Selected Literary Influences

In the “Biographical Notice” affixed to Northanger Abbey and Persuasion in 1818, Henry Austen claimed that Samuel Johnson (1709–84) was Austen’s “favourite moral writer … in prose.” Johnson, a prominent writer, critic, and lexicographer, wrote nearly all of the essays that appeared in the Rambler, a periodical published from 1750 to 1752. In addition to his influential Dictionary of the English Language, Johnson’s significant writings include numerous periodical essays; the moral tale Rasselas; and the biographical and critical work Lives of the English Poets.

… TO THE RAMBLER.

SIR,

… You have … hitherto neglected to recommend good-humour to the world, though a little reflection will shew you that it is the balm of being, the quality to which all that adorns or elevates mankind must owe its power of pleasing. Without good-humour, learning and bravery can only confer that superiority which swells the heart of the lion in the desert, where he roars without reply, and ravages without resistance. Without good-humour, virtue may awe by its dignity, and amaze by its brightness; but must always be viewed at a distance, and will scarcely gain a friend or attract an imitator.

Good-humour may be defined a habit of being pleased; a constant and perennial softness of manner, easiness of approach, and suavity of disposition; like that which every man perceives in himself, when the first transports of new felicity have subsided, and his thoughts are only kept in motion by a slow succession of soft impulses. Good-humour is a state between gaiety and unconcern; the act or emanation of a mind at leisure to regard the gratification of another.

It is imagined by many, that whenever they aspire to please, they are required to be merry, and to shew the gladness of their souls by flights of pleasantry, and bursts of laughter. But though these men may be for a time heard with applause and admiration, they seldom delight us long. We enjoy them a little, and then retire to easiness and good-humour, as the eye gazes awhile on eminences glittering with the sun, but soon turns aching away to verdure and to flowers.

Gaiety is to good-humour as animal perfumes to vegetable fragrance; the one overpowers weak spirits, and the other recreates and revives them. Gaiety seldom fails to give some pain; the hearers either strain their faculties to accompany its towerings, or are left behind in envy and despair. Good-humour boasts no faculties which every one does not believe in his own power, and pleases principally by not offending.

It is well known that the most certain way to give any man pleasure, is to persuade him that you receive pleasure from him, to encourage him to freedom and confidence, and to avoid any such appearance of superiority as may overbear and depress him. We see many that by this art only spend their days in the midst of caresses, invitations, and civilities; and without any extraordinary qualities or attainments, are the universal favourites of both sexes, and certainly find a friend in every place. The darlings of the world will, indeed, be generally found such as excite neither jealousy nor fear, and are not considered as candidates for any eminent degree of reputation, but content themselves with common accomplishments, and endeavour rather to solicit kindness than to raise esteem; therefore in assemblies and places of resort it seldom fails to happen, that though at the entrance of some particular person every face brightens with gladness, and every hand is extended in salutation, yet if you pursue him beyond the first exchange of civilities, you will find him of very small importance, and only welcome to the company, as one by whom all conceive themselves admired, and with whom any one is at liberty to amuse himself when he can find no other auditor or companion; as one with whom all are at ease, who will hear a jest without criticism, and a narrative without contradiction, who laughs with every wit, and yields to every disputer.

There are many whose vanity always inclines them to associate with those from whom they have no reason to fear mortification; and there are times in which the wise and the knowing are willing to receive praise without the labour of deserving it, in which the most elevated mind is willing to descend, and the most active to be at rest. All therefore are at some hour or another fond of companions whom they can entertain upon easy terms, and who will relieve them from solitude, without condemning them to vigilance and caution. We are most inclined to love when we have nothing to fear, and he that encourages us to please ourselves, will not be long without preference in our affection to those whose learning holds us at the distance of pupils, or whose wit calls all attention from us, and leaves us without importance and without regard. …

Good-humour is indeed generally degraded by the characters in which it is found; for, being considered as a cheap and vulgar quality, we find it often neglected by those that, having excellencies of higher reputation and brighter splendour, perhaps imagine that they have some right to gratify themselves at the expense of others, and are to demand compliance, rather than to practise it. It is by some unfortunate mistake that almost all those who have any claim to esteem or love, press their pretensions with too little consideration of others. This mistake my own interest, as well as my zeal for general happiness, makes me desirous to rectify; for I have a friend, who, because he knows his own fidelity and usefulness, is never willing to sink into a companion: I have a wife whose beauty first subdued me, and whose wit confirmed her conquest, but whose beauty now serves no other purpose than to entitle her to tyranny, and whose wit is only used to justify perverseness.

Surely nothing can be more unreasonable than to lose the will to please, when we are conscious of the power, or show more cruelty than to chuse any kind of influence before that of kindness. He that regards the welfare of others, should make his virtue approachable, that it may be loved and copied; and he that considers the wants which every man feels, or will feel, of external assistance, must rather wish to be surrounded by those that love him, than by those that admire his excellencies, or solicit his favours; for admiration ceases with novelty, and interest gains its end and retires. A man whose great qualities want the ornament of superficial attractions, is like a naked mountain with mines of gold, which will be frequented only till the treasure is exhausted.

I am, &c.

Philomides.

…Politeness is one of those advantages which we never estimate rightly but by the inconvenience of its loss. Its influence upon the manners is constant and uniform, so that, like an equal motion, it escapes perception. The circumstances of every action are so adjusted to each other, that we do not see where any error could have been committed, and rather acquiesce in its propriety, than admire its exactness.

But as sickness shews us the value of ease, a little familiarity with those who were never taught to endeavour the gratification of others, but regulate their behaviour merely by their own will, will soon evince the necessity of established modes and formalities to the happiness and quiet of common life.

Wisdom and virtue are by no means sufficient, without the supplemental laws of good-breeding, to secure freedom from degenerating to rudeness, or self-esteem from swelling into insolence; a thousand incivilities may be committed, and a thousand offices neglected, without any remorse of conscience or reproach from reason.

The true effect of genuine politeness seems to be rather ease than pleasure. The power of delighting must be conferred by nature, and cannot be delivered by precept, or obtained by imitation; but though it be the privilege of a very small number to ravish and to charm, every man may hope by rules and caution not to give pain, and may, therefore, by the help of good-breeding, enjoy the kindness of mankind, though he should have no claim to higher distinctions.

The universal axiom in which all complaisance is included, and from which flow all the formalities which custom has established in civilized nations, is, That no man should give any preference to himself. A rule so comprehensive and certain, that, perhaps, it is not easy for the mind to image an incivility, without supposing it to be broken.

There are, indeed, in every place some particular modes of the ceremonial part of good-breeding, which, being arbitrary and accidental, can be learned only by habitude and conversation; such are the forms of salutation, the different gradations of reverence, and all the adjustments of place and precedence. These, however, may be often violated without offence, if it be sufficiently evident, that neither malice nor pride contributed to the failure; but will not atone, however rigidly observed, for the tumour of insolence, or petulance of contempt.

I have, indeed, not found among any part of mankind, less real and rational complaisance, than among those who have passed their time in paying and receiving visits, in frequenting publick entertainments, in studying the exact measures of ceremony, and in watching all the variations of fashionable courtesy.

They know, indeed, at what hour they may beat the door of an acquaintance, how many steps they must attend him towards the gate, and what interval should pass before his visit is returned; but seldom extend their care beyond the exterior and unessential parts of civility, nor refuse their own vanity any gratification, however expensive to the quiet of another.

Trypherus is a man remarkable for splendour and expence; a man, that having been originally placed by his fortune and rank in the first class of the community, has acquired that air of dignity, and that readiness in the exchange of compliments, which courts, balls, and levees, easily confer.

But Trypherus, without any settled purposes of malignity, partly by his ignorance of human nature, and partly by the habit of contemplating with great satisfaction his own grandeur and riches, is hourly giving disgust to those whom chance or expectation subjects to his vanity.

To a man whose fortune confines him to a small house, he declaims upon the pleasure of spacious apartments, and the convenience of changing his lodging-room in different parts of the year; tells him, that he hates confinement; and concludes, that if his chamber was less, he should never wake without thinking of a prison. …

Yet though all are not equally culpable with Trypherus, it is scarcely possible to find any man who does not frequently, like him, indulge his own pride by forcing others into a comparison with himself when he knows the advantage is on his side, without considering that unnecessarily to obtrude unpleasing ideas, is a species of oppression; and that it is little more criminal to deprive another of some real advantage, than to interrupt that forgetfulness of its absence which is the next happiness to actual possession.

I am, &c.

Eutropius

Frances Burney (1752–1840) was a successful novelist and something of a literary celebrity by the time she published Cecilia in 1782. Austen’s appreciation of Burney’s writing is suggested in Northanger Abbey’s defense of the novel, which includes two of her books, Cecilia and Camilla, on a short list of “work[s] in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed.”

Cecilia narrates the events leading up to the marriage of its eponymous heroine, who receives a large inheritance with one stipulation: that the gentleman she marries must take her last name. The following passage occurs just after Cecilia observes her friend Henrietta Belfield in a private moment and realizes that Henrietta is in love with Mortimer Delvile, whom Cecilia also loves. Austen scholars such as Jane Spencer have suggested that Austen recalls this scene in Emma.

from Book 5
from Chapter 4: A Detection

Cecilia, who had no wish for making any opposition, embraced her [Miss Belfield] again, and suffered her quietly to depart.

Her own mind was now in a state of the utmost confusion. The rectitude of her heart and the soundness of her judgment had hitherto guarded her both from error and blame, and, except during her recent suspence, had preserved her tranquility inviolate; but her commerce with the world had been small and confined, and her actions had had little reference but to herself. The case was now altered; and she was suddenly in a conjuncture of all others the most delicate, that of accidentally discovering a rival in a favourite friend.

The fondness she had conceived for Miss Belfield, and the sincerity of her intentions as well as promises to serve her, made the detection of this secret peculiarly cruel; she had lately felt no pleasure but in her society, and looked forward to much future comfort from the continuance of her regard, and from their constantly living together: but now this was no longer even to be desired, since the utter annihilation of the wishes of both, by young Delvile’s being disposed of to a third person, could alone render eligible their dwelling under the same roof.

Her pity, however, for Miss Belfield was almost wholly unallayed by jealousy; she harboured not any suspicion that she was loved by young Delvile, whose aspiring spirit led her infinitely more to fear some higher rival, than to believe he bestowed even a thought upon the poor Henrietta: but still she wished with the utmost ardour to know the length of their acquaintance, how often they had met, when they had conversed, what notice he had taken of her, and how so dangerous a preference had invaded her heart.

But though this curiosity was both natural and powerful, her principal concern was the arrangement of her own conduct: the next day Miss Belfield was to tell her every thing by a voluntary promise; but she doubted if she had any right to accept such a confidence. Miss Belfield, she was sure, knew not she was interested in the tale, since she had not even imagined that Delvile was known to her. She might hope, therefore, not only for advice but assistance, and fancy that while she reposed her secret in the bosom of a friend, she secured herself her best offices and best wishes for ever.

Would she obtain them? no; the most romantic generosity would revolt from such a demand, for however precarious was her own chance with young Delvile, Miss Belfield she was sure could not have any: neither her birth nor education fitted her for his rank in life, and even were both unexceptionable, the smallness of her fortune, as Mr. Monckton had instructed her, would be an obstacle insurmountable.

Would it not be a kind of treachery to gather from her every thing, yet aid her in nothing? to take advantage of her unsuspicious openness in order to learn all that related to one whom she yet hoped would belong ultimately to herself, and gratify an interested curiosity at the expence of a candour not more simple than amiable? “No,” cried Cecilia, “arts that I could never forgive, I never will practice; this sweet, but unhappy girl shall tell me nothing: betrayed already by the tenderness of her own heart, she shall at least suffer no further from any duplicity in mine. If, indeed, Mr. Delvile, as I suspect, is engaged elsewhere, I will make this gentle Henrietta the object of my future solicitude: the sympathy of our situations will not then divide but unite us, and I will take her to my bosom, hear all her sorrows, and calm her troubled spirit by participating in her sensibility. But if, on the contrary, this mystery ends more happily for myself, if Mr. Delvile has now no other engagement, and hereafter clears his conduct to my satisfaction, I will not be accessory to loading her future recollection with the shame of a confidence she then cannot but repent, nor with an injury to her delicacy that may wound it for ever.”

She determined, therefore, carefully to avoid the subject for the present, since she could offer no advice for which she might not, hereafter, be suspected of selfish motives; but yet, from a real regard to the tender-hearted girl, to give all the tacit discouragement that was in her power, to a passion which she firmly believed would be productive of nothing but misery.

In the first decade of the nineteenth century, Maria Edgeworth (1768–1849) was one of the most popular novelists in England. Austen greatly admired her writing; in an 1814 letter to her niece, she writes, “I have made up my mind to like no Novels really, but Miss Edgeworth’s, Yours, & my own.”

Castle Rackrent is arguably Edgeworth’s most influential work. Here, Thady, the servant at Castle Rackrent who narrates the story of the estate and its heirs, describes the money-saving tactics of his first mistress, Lady Rackrent.

from Monday Morning

I must say for her, she made him the best of wives, being a very notable stirring woman, and looking close to everything. But I always suspected she had Scotch blood in her veins; anything else I could have looked over in her from a regard to the family. She was a strict observer for self and servants of Lent, and all fast days, but not holidays. One of the maids having fainted three times the last day of Lent, to keep soul and body together we put a morsel of roast beef into her mouth, which came from Sir Murtagh’s dinner, who never fasted, not he; but somehow or other it unfortunately reached my lady’s ears, and the priest of the parish had a complaint made of it the next day, and the poor girl was forced as soon as she could walk to do penance for it, before she could get any peace or absolution in the house or out of it. However, my lady was very charitable in her own way. She had a charity school for poor children, where they were taught to read and write gratis, and where they were kept well to spinning gratis for my lady in return; for she had always heaps of duty yarn from the tenants, and got all her household linen out of the estate from first to last; for after the spinning, the weavers on the estate took it in hand for nothing, because of the looms my lady’s interest could get from the Linen Board to distribute gratis. Then there was a bleach yard near us, and the tenant dare refuse my lady nothing, for fear of a lawsuit Sir Murtagh kept hanging over him about the watercourse. With these ways of managing, ’tis surprising how cheap my lady got things done, and how proud she was of it. Her table the same way, kept for next to nothing; duty fowls, and duty turkeys, and duty geese, came as fast as we could eat ’em, for my lady kept a sharp look out, and knew to a tub of butter everything the tenants had, all round. They knew her way, and what with fear of driving for rent and Sir Murtagh’s lawsuits, they were kept in such good order, they never thought of coming near Castle Rackrent without a present of something or other—nothing too much or too little for my lady—eggs, honey, butter, meal, fish, game, grouse, and herrings, fresh or salt: all went for something.

Belinda, which Edgeworth called a “Moral Tale,” details the experiences and relationships of its title character, a principled young woman who is sent by her aunt to live in London with the fashionable and dramatic Lady Delacour. In the pages leading up to the excerpt reproduced here, Belinda finds herself in conflict with Lady Delacour; she escapes to the country house of a friend, Lady Anne Percival.

from Chapter 16: Domestic Happiness

There was an air of benevolence and perfect sincerity in the politeness with which Lady Anne Percival received Belinda, that was peculiarly agreeable to her agitated and harassed mind.

“I am afraid,” said Belinda, “that your ladyship will think me capricious for coming to you at last an unbidden guest, after having so often refused your kind invitations.”

“Nay,” said lady Anne, “your surrendering yourself at discretion, just when I was going to raise the siege in despair, is the most flattering thing possible to my self-complacency. And the only terms I shall impose are, that you will stay at Oakly-park with us as long as we can make it agreeable to you, and no longer. Whether those who cease to please, or those who cease to be pleased, are most to blame, it may sometimes be difficult to determine—so difficult, that, when this becomes a question between two friends, they perhaps had better part than venture upon the discussion.”

Lady Anne Percival could not avoid suspecting that something disagreeable had passed between lady Delacour and Belinda; but she was not troubled with the disease of idle curiosity, and her example prevailed upon Mrs. Margaret Delacour, who dined with her, to refrain from all questions and comments. …

The tranquillity of Belinda’s mind was gradually restored by the society that she enjoyed [at Oakly-park]. She found herself in the midst of a large and cheerful family, with whose domestic happiness she could not forbear to sympathise. There was an affectionate confidence, an unconstrained gayety in this house, which forcibly struck her, from it’s contrast with what she had seen at lady Delacour’s. She perceived, that between Mr. Percival and lady Anne there was a union of interests, occupations, taste, and affection. She was at first astonished by the openness with which they talked of their affairs in her presence; that there were no family secrets, nor any of those petty mysteries which arise from a discordance of temper or struggle for power. In conversation, every person expressed without constraint their wishes and opinions; and wherever these differed, reason and the general good were the standards to which they appealed. The elder and younger part of the family were not separated from each other; even the youngest child in the house seemed to form part of the society, to have some share and interest in the general occupations or amusements. The children were treated neither as slaves nor as playthings, but as reasonable creatures; and the ease with which they were managed, and with which they managed themselves, surprised Belinda; for she heard none of that continual lecturing which goes forward in some houses, to the great fatigue and misery of all the parties concerned, and of all the spectators. Without force or any factitious excitements, the taste for knowledge, and the habits of application, were induced by example, and confirmed by sympathy. Mr. Percival was a man of science and literature, and his daily pursuits and general conversation were in the happiest manner instructive and interesting to his family. His knowledge of the world, and his natural gayety of disposition, rendered his conversation not only useful, but in the highest degree amusing. From the merest trifles he could lead to some scientific fact, some happy literary allusion, or philosophical investigation.

Lady Anne Percival had, without any pedantry or ostentation, much accurate knowledge, and a taste for literature, which made her the chosen companion of her husband’s understanding, as well as of his heart. He was not obliged to reserve his conversation for friends of his own sex, nor was he forced to seclude himself in the pursuit of any branch of knowledge; the partner of his warmest affections was also the partner of his most serious occupations; and her sympathy and approbation, and the daily sense of her success in the education of their children, inspired him with a degree of happy social energy, unknown to the selfish solitary votaries of avarice and ambition.

In this large and happy family there was a variety of pursuits. One of the boys was fond of chemistry, another of gardening; one of the daughters had a talent for painting, another for music; and all their acquirements and accomplishments contributed to increase their mutual happiness, for there was no envy or jealousy amongst them.

Those who unfortunately have never enjoyed domestic happiness, such as we have just described, will perhaps suppose the picture to be visionary and romantic; there are others,—it is hoped many others,—who will feel that it is drawn from truth and real life. Tastes that have been vitiated by the stimulus of dissipation might, perhaps, think these simple pleasures insipid.

Every body must ultimately judge of what makes them happy, from the comparison of their own feelings in different situations. Belinda was convinced by this comparison, that domestic life was that which could alone make her really and permanently happy. She missed none of the pleasures, none of the gay company, to which she had been accustomed at lady Delacour’s. She was conscious, at the end of each day, that it had been agreeably spent; yet there were no extraordinary exertions made to entertain her, every thing seemed in its natural course, and so did her mind. Where there was so much happiness, no want of what is called pleasure was ever experienced. She had not been at Oakly-park a week, before she forgot that it was within a few miles of Harrowgate, and she never once recollected her vicinity to this fashionable water-drinking place for a month afterward.

Charlotte Lennox (1730[?]–1804) was a novelist, poet, and playwright. Her most successful work, The Female Quixote, references Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote, in which the title character attempts to live like a knight in a chivalric romance. In Lennox’s story, the virtuous but sheltered Arabella grows up reading French romances, which she mistakes for realistic depictions of life, resulting in comedic misunderstandings throughout the novel.

In January 1807, Jane Austen praised The Female Quixote in a letter to her sister, remarking that as she reread the work she found it “quite equal to what I remembered it.” Critics have drawn numerous parallels between Lennox’s novel and Northanger Abbey.

from Book 1
from Chapter 1

… Nature had indeed given [Arabella] a most charming face, a shape easy and delicate, a sweet and insinuating voice, and an air so full of dignity and grace, as drew the admiration of all that saw her. These native charms were improved with all the heightenings of art; her dress was perfectly magnificent; the best masters of music and dancing were sent for from London to attend her. She soon became a perfect mistress of the French and Italian languages, under the care of her father; and it is not to be doubted, but she would have made a great proficiency in all useful knowledge, had not her whole time been taken up by another study.

From her earliest youth she had discovered a fondness for reading, which extremely delighted the marquis; he permitted her therefore the use of his library, in which, unfortunately for her, were great store of romances, and, what was still more unfortunate, not in the original French, but very bad translations.

The deceased marchioness had purchased these books to soften a solitude which she found very disagreeable; and, after her death, the marquis removed them from her closet into his library, where Arabella found them.

The surprising adventures with which they were filled, proved a most pleasing entertainment to a young lady who was wholly secluded from the world; who had no other diversion, but ranging like a nymph through gardens, or, to say better, the woods and lawns in which she was enclosed; and who had no other conversation but that of a grave and melancholy father, or her own attendants.

Her ideas, from the manner of her life, and the objects around her, had taken a romantic turn; and, supposing romances were real pictures of life, from them she drew all her notions and expectations. By them she was taught to believe, that love was the ruling principle of the world; that every other passion was subordinate to this; and that it caused all the happiness and miseries of life. Her glass, which she often consulted, always showed her a form so extremely lovely, that, not finding herself engaged in such adventures as were common to the heroines in the romances she read, she often complained of the insensibility of mankind, upon whom her charms seemed to have so little influence.

The perfect retirement she lived in afforded, indeed, no opportunities of making the conquests she desired; but she could not comprehend how any solitude could be obscure enough to conceal a beauty like hers from notice; and thought the reputation of her charms sufficient to bring a crowd of adorers to demand her of her father. Her mind being wholly filled with the most extravagant expectations, she was alarmed by every trifling incident; and kept in a continual anxiety by a vicissitude of hopes, fears, wishes, and disappointments.

[Arabella’s father dies and she is taken in by her uncle, Sir Charles, who rents for her a home in Richmond, on London’s outskirts. As the following selection commences, Arabella, accompanied by other young ladies, is out searching for a woman she befriended; at her cousin’s request, his steward, Mr. Roberts, is following her to ensure her safety.]

from Book 9
from Chapter 9

The young ladies finding it grew late, expressed their apprehensions at being without any attendants; and desired Arabella to give over her search for that day. Arabella, at this hint of danger, enquired very earnestly, if they apprehended any attempts to carry them away? And without staying for an answer, urged them to walk home as fast as possible, apologizing for the danger into which she had so indiscreetly drawn both them and herself; yet added her hopes, that, if any attempt should be made upon their liberty, some generous cavalier would pass by who would rescue them: a thing so common, that they had no reason to despair of it.

Arabella, construing the silence with which her companions heard these assurances into a doubt of their being so favoured by fortune, proceeded to inform them of several instances wherein ladies met with unexpected relief and deliverance from ravishers.

She mentioned particularly the rescue of Statira by her own brother, whom she imagined for many years dead; that of the princess Berenice by an absolute stranger; and many others, whose names, characters and adventures she occasionally ran over; all which the young ladies heard with inconceivable astonishment. And the detail had such an effect upon Arabella’s imagination, bewildered as it was in the follies of romances, that espying three or four horsemen riding along the road towards them, she immediately concluded they would be all seized and carried off.

Possessed with this belief, she uttered a loud cry, and flew to the water-side; which alarming the ladies, who could not imagine what was the matter, they ran after her as fast as possible.

Arabella stopped when she came to the water-side, and looking round about, and not perceiving any boat to waft them over to Richmond, a thought suddenly darted into her mind, worthy those ingenious books which gave it birth.

Turning therefore to the ladies, who all at once were enquiring the cause of her fright—

It is now, my fair companions, said she, with a solemn accent, that the Destinies have furnished you with an opportunity of displaying in a manner truly heroic, the sublimity of your virtue, and the grandeur of your courage to the world.

The action we have it in our power to perform will immortalize our fame, and raise us to a pitch of glory equal to that of the renowned Clelia herself.

Like her, we may expect statues erected to our honour; like her, be proposed as patterns to heroines in ensuing ages; and like her, perhaps, meet with sceptres and crowns for our reward.

What that beauteous Roman lady performed to preserve herself from violation by the impious Sextus, let us imitate, to avoid the violence our intended ravishers yonder come to offer us.

Fortune, which has thrown us into this exigence, presents us the means of gloriously escaping; and the admiration and esteem of all ages to come, will be the recompence of our noble daring.

Once more, my fair companions, if your honour be dear to you, if an immortal glory be worth your seeking, follow the example I shall set you, and equal with me the Roman Clelia.

Saying this, she plunged into the Thames, intending to swim over it, as Clelia did the Tyber.

The young ladies, who had listened with silent astonishment at the long speech she had made them, the purport of which not one of them understood, screamed out aloud at this horrid spectacle, and wringing their hands, ran backwards and forwards like distracted persons, crying for help. Lucy tore her hair, and was in the utmost agony of grief; when Mr. Roberts, who, as we have said before, kept them always in sight, having observed Arabella running towards the water-side, followed them as fast as he could, and came time enough up to see her frantic action. Jumping into the river immediately after her, he caught hold of her gown, and drew her after him to the shore. A boat that instant appearing, he put her into it, senseless, and to all appearance dead. He and Lucy supporting her, they were wafted over in a few moments to the other side. Her house being near the river, Mr. Roberts carried her in his arms to it; and as soon as he saw her show signs of returning life, left her to the care of the women, who made haste to put her into a warm bed[.] …

from Chapter 10

Richmond was now a scene of the utmost confusion and distress. Arabella’s fever was risen to such a height, that she was given over by the physicians[.] …

Arabella in her lucid intervals, being sensible of her danger, prepared for death, with great piety and constancy of mind[.] … Her fever, by a favourable crisis, and the great skill of her physicians, left her in a fortnight; but this violent distemper had made such a ravage in her delicate constitution, and reduced her so low, that there seemed very little probability of her recovery. Doctor —, in whom her unfeigned piety, her uncommon firmness of mind, had created a great esteem and tenderness for her, took all opportunities of comforting, exhorting, and praying by her. The occasion of her illness being the subject of every body’s conversation at Richmond, he gently hinted it to her, and urged her to explain her reasons for so extravagant an action.

In the divine frame Arabella was then in, this action appeared to her rash and vain-glorious, and she acknowledged it to be so to her pious monitor: yet she related the motives which induced her to it, the danger she was in of being carried away, the parity of her circumstances then with Clelia, and her emulous desire of doing as much to preserve her honour as that renowned Roman lady did for hers.

The good doctor was extremely surprised at this discourse: he was beginning to think her again delirious; but Arabella added to this account such sensible reasoning on the nature of that fondness for fame, which prompted her to so rash an undertaking, that the doctor left her in strange embarrassment, not knowing how to account for a mind at once so enlightened, and so ridiculous. …

The epistolary novels of Samuel Richardson (1689–1761), especially Pamela and Clarissa, were widely popular and are considered foundational in the development of the genre. Austen preferred and was deeply familiar with Sir Charles Grandison, which follows the life and marriage of its virtuous hero, Sir Charles. In the “Biographical Notice” of 1818, Henry Austen suggests that Austen admired “Richardson’s power of creating, and preserving the consistency of his characters, as particularly exemplified in ‘Sir Charles Grandison’ … whilst her taste secured her from the errors of his prolix style and tedious narrative.”

Below, the newly married Lady Grandison describes her first tour of Grandison Hall, her new home.

from Volume 7
from Letter 5

Lady Grandison to Mrs. Shirley.

Grandison-hall, Saturday 12 o’clock, December 9. O My dearest, dearest grandmamma! Here I am! The declared mistress of this spacious house, and the happiest of human creatures! This is all at this instant I can write.

Lord and Lady W. honoured us, as they had promised, with their company; but detained us so long, that we were obliged to lie one night on the road. But by eleven this morning we arrived here.

At our alighting, Sir Charles clasping me in his arms, I congratulate you, my dearest life, said he, on your entrance into your own house. The last Lady Grandison, and the present, might challenge the whole British nation to produce their equals. Then turning to every one of his guests, those of my family first, as they were strangers to the place, he said the kindest, the politest things that ever proceeded from the mouth of man. I wept for joy. I would have spoken, but could not. Every-body congratulated the happy Harriet.

Dr. Bartlett was approaching to welcome us, but drew back till our mutual congratulations were over. He then appeared. I present to you, my dear Dr. Bartlett, said the best of men, the lovely friend, whom you have so long wished to see mistress of this house. He then offered my hand to the Doctor.

God bless you, madam! tears in his eyes.—God bless you both! Then kissed, instead of my hand, which I withdrew, my offered cheek. He could say no more: I could not speak distinctly.

My dear Sir Charles led me, followed by all our rejoicing friends, thro’ a noble dining-room to the drawing-room, called, The Lady’s: The whole house, my dear, said he, and every person and thing belonging to it, is yours: But this apartment is more particularly so. Let what is amiss in it, be altered as you would have it.

O Sir! grasping his presenting hand between both mine, was all I could say.

This room is elegantly furnished. It is hung with a light green velvet, delicately ornamented; the chairs of the same; the frames of them gilt; as is the frame of a noble cabinet in it.—My mother’s, my dearest life, whispered he. It will be always fashionable: And you, I know, will value it on her account.—Indeed I shall.—He presented me with the keys. Here perhaps will you deposit your letters and correspondences; some of which (the continuation of those I have had the honour to see) you will allow me to peruse. But of choice, remember, madam. For your whole heart must be in the grant of the favours you will confer upon me of this kind. …

I will snatch another opportunity to proceed.—My dear Sir Charles indulges me. I have told him, that if he now-and-then misses me, he must conclude that I am doubling my joy, by communicating it as I have opportunity, to my dear Grandmamma.

Every-body admires the elegance of this drawing-room. The finest japan china, that I ever saw, except that of Lady G’s, which she so whimsically received at the hands of her Lord, took particularly every female eye.

Sir Charles led me into a closet adjoining—Your Oratory, your Library, my Love, when you shall have furnished it, as you desired you might, by your chosen collection from Northamptonshire.

It is a sweet little apartment, my dear grandmamma; elegant book-cases, unfurnished. Every other ornament complete. …

The situation is delightful. The house is very spacious. It is built in the form of an H; both fronts pretty much alike. The hall, the dining-parlour, two drawing-rooms, one adjoining to the study, the other to the dining-parlour (which with the study, mentioned already, and other rooms, that I shall leave to Lucy to describe, make the ground-floor) are handsome, and furnished in an elegant, but not sumptuous taste; the hangings some of them beautiful paper only. There is adjoining to the study, a room called The Music-parlour, so called in Sir Thomas’s time, and furnished with several fine musical instruments: Sir Thomas was as great an admirer of music as his son; and a performer.

It is no news to you, madam, that Sir Charles shews a great regard to every thing, place, and disposition, that was his father’s; and not absolutely inconvenient, and inconsistent with the alterations he has thought necessary to make: And which Dr. Bartlett praises highly, and promises to particularize to me. We are to be shewn this Music-parlour by-and-by.

The dining-room is noble and well proportioned: It goes over the hall and dining-parlour. It is hung with crimson-damask, adorned with valuable pictures. The furniture is rich, but less ornamented than that of the Lady’s drawing-room.

The best bed chamber adjoining, is hung with fine tapestry. The bed is of crimson velvet, lined with white silk; chairs and curtains of the same. Two fine pictures drawn by Sir Godfrey, one of Sir Thomas, the other of Lady Grandison, whole lengths, took my eye: O with what reverence, that of my Lady!—Lady L. Lady G. as girls, and Sir Charles as a boy of about ten years of age, made three other fine whole lengths. I must contemplate them, when I have more leisure.

The suit of rooms on the first floor which we just stept into, are each denominated from the colour of the hangings, which are generally of damask.

Mrs. Curzon tells us, that, on occasion, they make fifteen beds, within the house, in which the best Lord in the land need not disdain to repose.—You remember, madam, that Sir Charles, in his invitation to the Italian family, tells them, he has room to receive them. The offices are said to be exceedingly convenient.

The gardens and lawn seem from the windows of this spacious house to be as boundless as the mind of the owner, and as free and open as his countenance. …