of his forefathers, in a style of extended magnificence that might have rivalled that of Windsor, and laying out the grounds on a suitable scale’ (Antiquary, 318). Once the Elliots are ensconced in Bath, Anne notices that Elizabeth and Sir Walter remain full of their old self-importance: She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her father should feel no degradation in his change; should see nothing to regret in the duties and dignity of the resident land-holder; should find so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town … (P, 124).

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was growing distressed for money. … when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr. Shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts. The Kellynch property was good, but not equal to Sir Walter’s apprehension of the state required in its possessor. (10)

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Even the Elliots’ hauteur is shown to be hollow, when their love of pedigree leads them to court their aristocratic relatives Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret assiduously, leaving Anne wryly hoping for ‘better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life’, and ‘reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen—a wish that they had more pride’ (133). To the Elliots, then, history is seen simply from the occluded perspective of the here-and-now, and instead of providing an opportunity to learn and grow, it becomes an emanation of the ego, justifying snobbery and selfishness rather than ramifying communal responsibility. Much as the Waverley Novels focus neither on the remote past nor the modern present, but on the liminal relationship of both (the ‘since’ of Waverley’s subtitle), so Persuasion juxtaposes ‘then’ with ‘now’. The narrative fabric of the novel is densely textured by this awareness, not only in its focus on the stultifying effects of the past upon the present, but also in its continual recourse to the past as a means of explaining the present. As Lamont puts it: Austen’s novels describe a modern world in which most of the characters find history tedious to read, irrelevant to their concerns, and limiting to their wishes. But the past cannot be entirely denied, and the novels show several negotiations with it.35 This relationship can be seen in the opening sequence which moves smoothly from Sir Walter’s obsession with the Baronetage, to a history of Elizabeth’s disappointment with Mr Elliot 13 years earlier. Throughout Persuasion, the text oscillates between past and present to such an extent that they are almost indivisible. Or, more correctly, they become so blurred that the narrative is generated from the tension between these poles, so that the world which is created falls between memory and experience. When Anne’s own private history is reprised in Chapter 4, the movement is retrospective, from the present transposition of the Crofts and the Elliots in Kellynch Hall to a history of Anne’s romance with Wentworth eight years earlier. Anne paradigmatically employs her past memories of Wentworth as an index to her current encounters with him. This culminates in the scene of mutual recognition that occurs near the end of the novel, when the lovers

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The lovers employ the past to gain a better understanding of the present—unlike Sir Walter and Elizabeth, whose adherence to the past isolates them in the cold rituals of decorum. Despite this correspondence in their attention to history, Scott and Austen depart in one fundamental way. For Scott, the past ultimately elides with the present in order to substantiate uncritically the pre-existing socio-historical order that the hero inherits. By contrast, Persuasion is essentially a forward-looking novel that implicitly critiques and subsequently abandons inherited social structures. For Austen, the mistakes of the past inform the present and enable the protagonists to create a new future for themselves: ‘There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had first been projected’ (211–12). Moreover, the result is a future entirely detached from estates, entails, and titles—a future that is quintessentially personal and romantic. As Wentworth selfdeprecatingly tells Anne: ‘ “Like other great men under reverses, … I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve” ’ (217). While it the past does play a vital role in renegotiating the present for both Scott and Austen, the fundamental difference in their historical perspectives lies in the manner in which they prioritize the public and the private respectively. In the Waverley Novels, the private is portrayed as essentially untrustworthy, a hindrance to social cohesion, and a force which must ultimately be subsumed by the broader workings of historical inevitability. In Guy, the secret veil Sophia Mannering casts over her daughter’s romance with Bertram leads to family tragedy. Again, in The Antiquary, Elspeth admonishes Glenallan that his own clandestine marriage to his cousin, Eveline Neville, partly aided the Countess’s machinations: ‘ “Had your marriage been a proclaimed and acknowledged action, our stratagem to throw an obstacle into your way that couldna be got ower, neither wad nor could hae been practised against ye” ’ (262). In Persuasion, the opposite obtains: the public world intrudes upon private life, preventing meaningful communications; as Duckworth notes, ‘society, the arena of most previous

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returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other’s character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. (211–12)

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éclaircissements, becomes in Persuasion a bar to the truth being conveyed as crowded drawing rooms and public streets frustrate rather than permit communication.’36 In the significant debate that takes place between Harville and Anne regarding the fidelity of the sexes, he notes that ‘ “all histories are against you, all stories, prose and verse” ’, while her response is an explicit rejection of the public sphere: ‘ “if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. … I will not allow books to prove any thing” ’ (206). Even when public and private accord, Austen still distinguishes between them: when Wentworth offers to escort Anne down Camden Place, the narrator observes that ‘[t]here could be only a most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture’ (211). The congruence of public and private is rare in Persuasion, however, and social rituals typically vitiate Anne’s chances of personal happiness. The first important conflict between duty and desire occurs when Anne encounters Wentworth in Bath, and notices that ‘[h]e was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her, than she had ever observed before’ (156). Being part of Mr Elliot’s party, however, she is forced to leave grudgingly, and ‘would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would have walked by her side all the way to Camden-place, without saying a word’ (158). A more telling second episode occurs when Anne and Wentworth have a brief conversation at the concert in Bath, and she ‘had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings, than she dared to think of!’ (164) Anne’s composure is ruffled when Mr Elliot, ever the avatar of public decorum, rouses Wentworth’s jealousy by claiming Anne’s attention: Anne could not refuse; but never had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit. … How was such jealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach [Wentworth]? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn her real sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr. Elliot’s attentions.—Their evil was incalculable. (169) In Persuasion, it is the public sphere that is essentially untrustworthy, and Mr Elliot’s entrance into the Elliots’ Bath circle establishes ‘how easy ritual forms of social intercourse make it for the hypocrite to conceal his intentions’.37 Contrastingly, the private world of

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conversation and correspondence offers the most unambiguous indication of people’s characters and relationships. It is Mrs Smith’s personal recollection of Mr Elliot’s character, substantiated by his letter to her husband, which furnishes the final proof to Anne of his duplicity. Yet, Anne’s knowledge of his character never enters the public world, that is, until he absconds with Mrs Clay: ‘Mrs. Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been extended through her family!—But this was a vain idea’ (187). In Persuasion, the romantic theme, imagined as a purely private correspondence of feelings, dominates, whereas the dynamic of Guy Mannering ‘inheres … not in whether Bertram will win Julia Mannering but in how his identity will be established.’38 Anne’s earlier relationship with Wentworth is not revealed in the public world, existing as a purely private history contained within the Elliot family and, more potently, in Anne’s mind. In fact, the public belief is that Mr Elliot will marry either Anne or Elizabeth, and that Wentworth will marry Louisa Musgrove, as he himself ruefully explains to Anne: ‘I was hers in honour if she wished it. I had been unguarded. I had not thought seriously on this subject before. I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways; … I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences.’ (213) If the flirtation (itself a public act) between Wentworth and Louisa has been inscribed in the social domain, then the rekindled love he shares with Anne is a private, almost unvocalized act. Their first conversation in Bath, which reawakens the romance between them, operates on two levels, the first a public recapitulation of the events in Lyme (Louisa’s fall and her subsequent engagement to Benwick), the second a subliminal concession of affection by Wentworth: His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. … sentences begun which he could not finish—his half averted eyes, and more than half expressive glance … He must love her. (165) Similarly, Anne’s jousting with Harville about fidelity functions publicly as an amiable contest of wits, but also (and Anne is

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conscious of this) privately informs Wentworth of her own unbroken attachment towards him. The result of this is his letter to her in which he confesses his continuing love, using a pretext for leaving the letter before Anne ‘with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a moment’ (208). The direction itself is ‘hardly legible’, yet ‘[o]n the contents of that letter [depend] all which this world could do for her!’ A purely private, even feminized act, which ignores the public in favour of the intimate, Wentworth’s letter is metonymic for the whole impetus of Persuasion: ‘ “A word, a look will be enough to decide” ’ (209; my emphases). In Scott’s fiction, the union between the heir and his mistress is a socially inscribed action of redemption that crosses the generations. For Austen, however, the act of union is non-redemptive, and represents an escape from the chains of inheritance, anticipating a future in which the decorum of the gentry informs, and in turn is informed by, the activeness of the professional classes.39

*

In the Waverley Novels, not only is the romantic plot subordinated to the historical chronicle, the fate of the heroine is also subordinated to the fortunes of the hero. Hence, in Guy Mannering, Lucy Bertram’s inheritance of Singleside from Margaret Bertram is redirected from her hands to Harry Bertram, who then elects to pass it back to his sister, before it is renamed ‘Mount Hazelwood’. In Austen’s hands, this story would have been treated as emblematic of women’s marginalization; in Scott it is uncritically accepted. Similarly, The Antiquary’s Oldbuck repeatedly refers to Lovel as a ‘phoenix’, underscoring how his personal rebirth will reinvigorate decadent social strata (the Wardour and Glenallan lines) with middle-class energy. As proof of this, Lovel leads the military contingent which announces the safety of Fairport precisely at the moment of his recognition by his father.40 In Persuasion, while military valour is lauded—especially when contrasted with the calcification of the gentry—it is the domestic and private that are finally celebrated. It is revealing that Austen’s closing image simultaneously contrasts the public and private role of Navy life, while clearly prioritizing the latter: ‘[Anne] gloried in being a sailor’s wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance’ (221). The fault-lines that fundamentally separate the two novelists are clearly

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discernible. Scott’s Waverley Novels replace gynocentric domestic narratives with fictions that are essentially public and homosocial, in which the hero’s rights are established by the actions of male agents. In Persuasion, however, Austen’s response is to challenge this impetus by moulding concepts of the public sphere, entailship, and inheritance into a love-story that revalidates the vitality of the private and hetero-erotic.

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Conclusion: The Canonization of Jane Austen

We turn from the dazzling brilliancy of Lady Morgan’s works to repose on the soft green of Miss Austen’s sweet and unambitious creations. … There is a moral tenderness pervading them all—a serious yet gentle cast of thought shed over them—which disposes to pensive musing, and tranquillizes every discordant emotion. New Monthly Magazine (1820) Austen’s example can also make orthodox ways of accounting for cultural reproduction—our concepts of influence, tradition, literary legitimacy, and canon; our schemes for segregating the literary from the popular—seem strange and skewed … As the disputes about how best to like Austen and the ideas about rescuing her suggest, popularity and marketability appear in some way to threaten Austen’s canonicity. Deidre Lynch (2000) Although my aim has been to locate Austen’s later fiction in relation to a disregarded 1810s, I want to conclude by looking beyond this immediate context in three ways. Firstly, I shall briefly discuss the new direction that Austen took in conceiving her last work, Sanditon. I shall then examine how, despite a relatively uninspiring contemporary reception, Austen participated in the formation of the literary canon through her reappearance in Bentley’s Standard Novels series. By way of a coda to the book, this Conclusion ends with an analysis of three ground-breaking evaluations of Austen’s significance to British fiction: those of Richard Whately in 1821, Q. D. Leavis in 1941, and Clifford Siskin in 1998.

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7

204 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

Written between 27 January and 18 March 1817, the fragment we now know as Sanditon is the most evidently ‘Regency’ of Austen’s fictions.1 Its scrutiny falls upon a contemporary populace released from traditional land-based ties, one embracing novelty and leisured self-interest at the expense of social duty and moral integrity. ‘ “Civilization, civilization indeed!” ’, cries Mr Parker, Sanditon’s modernizing landlord, as he drives through the village upon his return (LSWS, 172). Parker’s expostulation refracts an unconscious and multi-voiced critique by Austen of what Sanditon in particular and England in general have become: ‘ “Well, I think I have done something in my day” ’, he continues—but what he has done is the very issue that preoccupies Sanditon. Parker has not just abandoned the old ways of his predecessors in favour of new fashions, he also denies the intrinsic value of both gentry tradition and his ancestors. Driving past the old house, he comments: ‘ “Our ancestors, you know always built in a hole.—Here were we, pent down in this little contracted nook, without air or view” ’ (169). Yet, his passive wife voices a challenge to this judgement, noting that during the recent stormy season, while the Parkers had ‘been literally rocked in our bed’, the new tenants of their old house ‘did not seem at all aware of the wind being anything more than common’ (170). Such a conflict, between old securities and new uncertainties, has already been adumbrated in the opening scenes, in which the Heywood home is painted as an idyllic tableau, so stable that it is almost static. Mr Heywood occupies the centre of his family, rarely moving beyond the parochialized precincts of his farmland. By contrast, as John Lauber notes, ‘Mr Parker is essentially modern; living in a world of newsprint, advertising and publicity, he believes in its superior reality to the world of fact.’2 As with his devotion to all things new (which are by tomorrow already old), Parker’s reliance on the public world of ‘facts’ is undermined by his mistaking one Willingden for another, while seeking a surgeon for Sanditon. This is further emphasized by Heywood’s response, grounded in his traditional ties to the land: ‘if you were to show me all the newspapers that are printed in one week throughout the kingdom, you would not persuade me of there being a surgeon in Willingden,—for having lived here ever

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Austen looks forward: Sanditon and modernity



The Canonization of Austen 205

In Sanditon, class fluidity and shiftlessness merge, so that a landowner like Parker has now become a commercial entrepreneur, reshaping the town for the leisured consumption of the West Indian heiress Miss Lambe (and others like her). Similarly, the recent victories against Napoleon, having initially served to bolster English pride, have now become empty signifiers for commercial ends: namely, Parker’s Trafalgar House and his projected Waterloo Crescent. People are divided into money-seekers (Parker, Sir Edward Denham, his sister Esther) and money-generators (Miss Lambe, Mrs Greville’s seminarians). Lady Denham is both at the same time, being not only Parker’s business partner but also the future bequeather of thousands to any one of three sets of relatives. She had already speculated during her earlier years, gaining wealth and title at no personal cost: ‘she was said to have made this boast to a friend “that though she had got nothing but her title from the [Denham] family, still she had given nothing for it” ’ (165). Everyone in Sanditon is a speculator in one way or another, often with incongruous results: from the village shoemaker with his ‘Blue shoes, and nankin boots’, to the book-reading ‘females in elegant white’ situated in an old farm house, to ‘the sound of a harp’ emanating from the baker’s shop (172). Sanditon’s modernity is displayed not simply through the abandonment of the old and through fiscal speculation, but also in the enervation of its inhabitants. Invalidism is cathected to such an extent in the lives of Parker’s siblings, Diana, Susan, and Arthur, that it becomes synecdochic for the emptiness of modern living. As Charlotte Heywood, Parker’s guest in Sanditon and Austen’s detached observer, concludes: The Parkers were no doubt a family of imagination and quick feelings—and while the eldest brother found vent for his superfluity of feeling as a projector, the sisters were perhaps driven to dissipate theirs in the invention of odd complaints. (198) The emptiness endemic to Sanditon (and, by implication, Regency England) does not only manifest itself through such imagined illnesses. Diana is revealed to be an officious busybody; Susan risks her life to nurture her invalidism, having three teeth extracted to

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since I was born, man and boy fifty-seven years, I think I must have known of such a person …’ (157)

cure a headache, while Arthur, a raw-boned youth, masks his selfindulgence in alcohol and rich food with imagined illness. It is not only the Parkers whose lives are so misdirected: Sir Edward Denham fancies himself a Lovelacean seducer of young and attractive women; his snobbish sister fawns over Lady Denham in the hopes of securing an inheritance; while, Mrs Whitby, the proprietor of the town’s circulating library, ends up reading all her books herself. Paradigmatically representing all these modes of behaviour, in which signifier and signified no longer have any contingent relation, is Sir Edward’s ‘tasteful little cottage ornèe’, which he is developing on ‘a strip of waste ground Lady Denham had granted him’ (167). Here, a glossy surface masks a deeper sterility that typifies all of Sanditon, the name of which both literally and figuratively, is of a town built on sand. As Roger Sales observes: ‘The Regency wordplay  … suggests that fashionable society is built on shifting sands. Another implication is that the ton, for all its claims to be glittering and multi-coloured, is in fact dull and monotonous in appearance.’3 Location takes centre stage, with Sanditon subsuming its inhabitants into a hive-like mentality that reconstructs the town as an exclusive spa resort. Of course, the truth is that Sanditon is empty and ephemeral, symbolizing the condition of post-war England: trifling, vacuous, vain. As I have already argued, Mansfield Park figures the gentleman’s estate as the locus of moral value, while Emma attempts to relocate this by bringing the gentry into parochial community life. Persuasion discloses ultimate Austen’s loss of faith in the gentry as moral guardians, by celebrating the modern professionalism of Regency England. This progression signifies Austen’s belief that eighteenthcentury models of social ethics associated with the gentry were no longer viable, and, as the Elliots of Kellynch Hall demonstrate, the gentry was in a state of decadence. If we examine the changes in the Austen family, a similar pattern of early-nineteenth-century Britain emerges, in their migration from gentry origins towards a modern, even metropolitan, way of life. Although James continued the family tradition as a gentleman–cleric and Edward was a wealthy landowner, the younger brothers moved into the meritocratic world of the middling classes. While the successes of Francis and Charles as naval campaigners may partly explain the optimism of Persuasion, the failure of Henry’s commercial interests could equally have set the tone for Sanditon, by which time Austen’s initial faith in the professional classes seems also to have floundered.

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The Canonization of Austen 207

In direct opposition to Austen’s critique in Sanditon, it was precisely the Regency ethos that presided over the fiction market from the 1820s onwards, with the growth of silver-fork novels such as Robert Plumer Ward’s Tremaine, or the Man of Refinement (1825) and Edward Bulwer Lytton’s Pelham; or the Adventures of a Gentleman (1828). Fiction depicting the dandy who moved through the ton combined with Scott’s continuing invocation of Romantic nostalgia, reconstituting the novel distinctly as a masculinized field. Figure 1.4 (page 27) has charted the expansion in male-authored fiction, and commensurate collapse of female output, which occurred in the years immediately following Austen’s death. The same can be said of the 1830s, which is even more of a male author’s decade, and Elliot Engel and Margaret King have observed that The novels purchased by the expanded readership of the 1830s fell into two roughly equal categories. Capitalizing on the popularity of Sir Walter Scott (who died in 1832), historical novels comprised about half of the fiction written during William IV’s reign. The other half consisted of novels of contemporary life.4 The transformation of the women’s market of the 1810s into one dominated by male authors during the 1820s was consolidated by Scott’s publication of the ‘Author’s Edition of the Waverley Novels’, more familiarly known as the ‘Magnum Opus’ edition, between 1829 and 1833. The reception of the Magnum Opus encouraged Colburn & Bentley to embark on a series of ‘Standard Novels’ early in 1831, which was managed solely by Richard Bentley after the dissolution of the partnership in August 1832. The significance of the series in constructing a recognizable canon of English fiction during the nineteenth century cannot be understated. Michael Sadleir notes that the publishers saw it ‘as an attempt to register the permanent fame of certain novels written since the great period of eighteenthcentury novel-writing’.5 Amongst the first novels published were works by the recently successful James Fenimore Cooper, as well as older works by Godwin, the Porter sisters, and Brunton. It was as Volume 23 of Bentley’s Standard Novels that Austen’s Sense and Sensibility appeared in December 1832, carrying an imprint date of 1833.6 The copyrights of her five novels still owned by the family had been purchased by Bentley for £210 in

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Austen for a new generation: Bentley’s Standard Novels

September 1832, while that of Pride and Prejudice was bought from Egerton’s executors for £40 around the same time. The remaining five novels were published rapidly in succession throughout 1833: Emma (February), Mansfield Park (April), Northanger Abbey with Persuasion (May), and Pride and Prejudice (July). No other editions of her works had been published since Murray’s Northanger Abbey and Persuasion in 1818. Reprints of the Standard Novels versions appeared at regular intervals up to 1854. Additionally, Bentley published a five-volume set of the ‘Novels of Miss Austen’ in 1833, 1856, and 1866.7 In no small measure, the inclusion of Austen in the Standard Novels series guaranteed her presence in the canon during the male-dominated 1830s and beyond. Sense and Sensibility was prefaced by a ‘Memoir of Miss Austen’, written by Henry Austen, which reprised much of his earlier ‘Bibliographical Notice’ that had been issued with Murray’s Northanger Abbey and Persuasion. In his ‘Memoir’, Henry emphasizes the perfection of Austen’s skill: ‘Every thing came finished from her pen; for on all subjects she had ideas as clear as her expressions were well chosen’.8 Such a portrait is doubly misleading. On the one hand, it diminishes Austen’s aesthetic development, which consisted of both refining her works over time and engaging intertextually with various literary forms. On the other, it reinforces a myth of her unique and perfect ‘originality’, which has perpetuated itself up till the most recent criticism.9 An editor’s note was subjoined to the ‘Memoir’, simultaneously enshrining Austen’s significance and substantiating Henry’s mythmaking endeavour: Miss Austen is the founder of a school of novelists … notwithstanding the temptation which nearly all writers are under … to imitate that which has commanded distinguished success, Miss Austen at once freed herself from such influence, and, with combined boldness and modesty, struck into a path of her own, of which she remains, to this day, the undisputed mistress. … She is, emphatically, the novelist of home.10 It is hard to say whether or not Austen would have found a place in the canon without Bentley’s intervention. After all, while she had been praised in contemporary criticism, she was hardly lionized in the same way as Burney and Edgeworth. As Brian Southam notes: ‘Jane Austen’s inclusion in Bentley’s series should not be interpreted as signal recognition. … Bentley judged that there was a sufficient

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market for Jane Austen, although, in the event, the public proved rather smaller than he had thought.’11 At the same time, it did open her up to a new critical audience in the 1830s, and Southam himself concedes that Bentley’s editions ‘gave the novels a new lease of life and aroused a certain amount of comment among readers who can fairly be classed as intellectual, or at least literary.’12 While many of the other writers published in the Standard Novels have since fallen by the canonical wayside, Bentley’s inclusion of Austen nevertheless ensured a continuous supply of cheap editions of her works, keeping her in the popular gaze well into the nineteenth century.

Reconstructing Austen: Whately, Leavis, Siskin If the ‘Memoir’ reinforced myths about Austen’s originality, three significant works of criticism have also served to divorce her from the contemporary trends that this study has described. The first of these, Richard Whately’s 1821 review of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion, continues Scott’s initial portrait of Austen as a domestic novelist, although in less equivocal terms. Whately, an Anglican clergyman, was a regular contributor to the Quarterly, becoming Principal of St Alban Hall, Oxford in 1822, and Archbishop of Dublin in 1831.13 Much like Scott, he begins with a comparison between fiction past and present: ‘Novels may not, perhaps, display more genius now than formerly, but they contain more solid sense; they may not afford higher gratification, but it is of a nature which men are less disposed to be ashamed of avowing.’14 More significantly, Whately sees novels as satisfactory guides to moral propriety, replacing the eighteenthcentury’s conduct-books and essays. Following this general survey, he turns to Austen’s work, praising it for its muted, rather than overt, didacticism, ‘that unpretending kind of instruction which is furnished by real life’ (325). Most of the review focuses on Austen’s adherence to probability and unity of action. Unlike many writers of domestic tales, her novels do not consist ‘of a string of unconnected events which have little or no bearing on one main plot, and are introduced evidently for the sole purpose of bringing in characters and conversations’. In uniting morality with credibility, Austen exceeds even Edgeworth, whose romantic plots sacrificed probability to didacticism. Making up for Scott’s neglect of Mansfield Park, Whately occupies a large portion of his review by complimenting the particular merits of the novel. He commends Austen’s presentation of Fanny, whose morality and

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210 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

To say the truth, we suspect one of Miss Austin’s [sic] great merits in our eyes to be, the insight she gives us into the peculiarities of female character. Authoresses can scarcely ever forget the esprit de corps—can scarcely ever forget that they are authoresses. (330) Whately’s response to Austen is a perceptive celebration of her achievements as a domestic author, continuing the praise bestowed on her by Scott. By associating her with other eminent literary figures (Aristotle, Homer, Shakespeare), he fixes Austen as a serious novelist who rises above the common herd of undistinguished writers. Her works are compact, hermetically sealed texts, which resist the failings of her peers (overt didacticism and gross improbability), while retaining a distinctive ability to instruct and entertain, as the reader requires. Whately’s concluding eulogy of Persuasion, which canonizes (in both senses of the word) Austen’s infallible uniqueness, overshadows his perceptive analysis of her literary achievement in other parts of the review. His approach chimes with the editor’s note to Henry’s ‘Memoir’, which would later portray her as the founder of a new school of fiction. Consequently, Whately’s review offers yet another dislocation of Austen from the nuanced dialectic between her novels and those of her contemporaries. If Whately’s review overestimates the reified perfection of Austen’s fiction, then Q. D. Leavis’s ‘Jane Austen: A Critical Theory’ (1941–2) takes the opposite route, stressing instead the sedimentary nature of the novels.15 Rather than coming ‘finished from her pen’, Austen’s works are the result of decades of revision, by ‘a steady professional writer who had to put in many years of thought and labour to achieve each novel, and she took her novels very seriously … decidedly not precociously mature as an artist’ (65). Leavis’s theory is occluded by an inaccurate chronology of composition, as well as by her more specific conjectures that The Watsons forms the origin of Emma and Lady Susan that of Mansfield Park. Whately’s innovator is transformed by Leavis into a gradualist recycler of materials stretching back to the juvenilia. While correcting the hermeticized paradigm of authorship delineated in Henry’s ‘Memoir’ and Whately’s review, Leavis concentrates too much on connecting

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jealousy both contribute to creating a real human figure. Whately’s highest praise is reserved for Austen’s specific talents as an author of feminine domestic narratives:

The Canonization of Austen 211

Austen’s oeuvre internally, for instance pointing to Austen’s repeated use of stock names as links between the works of the 1780s–90s and the 1810s. Similarly, Leavis attempts to detail involved associations between the juvenilia and the earlier novels, arguing perhaps too arbitrarily for Austen’s procedure of recycling. A representative instance occurs in the comparison between Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice and characters in ‘The Three Sisters’ and ‘Lesley Castle’. In another instance, Leavis argues that ‘Catharine, or the Bower’ must be the source for Catherine, later Northanger Abbey (despite the fact that Austen had originally named the novel Susan). Leavis accurately establishes that Austen employs recurrent motifs, developing them into more sophisticated models as she matures: Austen’s ‘genius manifests itself, not a miracle of inspiration but the maturity of artistic purpose’ (79). Leavis ballasts her intratextual theory of Austen’s novels with autobiographical explanations: if The Watsons leads to Emma, then its origins lay in Fanny Knight’s sudden accession as alpha female of her father Edward’s family; if Mansfield Park grows out of Lady Susan, then Susan Vernon’s inspiration was Austen’s cousin Eliza de Feuillide. Leavis is so concerned with reconstructing Austen as a progressivist, autobiographical author that she devotes an extensive final segment of her article to an investigation of the letters as indices to tropes in the novels themselves. Yet, the employment of older literary materials and autobiographical memories would apply to any novelist’s career. Otherwise, how else can we establish a sense of continuity in any author’s canon—be they an Austen, an Edgeworth, or a Burney? A consequence of this intriguing, yet flawed, theory is that Leavis relies too much on a belief that Austen is always writing against other fictional milieux: the original conception of First Impressions was undoubtedly to rewrite the story of Cecilia in realistic terms, just as Susan (or Catherine) was to show up Udolpho and The Romance of the Forest and to contrast the romantic heroine’s entry into the world (Evelina) with the everyday equivalent. (71–2) Leavis does make the occasional concession to the intertextual dynamics of Austen’s writings, referring to Burney in relation to Pride and Prejudice and mentioning Hannah More’s Cœlebs when discussing the newly ‘serious’ tone of Mansfield Park. Once

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these touchstones are mentioned en passant, she disregards them, focusing instead on the autobiographical-cum-intratextual explanation. Her methodology is ultimately too speculative, and in attempting to justify her reasoning Leavis foregrounds issues which are never resolved. For example, she argues that The Watsons and Lady Susan must be significant because their manuscripts survive, while those of the published novels (in whatever form) were destroyed by Austen (89). We can’t be sure who destroyed the manuscripts: Cassandra, the original publishers, anyone. Similarly, in arguing that Mansfield Park was most probably epistolary, owing to its original reconstitution from Lady Susan in 1808–9, Leavis doesn’t even attempt to explain why Austen, having written the direct-narrative Watsons a year earlier (according to her chronology), would return to the letter-model again before finally redrafting it in the third person! Another fault-line can be found in Leavis’s attempt to mitigate the modern distaste for Mansfield Park by arguing for its contemporary popularity, noting that it ‘was more popular than its predecessor, even in her own circle’ (112). In making such a claim, she ignores or is unaware of the contemporary context of the novels, as it was categorically Pride and Prejudice that brought popular acclaim on Austen, while Mansfield Park was generally overlooked. Leavis remarks that ‘[w]hen drafting a new story this author’s tendency is to repeat characters and situations she has already used, … but in her rewritten version she effaces these repetitions and covers her tracks’ (78). One could easily make the same case for recurrent motifs between the published novels themselves, but this would serve the same purpose: creating an image of Austen as an entirely self-reflexive author, detached from any intertextual engagement. Leavis’s essay is a piece of archaeological reconstruction or forensic detective-work, examining the mature novels and sifting back to the earliest sources she can find. While this is certainly an illuminating enterprise, like Whately’s review (although for entirely the opposite purpose) it seals Austen hermetically away from the immediate fictional context that has been discussed throughout this study. In his pioneering re-examination of the period 1700–1830,16 The Work of Writing (1998), Clifford Siskin interprets the proliferation of writing and disciplinarity through the technological and social developments of the period. Towards the end of his study, Siskin turns to Austen, whom he perceives as a figure placed uniquely in the literary canon, an enigma oscillating between resistance to and

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The Canonization of Austen 213

the almost immediate welcome accorded her by Scott and other male critics could be construed as signalling a crucial moment in The Great Forgetting: the moment that some of the fundamental links between women and the novel—links that we are only now recovering—were first detached, or at least obscured. (196–7) Siskin draws attention to the praise bestowed by Scott and Whately upon Austen’s essential ‘newness’, underscoring this attribute as a safe and submissive capitulation to male concerns about femininity and authorship. Of course, such a participation was not deliberate, yet it still served the overall transformation of fiction into a male demesne. Thus, Austen’s novels ‘were celebrated as “new” because they were not just different but better, and better for what they left out: those “things,” as The Quarterly Review put it, “that should now be left to ladies’ maids and sentimental washerwomen” ’ (200). Siskin argues (as have I in Chapter 6) that Scott fixes Austen as an author worthy of critical attention, whose fiction was to be distinguished from that of her female contemporaries. Despite this, ‘Scott’s review helped to institute a tradition of negative appreciation: Austen’s virtues came to be articulated habitually in terms of what she lacks’ (201). Hence, Scott focuses on her ordinariness, her peculiar attention to detail, her portraits (in Scott’s words, ‘not elegant, and certainly never grand’) of middling life. Siskin believes that Austen toned down the subversive elements evident in her juvenilia to make her work acceptable in the public gaze. It was this act of self-regulation that made her works so palatable to male commentators such as Scott and Whately: ‘To see the six novels as not only domestic but domesticated—in the terms still with us today, a safe solution—is to begin to unravel the enigma of Austen’s reception’ (203). Siskin’s view is fair enough, although I don’t fully accept its premises: contrasting the exuberance of the juvenilia with the quietude of the published novels does not necessarily indicate Austen’s acceptance of male-inscribed strictures. For a start, the market of the 1810s, as established in Chapter 1, was more conducive to female fiction than any time previously, including the 1790s. The genre was robust, stable, and dominated by women. To contend that Austen muted her youthful buoyancy simply to comfort her readers fundamentally ignores or displaces her sensitivity to the

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compliance with the transformation of the fiction market by male authors:

surrounding market, as much as Whately’s image of perfection or Leavis’s recycler of old materials do. Austen’s mature novels are as polyvalent as her youthful writings, specifically because of their continuing engagement with contemporary fictions. Fables for children are always more unilateral and exaggerated than romances for adults, but neither is necessarily more or less subversive than the other. Siskin still seems to be participating, albeit in a different guise, in the conservative–radical debate which always looks to the earlier 1790s context in order to read the 1810s novels. Furthermore, his model carries with it the implicit acceptance that by the mid1810s novel production had already been displaced into the male sphere. As this book has established, however, fiction remained a woman’s market until the appearance of Scott’s Waverley Novels in the post-Waterloo climate. In any case, the post-Scottian takeover of fiction by men was much more gradual than one might expect, and male output exceeds female output for the first time in 1820, and not before. If Siskin’s underlying paradigm is open to question, his account of the modes of appropriate publication that Austen could/should have taken but eschewed is even more inexplicable. In the first place, he fixes Austen’s novels as monological rejections of romance in favour of the domestic. Consequently, Siskin sees Northanger Abbey’s response to Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho as a refutation of the Gothic models of social behaviour; yet, this concept occludes those elements of Udolpho which Northanger does adopt. (The same can be said for Evangelicalism and Mansfield Park, the national tale and Emma, even Scott’s historical novels and Persuasion.) Siskin argues that, at a basic level, Austen’s narratives are indeed rejections of ‘extreme’ narratological paradigms, taming these discourses in favour of gender-conservative restraint. However, he goes on to observe that, on closer inspection, they constitute liminal engagements with dominant literary models, negotiated by an informed author—which is precisely the formulation of Austen’s fiction that I have sought to locate in the preceding chapters. Although Siskin’s argument is subtle and persuasive in general, when it comes to Austen he seems to have created some obstacles for himself, which statistics and literary history challenge. For instance, he singles out ‘the polemicization of the periodicals, and Austen’s refusal to publish in them’ (206) as categorical indicators of her decision to ‘play it safe’ and write domesticated narratives, rather than ones which presumably would have resembled the

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juvenilia more closely.17 But periodical publication of full-length fiction was still a rare practice in the 1810s, with only a few novels finding an outlet in serialization.18 In fact, serialization did not take hold of the literary market in any meaningful way until the 1820s, with the publication of novels by Hannah Maria Jones, Captain Marryat, and Catherine George Ward (among others), as well as the appearance of new-style journals in the mould of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, and of miscellanies and annuals such as The Keepsake and The Forget-Me-Not. Siskin’s argument is that Austen unwittingly participated in the restriction of female fiction that he sees as occuring in the 1810s, by electing not to publish periodically and by not publishing at an earlier period more conducive to female fiction. Siskin concludes his account by claiming Austen’s domestication of her fiction ensured that ‘the narrow-but-deep formulation was a crucial disciplinary link to her future in Literature’, but ‘the degree of narrowness (domesticity) and the kind of depth (female development) invited the tradition of negative appreciation’ (208). While this last claim is persuasive, it is uninformed by the broader exigencies that were transforming the Romantic-era novel. As Part II of this book has proposed, the popular fiction which Austen herself responded to was itself evincing a hitherto unforeseen domesticity. Growing out of the polemical 1790s, and beyond the patchy 1800s, the fiction of the 1810s represents a mature, self-reflexive market, whose furrows had been ploughed deeply by three decades of controversy, retrenchment, and reclamation. Responding to the scurrility of Gothic and fashionable fictions of the 1800s, the polite Evangelical novel (more than any single narrative by Jane Austen) tamed the novel by enforcing domesticity upon female models of fiction. Around the same time, a less domesticated but nevertheless domestic national tale surfaced, celebrating cultural difference while cementing British identity. Thus, by the time Scott and his male cohorts appropriated the novel, fiction had already been domesticated a priori, and it was hardly necessary for male reviewers to enforce submission on an unruly female voice. Yet, many of the ‘safe’ novelists of the time—Edgeworth, the Porters, Brunton—were not vouchsafed a position in the future canon, as Austen was: this, despite the expectations Siskin’s argument arouses.

*

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In this book, I have sought to locate precisely what Whately, Leavis, and Siskin have ignored: the immediate literary context of Austen’s authorship during the decade in which she published. In doing so, I hope to have established a number of salient points. Firstly, the 1810s represent a renaissance in women’s writing, which was not to be assuaged until the end of the decade. Secondly, this period was significant not simply because of the unparalleled output of women’s fiction. It also witnessed the flourishing of two milieux developed by women (the moral–domestic tale and the national romance) and the beginnings of a third one (the Scottian novel), which inscribed itself as specifically male and appropriated the field by the early 1820s. Finally, it becomes clear that Austen responded to these topical developments in her last three novels, just as Marilyn Butler and Claudia Johnson establish that she responded to those of the 1790s. In the process of making these claims for the 1810s, however, I have also tried to reiterate that Austen was neither hermetically sealed within a single epoch nor entirely self-referential. Instead, the decade should be understood as one of consolidation, during which the various nebulous energies that transformed and breathed life into the novel at the turn of the century coalesced into a substantial marketplace driven by women writers. If Austen was indeed an ‘innovator’, as so many commentators have argued from Whately to Siskin, then we must be sure of the origins of such innovation. Her fictions are not the works of an author isolated from her context, but the results of a unique negotiation with that very context itself. Ultimately, it has been the aim of this study to ask whether Jane Austen perhaps retains her canonical place to this day because, of all the female novelists of her time who have since fallen by the wayside, she was as much an accomplished reader as she was a determined author.

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216 Jane Austen and the Popular Novel

1 Introduction: fiction and the literary marketplace, 1785– 1820

1 See e.g. Gary Kelly, ‘Romantic Fiction’, in The Cambridge Companion to British Romanticism, ed. Stuart Curran (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 196–215; Nicola Watson, Revolution and the Form of the British Novel, 1790–1825: Intercepted Letters, Interrupted Seductions (Oxford, 1994); Isobel Grundy, ‘Jane Austen and Literary Traditions’, in The Cambridge Companion to Jane Austen, ed. Edward Copeland and Juliet McMaster (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 189–210. 2 Jane Austen and Representations of Regency England (London, 1994), p. xv. 3 Jane Austen and the Enlightenment (Cambridge, 2004), p. 9. 4 For a recent consideration of print culture in general during the Romantic period, see William St Clair’s encyclopaedic The Reading Nation in the Romantic Period (Cambridge, 2004). 5 The caveat remains, however, that an ‘imprint year’ did not correlate with a ‘calendar year’, and generally ran from November to May, the publishing ‘season’, so that an imprint year of ‘1788’ should be taken to mean a calendar year spanning 1787–8. Additionally, the publisher’s practice of post-dating (in certain extreme cases, by over a year) can slightly distort figures further. Granting this, it can be understood that the sudden rise in output in 1788 is actually the product of increased authorial activity from a more diffuse period, c. 1785–7. 6 See James Raven, ‘Historical Introduction: The Novel Comes of Age’, EN, i, 26. 7 According to figures provided by Raven, output of epistolary fiction, which was predominantly sentimental in nature, fell from a high of 70.6 per cent in 1776 to 10.1 per cent in 1797; see EN, i, 32: Table 2. 8 E.g. Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764/5), Clara Reeve’s Champion of Virtue (1777; more famously reissued as The Old English Baron in 1778), Sophia Lee’s The Recess (1783/5), and semi-Gothic tales such as Robinson’s Vancenza; or, the Dangers of Credulity (1792) and Smith’s Old Manor House (1793). 9 Jane Austen and the War of Ideas (1975; Oxford, 1987), p. 39. 10 See Critical Review, n.s. 14 (July 1795), 349. 11 Watson, Revolution and the Form of the British Novel, p. 41. 12 Cheryl Turner maps output of titles by women authors for the period 1696–1796 in Living by the Pen: Women Writers in the Eighteenth Century (London and New York, 1992), p. 35. Her figures accurately depict women’s output during the early 1790s, implying an explosion for the years following—if anything, she has been conservative in her estimates. 217 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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Notes

13 My figures for gender differ slightly from those provided by Raven in EN, i, 46–7: Table 6, ‘Authorship of New Novels, 1770–1799’. Raven indicates gender trends most broadly as ‘Total of Identified Proper Names’, while my remit has been more inclusive (in keeping with the policy of vol. 2) to include gender-implied ascriptions, such as ‘by a lady’, ‘by an officer’, etc. 14 In order to individuate authors I have employed the following criteria: only identifiable names have been used (i.e. full names, pseudonyms, and initials) while unidentified authors who published anonymously are dis­ regarded; native and foreign authors have been counted, but translators have not; multiple authors of single works have been counted individually. Note also that due to the counting of collaborating authors more than once, this figure of 495 does not indicate 495 discrete titles, but rather the ‘pool’ of titles which these authors actually wrote. 15 See NA, 37. 16 For more on Meeke’s career, see Roberta Magnani, ‘The Mysterious Mrs Meeke: A Biographical and Bibliographical Study’, Cardiff Corvey: Reading the Romantic Text, 9 (December 2002) [accessed 8 July 2006]. 17 Critical Review, n.s. 28 (April 1800), 477. 18 See Peter Garside, EN, ii, 56: Table 3. A full account of the early-nineteenthcentury Gothic market is provided in Franz Potter’s History of Gothic Publishing, 1800–1835: Exhuming the Trade (Basingstoke and New York, 2005). 19 England in the Age of Improvement, 1783–1867 (1959; London, 1999), p. 149. 20 The Economy of Literary Form: English Literature and the Industrialization of Publishing, 1800–1850 (Baltimore and London, 1996), pp. 20 and 144. 21 Demy was the size of paper most commonly used in printing books, typically measuring 22½ x 17½ inches. For further information on paper sizes used for the printing of books, see Philip Gaskell, A New Introduction to Bibliography (1972; Oxford, 1974), pp. 74–5: Table 3 and p. 224: Table 5. 22 EN, ii, 56: Table 3. Percentiles given here are slightly modified to reflect identification of new titles since the publication of EN. See also Potter, History of Gothic Publishing, p. 43: Figure 3.1. 23 E. S. Barrett, The Heroine, or Adventures of a Fair Romance Reader, ed. Walter Raleigh (1813; London, 1909), p. 4. 24 Age of Improvement, p. 156. 25 The Achievement of Literary Authority: Gender, History, and the Waverley Novels (Ithaca, ny and London, 1991), pp. 105–6. 26 Scott himself acknowledges the influence of female novels on his own fiction in the ‘Postscript, which should have been a Preface’ to Waverley; or, ’Tis Sixty Years Since, ed. Claire Lamont (1814; Oxford, 1986), pp. 339– 41 (ch. 50). 27 For more on the identity of Sedley, see Peter Garside, et al., ‘The English Novel, 1800–1829: Update 4 (June 2003–August 2004)’, Cardiff Corvey: Reading the Romantic Text, 12 (Summer 2004), Addendum 1:

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218 Notes



28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38

39

40

41

Notes 219 [accessed 12 November 2006]. Of course, the chart only indicates the share of the market identified by gender, and it should be borne in mind that, because production in the 1810s was reduced, the peak years in absolute numbers for known women’s fiction had been 1808 (49: 44.1 per cent) and 1810 (51: 56 per cent). This would be matched (and exceeded) only once by male authors during 1800–29, with 55 titles bearing an 1825 imprint (60.4 per cent). In real terms, because of three collaborations by pairs of authors during the 1810s, this means that there were 531 individual titles published. Multiple novels collected together—as in the case of NA and P (1818), but also Edgeworth’s Harrington and Ormond, 3 vols (London, 1817)—count here as single ‘works’. English Fiction of the Romantic Period, 1789–1830 (Harlow, 1989), p. 102. Crosby & Co. will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter 2 (pp. 62–74). ‘J. F. Hughes and the Publication of Popular Fiction, 1803–1810’, The Library, 6th ser. 9 (1987), 258. See EN, ii, 89: Figure 3, for a graphical summary of the variations in the market share of the top three publishers for 1800–29: Minerva, Longmans, and Colburn. Reminiscences of Literary London from 1779 to 1853 (with additions by John Britton), ed. S. Parks (1896; London and New York, 1974), p. 87. Dorothy Blakey, The Minerva Press 1790–1820 (London, 1939), p. 1. Blakey’s study remains the standard point of reference regarding the firm, although Deborah Anne McLeod’s ‘The Minerva Press’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Alberta, 1997) casts new light on the concern. Pricing figures derive from data prepared by the present author for DBF. Histories of Longmans are provided in a number of sources, the most authoritative of which is Philip Wallis’s At the Sign of the Ship: Notes on the House of Longman 1724–1824 (Harlow, 1974). See also Henry Curwen, A History of Booksellers, the Old and the New (London, [1873]), pp. 79–109, and Rees, Reminiscences of Literary London, pp. 42–61. Longmans left family hands in 1968 when Longmans, Green was purchased by the Financial and Provincial Publishing Company, first renamed Pearson Longman Ltd, and then again following a merger with Penguin in 1970 as Longman Penguin. For further information on Colburn, see Curwen, History of Booksellers, pp. 279–95; John Sutherland, ‘Henry Colburn, Publisher’, Publishing History, 19 (1986), 59–84; and Peter Garside’s recent entry in the Oxford Encyclopaedia of National Biography (Oxford, 2004). History of Booksellers, p. 279.

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220 Notes

 1 Austen’s title ‘Henry and Eliza’ was probably an in-joke regarding her brother Henry’s affection for his glamorous cousin, Eliza de Feuillide, whom he later married.  2 In a similar manner, Austen’s protagonists unsurprisingly possess paradigmatic names: Laura, Sophia, Augustus, Amelia, Julia.  3 The School for Fathers; or, the Victim of a Curse, 3 vols (London, 1788), ii, 200–1.   4 The novel also features the clichéd phrase ‘vortex of dissipation’, frowned upon by Austen, who commented in a letter on her niece Anna’s novelin-progress: ‘Devereux Forester’s being ruined by his Vanity is extremely good; but I wish you would not let him plunge into a “vortex of Dissipation”. I do not object to the Thing, but I cannot bear the expression;—it is such thorough novel slang—and so old, that I dare say Adam met with it in the first novel he opened’ (JAL, 277; 28 September 1814).  5 See Anna Maria Bennett, Anna; or, Memoirs of a Welch Heiress, Interspersed with Anecdotes of a Nabob, 4 vols (London, 1785), esp. i, 29–32 and 58, for passages which parallel Austen’s burlesques.  6 Isabelle de Montolieu, Caroline of Lichtfield; a Novel, trans. Thomas Holcroft, 3 vols (London, 1786), iii, 225–6. In a serendipitous twist of literary fate, Montolieu went on to translate two of Austen’s novels into French: SS (1815) and P (1821).  7 Elizabeth Helme, Louisa; or, the Cottage on the Moor, 2 vols (London, 1787), i, 17.  8 Brian Southam argues for a 1793–4 composition in Jane Austen’s Literary Manuscripts: A Study of the Novelist’s Development through the Surviving Papers (1964; revised edn, London and New York, 2001), pp. 45–52. See also A. Walton Litz’s ‘Preface’ to his edition of Jane Austen’s ‘Lady Susan’: A Facsimile of the Manuscript in the Pierpont Morgan Library and the 1925 Printed Edition (New York and London, 1989).  9 A full investigation of Lady Susan’s literary origins is offered by Jay Arnold Levine in ‘Lady Susan: Jane Austen’s Character of the Merry Widow’ (1961); reprinted in Jane Austen: Critical Assessments, ed. Ian Littlewood, 4 vols (Mountfield, 1998), iii, 59–69. 10 For a close study of this phenomenon, see Peter Garside, ‘Subscribing Fiction in Britain, 1780–1829’, in The Corvey Library and Anglo–German Exchange, ed. Werner Huber (Munich, 2004), pp. 55–100. 11 Fergus notes that ‘[a]lthough subscription could be the most lucrative method of publication for an author, the pickings might be slim. Subscribers too may have become wary over the century … In some cases, subscription payments were a form of charity—resented, perhaps on both sides—rather than a sign of genuine desire for a book’ (LL, 18). 12 The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson, 12 vols (London, 1932– 7), i, 163. 13 Garside, ‘Subscribing Fiction’, p. 58.

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2 Jane Austen and fiction, 1787–1809

Notes 221

14 Wareham Priory; or, the Will, 2 vols (London, 1799), i, i–xii contains a list of 287 subscribers. 15 The Traditions, a Legendary Tale, 2 vols (London, 1795), i, v–xxviii. 16 Camilla; or, a Picture of Youth, 5 vols (London, 1796), i, ix–xlvi. 17 See e.g. Amy Cruse, The Englishman and his Books in the Early Nineteenth Century (London, Bombay, Sydney, 1930), ch. 2; Garside, ‘Austen and Subscription Fiction’; Sarah Salih, ‘Camilla in the Marketplace: Moral Marketing and Feminist Editing in 1796 and 1802’, in Authorship, Commerce and the Public: Scenes of Writing, 1750–1850, ed. E. J. Clery, Caroline Franklin, and Peter Garside (Basingstoke and New York, 2002), pp. 120–35; and, most recently, Emma E. Pink, ‘Frances Burney’s Camilla: “To Print my Grand Work … by Subscription” ’, Eighteenth-Century Studies, 40.1 (Fall 2006), 51–68. 18 The Journals and Letters of Fanny Burney (Madame d’Arblay), ed. Joyce Hemlow et al., 12 vols (Oxford, 1972–84), iii, 111 (10 June 1795); abbreviated hereafter as JLFB. 19 JLFB, iii, 124–5 (19 June 1795). 20 JLFB, iii, 131 (7 July 1795). 21 1194 sets were sold, and at a guinea apiece this potentially amounts to a gross income of £1253 14s through subscription. 22 Other members of Austen’s extended family subscribed, including a number of Leighs as well as Edward’s patroness, ‘Mrs. Knight, Godmersham Park’. 23 JLFB, iii, 3 (30 August 1793); iii, 144 (21 July 1795); iii, 137 (15 July 1795). A comment made sometime later provides further evidence of a lengthy friendship: ‘We quitted Bookham with one single regret—that of leaving our excellent neighbours, the Cookes. … the Father is so worthy, & the Mother so good, so deserving, so liberal & so infinitely kind, that the world certainly does not abound with people to compare with them’ (JLFB, iv, 50; December 1797). 24 For those favouring George Austen as the motivating force, see e.g. Elizabeth Jenkins, Jane Austen: A Biography (London, 1938), p. 49; John Halperin, The Life of Jane Austen (Brighton, 1984), p. 62; Park Honan, Jane Austen: Her Life (1987; London, 1997), p. 119. The distaff argument has been made by both Garside, ‘Austen and Subscription Fiction’, p. 175 and FR, 98. 25 This was Austen’s own copy, which she received as a subscriber. A further account of the pencilled addendum can be found in JAL, 357 (n. 14). 26 The influential phrase ‘Pride and Prejudice’ appears in the final chapter of Burney’s Cecilia, or Memoirs of an Heiress (1782). 27 See R. W. Chapman (ed.), Novels of Jane Austen, 6 vols (3rd edn, 1933– 54; London, 1969 [revised by Brian Southam]), vi, plate facing p. 242. Cassandra’s memorandum is also transcribed and discussed by Kathryn Sutherland, ‘Chronology of Composition and Publication’, in Jane Austen in Context, ed. Janet Todd (Cambridge, 2005), pp. 12–22 (p. 16).

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28 This letter has been quoted in a number of works on Austen, in a variety of orthographical reconstitutions: I have used that given in George Holbert Tucker’s History of Jane Austen’s Family (1983; Phoenix Mill, 1999), p. 34. 29 The Publishing Firm of Cadell & Davies: Select Correspondence and Accounts 1793–1836 (London, 1939), p. viii. 30 For more comments on this competition between the two firms, see John Nichols, Illustrations of the Literary History of the Eighteenth Century, 8 vols (London, 1817), viii, 493, and Thomas Constable, Archibald Constable and his Literary Correspondents: A Memorial by his Son, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1873), i, 18. 31 Fergus follows this line of thinking, with some reservations (LL, 13). 32 Cadell & Davies’ reluctance to publish seemingly risky works extended beyond fiction. Around the time of their refusal of First Impressions, on 11 May 1798, they also rejected an ambitious proposal made by Walter Scott for a 12-volume collection of German plays, despite having been involved in publication of his works both before and after this episode. See Jane Millgate’s ‘The Early Publication History of Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border’, Publications of the Bibliographical Society of America, 94 (2000), 551–64. 33 The composition and publishing history of SS is examined more closely in Chapter 3 (pp. 75–83). 34 A fuller analysis of this episode appears in my ‘Making Austen MAD: Benjamin Crosby and the Non-Publication of Susan’, Review of English Studies, n.s. 57 (2006), 507–25. 35 The composition of Susan has been placed between 1794 and 1799. For a 1794 dating, see C. S. Emden, ‘The Composition of Northanger Abbey’, Review of English Studies, n.s. 19 (1968), 279–87. However, the standard chronology, based on Cassandra’s memorandum, fixes upon 1798–9, with FR (xxii–xxiii) tentatively refining this to August 1798–June 1799. 36 The original letter is preserved in the British Library, Add. MSS 41,253.B, f. 13. Richard Crosby’s signoff ‘For [B] Crosby & Co’ has been understandably misread as ‘For R Crosby & Co’ owing to the rushed nature of the letter and the fact that the whole phrase is not separated. However, the initial is indeterminate and could just as easily be read ‘B’ as ‘R’, considering the firm was ‘Benjamin Crosby & Co.’ It seems strange in any case that Richard Crosby would sign effectively twice on behalf of himself, especially as he was not the senior partner. See also JAL, 175. 37 Novels of Austen, v, xii. 38 Representative provincial titles listing Crosby as a subsidiary publisher include Julia Colville (Chester and London, 1800); The Mysterious Penitent; or, the Norman Chateau (Winchester and London, 1800); and What You Please or, Memoirs of Modern Characters (Bristol, 1804) and Men and Women (Bristol, 1805), both probably written by a Revd Wyndham. 39 Gilson further notes that this inextant edition of The Trial of Mrs LeighPerrot, Austen’s aunt, was advertised in the Bath Chronicle on 24 April 1800 (BJA, 454). See also R. W. Chapman, Jane Austen: Facts and Problems (Oxford, 1948), p. 74 (n. 2).

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222 Notes

Notes 223

40 See Deirdre Le Faye, ‘Jane Austen’s Laggard Suitor’, N&Q, n.s. 47.3 (September 2000), 301–4. 41 BJA, 82; Jane Aiken Hodge, The Double Life of Jane Austen (London, 1972), p. 84. Hodge’s ‘Cox’ seems to me a misreading or misprinting of the abbreviated ‘Co.’ Le Faye has corrected ‘Richard Crosby & Son’ to ‘Benjamin Crosby & Son’ for the 2004 edition of FR (144). 42 Jane Austen’s Letters in Facsimile: Reproductions of Every Known Extant Letter, Fragment, and Autograph Copy, with an Annotated List of All Known Letters (Carbondale and Edwardsville, 1990), F-198. 43 See Ian Maxted, The London Book Trade, 1775–1800: A Preliminary Checklist (London, 1977) and Philip Brown, London Publishers and Printers, c. 1800–1870 (London, 1982). 44 Details of Crosby’s release from apprenticeship are recorded in The Biography Database, 1680–1830 [on CD-ROM], Disc 1 (Newcastle, 1996). 45 See Chapter 1: Table 1.2 (p. 32). 46 See e.g. Honan, Her Life, p. 384; FR, 144; Hodge, Double Life, p. 85. 47 Minerva’s output dropped from 44.3 per cent (27 titles) in 1802 to 25.3 per cent (20) in 1803. 48 Minerva’s overall production of new fiction continued to fall, despite a brief rise in 1804–5 and partially regaining its original market share during 1810–17, until its managing partner A. K. Newman turned to juvenile literature and remainder publishing after 1820. 49 For more about Hughes, Peter Garside’s ‘J. F. Hughes and the Publication of Popular Fiction, 1803–1810’, The Library, 6th ser. 9 (1987), 240–58. 50 Sophia Woodfall, Frederick Montravers; or, the Adopted Son, 2 vols (London, 1803), at the end of vol. 1 of a copy held at Schloss Corvey Library, Germany. See Mandal, ‘Making Austen MAD’, pp. 514–17 for a fuller discussion of the Montravers listing. 51 Double Life, p. 85. 52 Her Life, p. 384. Honan is interpreting the various advertisements of ‘Just Published by Crosby’, ‘Most Approved Modern Novels’, etc. as actual evidence that Crosby & Co. had a financial stake in works such as Udolpho. What this most likely indicates, however, is that the firm purchased remaindered stock or copies of new editions, ‘publisher’ functioning synonymously with ‘bookseller’. 53 Novels of Austen, v, xi (n. 3). For a follow up to this, see Arthur M. Axelrad, ‘Jane Austen’s Susan Restored’, Persuasions, 15 (1993), 44–5. 54 ‘Making Austen MAD’, pp. 519–20. 55 Edward and Anna; or, a Picture of Human Life, 2 vols (London, 1806), at the end of vol. 2 of a copy held at Corvey. 56 See EN, ii, 56: Table 3; Potter, History of Gothic Publishing, p. 43: Figure 3.1. 57 The items appear in a list of 25 ‘Most Approved Modern Novels’, at the end of vol. 1 of Mrs Norris’s Second Love; or, the Way to Be Happy, 2 vols (London, 1805), in a copy held at Corvey. 58 A Winter in Bath, 4 vols (‘Second Edition’, London, [1807]), i, title verso.

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224 Notes 59 These were, respectively, a translation of Charlotte de Malarme’s Can We Doubt It? and the anonymous What You Please or, Memoirs of Modern Characters.

1 This itself seems to have been based on the recollection of Caroline Austen, Austen-Leigh’s sister and Jane’s niece: ‘Memory is treacherous, but I cannot be mistaken in saying that Sense and Sensibility was first written in letters, and so read to her family.’ See Southam, Austen’s Literary MSS, p. 54.  2 Lady’s Monthly Museum, 2 (1799), 21–4.  3 FR, 112; Honan, Her Life, pp. 276–7.  4 See e.g. F. P. Lock, ‘The Geology of Sense and Sensibility’, YBES, 9 (1979), 246–55.  5 Francis had first fought numerous battles during the Peninsular War and then was convoying East Indiamen to China between September 1809 and March 1810, while Charles was away in North America during 1806–11.  6 History of Austen’s Family, p. 143.  7 See John Feather, ‘British Publishing in the Eighteenth Century: A Preliminary Subject Analysis’, Library, 6th ser. 8 (1986), 35: ‘Predictably, religion in all its manifestations provides the largest single group of books, but secular matters headed by social science (which includes politics) are not far behind. Indeed, religion and politics were still more closely linked than might be supposed’.  8 These were: Death’s a Friend (1788); George Monck Berkeley’s Heloise: Or, the Siege of Rhodes. A Legendary Tale (1788); L. Lewis’s Lord Walford (1789); and The Castle of St Vallery, an Ancient Story (1792).  9 These were: The History of Mr John Decastro and his Brother Bat, Commonly Called Old Crab (1815) by the pseudonymous John Mathers; Mary Anne M‘Mullan’s Wanderings of a Goldfinch; or, Characteristic Sketches of the Nineteenth Century (1816); Emma Parker’s Self-Deception (1816); Civilization; or the Indian Chief (1818); The Soldiers of Venezuela (1818); and Good-Humour; or my Uncle, the General (1820). 10 Critical Review, 4th ser. 1 (February 1812), 149–57; British Critic, 39 (May 1812), 527. 11 See Novels of Austen, i, 3 and 66; and SS, 326–34 for full commentaries on the textual variations between the two editions. 12 The Star, 9 May 1814 and 14 May 1814; The Morning Post, 17 November 1815. 13 ‘Jane Austen and her Early Public’, Review of English Studies, n.s. 1 (1950), 40 (n. 7). 14 These break down respectively as £30, £12 15s, and £19 13s. Austen had commented to her niece Caroline on this last, noting ‘I have just recd nearly twenty pounds myself on the 2d Edit: of S & S- which gives me this fine flow of Literary Ardour’ (JAL, 334; 14 March 1817).

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3 Getting published at last, 1811–13

Notes 225

15 See p. 221 (n. 26), above, but cf. Kenneth Moler, Jane Austen’s Art of Allusion (1968; Lincoln, ne and London, 1977), pp. 81–2. 16 See Southam, Austen’s Literary MSS, pp. 57–60. 17 See Novels of Austen, ii, 400–7. Also, Gilson gives a thorough account of arguments surrounding this issue (BJA, 24). Joel Brattin offers further analyses of the issue of the PP calendar in his article, ‘The Misdated Express in Pride and Prejudice’, Publications of the Missouri Philological Association, 13 (1988), 54–6. 18 JAL, 201 (to Cassandra Austen, 29 January 1813): ‘on Wednesday [27th] I received one Copy, … with three lines from Henry to say that he had given another to Charles & sent a 3d by the Coach to Godmersham’. 19 Once again, the British Critic portrayed the author of PP as the ideal novel writer: ‘It is very far superior to almost all the publications of the kind which have lately come before us.’—British Critic, 41 (February 1813), 189. The Critical Review was similarly full of praise for the novel, ‘which rises superior to any novel we have lately met with in the delineation of domestic spheres.’—Critical Review, 4th ser. 3 (March 1813), 324. The New Review, 1 (April 1813), 393–6 simply offered a plot synopsis interpolated with apposite quotation from the novel itself. 20 This was initially advertised alongside the second edition of SS in The Star, 29 October 1813. 21 Advertisements for the second edition appeared in The Star, 29 October 1813 and 14 May 1814, and The Morning Post, 17 November 1815, as well as at the end of Murray’s first edition of Emma (1816). 22 An interesting account of the Countess of Morley’s association with Pride and Prejudice is given in William Jarvis’s ‘Jane Austen and the Countess of Morley’, in Jane Austen Society: Collected Reports 1986–1995 (Alton, 1997), pp. 6–14. For Anne Isabella Millbanke’s comments, see BJA, 25. 23 Quarterly Review, 14 (March 1816), 188–201; reprinted in Critical Assessments, ed. Littlewood, i, 287–96 (p. 288). 24 ‘Memoir of Miss Austen’, in Bentley’s edition of SS (London, 1833), p. viii. 25 It would seem from the mention of the novels in reviews, that it was published in mid- to late 1813, giving more than enough time for the publishers, if not the author, to capitalize on Austen’s success by employing this title.

4 Making the popular polite: Mansfield Park and the moral– domestic novel

1 For examples of the anti-Evangelicalism of MP, see David Monaghan, ‘Mansfield Park and Evangelicalism: A Reassessment’, NineteenthCentury Fiction, 33 (1978–9), 215–30; and Mary Waldron, Jane Austen and the Fiction of her Time (Cambridge, 1999), ch. 4. Peter Garside and Elizabeth MacDonald provide an alternative analysis, assessing the direct influence of Evangelical fiction on the composition of Austen’s novel, in ‘Evangelicalism and Mansfield Park’, Trivium, 10 (1975), 34–50.

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2 For general histories of the Evangelical movement, see Ford K. Brown, Fathers of the Victorians: The Age of Wilberforce (Cambridge, 1961) and Elizabeth Jay (ed.), The Evangelical and Oxford Movements (Cambridge, 1983). 3 Evangelicalism and the French Revolution’, Past and Present, 1 (1952), 46–7. 4 Monaghan, ‘Mansfield Park and Evangelicalism’, p. 223. 5 Ibid., p. 224. 6 See e.g. A. G. Newell, ‘Early Evangelical Fiction’, Evangelical Quarterly, 38 (1966), 3–21 and 81–98; Sam Pickering, Jr, The Moral Tradition in English Fiction, 1785–1850 (Hanover, nh, 1976); Doreen M. Rosman, ‘ “What Has Christ to Do with Apollo?” Evangelicalism and the Novel, 1800–1830’, in Renaissance and Renewal in Christian History, ed. Derek Baker (Oxford, 1977), pp. 301–11; Elizabeth Kowaleski-Wallace, Their Father’s Daughters: Hannah More, Maria Edgeworth, and Patriarchal Complicity (New York and Oxford, 1991). 7 Modes of Discipline: Women, Conservatism, and the Novel after the French Revolution (Lewisburg and London, 2003), p. 12. 8 Austen and the Enlightenment, p. 161. 9 See Novels of Austen, vi, plate facing p. 242. 10 Modes of Discipline, p. 118. 11 A full account of Brunton’s life is provided in Mary McKerrow’s readable, if somewhat subjective, Mary Brunton: The Forgotten Scottish Novelist (Orkney, 2001). 12 Mary Brunton, Dedication to Joanna Baillie, Self-Control. A Novel, 2 vols (Edinburgh and London, 1811), i, vi–vii. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 13 In Alexander Brunton, ‘Memoir’, to Mary Brunton’s Emmeline. With Some Other Pieces (Edinburgh and London, 1819), p. xxxvi (30 August 1810). 14 All details pertaining to impression numbers for Self-Control are taken from Longman Archives (Reading University), Impression Book nos 4, f. 150 and 5, f. 102. 15 See Longman Archives, Letter Book i, 97, no. 50 (30 March 1811). 16 Brunton, ‘Memoir’, pp. xlv–xlvi (20 February 1811). 17 British Critic, 38 (September 1811), 213. 18 Eclectic Review, 8 (1812), 612–13. 19 British Critic, 38 (September 1811), 218–19. 20 Critical Review, 3rd ser. 24 (October 1811), 161. 21 Ibid., pp. 160–1 and 168. 22 Edinburgh Christian Instructor, 3 (October 1811), 267. 23 ‘Opinions of Mansfield Park’, in Jane Austen, Plan of a Novel, according to Hints from Various Quarters by Jane Austen. With Opinions on ‘Mansfield Park’ and ‘Emma’ Collected and Transcribed by Her and Other Documents, ed. R. W. Chapman (Oxford, 1926), p. 17. Hereafter, ‘Opinons’. 24 In other words, Austen paid all the expenses of publication and retained copyright, while Egerton distributed the copies and took a commission on copies sold. Austen and Egerton had made the same arrangement for SS,

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226 Notes

Notes 227

while she had sold the manuscript of PP to him for £110; something which she later regretted (see Chapter 3, pp. 84–5 for fuller details). 25 Further advertisements were placed in The Star on 14 and 21 May 1814 and The Morning Chronicle on 23 and 27 May 1814. 26 See ‘Jane Austen and her Publishers’, London Mercury, 22 (1930), 337–42; Novels of Austen, iii, xi. 27 Jane Austen: Real and Imagined Worlds (New Haven and London, 1991), p. 18. 28 Fiction of her Time, ch. 4. 29 See Novels of Austen, vi, plate facing p. 242. 30 Hannah More, Cœlebs in Search of a Wife, 2 vols (1808; 12th edn, London, 1809), i, 201. 31 Jane Austen and the Clergy (London and Rio Grande, oh, 1994), p. 160. 32 Amelia Opie, Temper, or Domestic Scenes: A Tale, 3 vols (1812; 3rd edn, London, 1812), i, 166. 33 Art of Allusion, p. 120. 34 Margaret Roberts, Duty. A Novel, 3 vols (London, 1814), i, 51. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 35 Henry Kett, Emily, a Moral Tale, 3 vols (London, 1809–11), i, 50. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 36 The Improvement of the Estate: A Study of Jane Austen’s Novels (Baltimore and London, 1971), p. 38. 37 Lætitia-Matilda Hawkins, The Countess and Gertrude; or, Modes of Discipline, 4 vols (1811; 2nd edn, London, 1812), i, 41. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 38 For the most exacting treatment of this, see Garside and Macdonald, ‘Evangelicalism and Mansfield Park’, p. 42, passim. 39 William Wilberforce, A Practical View of the Prevailing Religious System of Professed Christians, the Higher and Middle Classes in this Century, Contrasted with Real Christianity (London, 1797), p. 372. 40 Ibid., pp. 92 and 268. 41 Six months after the publication of MP, Austen was using such Evangelical language to compliment the novel-writing efforts of her niece, Anna: ‘I am pleased with the Dog scene, & with the whole of George & Susan’s Love; but am more particularly struck with your serious conversations &c.—They are very good throughout’ (JAL, 284; 30 November 1814). 42 Fiction with a Purpose: Major and Minor Nineteenth-Century Novels (1967; Bloomington and London, 1968), p. 71. 43 Awaiting the imminent publication of her next novel, E, Austen certainly had an idea of what she was striving to achieve with its predecessor: ‘I am very strongly haunted by the idea that to those Readers who have preferred P&P. it will appear inferior in Wit, & to those who have preferred MP. very inferior in good Sense’ (JAL, 306; 11 December 1815). 44 These are respectively the heroines of Cœlebs, Self-Control, and Countess and Gertrude. 45 These are the protagonists of Emily, Temper, and Brunton’s Discipline (1814) respectively.

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46 War of Ideas, p. 166. 47 Eclectic Review, 8 (1812), 614. 48 See especially Nina Auerbach’s ‘Jane Austen’s Dangerous Charm: Feeling as One Ought about Fanny Price’, in Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, ed. Claudia Johnson (New York and London, 1998), pp. 445–57. 49 War of Ideas, pp. 240–1. 50 See Waldron, Fiction of her Time, p. 95: ‘In Fanny, the feminine meekness of demeanour described in conduct-books only serves to conceal from onlookers (but, because of the internal discourse, not from the reader) a mind in very human turmoil. Not for the last time we see Fanny using approved feminine silence to avoid positive generosity.’ 51 Art of Allusion, p. 148. 52 See her Jane Austen: ‘Mansfield Park’ (Harmondsworth, 1988). 53 Jane Austen: Women, Politics, and the Novel (Chicago and London, 1988), p. 97. 54 ‘Austen’s Dangerous Charm’, pp. 453–4. 55 Women, Politics, and the Novel, p. 116. 56 See ibid., p. 112. 57 Fiction with a Purpose, p. 95. 58 War of Ideas, p. 246. 59 Art of Allusion, p. 154 (n.). 60 War of Ideas, p. 167.

5 Woman as genius/genius loci: Emma as an English national tale

1 See Novels of Austen, vi, plate facing p. 242. 2 See p. 20 for a fuller discussion of the socio-political context at this time. 3 See her Britons: Forging the Nation 1707–1837 (1992; new edn, London, 2003). 4 Comprehensive accounts of the firm of John Murray can be found in Samuel Smiles’s A Publisher and his Friends: Memoir and Correspondence of the Late John Murray … 1768–1843, 2 vols (London, 1891) and William Zachs’s The First John Murray and the Late Eighteenth-Century London Book Trade: With a Checklist of his Publications (Oxford, 1998). 5 History of Booksellers, p. 163. 6 Ibid., p. 165. 7 Smiles, Publisher and his Friends, i, 282. 8 See JAL, 208 for evidence of Austen’s antipathy towards the Prince Regent. 9 This episode will be dealt with in more detail in Chapter 6. 10 ‘I am advanced in vol. 3. to my arra-root, upon which peculiar style of spelling, there is a modest qu:ry?’ (JAL, 300): the standardized ‘arrowroot’ occurs in vol. 3, chs 9 (twice) and 11. 11 The appearance of E in newspaper announcements will be discussed in Chapter 6 (pp. 169–73).

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228 Notes

Notes 229

12 Thanks are due to Dr Gillian Hughes for providing me with this information from the Murray Archives in Albemarle Street. It is clear that the term ‘Subscribed’ here simply means ‘pre-ordered’ by the booktrade, rather than retail sales to customers. 13 Reproduced in facsimile in Austen, Plan of a Novel, after p. 35. 14 Key discussions include: Robert Tracy, ‘Maria Edgeworth and Lady Morgan: Legality versus Legitimacy’, Nineteenth-Century Fiction, 40 (1985–6), 1–22; Ina Ferris, ‘Narrating Cultural Encounter: Lady Morgan and the Irish National Tale’, Nineteenth-Century Literature, 51 (1996–7), 287–303; Julia Anne Miller, ‘Acts of Union: Family Violence and National Courtship in Maria Edgeworth’s The Absentee and Sydney Owenson’s The Wild Irish Girl’, in Border Crossings: Irish Women Writers and National Identities, ed. Kathryn Kirkpatrick (Tuscaloosa and London, 2000), pp. 13–37. 15 Owenson had previously published two rather programmatic-seeming sentimental novels: St Clair; or, the Heiress of Desmond (1803) and The Novice of Saint Dominick (1806). 16 The Achievement of Literary Authority: Gender, History, and the Waverley Novels (Ithaca, ny and London, 1991), p. 107. 17 Bardic Nationalism: The Romantic Novel and the British Empire (Princeton, 1997), p. 142. 18 Germaine de Staël-Holstein, Corinne; or, Italy, trans. Sylvia Raphael (Oxford, 1998), p. 23. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 19 Sydney Owenson, Woman: Or, Ida of Athens, 4 vols (London, 1809), i, 22–3. 20 Sydney Owenson, The Wild Irish Girl, ed. Kathryn Kirkpatrick (1806; Oxford, 1999), p. 53. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 21 Ida of Athens, i, 54. 22 Lady Charlotte Bury, Self-Indulgence; a Tale of the Nineteenth Century, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1812), ii, 5. 23 See Moers’s Literary Women (New York, 1976), p. 205, passim. 24 Ibid., p. 181. 25 See Miller, ‘Acts of Union’, passim. 26 ‘Old Idols, New Subject: Germaine de Staël and Romanticism’, in Germaine de Staël: Crossing the Borders, ed. Madelyn Gutwirth, Avriel Goldberger, and Karyna Szmurlo (New Brunswick, 1991), p. 87. 27 Robert Tracy dubs the expedient of legitimating the Anglo–Irish claim to ancient Irish lands through this narrative of marriage between opposites ‘the Glorvina solution’: ‘the intermarriage/assimilation of Irish and Anglo–Irish, of modern efficiency and ancient tradition, of legal right and traditional loyalty’.—‘Edgeworth and Morgan’, p. 10. 28 British Fiction and the Production of Social Order, 1740–1830 (Cambridge, 2000), p. 154. 29 There could be something facetious in this statement: the acquaintance, Mr Fitzhugh, was ‘so totally deaf, that they say he cd not hear a Cannon,

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were it fired close to him; having no cannon at hand to make the experiment, I took it for granted, & talked to him a little with my fingers, which was funny enough.—I recommended him to read Corinna’ (JAL, 160–1; 28 December 1808). 30 Henry Austen, ‘Memoir of Miss Austen’, p. ix. For a brief commentary on this episode, see C. F. Viveash, ‘Jane Austen and Madame de Staël’, Persuasions, 13 (1991), 39–40. 31 As Butler notes, ‘Harriet is a primitivist’s heroine, seen with a satirical eye. She is innocent, and in all her instincts “good”; but the shortcomings of such goodness are apparent in her speeches, ill-judging, indecisive, beneath rationality.’—War of Ideas, p. 267. 32 Achievement of Literary Authority, p. 132. 33 The Historical Austen (Philadelphia, 2003), p. 183. 34 Gentleman’s Magazine, 86 (September 1816), 248–9. Such comments are representative, and in fact echo those made in Scott’s review of Emma, which will be examined in Chapter 6. 35 It is almost a nation in and of itself, with its own rules of propriety and own models of behaviour. The outsider Frank seizes upon this when he expresses his wish to ‘prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury’ (E, 166). 36 Atlas of the European Novel 1800–1900 (1997; London and New York, 1998), p. 13. 37 Austen displays a similar attitude towards other watering places: Lydia Bennet and Wickham elope to Brighton in PP, while S presents a detailed depiction of frivolous and desultory modern life. 38 As has been pointed out by other commentators, Knightley’s name resonates on a number of levels: his forename implies the much-loved George III, whose custodianship of the land earned him the appellative ‘Farmer George’. ‘Knightley’ itself conveys obvious connections to a defender of old English values. Furthermore, it might tacitly point to the Knight family, which adopted her brother Edward, since then proprietor of the Chawton estate, to which Austen’s own village belonged. 39 The English Middle-Class Novel (London, 1976), pp. 32–3. 40 ‘Social Theory at Box Hill: Acts of Union’, in Rereading Box Hill: Reading the Practice of Reading Everyday Life, ed. William Galperin (April 2000) [accessed November 2006], § 17. 41 Robert Miles offers a similar reading of this vignette—see his Jane Austen (Tavistock, 2003), pp. 142–5. 42 See her ‘Introduction’ to E, x. 43 Of course, it is a testimony to Austen’s ironic skill that, as it celebrates inclusion, this passage slyly points at exclusion, telling us that Mrs Elton knows of the wedding’s particulars only through her husband’s account! 44 ‘Social Theory at Box Hill’, § 5.

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230 Notes



Notes 231

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6 The business of novel writing: Walter Scott and Persuasion

1 Letter to John Murray: Byron’s Letters and Journals, ed. Leslie A. Marchand, 13 vols (London, 1973–94), iv, 146 (24 July 1814). 2 Achievement of Literary Authority, p. 82. 3 See esp. ibid., ch. 3, and Garside, ‘Popular Fiction and the National Tale’, pp. 30–53. 4 See Jane Millgate’s ‘Prudential Lovers and Lost Heirs: Persuasion and the Presence of Scott’, in Jane Austen’s Business, ed. Juliet McMaster and Bruce Stovel (Basingstoke and New York, 1996), pp. 109–23. 5 According to Edgar Johnson, ‘The Great Unknown’ as a reference to Scott was used humorously by Scott’s friend and literary agent James Ballantyne, but was originally coined by Scott’s daughter Anne in 1818—see his Sir Walter Scott: The Great Unknown, 2 vols (London, 1970), i, 622 and lxiv (n. 98). It apparently entered the public domain first when Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine used the term in April and May 1818. Sarah Green employed the epithet humorously in her Scotch Novel Reading; or, Modern Quackery (1824), which contrasts the fortunes of two sisters, one affected by ‘Byronomania’, the other a devotee of ‘The Great Unknown’. 6 See DBF, record nos 1814A020 (Anecdotal Records) and 1814A017 (Publishing Papers) respectively. 7 See Peter Garside’s ‘Rob’s Last Raid: Scott and the Publication of the Waverley Novels’, in Author/Publisher Relations during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Robin Myers and Michael Harris (Oxford, 1983), pp. 88–118. 8 ‘Waverley; or ’tis Sixty Years Since; a novel in three vols. 12mo.’ was advertised in John Ballantyne’s list of ‘New Works and Publications for 1810’, and in the Morning Post, 10 February 1814, as ‘In the press, and speedily will be published’. 9 See Peter Garside’s ‘Essay on the Text’, in Walter Scott, Guy Mannering; or, the Astrologer (1815; Edinburgh and Columbia, 1998), pp. 391–6. 10 Evidence that Austen monitored the London dailies can be found in a letter to Murray (JAL, 304; 11 December 1815): ‘I find that Emma is advertized for publication as early as Saturday next’. Gilson (BJA, 68) identifies this as The Observer, 10 December 1815, which states: ‘On Saturday next [16 December] will be published … EMMA’. 11 Achievement of Literary Authority, pp. 80–1. 12 Smiles, Publisher and his Friends, i, 288. 13 Letters of Scott, iv, 167. 14 See Quarterly Review, 14 (October 1815), 188–201; reprinted in Critical Assessments, ed. Littlewood, i, 287–96. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 15 The Private Letter Books of Sir Walter Scott, ed. Wilfred Partington (London, 1930), p. 111. 16 The Croker Papers: Correspondence and Diaries of John Wilson Croker, ed. Louis J. Jennings, 3 vols (London, 1884), i, 112. 17 JAL, 282–3: see Chapter 4 (p. 100), for the context of this comment.

18 See The Antiquary, ed. David Hewitt (1816; Edinburgh and Columbia, 1995), pp. 137–46. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 19 Scott, Waverley, p. 3. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 20 Austen, Plan of a Novel, p. 9. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 21 The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972), p. 114 (14 March 1826). 22 To Fanny Knight: ‘I have a something ready for Publication, which may perhaps appear about a twelvemonth hence. It is short, about the length of Catherine’ (JAL, 333; 13 March 1817). 23 This was published in British Critic, n.s. 9 (March 1818), 293–301. A brief notice appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, n.s. 2 (May 1818), 453–5. 24 Whately’s consideration will be discussed more fully in Chapter 7. 25 Achievement of Literary Authority, p. 85. 26 ‘Prudential Lovers and Lost Heirs’, p. 112. 27 ‘Jane Austen and the Old’, Review of English Studies, n.s. 54 (2003), 663. 28 Walter Scott, Guy Mannering; or, the Astrologer, ed. Peter Garside (1815; Edinburgh and Columbia, 1999), pp. 97–8. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 29 The Hero of the Waverley Novels (New Haven and London, 1963), pp. 35– 6. 30 Ibid., pp. 25–6. 31 Structure and Social Vision, p. 143. 32 ‘Isolation and Community in The Antiquary’, Nineteenth-Century Fiction, 27 (1972–3), 413. 33 Walter Scott: The Making of the Novelist (Edinburgh, 1984), p. 95. 34 Improvement of the Estate, p. 187. 35 ‘Austen and the Old’, p. 673. 36 Improvement of the Estate, p. 204. 37 Monaghan, Structure and Social Vision, p. 161. 38 Making of the Novelist, p. 69. 39 See Millgate, ‘Prudential Lovers and Lost Heirs’, p. 120. 40 As Elbers notes: ‘Lovel thus becomes heir to the two major strands of Scottish historical tradition—the one Catholic, Jacobite, and aristocratic and the other Protestant, Whiggish, and professional—one emphasizing hereditary right and continuity and the other individual ability and change.’—‘Isolation and Community’, pp. 419–20.

7 Conclusion: the canonization of Jane Austen

1 According to family tradition, Austen’s intended name for S was ‘The Brothers’ (FR, 243). 2 ‘Sanditon: The Kingdom of Folly’ (1972); reprinted in Critical Assessments, ed. Littlewood, iv, 529.

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232 Notes

Notes 233

3 Representations of Regency England, p. 204. 4 The Victorian Novel before Victoria: British Fiction during the Reign of William iv, 1830–37 (London and Basingstoke, 1984), p. 6. 5 ‘Bentley’s Standard Novel Series: Its History and Achievement’, Colophon, 10 (1932), [50]. 6 A detailed account of reissues of Austen’s novels, including Bentley’s, can be found in David Gilson, ‘Later Publishing History, with Illustrations’, in Austen in Context, ed. Todd, pp. 121–59. 7 For a full bibliographic record of later editions of Austen’s works, see Peter Garside and Anthony Mandal, ‘Jane Austen, 1775–1817’, in The Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature, Volume IV: 1800–1900, ed. Joanne Shattock (3rd edn, Cambridge, 2000), cols 869–83. 8 ‘Memoir of Miss Austen’, p. ix. 9 See e.g. Waldron’s Fiction of her Time, passim. 10 ‘Memoir of Miss Austen’, p. xv. 11 Jane Austen: The Critical Heritage, 2 vols (London, 1968–84), i, 21. 12 Ibid., i, 22. 13 Owing to Whately’s use of the editorial ‘we’ when referring to Scott’s review of Emma, his Quarterly article was at one time mistakenly ascribed to Scott, and is actually included in the 28-volume edition of The Miscellaneous [Prose] Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. (1834–6). 14 Quarterly Review, 24 (January 1821), 352–76; reprinted in Critical Assessments, ed. Littlewood, i, 318–34 (p. 318). Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 15 Leavis’s article was serially published in Scrutiny, 10 (1941) and 11 (1942). Quotations, referenced parenthetically in the text are taken from vol. 1 of her Collected Essays, ed. G. Singh, 3 vols (Cambridge, 1983–9). 16 Siskin notes that one can term this era either the ‘long eighteenth century’ or the ‘long Romanticism’, or neither, depending on one’s own critical imperialism—see his The Work of Writing: Literature and Social Change in Britain 1700–1830 (Baltimore and London, 1998), pp. 10–11. Subsequent references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 17 Siskin’s argument about Austen’s potential involvement in periodical publication is based essentially on the theory that she may have published a small piece in her brothers’ Loiterer on 28 March 1789, under the pseudonym ‘Sophia Sentiment’ (see LL, 60–3). 18 Ann Yearsley’s The Royal Captives (1795) and Miss C. D. Haynes’s Castle of Le Blanc (1816–19) here spring to mind as some of the few novels serialized in periodicals during Austen’s lifetime. For a fuller evaluation, see Robert Mayo’s The English Novel in the Magazines, 1740–1815 (Evanston, il, 1962).

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Primary Texts Fiction

The Acceptance, 3 vols (London, 1810). Austen, Jane. Catharine and Other Writings, ed. Margaret Anne Doody and Douglas Murray (Oxford, 1993). ——. Jane Austen’s ‘Lady Susan’: A Facsimile of the Manuscript in the Pierpont Morgan Library and the 1925 Printed Edition, ed. A. Walton Litz (New York and London, 1989). ——. Lady Susan, The Watsons, Sanditon, ed. Margaret Drabble (Harmonds­ worth, 1974). ——. Sense and Sensibility, ed. Ros Ballaster (1811; London, 1995). ——. Sense and Sensibility, Bentley’s Standard Novels, 23 (London, 1833). ——. Pride and Prejudice, ed. Vivien Jones (1813; London, 1996). ——. Mansfield Park, ed. Kathryn Sutherland (1814; London, 1996). ——. Emma, ed. Fiona Stafford (1816; London, 1996). ——. Northanger Abbey, ed. Marilyn Butler (1818; London, 1995). ——. Persuasion, ed. Gillian Beer (1818; London, 1998). ——. The Novels of Jane Austen, ed. R. W. Chapman, 6 vols (3rd edn, 1933–54; London, 1969 [revised by Brian Southam]). ——. Plan of a Novel, according to Hints from Various Quarters by Jane Austen. With Opinions on ‘Mansfield Park’ and ‘Emma’ Collected and Transcribed by Her and Other Documents, ed. R. W. Chapman (Oxford, 1926). Bage, Robert. Man as He Is, 4 vols (London, 1792). ——. Hermsprong; or, Man as He Is Not, 3 vols (London, 1796). Barrett, E[aton] S[tannard]. The Heroine, or Adventures of a Fair Romance Reader, ed. Walter Raleigh (1813; London, 1909). Beckford, William. Modern Novel Writing, or the Elegant Enthusiast; and Interesting Emotions of Arabella Bloomville, 2 vols (London, 1796). Benignity; or, the Ways of Happiness. A Serious Novel (Brentford, 1818). Bennett, Anna Maria. Anna; or, Memoirs of a Welch Heiress, Interspersed with Anecdotes of a Nabob, 4 vols (London, 1785). ——. Agnes De-Courci. A Domestic Tale, 4 vols (1789; 2nd edn, London, 1797). ‘Bennett, Elizabeth’. Faith and Fiction, or Shining Lights in a Dark Generation, 5 vols (London, 1816). Bristed, John. Edward and Anna; or, a Picture of Human Life, 2 vols (London, 1806). Brunton, Mary. Self-Control. A Novel, 2 vols (Edinburgh and London, 1811). ——. Discipline: A Novel, 3 vols (Edinburgh and London, 1814). 234 10.1057/9780230287501 - Jane Austen and the Popular Novel, Anthony Mandal

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Non-Fiction: Archives, Correspondence, Memoirs

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Anti-Jacobin, Anti-Jacobinism, 9, 10–12, 16–18, 26, 38–9, 95, 102, 121 compare Jacobin, Jacobinism Anti-Jacobin, The, 18, 137 Armstrong, Isobel, 125 Auerbach, Nina, 126 Austen (Lefroy), Anna, 132, 152, 168 Austen, Caroline, 139, 224 (n. 1, 14) Austen, Cassandra (Leigh), 73, 74 Austen, Cassandra Elizabeth, 53, 74, 83, 101, 103, 133, 138–40 Austen, Charles, 77, 206, 224 (n. 5) Austen (Knight), Edward, 76–7, 102, 206, 230 (n. 38) Austen, Francis, 77, 82, 86, 206, 224 (n. 5) Austen, George, 56, 57–9, 61, 62, 73 Austen, Henry, 62, 74, 77–82, 84, 86, 101, 139, 178, 183, 206, 208, 210 Austen, James, 78, 206 Austen, Jane residence at Chawton, 42, 74, 75, 80, 83 her opinion of fiction, 42, 168 and her publishers, 56–74 as a reader of fiction, 41–56, 97, 99–100, 118, 131, 153, 168–9, 178, 216, 220 (n. 4) as a subscriber to Burney’s Camilla, 52–6 her works: profits from, 184, 207– 8; see also juvenilia, Austen’s; specific works by title Austen-Leigh, James Edward, 64–5, 74, 83, 178 Bage, Robert, 9, 11, 12, 16 Baldwin & Co. (publisher), 33 Ballantyne, James (printer), 137

Ballantyne, John (publisher), 137, 231 (n. 8) Barrett, E[aton] S[tannard], 22, 37, 88 Bayfield, Mrs E. G., 72 Beauclerc, Amelia, 31, 35 Beckford, William, 12 Bennett, Anna Maria, 8, 46–7 ‘Bennett, Elizabeth’, 87 Bentley, Richard (publisher), 31, 34, 83, 85, 86, 184, 203, 207–9 see also Colburn, Henry; Standard Novels Besterman, Theodore, 58 Bigg-Wither, Harris, 62 Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 215 Blakey, Dorothy, 34 Booth, J. (publisher), 73 Boringdon, Lady (Countess of Morley), 86 Bounden, Joseph, 27 Briggs, Asa, 20, 23 Bristed, John, 70 British Critic, 82, 85, 98, 225 (n. 19), 232 (n. 23) British Fiction, 1800–1829, 4 ‘Britishness’, 24, 25, 134–5, 169, 177, 215 see also ‘Englishness’ Bromley, Eliza Nugent, 43 Brooke, Charlotte, 68 Brooke, Frances, 43, 58, 68 Brothers, The, see under Sanditon Brunton, Mary, 19, 26, 91, 130, 181–3, 207, 215 Discipline, 96, 119, 129 Self-Control, 23, 36, 94–101, 108–16, 119–21, 123–4, 129, 182; Austen’s opinion of, 97, 99–100, 178 Bulwer Lytton, Edward, 29, 207

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Index

Index 247

Burgess, Miranda, 152 Burke, Anne, 12 Burke, Edmund, 54, 55, 107 Burney, Charles, junior, 54 Burney, Frances, 16, 26, 58–60, 83, 137, 182–3, 208, 211 Camilla, 12, 16, 41, 57–9, 76, 83, 87, 182; sale of copyright, 16, 55; publication of by subscription, 52–6 Wanderer, The, 28, 36, 155, 168, 170, 171, 182 Burney, Sarah Harriet, 12 Bury, Lady Charlotte, 144–5 Butler, Marilyn, 9, 119, 128, 216, 230 (n. 31) Butt, Mary Martha, 53, 60 Byron, ‘Medora Gordon’, 31, 35 Byron, Lord George Gordon, 137–8, 168, 177, 192

see also Bentley, Richard; Standard Novels Colby, Robert, 118, 127–8 Colley, Linda, 134 Collins, Irene, 104 commission, publishing on, 80, 226–7 (n. 24) Constable, Archibald (publisher), 136–8 Cooke, Cassandra (Leigh), 55–6, 221 (n. 23) Coxe, Eliza, 87 Craik, Helen, 12 Critical Review, 3, 10, 15, 82, 85, 99, 225 (n. 19) Croker, John Wilson, 178 Crosby & Co. (publisher), 33, 51, 62–74, 75, 78–9, 87, 222 (n. 36), 223 (n. 52) Crosby, Benjamin (publisher), see under Crosby & Co. Crosby, Richard (publisher): correspondence with Austen, 64 see also Crosby & Co. Cullen, Stephen, 12 Curwen, Henry, 37, 136

Cadell & Davies (publisher), 14, 51, 52, 54–62, 69, 73, 78–9, 222 (n. 32) Cadell, Robert (publisher), 138 Cadell, Thomas (publisher), see under Cadell & Davies Canning, George, 55, 137 Dacre, Charlotte, 19 Carey, David, 67 Davenport,Selina, 31, 35 Carlton House, 180 Davies, William (publisher), see Caroline, Princess, 19 under Cadell & Davies ‘Dennis, Mrs Ashton’, 63–4 Catherine, see under Northanger Abbey Dickens, Charles, 29 Cawthorn, George (publisher), 55 D’Israeli, Isaac, 11 Chapman, R. W., 64–5, 69, 84, 101 Dorchester and Sherborne Journal, Chapple, Clement (publisher), 33 70–1 Charlotte, Queen, 54 Dubois, Edward, 11 Charlotte Augusta, Princess, 75 Duckworth, Alistair, 107, 196, 198–9 Choderlos de Laclos, Pierre, 50 Ducray-Duminil, François, 12, 37 circulating and subscription libraries, Duperche, J.-J.-M., 67 6, 7, 12, 33, 34, 37, 41–2, 43, 68, Eclectic Review, 98, 119 77–8, 86, 169, 177–8 Edgeworth, Maria, 3, 10, 17, 18, 24–6 Clapham Sect, 92–3 passim, 30, 55, 86, 141, 152, 153, Clarke, J[ames] S[tanier], 133, 208, 209, 211, 215 139–40, 180–2 Patronage, 28, 168, 169, 171 Colburn, Henry (publisher), 31, 32, Edinburgh Christian Instructor, 99 34, 37–8, 68, 207

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Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, 232 (n. 23) Edinburgh Review, 35, 137 Egerton, Thomas (publisher), 77–88, 101, 133, 138, 169, 171, 208 Egerton Brydges, Samuel, 61 Elbers, Joan S., 194, 232 (n. 40) Elinor and Marianne, see under Sense and Sensibility Eliot, George, 167 Emma, 78, 88, 124, 128–30, 131–67, 169, 182, 206, 210–11, 214, 227 (n. 43), 230 (n. 31, 35, 38, 43) composition of, 131, 133 dedication to Prince Regent, 139–40 publication of, 28, 74, 135, 138–41, 228 (n. 10), 231 (n. 10) costs of, profits from, 136, 141, 183 advertisements for, 140–1, 170–2 reviews of, 86, 173–8 later editions of, 208 Engel, Elliot, 207 ‘Englishness’, 133–5, 152–67, 169, 230 (n. 35) English Novel, 1770–1829, The, 4, 6, 16, 22, 138 Erickson, Lee, 21 Evangelicalism, Evangelical fiction, 19, 22–4, 27, 28, 39–40, 91–130, 132, 153, 166, 214, 215 Austen’s attitude towards, 91, 227 (n. 41) literary conventions, 102–17 origins of, 92–3 publishing context, 94–102, 129–30 response to, 92–3 see also moral–domestic fiction fashionable tales, 28, 35, 37, 179–80, 182, 183, 215 see also scandal fiction Fenimore Cooper, James, 207 Fenwick, Eliza, 10 Fergus, Jan, 4, 60, 66, 70–2, 80, 101, 184

Ferrier, Susan, 24, 86, 152 Ferris, Ina, 24, 142, 157, 168–9, 172, 184 Feuillide (Austen), Eliza de, 62, 101, 211 fiction authorship of, 1785–99: 13–17, 213–14, 217 (n. 12); 1800–19: 26– 32, 219 (n. 28); by men: 13–14, 29, 36–9, 168–9, 207, 214, 215; by women: 13–17, 26–9, 34–9, 168–9, 173–8, 213–19 passim production of, 215; 1785–99: 6–17, 217 (n. 5); 1800–19: 17–38, 216; costs of, 21, 34, 36, 37, 138; influence of wars with France on, 20; influence of inflation on, 20 publishers of, 32–8 translations of, 6, 7, 12, 15, 18, 21 First Impressions, see under Pride and Prejudice Flowers of Literature, 69 Forget-Me-Not, The, 215 France French Revolution, 9, 11, 21, 22, 142, 149 war with, 6, 20–3 passim, 28, 133–5, 142, 149, 152, 163 see also Napoleon, Napoleonic Wars Galperin, William, 158 Garside, Peter, 22, 33, 53 see also English Novel, 1770–1829, The Gaskell, Elizabeth, 167 Genlis, Stéphanie Félicité, comtesse de, 18, 68 Gentleman’s Magazine, 158 George III, 134, 230 (n. 38) George IV, 19, 133, 139–40, 180 Gifford, William, 137–8, 173, 180 Gilson, David, 65, 84, 85, 140–1 Gleich, Johann Alois, 9 Godwin, William, 9, 11, 16, 25, 67, 74, 207 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 7

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248 Index

Index 249

Goldsmith, Mary, 71 Gothic, 8–9, 12–22 passim, 26–37 passim, 40, 49, 67, 69, 70–1, 74, 76, 88, 178–80, 182, 183, 214, 215 Green, Sarah, 28, 31 Griffith, Elizabeth, 43 Grimshawe, William, 92 Grosse, Karl, 12 Gunning, Elizabeth, 67 Hamilton, Elizabeth, 10, 12, 82 Hanway, Mary Ann, 11, 87 Harding, Anne Raikes, 24 Harvey, Jane, 31 Hatton, Anne (‘Ann of Swansea’), 31 Hawkins, Lætitia-Matilda, 19, 118 Countess and Gertrude, The, 24, 94, 95, 109–10, 119 Hayley, William, 49 Hays, Mary, 10, 12 Helme, Elizabeth, 48, 76 Hervey, Elizabeth, 76 Highley, Samuel, see under Murray, John historical novels, 22, 25–6, 28, 35, 169, 177–80, 184–202, 214, 216 see also Scott, Sir Walter Hodge, Jane Aiken, 65, 69 Hofland, Barbara, 19, 29, 30–1, 35 Hogan, C. B., 83 Holcroft, Thomas, 9, 47, 55 Holford, Margaret, 62 ‘Holstein, Anthony Frederick’, 35 Holsten, Esther, 67 Honan, Park, 69, 223 (n. 52) Hookham & Co. (publisher), 16, 33 Hope, Thomas, 138 Horsley-Curties, T. J., 9 Howard, Charles, 27 Howell, Ann, 8 Hughes, J[ames] F[letcher] (publisher), 33, 67–73 see also Crosby & Co. Hunter, Rachel, 71 Hurstone, J. P., 19 Hutchinson, Miss A. A., 96

Inchbald, Elizabeth, 9, 11, 12, 16, 76 Jacobin, Jacobinism, 9–13, 16–17, 38–9, 60 compare Anti-Jacobin, AntiJacobinism Jacson, Frances, 11, 24, 87, 95, 96 Johnson, Claudia, 125, 126, 216 Johnson, Edgar, 231 (n. 5) Johnstone, Christian Isobel, 24 Jones, Hannah Maria, 215 juvenilia, Austen’s, 7, 8, 41–51, 73, 76, 87, 211, 213, 215 ‘Adventures of Mr Harley, The’, 43 ‘Catharine, or the Bower’, 43–4, 48–50, 73, 211 ‘Edgar and Emma’, 43, 87 ‘Evelyn’, 43–4, 49–50, 73 ‘Frederic and Elfrida’, 43–4 ‘Henry and Eliza’, 43, 47, 87 ‘History of England, A’, 42 ‘Jack and Alice’, 43, 87 ‘Lesley Castle’, 43, 49–50, 211–12 ‘Love and Freindship’, 42–50 ‘Memoirs of Mr Clifford’, 43 ‘Sir William Mountague’, 43 ‘Three Sisters, The’, 211 Volumes the First, Second, Third, 42–4, 73 Keepsake, The, 215 Keir, Elizabeth, 8 Kelly, Gary, 30 Kelly, Isabella, 12 Ker, Ann, 67 Kett, Henry Emily, a Moral Tale, 79, 94, 95, 107, 108, 110–14, 119, 123 Kiernan, V., 93 King, Margaret, 207 King, Sophia, 11 Knight, Fanny, 135, 180, 232 (n. 22) Knox-Shaw, Peter, 5, 94 Kotzebue, August von, 37, 66 Lovers’ Vows, 113, 120, 123

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Lady’s Monthly Museum, 76 Lady Susan, 50–1, 73, 210–12 composition of, 220 (n. 8) Lafontaine, August, 18 Lamb, Lady Caroline, 24, 37 Lamont, Claire, 185, 197 Lane, William (publisher), see under Minerva Press Lansdown, J. (publisher), 72 Lathom, Francis, 18, 26, 67 Lauber, John, 204 Leavis, Q. D., 203, 210–12, 214, 216 Lee, Harriet, 55 Lee, Sophia, 55, 58 Le Faye, Deirdre, 57, 69, 135, 139 Lefroy, Mrs Anne, 73 Lennox, Charlotte, 58 Lester, Elizabeth B., 24 Letterman, William (publisher), 66, 67, 71, 72 see also Crosby & Co. Lewis, M[atthew] G[regory] The Monk, 9, 11, 12, 18, 26, 33, 38, 60, 70, 179 Lloyd, Martha, 84 Loiterer, The, 78–9, 233 (n. 17) Longmans (publisher), 16, 31, 32, 35–6, 60, 78, 84, 97–8, 170, 172 Luddites, Ludditism, 134 Lynch, Deidre, 4, 162, 166, 203 ‘Lyttleton, Mr’, 18 Macaulay, T[homas] B[abington], 3, 41 MacDonagh, Oliver, 102 Mackenzie, Henry, 7, 58 Manners & Miller (publisher), 97–8 Manners, Catherine, 70 Mansfield Park, 28, 78, 79, 83, 88, 91–130, 139, 141, 153, 159, 167, 169, 173, 182, 206, 209–12, 214, 228 (n. 50) composition of, 94, 100 publication of, 28, 100–1 costs of, profits from, 101–2, 136, 138–9

advertisements for, 101, 170–2, 227 (n. 25) ‘Opinions of’, 100, 101, 120, 123 later editions of, 102, 129, 135–6, 169, 172, 208 Marryat, Captain Frederick, 215 Martin, Mrs, 41–2 Maturin, Charles Robert, 24, 74 Meeke, Mary, 12, 15, 18 Melville, Theodore, 67 military fiction, 169 Millbanke, Anne Isabella, 86 Millgate, Jane, 184, 195 Minerva Press (publisher), 15, 30–1, 32–7 passim, 60, 67, 68, 223 (n. 47) Mitford, Mary Russell, 86, 134, 167 Modert, Jo, 65 Moers, Ellen, 146, 148 Moler, Kenneth, 106, 122, 128 Monaghan, David, 93, 191–2 Monthly Review, 15 Montolieu, Isabelle, baronne de, 47 Moore, John, 60 moral–domestic fiction, 23–9 passim, 91–130, 146, 182, 215, 216 see also Evangelicalism, Evangelical fiction More, Hannah, 55, 66, 92, 130 Cœlebs in Search of a Wife, 19, 23, 73, 94–100 passim, 104–6, 111, 119–29 passim, 211 Austen’s opinion of, 118 Moretti, Franco, 160 Morgan, Lady Sydney, see Owenson, Sydney (Lady Morgan) Morning Chronicle, The, 82, 84, 170, 172, 227 (n. 25) Morning Post, The, 83, 140, 170–2, 225 (n. 21) Morritt, J. B. S., 177 ‘Mortimer, Edward’, 9, 26 Muller, Richard, 43 Murat, comtesse de, 43

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250 Index

Index 251

Murray, John (publisher), 74, 77, 102, 129–30, 133, 135–41, 172–3, 184, 208, 231 (n. 10)

Wild Irish Girl, The, 24, 132, 141–53, 156, 166–7, 229 (n. 27); Austen’s opinion of, 131

Napoleon, Napoleonic Wars, 20, 21, 28, 133–5, 142, 149, 152, 163 see also France national tales, 24–6, 28, 131–67, 214–16 passim Naubert, Christiane, 9 Newman, A[nthony] K[ing] (publisher), see under Minerva Press New Monthly Magazine, 203 New Review, 85, 225 (n. 19) newspapers, advertisements for Austen’s and Scott’s novels in, 170–2 Northanger Abbey (Susan, Catherine), 48, 77, 78, 88, 120, 126, 138, 153, 211, 214 composition of, 51, 62, 222 (n. 35) sale to Crosby & Co., 51 advertised by Crosby & Co., 69–70 non-publication by Crosby & Co., 63–74 repurchase of copyright from Crosby & Co., 74 renamed Catherine, 74 renamed Northanger Abbey, 74 publication of, 51, 184 costs of, profits from, 184 reviews of, 184, 209–10, 232 (n. 23) later editions of, 208 ‘Northanger Novels’, 15, 18

Palmer, John, 67 Parker, Emma, 31 Parsons, Eliza, 15, 29 Payne, Thomas, junior (publisher), 54 Peacock, Thomas Love, 74 Perceval, Spencer, 134 Persuasion, 74, 77, 78, 88, 168–9, 182–202, 206, 214 composition of, 171, 172, 183 publication of, 183–4, 232 (n. 22) reviews of, 184, 209–10, 232 (n. 23) costs of, profits from, 184 later editions of, 208 Pigault-Lebrun, Charles-AntoineGuillaume, 18 Pilkington, Mary, 28 Plan of a Novel, 179–83 Plumptre, Anne, 12 Porter, Anna Maria, 25, 181–3, 207, 215 Recluse of Norway, The, 28, 36, 171 Porter, Jane, 181–3, 207, 215 Scottish Chiefs, The, 25, 36 Pratt, Samuel Jackson, 43 Pride and Prejudice (First Impressions), 51, 73–9 passim, 87–8, 101, 103, 120, 124, 130, 138, 141, 163, 169, 173, 182, 211–12, 230 (n. 37) composition of, 51, 83–4 rejection by Cadell & Davies, 14, 51, 52, 56–62, 63, 76, 83 publication of, 83–5, 225 (n. 18) costs of, profits from, 84, 226–7 (n. 24) advertisements for, 84, 225 (n. 20) reviews of, 85, 225 (n. 19) speculation about the authorship of, 85–6 later editions of, 85, 87, 138, 208 Prince Regent, see under George IV Pye, Jael-Henrietta, 43

Observer, The, 140 Opie, Amelia Alderson, 3, 19, 30, 40, 55 Temper, 24, 36, 40, 94–6, 105, 119 Owenson, Sydney (Lady Morgan), 3, 17, 24–6 passim, 37, 132–3, 141–2, 152, 157, 181, 203 Ida of Athens, 143–4, 153; Austen’s opinion of, 131 O’Donnel, 24, 28, 37, 168, 171

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Quarterly Review, 137, 173, 184, 213 Radcliffe, Ann, 8–9, 16, 49, 58, 60, 69, 137, 179 Mysteries of Udolpho, The, 8–9, 16, 88, 211, 214 Rann, C. S. (publisher), 78 Raven, James, 16 see also English Novel, 1770–1829, The Reed, Andrew, 24 Rees, Thomas, 34 Regency, 4–5, 6, 19, 21–4, 30, 32, 36, 40, 94–5, 134, 204–7 Richardson, Samuel, 7, 50 Rivingtons (publisher), 78, 79 Roberts, Margaret Duty, 36, 96, 106, 111–14 Robinson, Mary, 8, 12, 15, 49–50 Robinsons (publisher), 16, 33, 54, 58, 78 Roche, Regina Maria, 9, 12, 16 Romaine, William, 92 Ross, Mrs, 31 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 7, 12, 43, 154 Roworth, Charles (printer), 81, 84 see also Egerton, Thomas Sadleir, Michael, 207 Saint Pierre, Bernardin de, 7, 12 Sales, Roger, 4–5, 206 Sanditon (The Brothers), 88, 203–6, 230 (n. 37) composition of, 183–4, 204 scandal fiction, 19, 27, 33 see also fashionable tales Schiller, J. F. von, 9 School for Fathers, The, 45 Scott, Sir Walter, 3, 22, 26, 29, 40, 52, 75, 136–7, 152, 168–202, 207, 213–16, 231 (n. 5) Antiquary, The, 25, 135, 185–202, 232 (n. 40); advertisements for, 170–2; Austen’s opinion of, 178–9 Guy Mannering, 25, 135, 185–202; advertisements for, 170–2

Waverley, 21, 24, 25, 31, 40, 135, 142, 169, 173–80 passim, 183, 186; advertisements for, 170–2, 231 (n. 8); Austen’s opinion of, 168 Waverley Novels, 24, 25, 36, 169–202, 207, 214 opinion of Austen, 77 review of Emma, 86, 173–8, 209, 213 ‘Sedley, Charles’, 18, 27, 33 Sense and Sensibility (Elinor and Marianne), 57, 75, 83–8, 120 composition of, 51, 53, 61, 75–7, 224 (n. 1) publication of, 27, 77–83 costs of, profits from, 80–4 passim, 138, 224 (n. 14) advertisements for, 81–3, 225 (n. 20) reviews of, 82 later editions of, 82–3, 86, 139, 207–8 sensibility, sentiment, novel of, 7–10, 12, 15–16, 40, 43–9, 67, 87, 102, 143, 179, 182, 183, 217 (n. 7) serialization, 16, 215, 233 (n. 18) Seward, Anna, 52 Seymour, William, 65 Shelley, Mary, 74 Sherwood & Co. (publishers), 33 Sicklemore, Richard, 76 Sidney, George (printer), 84 see also Egerton, Thomas silver-fork novels, 169, 207 Simpkin & Marshall (publisher), 33 Siskin, Clifford, 203, 212–15, 216, 233 (n. 17) Smith, Charlotte, 8–16 passim, 44, 48–50, 57–60 passim, 68, 86, 137 Smith, Horatio, 67 Southam, B[rian] C[harles], 57, 83, 208–9 Staël-Holstein, Anne-LouiseGermaine de, 18, 37, 68, 132, 166, 181

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252 Index



Index 253

Taylor, Jane, 24 Thackeray, William Makepeace, 29 Thomas, Elizabeth, 31 Tomlinson, T. B., 161 Tracy, Robert, 229 (n. 27) Trumpener, Katie, 142 Tucker, George Holbert, 77 Union, Act of, 142

United Irishmen’s Rebellion, 142, 145 USA war with Britain, 20, 134 Vallois, Marie-Claire, 149 Waldron, Mary, 103 Walker, George, 11 Walker, Samuel, 92 Ward, Catherine George, 215 Ward, Robert Plumer, 207 Wareham Priory; or, the Will, 53 Waterloo, Battle of, 135 see also France: war with; Napoleon, Napoleonic Wars Watson, Nicola, 10 Watsons, The, 51, 73, 210–12 Welsh, Alexander, 188–9, 190 West, Jane, 11, 12, 16, 25, 36, 49, 87 Whately, Richard, 184, 203, 209–10, 212–14, 216 Wilberforce, William, 92, 113 William IV, 207 Williams, Helen Maria, 7 Wollstonecraft, Mary, 7, 10 Wood, Lisa, 94, 97 Woodfall, Sophia, 71 Frederick Montravers, 67–9, 70 Yearsley, Ann, 16, 68 Young, Mary Julia, 19, 33, 67, 68, 71 Zschokke, Heinrich, 33

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Corinne, 24, 131–3, 142–54, 156–7, 167; Austen’s opinion of, 153, 229–30 (n. 29) Delphine, 142, 157 opinion of Austen’s fiction, 153 Stafford, Fiona, 164 Standard Novels, 83, 85, 86, 203, 207–9 see also Bentley, Richard; Colburn, Henry Stanhope, Louisa Sidney, 31 Star, The, 81–2, 101, 170, 225 (n. 21), 227 (n. 25) subscription fiction, 52–3, 220 (n. 11) subscription libraries, see under circulating and subscription libraries Surr, T[homas] S[kinner], 19 Susan (anon.), 73–4 Susan (Austen), see under Northanger Abbey Sutherland, Kathryn, 94 Symonds, H. D., 33