SCENIC VIEWS AND PATERNALISTIC OBLIGATIONS: DEPICTIONS OF LANDSCAPE 
IN THE VICTORIAN REALIST NOVEL  By  Christina Blythin  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 A DISSERTATION  Submitted to 
Michigan State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements 
for the degree of  EnglishŠDoctor of Philosophy  2015   ABSTRACT SCENIC VIEWS AND PATERNALISTIC OBLIGATIONS: DEPICTIONS OF LANDSCAPE 
IN THE VICTORIAN REALIST NOVEL  By  Christina Blythin  
 With the many details that fill Victorian realist novels, the frequent descriptions of scenic 
country views that interrupt and halt the action of the narrative could be dismissed as part of 

realism™s illusion of comprehensive and objective reporting.  However, I suggest that the realist 

novel uses landscape depictions as a vehicle for exploring the tensions between its wish to 
relieve the suffering of the rural poor and its desire to preserve the countryside as a site to be 
enjoyed by the privileged.  By representing the countryside in terms of landscape, the novels 

showcase what is pleasing about land that has not been developed for purposes of industry, yet landscape, as a representative and interpretative mode, is grounded in ideologies that validate 

and reinforce the oppressive power structures that are largely responsible for the hardships that the novels wish to alleviate.  I argue that the realist novel attempts to solve this paradox by 
shifting the way landscape is represented and interpreted, thus changing the way the countryside 
itself is perceived, in order to posit a new understanding of the relationship between social 
leadership and control over the land.  This project examines how mid-century realist novels 

employ landscape as a means of linking the pleasures of land ownership with a paternalistic 

obligation to care for the local poor in an attempt to solve the problems of rural poverty and 

social instability.  These novels are sympathetic to the plight of the poor, yet they are also 
invested in the preservation of the country estate, not only in terms of maintaining the existing 

physical structures that make up an estate and its grounds, but also with regard to its roles as an 

institution of land ownership and as a seat of political power.  I suggest that this problem drives 
 how land is represented in many realist novels: by depicting the enjoyment of landscape as being 
linked with a paternalistic responsibility to provide for the poor, the novels attempt to mitigate 

the social problems of the countryside, which are rooted in the landholding institution, while still 

preserving the relative sociopolitical stability provided by the landholding model and the 

accompanying aesthetic properties of landed estates and undeveloped countryside.  

 Chapter one examines Jane Austen™s 
Mansfield Park as an example of how the landed 
gentry™s desire to manipulate the structure of private land through fiimprovementsfl resulted in 

their virtual appropriation of all open lands in the countryside.  In chapter two, I claim that Dinah 

Craik™s John Halifax, Gentleman and Charles Dickens™s Bleak House depict the estate as a reward for good behavior as opposed to an indicator of lineage, and the novels work to change 
the meaning of landscape by infusing the enjoyment of
 scenic views with a sense of paternalistic 
duty; however, they are unsure of how to handle the large manor house, both as a physical entity 

in which the characters live and as a symbol of the estate in general.  The third chapter argues 
that Charlotte Yonge™s The Clever Woman of the Family presents the preservation and appreciation of landscape as being a crucial means of battling the ills of capitalism, particularly 

the gentry™s increasing loss of control over the land and the exploitation of the poor that stems 

from the free market, yet the novel ends up mobilizing the picturesque as a conscious fantasy in 

order to avoid rather than solve the problems it identifies.  In the last chapter, I claim that 

Charlotte Brontë™s Shirley exposes how the layout and design of private estate grounds serve to restrict genteel women™s bodies and minds, whereas uncultivated areas are both visually and 

materially unstructured and thus do not restrict
 the women™s movements and thinking; but when 
the needs of the rural poor require that the open land be developed, women must sacrifice their 

freedom outdoors in the interest of the greater social good.     
 iv ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 
  
 It took me a long, long time to write this dissertation, and I am extremely grateful for all 

the support I received that made it possible for me to finally finish.  My committee did a great 

job of mentoring me.  Judith Stoddart, who served as my committee chair, was very patient with 

me, and I appreciate how she tailored her guidance st
yle to help me work 
past my writing anxiety 
and my fear of deadlines.  This project began 
with an essay I wrote during an independent study with her, and I am indebted to her for all the insightful feedback and encouragement she has 

provided along the way.  Zarena Aslami offered 
many suggestions as to how I could strengthen 
and streamline my arguments, and her comments were supportive while also helping me 

understand how I could make my writing better.  Steve Rachman crafted questions that showed 

me how I could further develop my ideas, and he helped me brainstorm ways to address 

problems in my drafts.  Scott Juengel was nice enough to stay on my committee even though he 
moved away years ago, and he offered thoughtful feedback on my writing.   
 I also received a lot of support from my family and friends, and I am thankful for all the 

love and encouragement they have given me throughout this process.  My mom, my dad, and my 

brother have been my biggest cheerleaders, and their pride in my accomplishments means so 

much to me.  (My parents encouraged me to love reading books from a young age, so it™s really 

their fault that I™ve been in school all these years.)  The Blythin side of my family has cheered 

me on as well, and they have been consistently supportive of my academic endeavors.  The 

friends I™ve made as a grad student have helped me to feel like part of a community during often 

isolating work, and my roller derby family has rooted for me while helping me have fun when I 

was stressed.  I™d like to give special thanks to Julie (fiIssuesfl), Chad, Heather, and Ethan, who  v have gone through this process themselves and have offered me much-needed advice, love, and 
commiseration.  Most of all, I want to thank my husband, Kyle.  He has been incredibly 

supportive, encouraging, loving, patient, and understanding throughout my time in grad school.  I 
could write pages on all the things he has done to help me succeed, but I™ll just list a few.  He 

was willing to pack up his life and move to Michigan so I could attend MSU, and even though 

he™s the one who makes all the money, he has always treated my work as being just as important 

as his.  He picked up the slack when I was too busy to do my fair share of cooking and work 

around the house, and he never complained about it.  He arranged for childcare this year so I 

could have time to finish my dissertation, and he spent his weekends chasing our baby alone 

while I worked in my office.  He comforted me when I was upset, gave me pep talks when I was 

discouraged, and shared my happiness whenever I met a goal.  He is the absolute best, and I 

could not have done any of this without him.     
 vi TABLE OF CONTENTS  INTRODUCTION...................................................................................................................
........1 CHAPTER ONE....................................................................................................................
........21 LAND AND ESTATE AS INHERITED BY THE VICTORIANS: THE GENTRY™S 
APPROPRIATION OF THE COUNTRYSIDE IN 
MANSFIELD PARK.....................................21  
CHAPTER TWO....................................................................................................................
.......74 THE MERITORIOUS LANDHOLDER AND THE MANOR HOUSE DILEMMA IN BLEAK HOUSE AND JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN
...........................................................................74  Bleak House.......................................................................................................................80  John Halifax, Gentleman
...................................................................................................95  
CHAPTER THREE..................................................................................................................
...133 LANDSCAPE, THE PICTURESQUE, AND THE ENCROACHMENT OF THE MIDDLE 
CLASSES IN 
THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY.........................................................133  
CHAPTER FOUR...................................................................................................................
.....172 THE ENCLOSURE OF COMMON LAND
S FOR SOCIAL STABILITY IN 
SHIRLEY..........172  
BIBLIOGRAPHY...................................................................................................................
.....227   1 INTRODUCTION   With the many details that fill Victorian realist novels, the frequent descriptions of scenic 
country views that interrupt and halt the action of the narrative could be dismissed as part of 

realism™s illusion of comprehensive and objective reporting: the fireality effect,fl as Roland 

Barthes termed it.  Or perhaps, as Alison Byerly has suggested, in explicitly evoking landscape 

paintings through their use of language and imagery, such passages are intended to be read as 

deliberate narrative artwork that serves to make the rest of the novel, written in plainer language, 

seem more real by comparison (4).  Yet these interpretations do not take into account the special 

significance that rural land and landscape depictions held in nineteenth-century England, 
particularly in the context of social unrest and economic uncertainty that affected the countryside 

around mid century.  I want to suggest that the realist novel uses landscape depictions as a 

vehicle for exploring the tensions between its wish to relieve the suffering of the rural poor and 
its desire to preserve the countryside as a site to be enjoyed by the privileged.  By representing the countryside in terms of landscape, the novels showcase what is pleasing about land that has 
not been developed for purposes of industry or other practical purposes, yet landscape, as a representative and interpretative mode, is grounded in ideologies that validate and reinforce the 

oppressive power structures that are largely responsible for the hardships that the novels wish to 
alleviate.  I will argue that the realist novel attempts to solve this paradox by shifting the way 

landscape is represented and interpreted, thus changing the way the countryside itself is 
perceived, in order to posit a new understanding of the relationship between social leadership 
and control over the land.   
 I am situating my dissertation within criticism of landscape aesthetics, specifically those 

works that examine 18th- and 19th-century English landscape theory and explore the social, 
 2 political, and economic consequences of the enclosure movement via close-readings of popular 
landscape depictions.  Raymond Williams pioneered this approach in 
The Country and the City (1973), the seminal work in which he discusses how enclosure led to the disenfranchisement and 

exploitation of the rural poor; in doing so, he tarnishes the glory of large estates and manor 

homes while debunking myths that cast the English countryside, and particularly the pre-

enclosed countryside, as an Edenic paradise.  Other influential studies in this area, such as the 
works of Ann Bermingham, John Barrell, and Elizabeth Helsinger, have gone on to interpret 

landscape in the historic context of enclosure and its socioeconomic and political consequences, 

and, building on Williams™s work, they examine the seeming disconnect between landscape 

paintings and depictions that romanticize the countryside and the harsh realities of rural poverty 

and social unrest that afflicted England.  Much of the work that has emerged as part of this 

critical trend essentially argues that landscape depictions either signify a form of dominance over 

the land and its people, or that they subversively expose oppression while seeming to conform 
with cultural norms. These studies and their methods have provided the foundation for my own 
work, but I want to suggest that when applied to the landscape depictions in realist novels, the 
conclusions they offer do not provide a satisfying analysis befitting the content of the passages in 

question, nor do they illuminate how a novel™s depic
tion of landscape fits into what is understood 
as realism™s larger moral aims.  The landscape depictionsŠwhat I am calling those passages in a 

novel that consciously draw upon the language and imagery of landscape paintings in order to 

represent a view as it is presented by the narrator and/or seen by one or more charactersŠin 

these novels are largely positive, and the novels appear to be sincere, rather than ironic or 
subversive, in their celebration of scenic views.  The novels thus place importance on the land as 

a source of aesthetic enjoyment, yet the desire to preserve and enjoy these aesthetic qualities 
 3 frequently clashes with the broader social, economic, political, and philanthropic issues with 
which realist novels are concerned, especially with
 regard to access, ownership, and utilization of 
rural land.  Reading landscape depictions in terms of a straightforward dominance/subversion 

binary does not illuminate how realist novels are addressing and attempting to negotiate these 

tensions.  In order to achieve a more thorough analysis, my dissertation examines depictions of 

landscape within the historical contexts of landholding and social paternalism, in tandem with 

the moral project of the realist novel, via close readings of key passages. 
By identifying the novels I™ve chosen as being realist, I imply that firealistfl has a 
particular meaning, both in how it connects the novels and why it is important to my project.  As 

George Levine points out in The Realistic Imagination, nineteenth-century English literary realism is difficult to characterize as its early core valuesŠthe commitment to truth-telling and 

the rejection of novelistic conventionsŠeventually became conventions themselves, compelling 

later writers to reject earlier novels and forge new approaches for representing what they saw as truth (7).  Yet despite differences throughout the period with regard to the novelists™ changing subject matter and their literary techniques, Levine posits that realism can be defined as fia self-

conscious effort, usually in the name of some moral enterprise of truth telling and extending the 

limits of human sympathy, to make literature appear to be describing directly not some other 

language but reality itselffl (8).  For my project, I am most interested in this fimoral enterprisefl of 

the realists, specifically with regard to their efforts to expose the wrongs being done to oppressed 
rural populations while exploring the complications of remedying these problems.  To this end, I 

have chosen novels that take place in the English countryside, at least in part, and grapple with  4 problems of rural poverty in connection with questions of land access and ownership.
1  These novels do not highlight the plight of the rural poor as the focus of their plots, and the threatened 
and actual violence that they show as resulting from this poverty is not treated as an exceptional 

occurrence.  Rather, they treat rural poverty as part of the everyday subject matter with which the 

realist novel is concerned in order to demonstrate that it is a pervasive and even expected 

problem: in other words, realist novels that take place in the countryside don™t have to be 
about the problems of rural poverty because these problems are treated as a givenŠan obvious factor 

in how the plot will develop.  In contrast to earlier novels in which the rural poor are largely 
decorative, if they appear at all, the realist novel renders the poor visible and ordinary, showing 
how they live among the gentry and how their suffering, when it erupts into violence, affects 

every stratum of society.  The moral project of the realist novel regarding the rural poor, then, is 

also a social one in that it calls for the relief of the poor not only for philanthropic reasons but 
also for purposes of social stability.     
 While earlier novels associated landscape views with reverence for the people who 
owned the land (as I discuss in Chapter 1), the mid-century realist novel employs landscape as a 

means of linking the pleasures of land ownership w
ith a paternalistic obligation to care for the 
local poor as a means of solving the problems of rural poverty and social instability
.  This reading corresponds with contemporary thinking on the issue.  In the early nineteenth century, 

there was a revival of eighteenth-century paternalist thinking in England, which took the form of 

widespread faith in the feasibility of feudal-style reciprocation between large landholders and 
those who lived and worked on the land: i.e., the landholder would provide a living, moral 

guidance, and political representation in return for labor or rent, loyalty, and trust from those 
                                                 1 The Egoist 
does not address rural poverty directly, but its comedy
 of manners style purposely evokes the feel of an 
earlier novel (like 
Mansfield Park
), and thus it can be read as drawing on, and perhaps parodying, the extreme 
insularity of the earlier novels in order to make a point about social progress.   I discuss this further in Chapter 4.  
 5 beneath him.  As the success of capitalism was pushing England toward an increasingly 
laissez-faire economy, and as the traditional order was being threatened by the political demands of the 
working classes, the economic successes of the middle classes, and the overall decline of the 

aristocracy™s wealth and power, social paternalism 
began to have an almost a nostalgic appeal for 
those who felt threatened by the changes brought by industrialization.  The idea of a feudal order 
was still active politically in that the working classes retained fia great many galling marks of 

legal dependence,fl though economically the feudal model was nearly obsolete (Hobsbawm, 

Revolution 16-17).  By this time, the institution of the estate was no longer a site of economic 
enterprise and instead had become merely a system of collecting rent (17).  Yet the idea of a 

socioeconomic feudal relationship of mutual obligation between wealthy landholders and the 

rural poor was being romanticized as something that had been lost as a result of the Industrial 

Revolution.  The working classes had an increasingly visible and vocal political presence at this time as they lobbied for additional rights and more representation in the government, and their 
attempts to empower themselves, even when carried out peacefully, were nevertheless perceived 
as acts of aggression in the wake of the French Revolution, leading to fears of government 
overthrow and further upheaval of the social order.  The result of these sociopolitical changes 

and economic fluctuations was a widespread sense of insecurity and instability throughout the 

period, and pushes for change were met with answering pushes for a return to the perceived 

certainty and stability of the old orderŠa predictable social hierarchy modeled on patriarchal 

principles (Nash 14-16).   However, as Kim Lawes points out in her study of paternalism in nineteenth-century 
Britain, the revival of paternalist thinking was more than either simple nostalgia or a knee-jerk 

response to the new economy: rather, it was a critical component of how social policy was being 
 6 discussed and formed at the time (1).  Those who supported paternalism were not looking to halt 
progress or regress to an earlier economic structure; instead, they wanted to forge a feudalistic 

relationship between the wealthy (be it wealth gained through inheritance or industry) and the 
laboring poor that would be similar to the relationship between a landholder and those who lived 

and worked on his land (8).  To give an example of this vein of thought, Thomas Carlyle™s 
Past and Present (1843) argues for the return of a feudal-style aristocracy that takes responsibility for governing and guiding the masses.  Regarding the role of the aristocracy during the medieval 

period, Carlyle writes,  That Feudal Aristocracy, I say, was no imaginary one.
 [–]  They did all the Soldiering and Police of the country, all the Judging, Law-making, even the 
Church-Extension; whatsoever in the way of Governing, of Guiding and 
Protecting could be done. It was a Land Aristocracy; it managed the Governing of 

this English People, and had the reaping of the Soil of England in return. (246-7)  Carlyle contrasts this aristocracy of the past to the current holders of wealth and power, whom he 
calls the fiWorking Aristocracyfl (the industrialists) and the fiIdle Aristocracyfl (the landed 

nobility).  He criticizes the Working Aristocracy for being too focused on money at the expense 

of humanitarian concerns, and he urges factory ow
ners to cut into their profits in order to 
provide, for instance, good wages, a wholesome work environment, and even green spaces for 

workers and their children fito take a breath of twilight air infl despite the financial gains that 
could be made by eschewing such things (265). 
 On the other hand, Carlyle implores the fiIdle 
Aristocracy, the Owners of the Soil of Englandfl to become useful again by resuming their roles 

as social and political leaders: fiI say, you did not make the Land of England; and, by the 
possession of it, you are bound to furnish guidance and governance to England! [–]  True  7 government and guidance; not no-government and La
issez-faire [–]fl (177).  Carlyle goes on to warn that ignoring the needs of the discontented working poor could result in a revolt similar to 

the French Revolution.   
 While Carlyle focuses on the social and economic roles of the wealthy, he grounds his 

justification for why the landed should support the poor in the fact that land is a common rather 

than a created resource, and he implores the industrialists to cut into their profits so as to share at 

least a small portion of green space with their workers.  This idea of the poor having a claim to 

the land, however minor, and the wealthy being obligated by moral and social concerns to 

address it, marks a shift in thinking about land ownership that sets the Victorians apart from their 

predecessors.  The idea that landholders are indebted to the poor in some way was further 

delineated by John Stuart Mill in his Principles of Political Economy (1848).  Mill argues that land, unlike property in the form of goods and wealth, is unique for two reasons.  First, land is 

not manmade, and thus it should be seen as belonging to humanity as a whole as opposed to 
being owned by specific individuals.  Second, unlike wealth and manufactured goods, which can 
be endlessly reproduced and distributed without forcing others to give up their own portions, there exists only a finite amount of land; so when individuals claim more than their fair share, 

others will necessarily be deprived.  Mill goes on to suggest that, because enclosure allowed a 
handful of men to benefit at the expense of 
the rest of the community by robbing the poor of 
common land, he believes that duties consequently have been attached to landholding, fierecting 

it into a sort of magistracy, either moral or legal,fl in an attempt to reconcile the landowners™ 

feelings of guilt over the disinheritance of the poor with their own sense of what is fair (238).  While Mill ultimately sees private landholding as an unjust fiprivilegefl and a fimonopolyfl that is 

often abused by those in power, and though he saw the sociopolitical aspects of paternalism as 
 8 infringing on the autonomy of the working classes, he nevertheless concedes that private 
landholding is a finecessary evilfl for the sake of agriculture and other types of large-scale 
cultivation.  He insists that all land, especially privately held land, must be utilized in a way that 

best benefits the community as a whole.   

 Read together, Mill™s and Carlyle™s ideas on the moral and communal obligations of 

landholding shed light on why realist novels are conflicted over the landed estate as the means 

for dividing, distributing, and assigning ownership to land in the countryside.  The emphasis on 
the poor population™s right to the land that emerge
s in both Mill and Carlyle indicates a growing contemporary awareness of how the enjoyment of 
private land, particularly when it is potentially productive land that is either groomed or left unproductive for purely aesthetic reasons, can be 

understood as a form of oppression.  It is clear that the novels are sympathetic to the plight of the 

poor, yet they are also invested in the preservation of the country estate, not only in terms of 

maintaining the existing physical structures that make up an estate and its grounds, but also with 
regard to its roles as an institution of land ownership and as a seat of political power.  When 
depicting the countryside, realist novels typically offer passages that relish the countryside™s 
picturesque beauty, its open green spaces, its stillness, its abundant wildlife and vegetation, the 
areas for walking (both marked and unmarked), and the opportunities for privacy, quiet 

conversation, and reflection that accompany such a setting.  The country estate, in turn, allowed 

its inhabitants to live among the pleasures of the outdoors, providing access to grounds that had 

been groomed specifically to create pleasing views and facilitate pleasurable activities, along 

with allowing proximity to uncultivated wilderness areas, both of which are depicted by the 

novels as offering distinct benefits and ways of enjoying the countryside.  As large-scale farming 
and industry were overtaking the countryside, the institution of the estate ensured that a good  9 portion of land would be preserved for the visual and recreational enjoyment of the privileged.  
In providing a caretaker of sorts in the form of the landholding classes, the estate offered a 

degree of protection for the sanctuary-like qualities of the countryside, along with the 
enforcement of regional organization that helped to ensure, for instance, that areas of production 

did not encroach upon those areas that were valued chiefly for their aesthetic qualities.  It also 
provided a source of political and social stability at a time when increased pressure to extend 

voting rights was eliciting fear of complete social upheaval, especially as the traditional source 

of leadership, the aristocracy, was crumbling.  Yet, as the passages from Mill and Carlyle make 

clear, the desire to preserve and enjoy the aesthetic qualities of the countryside clashes with the 
broader social, economic, political, and philanthropic issues with which many realist novels are 

concerned.  My dissertation suggests that this problem drives how land is represented in many 

realist novels: by depicting the enjoyment of landscape as being linked with a paternalistic 

responsibility to provide for the poor, the novels attempt to mitigate the social problems of the 
countryside, which are rooted in the landholding institution, while still preserving the relative sociopolitical stability provided by the landholding model and the accompanying aesthetic 

properties of landed estates and undeveloped countryside.  
 However, the depiction of landscape comes with its own set of difficulties.  Much of the 

time, the word filandscapefl is used to mean simply the land and its features, such as in the phrase 

fithe English landscape.fl  While this usage includes a subtle aesthetic interpretation in that it 

gestures to the land™s appearance, it nevertheless takes for granted or ignores what a landscape 
entails with regard to the conscious framing of an outdoor view for the purpose of interpreting or 

representing it as an aesthetic object.  Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, it ignores or 

takes for granted the social, economic, and political nuances of what it means to represent or 
 10 interpret land in this way.  As W.J.T. Mitchell argues in 
Landscape and Power, landscape is fia cultural practicefl that not only embodies power relati
ons but also acts as an instrument of power 
in its own right (1-2).  For example, landscape represents the privileged perspective of the 

wealthy and landed: landscape paintings were initially produced for landholders, and the 
paintings depicted sights and views that were inaccessible to all but those in the landholding 
class.  The paintings were designed to glorify the landholder through the magnificence of his 

estate and property, so they drew the eye to key focal points and featured sweeping views that suggested the consequence of the spectator, who was understood to represent the landholder, 
extended as far as the eye could see.   Much seminal scholarship on landscape has also 

investigated the ways in which looking at landscapes is a gendered act, specifically a masculine 

act of visual dominance and possession over the land.
2  Indeed, the prevalence of the fimale 
gazefl is a tenet of modern landscape theory because the default perspective for landscape art has 

been recognized as that of the privileged white European male.  For instance, Elizabeth 
Helsinger has argued that, due to the pervasiveness of the privileged male gaze and the politics it 
embodies, women (and other marginalized populations) are implicitly excluded from 

participating as spectators of landscape views (25).  The understanding of the inherent maleness 

of the landscape view shapes even those readings in which gender issues are minimized in favor 

of other theoretical approaches.  When landscape scholars do not explicitly discuss the fimale 

gazefl as a force in its own right, it is nevertheless taken for granted as being a component of the 

default perspective of landscape views, both in the sense of what is being depicted and for whom 
                                                 2 See, for instance, Annette Kolodny™s 
The Lay of the Land; Mary Louise Pratt™s 
Imperial Eyes
; Alison Byerly™s 
Realism, Representation, and the Arts in Nineteenth Century Literature; 
and Elizabeth Helsinger™s 
Rural Scenes and 
National Representation.
  11 it is being depicted.3  When applied to English travelers in foreign lands, this dominance extends 
to imperialism and the subjugation, erasure, and/or sexualization of native peoples.
4  Until the rise of the picturesque, however, the English countryside and its humble rural scenery were not 

seen as being an appropriate subject for landscape.     Because rural landscapes were admired for their picturesque elements, and the 
picturesque was theorized in terms of landscape paintings, the two terms were essentially 

conflated during the nineteenth century, and thus the picturesque is a crucial component of any 
discussion of landscape depictions of the English countryside.  One of the problems of 

discussing the picturesque in a nineteenth-century novel is that, despite the term™s popularity as a 

descriptor and its association with a certain type of rural imagery, a single accepted meaning for 

fipicturesquefl was never established, and the Victorians thus inherited an especially imprecise 

and contested concept.  Indeed, Dabney Townsend has observed that there is no fisatisfactory 
theoretical treatment of the picturesque in the aesthetic literature of the eighteenth centuryfl 
(366), and Ann Bermingham suggests that by the beginning of the nineteenth century, the word 
picturesque fihad become so overused that it had become virtually meaninglessfl (84).  In other 
words, rather than establishing the picturesque as a legitimate aesthetic category, as they were 

attempting to do, the work of landscape theorists 
largely served to confuse the meaning of the 
term.  In the early stages of the picturesque movement, leading critics argued over, for instance, 

what subject matter merited picturesqueness, whet
her the picturesque should stand on its own or be a subset of the beautiful, and if the picturesque was exclusively a visual experience or if it                                                  3 Critics such as John Barrell, W.J.T. Mitchell, and A
nn Bermingham have demonstrated that even the most 
conventional landscape art can be read as undermining, criti
quing, or challenging the default perspective, yet these alternative representations must be read against the dominan
t perspective in order to reveal how they are subverting 
it; so even a landscape depiction that does not seem to offe
r a dominating male perspective is still read as a response 
to such a perspective.   
 4 See, for instance, Annette Kolodny™s 
The Lay of the Land and Mary Louise Pratt™s 
Imperial Eyes.
  12 required something more, such as supplementation of the image through one™s imagination or an 
emotional connection to the image.   
Despite the initial lack of consensus on the term™s precise meaning, the picturesque 
continued to shape contemporary thinking on land and landscape due to the popularity of the 

movement, and it went on to be an especially important concept for Victorian writers who were 

interested in the dynamics of representing rural land.  The history of picturesque theory has 

already been thoroughly outlined and discussed by numerous scholars,
5 so I will give a only a brief summary of the approaches of the foundi
ng contributorsŠWilliam Gilpin, Uvedale Price, 
and Richard Payne KnightŠin order to establish how literate Victorians would later understand 
what the concept of fipicturesquefl entailed.  Through the late eighteenth and early nineteenth 
century, these theorists™ writings were published in the form of long essays, and each essay went 

through numerous editions, indicating that the texts 
were widely read and were likely discussed in places of study as well as in English drawing rooms.
6   William Gilpin opened the discussion of what constitutes picturesqueness with the 
publication of An Essay on Prints (1786), the first in a series of writings in which he explores and theorizes the picturesque as its own aesthetic category in conjunction with Edmund Burke™s 

concepts of the beautiful and the sublime.  G
ilpin drew from classical landscape paintings to 
develop his notion of the picturesque, which he chiefly characterizes as rough and irregular in opposition to the smoothness of beauty, and rural and quaint in opposition to the magnificence 
                                                 5 These accounts necessarily overlap and repeat much of the same informa
tion, but each of them emphasizes a 
different aspect of landscape theory™s story. For instance, David Marshall™s 
The Frame of Art examines the 
picturesque as part of a larger discussion of aesthetic e
xperiences; Nancy Armstrong reads the history in light of its 
role as a precursor to realism; and Stephen Hebron presents the picturesque as part of how the Romantics shaped the 
way the English countryside was (and is still) perceived.   6 To illustrate the idea that the theories and debates about landscape were known to popular audiences, Jane Austen™s characters famously discuss the merits of certa
in scenic views and landscapes during casual conversation 
in 
Northanger Abbey
, for example, and in 
Mansfield Park, 
characters explicitly refer to contemporary landscape 
design theory when planning renovations to their estates, as I will discuss in Chapter 1.    13 and unfamiliarity of the sublime.  Gilpin went on to delineate the concept of the picturesque (and 
how to find it outdoors) in the form of trendy guidebooks for travelers.  The guidebooks 

encouraged Gilpin™s many readers to look at the countryside in terms of specific aesthetic 

components that appeared in recognizable patterns of spatial organization.   
Late in the 18th century, Gilpin™s ideas began to attract the attention of other leading theorists interested in landscape principles, and a public dialogue was opened in which Gilpin™s 
model was challenged, refined, and measured against established aesthetic theories.   In 
Essays on the Picturesque (1796), Uvedale Price proposed that one can learn to fi[see] with the eyes of paintersfl by studying their works.  Price believed that acquiring the painter™s method of seeing, 

which allows one to fi[distinguish] and [feel] the effects and combinations of form, colour, and 
light and shadow,fl would teach one to identify and prefer picturesque views automatically when 
one was outdoors (xiii).  Price railed against the contemporary trend of hiring professional 
improvers, such as fiCapabilityfl Brown or Humphry Repton, to redesign one™s land in order to 
make it more visually spacious and congruent, because they called for the destruction of fithe 
costly and magnificent decorations of past timesfl and, in doing so, abolished much of the visual 

variety that he understood as being key to picturesque views (232).   Price in turn provided the basis for Richard Payne Knight™s take on landscape theory, particularly the ideas he develops in An Analytical Inquiry into the Principles of Taste (1805).  While both Price and Knight suggest that know
ledge of landscape painting conventions and techniques is key to enjoying the outdoors, Knight indicates that such enjoyment requires more 
than just learning to see with a painter™s eye.   He claimed that picturesque objects, such as 

decayed trees, fish markets, or peasants™ tattered clothes, are inherently repellant.  Yet people 

who are knowledgeable about painting can find pleasure in them because, in the mind of the 
 14 informed spectator, such objects fi[call] forth those powers of imitation and embellishmentfl by 
painters, leading to a fiprinciple of associationfl between what is seen outdoors and the paintings 
one admires (152).  This fiprinciple of associa
tionflŠthe act of connecting in one™s mind what 
one sees outdoors with paintings that one finds pleasingŠindicates that, for Knight, enjoyment 
of the picturesque is rooted in more than just an object™s aesthetic merits: it also stems from the 

spectator™s memory of paintings he has enjoyed and how he imagines a given picturesque object 

or view has a connection with those paintings.    In sum, while the landscape theorists overlapped in their claims, corrected each other, 
contradicted themselves, and ultimately ended up confusing the exact meaning of the term 

fipicturesquefl in ways that cannot be discussed within the scope of this project, they also did 
some common work.  They situated the picturesque as being familiar, rural, and quaint, and they 

placed aesthetic value on undeveloped land and objects that were aged and dilapidated.  They 
established knowledge of the picturesque as dependent on landscape paintings7 by insisting that a familiarity with the genre™s patterns, color use, and spatial organization was crucial for finding 
and identifying the picturesque in the outdoors.  The theorists encouraged their readers to go 
outdoors and look at the land as if it were a landscape painting, which was a fairly new concept 
as rural, rustic land had not been considered worthy of aesthetic contemplation until enclosure 

began to change the look of the countryside.  The theorists also taught their readers how to see 
the land in this way by explaining how to identify common aesthetic components and spatial 

patterns and how to use well-known paintings as visual guides, thus training spectators to see and                                                  7 While the theorists each point to the 
works of various landscape painters for examples and illustrations of their 
ideas, Claude Lorrain™s paintings are ge
nerally understood to be the template fo
r looking at nature as if it were a 
landscape painting.   In 
The Idea of Landscape and the Sense of Place 1730-1840
, John Barrell suggests that 
eighteenth-century spectators became fiso saturated in Claude™s way of
 seeing and composing landscapefl that fino 
other way of looking [at nature] except Cla
ude™s could easily be imaginedfl (16, 13). 
  15 understand the land as being organized in a specific way.  Furthermore, by presenting the 
picturesque as a kind of aesthetic enjoyment 
that could be learned from guides and fifoundfl 
relatively locally, the theorists made the picturesque accessible to a popular audience, which led 

to its reputation as a middle-class movement (Townsend 365).
8   The picturesque was initially theorized as a specific aesthetic category, but due to its 
popularity and accessibility, it ended up transforming the prevalent perception of the English 

countryside.  Its literature set the terms for how to look at rural land and what to value 

aesthetically, and in doing so, it communicated certain social and cultural values as well.  The 

picturesque sensibility idealized the pre-enclosed countryside, which helped to foster the idea of 
uncultivated and undeveloped land as being primarily a refuge from the unsightliness of modern 

industry and agrarian capitalism.  Picturesque depictions and interpretations of dilapidated 

cottages, mills, and other structures encouraged nostalgia for feudalistic relationships between 

the landed gentry and those who lived or worked on their estates.  The plight of the rural poor, when sentimentalized as part of picturesque scenery, made an appeal for paternalism as a means 
of governing those who could not care for themselves.  And although the picturesque was 

considered a fidemocraticfl movement (Bermingham 85), its grounding in landscape paintings 

served to diffuse a traditional understanding of the countryside as wholly belonging to large 
landholders, thus reinforcing privileged, patriarchal patterns of land ownership and access.  The accessibility and popularity of the picturesque, combined with its celebration of 
dilapidation and ruins, led to the eventual association of the term with images that romanticized 
                                                 8 This was an unintentional result for Price and Knight, 
however, as they theorized the picturesque as being 
accessible only to the privileged upper classes: i.e., those who already had a thorough understanding of aesthetics and art, who had an imaginative connection to picturesque imagery 
as imagery (and not, for instance, as the location 
of one™s daily work), who had the m
obility necessary for seeking out picturesque views and paintings, and, for Knight especially, who had ownership of property.  
As Ann Bermingham puts it, fiPrice and Knight saw the 
picturesque primarily as a taste granted to 
only a few and inaccessible to vulgar mindsfl (71). 
 16 rural poverty and its trappings, produced according to popular taste and consumer demand.    As 
Nancy Armstrong notes in 
Fiction in the Age of Photography, whereas the picturesque aesthetic had once been associated with fian ideal world apartfl from the strains of modern life, it had by 
mid century taken on connotations of banal sentimentality, uninspired conventionality, and 

falsity (66).  As Victorian realists put a further damper on such images by showing them to be 

immoral and untruthful, the art public could no longer easily reconcile enjoyment of them with 

humane sympathies and artistic standards.  Despite the poor reputation the picturesque had 

received by mid century, the Victorian art critic John Ruskin did not want to discard the concept 

altogether.  Instead, he worked to reclaim the picturesque as a legitimate contemporary genre by 

arguing that higher picturesque imagesŠin contrast to the more common lower, superficial 

picturesqueŠare infused with a moral truth that gives them aesthetic value.  In volume IV of 

Modern Painters (1856), for instance, Ruskin compares J. M. W. Turner™s depiction of on old 
windmill to one by Stanfield Clarkson.  Ruskin argues that the appeal of Clarkson™s image is 
located solely in the objects being represented, meaning that it portrays the ruined mill as an 
aesthetic object without acknowledging or caring about the human consequences of its ruin, 

whereas Turner™s image attains nobleness in how it gestures to the story of those who are (or 

were) dependent on the mill, thus illuminating the fipathos of character hidden beneathfl the 

image (7).  Again, it is this moral componentŠa need to bring awareness to the human condition 

behind imagery that is deemed as being aesthetically enjoyableŠthat distinguishes Victorian 

thought on landscape from that of earlier writers.
9                                                    9 Of course, the Victorians were not the first to contempl
ate the conditions being endured by the fipicturesquefl rural 
poor.  Earlier writers such as William Cobbett and John Clar
e had written extensively about the harsh conditions of rural poverty and how enclosure had robbed laborers of their 
land, and the taste for picturesque images and touring 
in the late eighteenth century had brought new attention to 
the trappings of the poor and 
disenfranchised.  However, 
pre-Victorian art and writing that looked to expose rural 
poverty and mourn the loss of the unenclosed countryside 
was primarily trying to stir the audience™s sympathies regarding the lot of the rural poor rather than presenting the 
countryside as having aesthetic qualities  17 Chapter One of the dissertation, titled fiLand and Estate as Inherited by the Victorians: The Gentry™s Appropriation of the Countryside in Mansfield Park,fl examines Jane Austen™s 
Mansfield Park (1814) as an example of how the landed gentry™s desire to manipulate the 
structure of private land through fiimprovementsfl resulted in their virtual appropriation of all 

open lands in the countryside.  While too early to be considered a Victorian novel, 
Mansfield Park nicely depicts the attitude toward the rights of landholders that was gaining acceptance at the time, and it is this understanding of ownership that was inherited by the Victorian 

landholding classes.  In the novel, land functions as an embellishment for the manor home and a 

marker of one™s status, and there is no acknowledgement of a debt or moral obligation to the 

rural poor.  Accordingly, all signs of rural laborers have been erased from the countryside as any 

reminders of the debt caused by enclosure would ruin the illusion of a self-sustaining 

landholding class that, consequently, can justly treat open land as its own dominion and its 

private land as an accessory that is free of responsibility to the larger population.  My reading of Mansfield Park serves as a point of contrast within my dissertation that foregrounds the ways in 
which Victorian realist novels tend to engage with, modify, and challenge earlier ideas about the 

countryside.    My second chapter, fiThe Meritorious Landholder and the Manor House Dilemma in 

Bleak House and John Halifax, Gentleman,fl will argue that the novels work to inculcate a new understanding of what it means to own land in the countryside by linking the pleasures of 

landholding with a paternalistic sense of sociopolitical responsibility, thus reconciling the realist 
novel™s desire to preserve the institution of the country estate with its moral concerns regarding 

how the propertied tend to abuse their economic and political power.  I suggest that Dinah 

Craik™s John Halifax, Gentleman (1856) and Charles Dickens™s Bleak House (1852) illustrate a  18 cultural shift from the perception of the estate as being permanently linked to a family bloodline 
to being a piece of transferable, saleable property.  The novels propose an ownership model that 

places estates into the hands of those with moral merit instead of those that have only an 

impressive pedigree in order to counteract the trend of destructive excess and self-interest that 

has all but destroyed the landed nobility.  As these novels depict the estate as a reward for good 
behavior as opposed to an indicator of lineage, I argue, they also work to change the meaning of 

landscape by infusing the enjoyment of scenic views with a sense of paternalistic duty.  

However, in attempting to revise the ambition of the landholder to moral awareness and 

paternalistic obligation, these novels seems unsure of how to handle the large manor house, both 

as a physical entity in which the characters live and as a symbol of the estate in general.  I will 

suggest that the manor house not only signifies the extravagance and self-interest of the nobility, 

which these novels reject as being immoral, but it also represents a means of fully enjoying the 

pleasures of the outdoors, which the novels do not want to relinquish.  Consequently, the manor 
house and its symbolism becomes something of a burden to the landholding characters, and the 
novels struggle with how to dispose of the houses without destroying the estate and its pleasures, 
including the scenic views that are best enjoyed from the vantage points that the houses provide.   
 The third chapter of the dissertation, fiLandscape, the Picturesque, and the Encroachment 

of the Middle Classes in The Clever Woman of the Family,fl looks at the problem of aesthetic 
pleasure and paternalistic responsibility from a different perspective, and it attempts to find a 

solution that allows the gentry to adapt to the new socioeconomic circumstances and maintain its 

position.   Charlotte Yonge™s The Clever Woman of the Family (1865) presents the preservation and appreciation of private landscape as being a crucial means of battling the social and 

economic ills of capitalism, particularly the gentry™s increasing loss of control over the land and 
 19 the exploitation of the poor that stems from the free market.  The novel recognizes how the 
problems of rural poverty are embedded in the conflict over ownership of the countryside, 

particularly as middle-class buyers who are eager to own pieces of the countryside are 

encroaching on land and landscapes that used to be considered a birthright of the gentry.  The 
Curtis family must choose whether to give in to social pressure and develop the land they keep 

for aesthetic purposes, thus helping to relieve both local poverty and the housing crisis caused by 
the influx of middle-class renters, or whether they should keep it as a haven for themselves amid 

the socioeconomic changes happening around them.   However, the solution the novel proposes 

ends up mobilizing the picturesque as a conscious fantasy, one that does not actually solve the 

problems of poverty or middle-class encroachment but
 instead allows the Curtis family, as they 
enjoy their landscape view, to imagine they have done so.  
The fourth chapter, titled fiThe Enclosure of Common Lands for Social Stability in 
Shirley,fl will suggest that, in contrast to the approaches that attempt to compromise between 
enjoying land as an aesthetic object and fulfilling one™s moral obligations to the rural poor, 
Charlotte Brontë™s Shirley (1849) indicates that the pleasures of unproductive land are a luxury that must be sacrificed for the greater social good, and women are the ones who must make the 

sacrifice.  The novel presents the village™s undeveloped lands as a haven in which genteel women can temporarily escape the rigid social roles and expectations to which they are so 

strictly held.  As a companion piece, George Meredith™s 
The Egoist (1879) illustrates how the layout and design of private estate grounds serve to restrict genteel women™s bodies and minds, 
with the property™s decorative bounding structures, walking paths, and arranged scenic views 
ensuring their total confinement.  I will demonstr
ate that, within these novels, private, developed land embodies and reinforces the constrictive social mores that dictate what is appropriate 
 20 behavior for genteel women, whereas uncultivated areas are both visually and materially 
unstructured and thus do not restrict the women™
s movements and thinking.  However, when the 
needs of the local poor require that the open land be developed, the women must sacrifice their 

freedom outdoors for the greater social good as the open land presents a threat to stability.    
My dissertation contributes to discussions of landscape aesthetics and the ways in which the politics of landscape engage with the broader social, political, and economic issues that are 

represented within landscape depictions.  This project also offers readings of Victorian realist novels that challenge the ways in which the depictions of land are typically understood in these 
works, which in turn offers fresh perspectives on how the novels approach contemporary 

arguments about the moral obligations that come with control of the land.  This project adds to 

these veins of criticism by investigating how realist novels typically acknowledge and draw upon 

landscape as an ideology of domination and the picturesque as one of sentimentalization, even as 

they work to resist these meanings and repurpose the concepts in order to change the perception 
of rural land.  My readings of these novels offer a new way of understanding how their descriptions of land and landscape not only shaped the way the layout of the countryside was 
perceived but also contributed to the contemporary political and socioeconomic discussions 
regarding ownership and access to land, particularly those entangled with problems of rural 

poverty.   21 CHAPTER ONE LAND AND ESTATE AS INHERITED BY THE VICTORIANS: THE GENTRY™S APPROPRIATION OF THE COUNTRYSIDE IN MANSFIELD PARK   
 Raymond Williams has argued that the English countryside was restructured according to 
the interests of large landholders during the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries.  As 
the enclosure movement transformed unprofitable, nonstandard patches of land into grid-like 

areas of productivity, the look of flat, rectangular pieces of land became associated with labor 
and commerce; these topics were distasteful to country gentlefolk, who liked to pretend that they 

were above the vulgarities of money-making.  At a time when traditional distinctions among the 

classes were breaking down and the rural elite were attempting to define themselves sociallyŠ

i.e., upwardly-mobile capitalists were striving to gain social rank and acceptance into the best 

circles while old family names were struggling to maintain their standing and supplement their 

dwindling inheritancesŠit makes sense that landhol
ders would want to distance themselves from 
productive land both visually and physically in order to emphasize their separation from the 
laboring classes as a way of reinforcing their own gentility.  Serving as a foil to the straight lines 
of plowed fields that signified labor and production, undeveloped land became associated with 
leisure and the consumption of goods.   

 Indeed, Ann Bermingham has pointed out, as the enclosed countryside began to look 

more symmetrical and artificially ordered, the grounds of country estates were redesigned and 

renovated to look increasingly uncultivated, similar to
 the pre-enclosed countryside (14).   Nancy Armstrong has likewise noted that as a nation develops, wastelands actually become more 

prestigious than plowed fields because they seem to indicate excess and abundance (58).  

Uncultivated land gained new aesthetic and nostalgic value for the rural elite at this time, and it 

is clear that at least part of the reason is because it provided visual relief from the distasteful 
 22 aspects of agricultural and industrial production while also serving as a memento of a supposedly 
extinct, overly romanticized (and, as Williams points out, utterly imaginary) pastoral age in 

which England had been free of the ills brought on by industrialization and capitalism.   

 Prior to enclosure, rural landholders tended to prefer well-ordered formal gardens and 

grounds, but the prestige accorded to undeveloped land after enclosure prompted landholders to 

begin arranging their private grounds to mimic the irregular lines and clustered vegetation of 

unspoiled nature (Williams 124).   Bermingham has noted that, by the mid-eighteenth century, 

the modern country estate required large tracts of ficompletely nonfunctional, nonproductivefl 

land in order to produce the desired appearance for estate grounds, especially as land fias its own 
ornament and aesthetic effectfl was the single most important element of contemporary estate 

design (13).  By enclosing, standardizing, and repurposing what had been common lands on the 
one hand, and by hiring professional gardeners to artificially contour private grounds on the 
other, these landholders manipulated the physical structure of the land in order to serve their own 
aesthetic, economic, and social purposes.  Moreover, after enclosure compelled the largely 
migratory agrarian poor to become stationary
 wageworkers, wilderness and undeveloped areas were accessible only to those who had the freedom and the wealth to travel beyond local, 

privately-owned lands.  So while uncultivated areas had been communal and open to all prior to 

enclosure, they were essentially transformed into exclusive retreats for the privileged during the 

nineteenth century.  This exclusivity, along with the contrast between the monotonous look of 

productive land and the variety of colors and shapes offered by open areas, made unproductive 

land newly appealing to the elite classes.  
 In order to illustrate how the landed gentry™s desire to manipulate the structure of private 

land through fiimprovementsfl resulted in a virtual appropriation of all open lands, I™d like to turn 
 23 to Jane Austen™s Mansfield Park (1814).  Throughout the novel, the urge to fiimprovefl a property 
by making large-scale alterations to natural features that are purportedly displeasing aesthetically 

is contrasted with the seemingly more genuine capacity to enjoy the existing layout of the 

outdoors.  The exaggerated aversion to the condition of the grounds at Sotherton Court that is 
expressed by Mr. Rushworth and Henry Crawford as evidence of their refined sensibilities (or so 

they think) represents the shift in thinking about land ownership as identified by Raymond 

Williams: instead of being seen as a source of common sustenance for the whole community and, 

consequently, its maintenance as a moral responsibility for the landholder, land has become little 

more than an ornament for the manor home and a marker of one™s social and economic status
.  Accordingly, in Mansfield Park, all signs of rural laborers and the other targets of exploitation that support the gentry™s luxurious lifestyle have been erased from the local countryside as these 

markers of labor would ruin the illusion of a self-sustaining landholding class that, consequently, 

can justly treat open land as its own dominion and private land as an accessory that is free of 
responsibility to the larger population.      In 
The Country and the City, Williams contrasts Austen™s depictions of the English 
countryside and its people with the socially-conscious observations of William Cobbett, who was 
writing around the same time, and argues that Austen concentrates on the changes of fortune 

among the landed families while inadvertently overlooking the exploitation of the rural laborers 

and farmers, catalogued by Cobbett, that was happening just outside the proverbial park walls.  

Williams sees Austen™s omission of the laboring classes in her novels as being due to both her 

limited experience beyond the domestic sphere and her intense interest in the intra-class mobility 

among the ranks of landholders and their extended families.  While Austen might have thought 

she was writing about ‚the poor™ when she created, for example, the PricesŠa family that has 
 24 only two servants, and bad servants at thatŠWilliams suggests that she is nevertheless writing 
about people who are all from the same stratum 
of society; and, as he points out, fiwhere only one class is seen, no classes are seenfl (117).  Edward Said™s Culture and Imperialism (1993) famously extended Williams™s analysis by calling attention to Austen™s failure to fully sketch out 

the consequences of the gentry™s dependence on global as well as domestic labor.  Said points 

out the implicit relationship between the comfort enjoyed at Mansfield Park and the exploitation 

of Antigua™s native peoples, and subsequently much criticism of the novel has explored how 

willful ignorance and the omission of particul
ars about what happens on the plantations underpins the characters™ (and perhaps Austen™s) acquiescence to the slavery system.  I would 

like to build on these insights by arguing that Austen™s omission of laborers in the novel allows 

her to develop a contrast between the mind-set of the morally ambiguous fiimproversfl and that of 

the characters who appreciate less-affected nature, and it allows her to do so without having to 
fully address the moral implications of the rapid privatization of the countryside and her 
characters™ acquiescence to this system.  However, similar to her treatment of slavery in the 
novel, Austen™s novelistic cognizance of the increasing boundedness and exclusivity of the 
countryside indicates her discomfort with this system, even if she does ultimately regard it as a 

necessary evil.  
 Much of 
Mansfield Park takes place outdoors, and while several scenes are set in what might seem to be open expanses of land, Austen persistently draws attention to the fact that the 

characters are in fact traversing private property, and she undercuts any sense of openness 
through her diction.  For instance, when all the young people (and Mrs. Norris) visit Sotherton, 
the trip starts out as an adventure for Fanny, who has never before been able to ride so far.  She 
is soon in territory that is unknown to her, and she is fivery happy in observing all that was new,  25 and admiring all that was prettyfl (72).  It seems as though this passage would present a prime 
opportunity for Fanny to enjoy (and for Austen to depict) some sweeping views of the 

countryside that would include, for instance, rolling hills, vast fields, and wooded areas.  This 
moment also presents an opportunity for Fanny to get a glimpse of the larger world beyond the 

proverbial park walls for the first time, at least as an adult.  However, as she rides along, Fanny 

instead sees only a disjointed series of ma
rkers signifying cultivation, and thus signifying privately held land: fithe bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children [–]fl (72-3).  As Fanny notices only minor estate elements 

(cottages, cattle) while her eyes could be roving over a much broader plane of sights, it is clear 

that her perception itself is bounded by the tenets of the estate.  As a result, she sees the 
countryside in terms of finite properties containing assets that belong to landholders rather than 

as a stretch of open land, yet this seems to be an unconscious perspective on her part as she is 

ostensibly admiring only fiall that was pretty.fl  Given that family names are usually attached to 
estate components such as these, the absence of family names in Fanny™s observations indicates 
that she is not looking at the assets of particular families, which would have suggested a more 
deliberately economic evaluation of the properties, and it emphasizes that she is exploring 

unknown territory, which one would expect to be accompanied by a sense of discovery on the 

part of someone unused to traveling.  Yet the use of the definite article (fi
the harvest,fl fithe cottagesfl), along with the odd use of certain singular nouns, implies that Fanny both feels an 

immediate familiarity with the area and perceives it as a single property.  While it is not clear 

how many estates they pass during the ten-mile ride to Sotherton, if anyŠthe wording is vague 

enough that Fanny could be admiring unseen parts of the Bertrams™ estate, property belonging to 

another family (or families), or bothŠthe blend of ambiguity and certainty in the language 
 26 reflects a class-based attitude of assumed general ownership.  That is, though Fanny does not see 
herself as a landowner, she takes it for granted that all the land she sees belongs to someone, and the sense of familiarity that comes through the language suggests that, even if she does not know 

exactly who owns the land, she assumes that the family is similar enough to the Bertrams that 

she does not look on them as complete strangers.    

 Moreover, any impression that the group could be exploring open land is quickly 

dispelled by Maria, who proudly points out Rushworth™s considerable property as soon as it comes into view:  
 She [Maria] could not tell Miss Crawford that ‚those woods belonged to 
Sotherton,™ she could not carelessly observe that ‚she believed it was now all Mr. 
Rushworth™s property on each side of the road,™ without elation of heart; and it 
was a pleasure to increase with their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and 
ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its rights of Court-Leet and 
Court-Baron. (73-4) The narrator has already made it clear early on that it is Mr. Rushworth™s estate that makes 

Maria™s heart skip a beat rather than Mr. Rushworth himself, but this quote demonstrates a 

different aspect of the attraction.  As Hum
phry Repton, a contemporary of Austen™s and a 
prominent designer of estate grounds, scornfully observed in 
Designs for the Pavilion at Brighton (1808), the trend of displaying one™s possessions fihas introduced the fashion of considering the importance of a place by its extent, rather than by its variety; and describing it 

rather by its number of acres, than by its beauties!!fl (363).
10  Rushworth is a participant in this                                                  10 A number of studies of 
Mansfield Park 
have examined the novel in conj
unction with Repton™s writings on landscape design, particularly because Austen specifically names him and,
 by making him Ru
shworth™s idol, implicitly lampoons him throughout the novel; however, as St
ephen Clarke has noted, Rushworth™s oversimplified 
interpretation of Repton™s ideas about estate design, along with his extreme plans for implementing them, are rather 
 27 trend in that he is apt to brag about quantifiable features of his estate, such as the acreage of his land, and compare them to those of his peers as a way of assessing the magnitude of his assets.  

For instance, as he contemplates hiring none other than Repton, who is mentioned a number of 

times throughout the novel, to design improvements for his grounds, Rushworth points out, 

fiSmith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough 

[–].  Now, at Sotherton, we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows 
[–]fl (49).  The fact that Rushworth is most enthusiastic about the number of extra acres the 

water meadows might add to the tally of his land, rather than any beauty or even utility that the 

meadows might contribute to his grounds, confir
ms Repton™s observation and indicates that 
Rushworth is interested in renovating his grounds in order to impress others rather than to make 

his home more attractive or comfortable.   

 Maria is likewise concerned about how Rushworth™s estate appears to others, but she 

approaches the problem from a different perspective.  While Rushworth eagerly calculates and 
announces the number of acres he owns, Maria™s boasting instead emphasizes the visible spread 
                                                                                                                                                             unfair to Repton (62).  While so many scholars have examined the layout of Sotherton and the novel™s use of 
Repton, their studies tend to read the estate grounds and the improvement plans as metaphors or proxies for the 

novel™s overarching concerns with morality and the preser
vation of traditional values.  For example, Alistair 
Duckworth has argued that Austen presents the institution of the estate as an analogue for the traditional values that Austen wishes to preserve.  In a similar vein, Stephen Clarke suggests that
 Sotherton ultimatel
y represents fiold-fashioned formality and old-fashioned values [–] that are now embalmedfl (63), and Ann Banfield posits that 
neoclassical esthetic ideals underpin the relationship between estate and character, which serves as the novel™s 
structural framework and its moral system.  Convers
ely, David Marshall has suggested that the novel™s 
preoccupation with landscape design and the picturesque s
hould be understood as a narrative tool for exploring the 
consequences of separating true sen
timent from the expression of sentiment.  Karen Valihora extends Marshall™s 
analysis by probing how the novel™s interest in the picturesque, and its attendant values of impartiality and 
disinterest, signifies the intersection of aesthetic thought with moral principle. My reading, on the other hand, 
foregrounds how the characters™ ways of seeing, interpreting, and interacting with rural land reveal how, within the 

novel, the English countryside is perceived and represented 
as being essentially private property, and I suggest that 
this attitude is representative of a broader contemporary se
nse of class ownership with regard to the countryside.   
   
   28 of Rushworth™s land, which suggests that a spectator™s perception of the estate™s extent is more 
important to her than its quantifiable size.  For instance, in the above-quoted passage where 

Maria is reported as saying, fithose woods belonged to Sotherton,fl the term fiwoodsfl is 

deliberately imprecise with regard to the size and layout of the group of trees to which she refers. 

The very definition of fiwoodfl is vague in that it is grounded in inexact descriptions of an area™s 
characteristics and comparisons to other types of treed areas.
11  In this context, the phrase fithose woodsfl indicates a presently visible yet inestimable amount of land, perhaps rendering a large 

wooded area into one of infinite size within the minds of the observers.   

 By following her observation that the woods fi[belong] to Sothertonfl with the remark, fiit 

[is] now all Mr. Rushworth™s property on each side of the road,fl Maria also conflates the estate™s 
manor home and grounds with property that is remote from it.  Within the novel, fiestatefl and 

other similarly broad words are most often used 
to indicate a property as a whole, particularly with regard to its economic aspects: i.e., firecent losses on his West India Estatefl (20), fiFour 
thousand a year is a pretty estatefl (107), fiaddressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford™s estate,fl 
(288).  But the proper names of the estates (Sotherton, Everingham) are most often used to 

signify the more intimate, familial aspects of a property as well as the social and political 

influence attached to it, all of which are embodied by the manor house and the grounds 

immediately surrounding it.  In linking the name So
therton with all visible property, then, Maria is attempting to stretch the symbolism associated with the manor home to encompass all of 

Rushworth™s property.  While property that is relatively distant from the manor home is still 

considered part of the estate, it does not have the same visual and psychological impact that the 
                                                 11 According to the 
OED, the definition of the word reads, fiA collection of trees growing more or less thickly 
together (esp. naturally, as distinguished from a 
plantation
), of considerable extent, usually larger than a 
grove or copse (but including these), and smaller than a 
forest; a piece of ground covered with trees, with or without undergrowthfl (fiWood,fl 
OED).    29 manor home exudes.  As Raymond Williams puts it, the manor house represents fia visible 
stamping of power, of displayed wealth and comma
nd: a social disproportion that [is] meant to 
impress and overawefl (106).  Clearly, Rushworth™s 
plan to cut down the avenue of trees behind the house, and Maria™s dissatisfaction with the house™s lack of fia better approachfl (74), are 
related to this symbolic function of the manor house as they want the house to be not only 

aesthetically striking, particularly in the front, but also visible from afar.  
 For Maria and the rest of her social circle, the manor home functions as an acute symbol 

of the political and social power that comes with 
the possession of land, and she is frustrated that hers is located at the bottom of a hill as this diminishes the visible display of possession and 

power that she wants it to convey.  In order to compensate for this disadvantage, she is trying to 

substitute the property that can be seen for the concealed manor home by claiming areas that 
extend well beyond the familial area of the manor home and its grounds as fiSotherton.fl  By 

linking the name Sotherton with broad, inestimably large expanses of private land that seem to 
encompass the observerŠindeed, as Maria is quick to point out, Rushworth owns all visible 
property fion each side of the roadflŠMaria hopes to transfer the prestige and distinctiveness of the classic manor home to all the property of Rushworth™s estate, thus making up for the house™s 

inadequacy while increasing the social and political value of his remote property.  Maria wants 

Rushworth™s property to be recognizable as his property in the same way that a manor house is 
recognizable as belonging to a certain family, and she wants spectators to feel the awe that one is 

supposed to experience upon seeing a manor house throughout the entire estate.  Maria™s motive 

in connecting this visible yet remote expanse of land with Sotherton is further confirmed by the 

narrator™s diction in this passage.  We are specifically told that the house is a capital freehold 

mansion with rights of court as well as an ancient family residence, which emphasizes both how 
 30 deep-rooted the estate™s social and political influence is as well as how broadly it extends 
throughout the countryside, yet these details are not catalogued as being part of Maria™s direct remarks.  Instead, they are provided by the narrator, and given that they are provided at this 

particular point in the narrative, they can be read as a reflection of the kind of unconscious 
ideological connection Maria wants spectators to make between the vast land of Rushworth™s 
estate and her own importance as his future wife.   

 While Maria wants all of Rushworth™s land to be instantly identifiable as belonging to 

him, she is limited in the ways she can publicize his ownership of land located beyond the 

grounds of the manor house.  As the party travels to Sotherton, for instance, she must physically 

point out which properties belong to Rushworth in order for the group to recognize them as such, 

and her generic identifiers (i.e., fithose woodsfl) and her lack of descriptive details suggest that 
there is nothing especially distinctive about the land they are seeing.  Consequently, Maria must 

work to establish an unintuitive imaginative connection between Rushworth™s lands and his 
name (and that of Sotherton) with the hope that 
the people of the county will eventually begin to make the association automatically, as there are no other markers signifying the land as his.  

However, Maria does not have the same problem with the grounds surrounding the manor house 

despite the fact that the house™s location at the bottom of a hill prevents it from being the 

archetypal pinnacle of the estate.  While Rushworth cannot stake a claim to his grounds with the 

visual presence of the manor house, he can do it physically with barriers that are intended to both 

regulate access to certain areas of the estate and c
ontrol how the estate is viewed and experienced 
by a given spectator.         
 After touring much of Sotherton™s manor house, the group decides to go see the estate 

grounds.  All the young people fias by one impulse, one wish for air and libertyfl walk outdoors, 
 31 and once on the lawn, they walk about fiin happy independencefl (80, 81).  However, their relief in being freed from the confines of the house is immediately undermined by the narrator™s 

description of the grounds: fiThe lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond 
the first planted area, a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, 
backed by iron palissades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the 

wilderness immediately adjoiningfl (81).  The depiction is organized according to the lawn™s 

bordering structures and highlights the presence of these structures by setting them off in 
dependant clauses (fibounded on each side by a high wall,fl fibacked by iron palissadesfl) that 
mimic the purpose of the structures in how they 
obstruct the cadence of the sentence.  While the 
description appears to set up a view with a smooth outward trajectory by placing the lawn in the 

foreground and moving toward the wilderness, the diction forces the view to be broken into 

pieces that must be examined individually, suggesting that Rushworth™s walls, fences, and 

activity-specific lawn grooming (the bowling green versus the terrace walk, etc.) similarly divide 
his estate grounds into a series of sectioned-off and well-defined areas, which acts to prevent free access throughout Sotherton and in turn prevents a spectator from taking in a cohesive view of 
the grounds.  Moreover, while the description indicates that the grounds contain a good view of 
the woods (ficommanding a view over them [the pali
ssades] into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoiningfl), even this view seems to be intentionally clipped in that it 

stops at the fitops of the treesfl instead of encompassing all of the wood, or even a whole tree.  
The wording of the sentence also implies that it is the terrace walk itself rather than a spectator 

that ficommandsfl the view, which seems to further strip the young people of their agency as 

spectators once they enter the grounds.    32  As the characters go on to explore the grounds, the narrative foregrounds their encounters 
with the various gates and other barriers that regulate access to Rushworth™s land.  When Fanny, 

Edmund, and Mary decide to walk on the terrace, for instance, the heat drives them to the shade 

of the woods almost immediately, yet they find that the entrance to the wood is blocked by a 

gate.  Mary remarks, fiHere is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.  What happiness if the 

door should not be locked!Šbut of course it is, for in these great places, the gardeners are the 
only people who can go where they likefl (82).  Mary™s comment suggests that it is common for 

the grounds of a large country estate to have gates throughout the property, and her assumption 

that the door is locked indicates that such gates are intended to regulate access throughout the 
manor, as opposed to being mere decorative props or quaint remainders of outdated security 

measures.  Her observation that only gardeners can go where they please is clearly intended to be 

humorous, yet she inadvertently gestures toward the complex power dynamics surrounding 

access to the land.  It might seem problematic that the gardenerŠa mere servantŠapparently has 
the ability to roam throughout the property while the upper-class characters are more restricted in 
their movements, and Mr. Rushworth™s inability to enter his own park a few pages later 

demonstrates that his gates and barriers do an imperfect job of regulating access to his grounds, 

but the larger issue at stake is the necessity for permission to enter the premises, which is 

signified by these structures.  The gardener might have permission to pass through any of 

Rushworth™s gates, but he can do so only in his role as the gardener, not as a visitor.  This distinction is made evident by the narrative™s failure to assign the gardener a proper name, even 

when he appears in the account of Mrs. Norris™s day and she discusses the very personal matter 

of his grandson™s illness with him (94).   
 33  Rushworth™s guests must also secure his permission to enter certain regions of his 
grounds.  For some areas, Rushworth implies permission by leaving the gates unlocked, but for a 

locked gate, he expects his guestsŠincluding Maria, his soon-to-be wifeŠto allow him to 
unlock it himself.  When he, Maria, and Mr. Crawford reach the locked gate to the park, for 

instance, Rushworth asks Maria and Crawford to wait for him while he fetches the key, and he 

becomes angry when he returns to find that they, along with Julia, have climbed over the fence 

and went on without him.  It is clear that Rushwo
rth™s dismay is not due to the ineffectiveness of 
the fence at keeping people out of his park.  Edmund and Mary™s easy discovery of an unfastened 
side gate to the park demonstrates that Rush
worth is not scrupulous about keeping his gates locked, and if he were chiefly concerned about the security of his property or the safety of 
potential visitors to the park, he would have at least ensured that all the gates surrounding it were 
locked.  For that reason, it is evident that the otherwise ineffective gates and fences primarily 

serve as a material symbol of Rushworth™s stat
us and privileges as a landholder, signifying his ownership of the property and his subsequent right to develop and adorn the land, as well as his right to regulate access to it, as he sees fit.  In this context, respect for the boundaries denoted by 
a landholder™s fences amounts to respect for the landholding institution itself, so Rushworth is 

understandably troubled when his guestsŠand particularly MariaŠchoose to ignore the locked 
gate and scale the fence.  
 For example, as Crawford considers the park with Maria, he observes, fiYour prospects 

[–] are too fair to justify want of spirits.  You have a very smiling scene before youfl (89).  

Maria replies, fiDo you mean literally or figuratively?  Literally I conclude.  Yes, certainly, the 

sun shines and the park looks very cheerful.  But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a 

feeling of restraint and hardship.  I cannot get out, as the starling saidfl (89).  This passage seems 
 34 to invite a straightforward reading that posits the fences as a blunt symbol for a woman™s 
position in marriage, yet it is important to note that Maria is specifically referring to the visual 

impact of the fences rather than their capacity for containment.  In differentiating between what 

she perceives as the literal and figurative meanings 
of prospect and scene, Maria suggests there is 
a discrepancy between the pleasant appearance of the estate grounds and the reality of the bleak 
future she envisions for herself as Rushworth™s wife, and she attempts to separate the visual 

prospect afforded by the park from the imaginative prospect of life with Rushworth, which she 

interprets as being represented by the fences.  However, in making this distinction, she 

inadvertently undercuts her own remark by indicating that the fences are separable from the 

essence of the estate grounds generally and the park specifically, when it is evident that the iron 
gate and the ha-ha, along with the other bordering structures, are actually crucial components of 

the grounds™ intended appearance.  As I suggest above, the various fences serve as a type of 
functional adornment that ostensibly provides a material barrier but, due to unlocked gates and 
deficiencies in design, do a rather poor job of physically deterring potential intruders.  Clearly, Rushworth instead expects the fences to operate as a psychological barrier and relies on 
collective respect for the rights of the landholder, signified by the fences, as a way of 
discouraging uninvited guests from enteri
ng certain areas of his property.    Indeed, the idea of fences and gates having psychological as well as material effects was 

an essential component of contemporary landscape theory.  For example, Humphry Repton, who 

published a number of influential writings on landscape design throughout his career, frequently 

addressed the difficulties of balancing the practical need for fences with their psychological 

impact on the spectator.  Repton believed that one of the primary functions of the estate grounds, 

and particularly the pleasure gardens, is to provide the landholding family (and invited guests) 
 35 with an area in which to refresh and stimulate the mind, and according to him, one™s perception 
of the expanse of the area is more important than its actual dimensions.  In fact, he argues that it 

is wiser to cultivate a small area that one can keep impeccably groomed and abundantly adorned 

with interesting objects rather than to designate a larger and necessarily plainer area for walking, 
because in a garden firichly clothed with flowers, and decorated with seats and works of art, we 
saunter, or repose ourselves, without regretting the want of extentfl (Designs 366).    Accordingly, Repton indicates that the mere sight of a fence, even one that is quite a 

distance from the spectator, can spoil one™s enjoyment of the outdoors by both evoking feelings 

of captivity in the spectator and destroying the illusion of an unbroken countryside.  In 
Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening (1816), he writes, fiThe first of the great requisites in English gardening is, to banish all appearance of confinement, and to give 

imaginary extent of freedom, by invisible lines 
of separation [–]fl (483).  Elsewhere, in a chapter devoted to the appropriate placement of fences on a property, he observes, fiThe mind 
feels a certain disgust under a sense of confinemen
t in any situation, however beautiful,fl and he goes on to caution the reader about the use of sunken fences, which can often result in 
fiimaginary freedom [that] is dearly bought by [–] 
actual confinement, since nothing is so 
difficult to pass as a deep sunk fencefl (Observations 198-9).  Repton™s concern about the imaginative freedom of the spectator indicates an understanding that fences can affect a 

spectator™s impression of a scenic view in ways that go beyond being a potential eyesore: they 

visually reinforce the idea that a given stretch of land is privately owned and controlled, 
therefore conveying to the spectator that certain areas are inaccessible to him and that his 

movements are limited to the areas that have been approved for him by the landholder.  Repton 

believed that such an impression would be off-
putting to a spectator who wanted to enjoy the  36 beauty and openness of the outdoors, especially given that a country residence was seen as a place where one could escape from the congestion and the restrictive layout of the city, but he 

also recognized that the spectator needed to feel that he was within a secure area in order to 
thoroughly enjoy himself.   

 As a particularly striking example of Repton™s commitment to fostering the illusion of an 

open area that is nevertheless safe from perceived intruders, Repton™s plan for a dwelling called 

the Fort nicely illustrates how the landed gentry™s seemingly contradictory desire for secure 

freedom shaped contemporary estate grounds design.  Situated on a hill that overlooked the city 

of Bristol, and surrounded by a series of chasms that were remnants of basements that had been 

dug for never-finished additions to the city, the Fort was in danger of being abandoned as a 
suitable residence for a landholder primarily because fiit was not only exposed to the [sight of] 

unsightly rows of houses in Park-street and Berkeley-square, but it was liable to be overlooked 
by the numerous crowds of people who claimed a right of footpath through the park, 
immediately before [the house™s] windowsfl (
Fragments 137).  Since the major problems with 
the Fort were a view obstructed by unsavory dwellings and a lack of privacy within the pleasure 
ground, Repton™s solution was to build a walled bank that would hide the path from the view of 

people on the pleasure ground while also concealing the pleasure ground from anyone using the 

footpath.  As Repton puts it, the bank is designed fito carry the eye over the heads of persons who may be walking in the adjoining footpath,fl while
 the wall finot only hides [the footpath users] from the house, but also prevents their ove
rlooking the pleasure-groundfl (137-8).  Repton™s emphasis on the attractive prospect of mutual invisibility between gentry and commoners, as 

well as his plans to plant trees in order to obscure the view of Bristol™s row houses, suggests a  37 desire among landholders to virtually exclude the lower classes from the countryside in order to 
reserve the land and its beauties for their own pleasure.   
 Repton is annoyed that the Fort must suffer the presence of a public footpath running 

through its park, and it is evident that he expects his reader to be annoyed as well, which seems 

to assume a shared belief in the sanctity in the institution of private land ownership: for Repton, 

it is a travesty that public right-of-way overrides the landholder™s need for privacy in the estate 
park.  While Repton cannot destroy the footpath, he can hide it by altering the shape of the 

ground, digging shallow valleys to replace gentle slopes in some areas and heaping earth in 

others, in order to disrupt the line of vision from below the house without disturbing that of the 
house™s inhabitants.  In short, Repton not only proposes to hide the evidence that poor people live near the estate, but he essentially wants to hide the estate, along with a portion of the 
countryside, from the too-close gaze of the poor
.  By building a wall along the footpathŠa wall that is concealed on the estate side but is highly visible to those walking on the pathŠRepton can assure the landholder of security and privacy while still providing the illusion of uninterrupted expanses of open land and a sense of relative isolation from the bothers of the city.  

Conversely, the footpath users™ enjoyment of the 
countryside will be significantly curtailed as a once extensive panoramic view will be ruptured 
by a visually impenetrable (and likely physically 
impenetrable) wall, carrying the restrictive architecture of the city into the countryside and 

reducing the footpath™s available view to a fraction of the rural scenery that the inhabitants of the Fort enjoy.  Based on Repton™s plans for the Fort, it is apparent that contemporary estate ground 
designs were as concerned with preserving the countryside as a retreat for the landed class, by 
concealing the presence of neighboring commoners and denying them both visual and physical 

access to large tracts of land, as they were with constructing pleasing views for the landholders.  38  While Repton generally advocates the concealment of fences and other bordering 
structures for the sake of unbroken views and a feeling of general openness throughout one™s 
property, he also recognizes that the repellent effect of a strategically-placed fence could be useful, if not necessary, for achieving certain objectives.  For example, he opposes the 

contemporary trend of blurring the boundaries between
 different areas of an estate, thus allowing what he sees as distinct components of the grounds
, such as the park, the shrubbery, the lawn, the pasture, and the kitchen garden, to blur visually into one large area.  He writes, fi[–] instead of 
that invisible line, or hidden fence, which separates the mown turf from the lawn fed by cattle, it 

is more rational to shew that the two objects are separated, if the fence is not unsightly [–]fl 

(Inquiry 329).  In a later writing, he similarly observes, fi[–] it cannot surely be disputed, that 
some fence should actually exist between a garden and a pasture; for if it is invisible, we must 

either suppose cattle to be admitted into a garden, or flowers planted in a field; both equally 

absurdfl (Fragments 416-7).  Repton™s investment in the estate grounds as a space that should 
privilege beauty over utility, at least to a reasonable degree, compels him to dictate that even a 
purely functional fence should be finot unsightly,fl but in these passages he is most concerned 
with what the sight of the fence conveys to a spectator with regard to whom or what belongs on a 

given tract of land as well as for what purpose the area is used.  While a concealed fence could 

serve to keep cattle out of the garden, Repton argues that the spectator requires the fence to also 

act as a visual indicator that reinforces a sense of order: specifically, the idea that proper estate grounds consist of a series of well-defined zones that are each reserved for a particular purpose.  
According to Repton, if, for instance, the garden does not appear to be protected from cattle, it 
does not matter if it is 
actually protected: what matters is the visual evidence that specific 
 39 boundaries are being protected and enforced by the landholder, and the psychological impact this 
image has on the spectator.   

 Furthermore, Repton™s concern that a failure to mark certain boundaries will result in 

what he describes as absurdity suggests that the appearance of disorder within the grounds of the estate could lead to something more serious than the landholder™s looking unfashionable or 

slovenly: he indicates that aesthetic disorder within the estate grounds in the form of unmarked, 

unenforced boundaries could result in social disorder as there would be no distinction between 
open land and private land, thus allowing people of all classes to roam through the countryside as 
they please.  For example, Repton insists that the entrance-gate to a private park must be 

particularly eye-catching because, as he writes, fiIf the gates [to one™s park] are of iron, the posts 
or piers ought to be conspicuous, because an iron gate hanging to an iron pier of the same colour 
is almost invisible; and the principle entrance to a park should be so marked that no one may 

mistake itfl (180).  The phrase fithat no one may mistake itfl suggests two meanings: first, that the 
gate should be visible to someone trying to find the entrance to the park, but also that the gate 
should be conspicuous so that it clearly mark
s the beginning of what is private property, distinguishing it from public land.   

 Similarly, in the case of the Fort, Repton laments the inevitable fiair of confinementfl that 

a fence will impose on the family and invited guests who venture into the part of the park that 

lies beneath the public footpath, but he nevertheless maintains that, due to the unfortunate layout 

of the park, the fence is an fiabsolute necessityfl (138).  In insisting on a fence that will impart an 

fiair of confinement,fl rather than proposing a design that would incorporate a less conspicuous 

fence for the sake of the landholder, as he does in many of his other outdoor plans, Repton 

indicates that it is not only important that the f
ootpath users™ view of the house is blocked, but  40 also that they see it is being blocked specifically by a fence erected by the landholder: clearly, the fence is intended as a visual signal to the commoners using the footpath, reinforcing that they 

are confined to the path and are not welcome to traverse the land as they please.  While the fence 

will also be an eyesore when visible to the landholding family, Repton indicates that the results 

will be well worth the sacrifice in that it will provide the family with a higher level of privacy 

and security while reinforcing the social division between the family and the footpath users. 

 To return to 
Mansfield Park, then, it is evident that Henry Crawford is drawing on the evocative overtones of the fence's intentional ps
ychological effect, as described by Repton, when he goads Maria into jumping over the gate into Rushworth™s park.  While Rushworth is 

interested in Repton™s theories on estate grounds design, and in improving his grounds 

accordingly, it appears that he never considers removing or concealing any of the very 

conspicuous fences that are so frequently encountered during walks throughout Sotherton™s grounds, despite the physical and aesthetic inconveniences that these structures impose on a 
spectator.  Similar to the circumstances Repton de
scribes at the Fort, Rushworth likely feels that the strong visual signals conveyed by his fences outweigh their unsightliness in that they firmly 

broadcast his power as a landholder.  However, while Repton focuses on minimizing the 

psychological effect of fences on the landholding family and their legitimate guests, Rushworth 
seems to want his fences™ influence to extend to Maria, her family, and their friends.  Rushworth 

perceives that he is generally thought to be a weak man, and his lack of confidence in his own 

judgment, even with regard to how to beautify his own property, suggests that he might even 

share this opinion of himself; yet the one advantage he has over anyone in the group is his 

income and his estate, so it seems fitting that he would want to flaunt what power he does have, 

particularly for Maria™s benefit, by embellishing his grounds with prominent fences in spite of 
 41 the aesthetic consequences.  Indeed, the fences have especial significance for Maria in that they represent not only Rushworth™s social and political influence as a landholder but also his patriarchal power as her future husband, and they embody both the reason she wants to marry 

him and the reason she dreads becoming his wife.
12    Maria evidently looks down on Rushworth and cannot fear that he will be a harsh or 

demanding husband, so the feelings of firestraint and hardshipfl she articulates in the earlier-

quoted passage must stem from her having to acquiesce to the legal and cultural marriage 

practices that encourage a woman to privilege the attractiveness of a man™s estate over the 

personal attractiveness of the man himself, then oblig
e her to spend the rest of her life tied to that man, regardless of whether she loves or even respects him.  Maria expresses her frustration by 

drawing a parallel between the blot of being ma
rried to Rushworth in an otherwise agreeable situation to the blot of the fences on an otherwise enjoyable view of the grounds; yet as Repton™s 
theories demonstrate, the fences are an integral component of estate grounds in that they help to 
enforce and propagate the ideologies that uphold 
both the institution of private property itself and 
the right of the landholder to divide and utilize a given tract of land exactly as he pleases.  
Without fences, and the psychological and physical boundaries that they impose on welcome and 

uninvited spectators alike, there could be no Sotherton.  Correspondingly, without the practices of primogeniture and entailment, which ensure a limited number of large estates rather than an 

indefinite number of smaller ones, and without the various social and legal customs that prevent 

gentry from acquiring prime English land outside of inheritance and marriage, large ancestral 

places like Sotherton either would not exist or would lose much of the prestige they carry, thus 
                                                 12 In fiPapas and Ha-Has: Rebellion, Authority, and Landscaping in 
Mansfield Park
,fl Inger Brodey examines this 
moment in the text alongside Repton™s 
writings, but she focuses on how the characters™ responses to Rushworth™s fences reveal their attitudes toward patriarchal authority.  
Brodey concludes that Austen™s depiction of Sotherton is 
indicative of her own ambivalence about
 authority in that Austen desires stability and order while nevertheless distrusting filegalismfl and fithe reliance on exte
rnal constraintsfl to govern behavior (93). 
 42 removing much of the incentive for acquiring an estate as Maria has done.  In short, Maria sees 
Rushworth as the blot on her acquisition of Sotherton as if he were separable from the estate, but 
similar to the fences bounding the property itself and the landholding institution that they 

represent and enforce, the archetypal great estate is inseparable from the laws and customs that 

compel Maria to choose a man like Rushworth as her husband.    

 Accordingly, Crawford, who is reportedl
y a follower of Repton himself, undoubtedly 
understands the layered significance of the fence for Maria as well, and he exploits her feelings 
of entrapment in order to manipulate her: he
 says, fiAnd for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's aut
hority and protection, or I think you might with 
little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done, 

if you really wished to be more at large, and c
ould allow yourself to think it not prohibited" (89).  Crawford taunts Maria by expressly likening Rushworth™s fiauthority and protectionflŠtwo words that smack of patriarchal privilegeŠto the gate™s key, implying that Maria is willingly 
submitting to Rushworth™s governance when she could easily bypass the physical and behavioral 
boundaries that Rushworth has set for her.  Thus in scaling the gate, Maria aims to demonstrate 

that the fenceŠi.e., RushworthŠhas little to no power over her while also establishing a greater 
amount of freedom for herself with regard to both her physical mobility (being more "at large") 

and her intellectual independence ("allow [herself] to think it not prohibited").  However, Crawford's odd phrasing, which is peppered with subjunctive clauses that stress the words 

fithinkfl and fimight,fl emphasizes that it is Maria™s 
perception of the gate™s purpose that matters 
rather than the gate™s material effectiveness at enforcing boundaries: the issue at stake is not 

whether Maria is physically able to overcome the barrier but rather whether she perceives the 

gate as a legitimate boundary that she is obliged to respect.   
 43  In choosing to scale the fence instead of waiting for Rushworth to open the gate, just as 
she later chooses to run off with Crawford instead of staying with Rushworth, Maria expresses 
not only her indifference to Rushworth but also her contempt for the principles that underpin the 
landholding institution: both actions can be read as literal and symbolic breaches of the societal 

code that protects the interests of landholders and ensures the continuity of the large country 
estate.  When Maria rejects Rushworth and violates her marriage vows, she indicates that a 

man™s personal attractiveness outweighs the appeal of a large estate, and she thus flouts the 

social values that favor land and income as the top criteria for a good marital match, which in 

turn threatens to devalue and destabilize a system that invests so much political and social power 

in landholders.  It seems fitting that by the end of the novel, Maria is unable to convince 

CrawfordŠa man who sees himself as an expert
 on the charms of well-planned estate grounds 
and is a property holder himselfŠto marry her.  Consequently, she is banished from the English 

countryside that she had essentially discarded when she relinquished her right to Sotherton, and her father relocates her to a firemote and privatefl unnamed country (424).  Maria has been 
removed from the vicinity of Mansfield Park not 
only to protect the Bertrams™ social circle from 
both the embarrassment of interacting with her and the potential dangers posed by her influence 

on impressionable young ladies, but also to protect
 the interests of the landholding class as a whole.  Additionally, because Maria no longer has a place in polite society, she no longer has a 
place in the countryside either.  As the passage on the excursion to Sotherton demonstrates, the 

characters tend to perceive the countryside as a series of private properties rather than as 
stretches of open land, and even land that contains no apparent markers of ownership is assumed 

to belong to someone, specifically someone of the Bertrams™ rank.  It then follows that Maria 
 44 would have to remove to another country, which can be read as a non-English countryside, in 
order to find a place isolated enough from the society from which she has been expelled.   

 Indeed, it is unsurprising that Maria must be exiled from the countryside given that the 

region is depicted as belonging entirely to the gentry.  Most of the outdoor scenes in the novel 
take place on the grounds of a family estate, and even when the characters are traveling on public 

roads, as they do during the trip to Sotherton, they do not encounter anything or anyone that 
would indicate that the countryside serves any purpose beyond providing pleasure for the landholding class.  Raymond Williams has argued that filand [in Austen™s novels] is seen 

primarily as an index of revenue and position; its visible order and control are a valued product, 

while the process of working it is hardly seen at allfl (CatC 115).  I would like to add that the illusion of a countryside that exists solely as a sanctuary for the upper classes is a fivalued 
productfl as well.  For instance, in the aforementioned passage that describes the trip to 

Sotherton, Fanny encounters evidence in the form of cottages and children that lower classes of 
people also inhabit the countryside, yet the diction of the passage indicates that she recognizes the people and their living quarters only in their role as components of an estateŠas part of fiall 

that was prettyflŠrather than as entities in their own right (72-3).  Fanny™s tendency to lump the 

cottagers and their homes into the same category as cattle and soil does not necessarily suggest 

insensitivity on her part, but rather it gestures toward how cottages and tenants were perceived as 
belonging to the estate: for her, the cottagers are under the care of the landholder in the same 

way that the land and the animals are, and thus do not constitute a separate population nor merit 

special consideration.  Similarly, with the ex
ception of Fanny™s vague observations regarding cattle and soil, rural land would appear to produce nothing of practical value: we are not shown crops, laborers, mills, or other signs of productivity that one would expect to be present in the 
 45 countryside, and we hear about them only indir
ectly.  Apparently, Mansfield Park produces only the roses that Fanny is obliged to cut and carry to Mrs. Norris™s house.   
 All productive labor in the novel happens offstage, so to speak, and it is treated as a 

mysterious, volatile process that must be managed by the male landholders and spoken of in 

largely euphemistic terms: Sir Thomas, of course, spends much of the novel in Antigua fifor the 

better arrangement of his affairsfl (28), and Crawfo
rd brags to Fanny about his intent to return to Norfolk and fiput everything at once on such a footing as cannot afterwards be swerved fromfl 
(375).  Moreover, the landholder must travel to the labor site occasionally so as to reinforce his 

authority and establish order, but this act can also be read as an attempt to periodically reassure 

the family that labor is something that happens far away from home, in remote locales with 

which they need not concern themselves.  These conspicuous journeys to the labor site, along 

with the indefinite accounts of what happens during the time the landholder spends there, 

indicates a desire among the gentry to keep eviden
ce of the labor that sustains their way of life distant and hidden so as not to spoil the illusion that the countryside is anything other than a pleasurable retreat for themselves.   

 Even when the novel does acknowledge the local presence of laborers and the work that 

they necessarily perform, it is described for the most part with either paternalistic or aesthetic 

implications.  When Crawford tells Fanny about the mill and the cottagers on his estate, for 

instance, he explains how he has fiintroduced himself to some tenantsfl and has fibegun making 
acquaintance with cottages whose very existence [–] had been hitherto unknown to himfl (369).  

It is unclear what he has accomplished, or what he intends to accomplish, with regard to 

fiperforming [his] dutyfl to his tenants, but Fa
nny nevertheless responds by praising his efforts to fibe the friend of the poor and the oppressed,fl which brands the exchange as a terminal 
 46 discussion of paternalistic charity rather than as an opening to further thinking about the situation of the laborers (369).  Similarly, during the trip to Sotherton, Maria comments on the various 

sights they pass along the way, particularly once they reach Rushworth™s land, and upon seeing 
the housing conditions of Rushworth™s tenants, she flippantly observes, fiThose cottages are 
really a disgracefl (74).  On its own, her statement could be construed as a moral judgment on 

Rushworth™s treatment of his tenants, but it is situated among several aesthetic judgments, such 

as her remarks on the fihandsomefl church spire, the fitidy lookingfl parsonage, and Sotherton™s 

park, which is finot uglyfl at its entrance, and consequently must be interpreted as a purely 

aesthetic judgment as well: instead of indicating a wish on Maria™s part to better the situation of 

the cottagers, or at least some concern on their behalf, her remarks indicate only a wish to make 

the estate look more attractive.   

 Throughout the novel, Maria is portrayed as a superficial and ultimately immoral woman, 

but Austen does not use the above passage as an opportunity to underscore these qualities by comparing Maria™s perception of the cottages with 
a more sensitive assessment from the narrator.  
Instead, the narrative briefly acknowledges the cottagers™ presence and the fact that they live in 
less-than-ideal conditions, and then moves on.  While not endorsing Maria™s attitude, the passage 

does not attempt to criticize her either, which suggests a willful blindness on the part of the 

narrator.  Even Fanny, who serves as a moral compass of sorts, does not trouble herself about the 

poor beyond applauding others™ efforts at charity, though she too sees the cottages.  Indeed, the novel consistently depicts the rural poor as a problem that the gentry must solve, be it through 

paternalistic charity or renovations that will make them less of an eyesore, rather than as fellow 

beings with whom they must share the land, and in this way the narrative can be read as 

reflecting the attitudes of the characters themselves: Fanny, the Bertrams, and the others clearly 
 47 are aware of the presence of lower-class people who live on or nearby their estates, yet due to the privileges and rights awarded to the gentry through the institution of private property, the poor 
are seen as only a source of labor and as dependents for whom they must care, not as cohabitants 

of the countryside. While the novel rather impartially represents the gentry as having a sense of complete 
ownership over its own family properties and a collective, class-based ownership of the 

countryside as a whole, it nevertheless supports Fanny™s appeals for preserving the existing 
structure of outdoor areas.  Fanny™s seemingly 
innate passion for the outdoors contrasts with both the apathy exhibited by some characters, such as when we are told that Mary Crawford sees 

only fiinanimate nature, with little observationfl when she is outdoors (73), as well as the 

insincere enthusiasm displayed by the would-be fiimprovers,fl such as Mr. Rushworth, Mrs. 

Norris, and Mr. Crawford.  Although the philosophy underpinning contemporary fiimprovementfl 
dictates that conscious arrangement of the terrain and vegetation will result in a higher 
enjoyment of natural beauty through unobstructed lines of sight, Fanny™s desire to leave estate 
grounds unchanged nevertheless seems rational instead of blindly conservative, especially when 

considered alongside Rushworth™s readiness to destroy established ecological formations for the 

sake of implementing trendy outdoor designs that seem to have no aesthetic meaning for him.  

When Fanny cries out against the idea of cutting down an entire avenue of trees at Sotherton, for 

instance, she declares the proposed alteration a fipityfl even though she has never been to 
Sotherton and has no idea of how thinning or removing the avenue would affect the layout of the 

property, so it is evident that she supports preserving the trees for the sake of preservation alone 
and objects to the idea that the beauty of nature can be enhanced by human intervention (50).  In 

the context of a discussion on radical Reptonian estate improvements, especially given that the 
 48 novel™s leading advocates of fiimprovementfl are the most dimwitted, pitiless, or morally suspect 
characters of the bunch, Fanny™s preference for existing forms of nature seems to place her as the 

only reasonably cautious person at a table of people who should be more invested in caring for 
the land than she is.13  Even sensitive Edmund gently mocks Fanny by smiling as he converses 
with her, suggesting that he thinks her distress over the doomed trees is overly romantic and a bit 

absurd.    In preferring to preserve the existence of long-standing trees and other established vegetation and landforms over updating a property to reflect current aesthetic taste, Fanny™s 

stance would seem to directly contradict the pr
inciples of contemporary estate improvement in 
that fiimproving,fl as Rushworth™s plans and Cr
awford™s suggestions demonstrate, usually 
involves large-scale property renovations and subsequent destruction of present resources. However, Humphry Repton and other advocates of estate improvement also stressed the 

importance of producing the illusion that man-made land formations and vegetation were formed 
naturally, even to the point that Repton thought it necessary to caution his readers against attempting to make their parks look 
too uncultivated by, for instance, omitting roads, walkways, 
and other conveniences that mark the land as a fihabitation of menfl (
Sketches and Hints 78).  In fact, rather than branding himself as chiefly a 
corrector of nature, Repton envisioned one of the main purposes of his work as undoing the excessively symmetrical, artificial style of earlier 

property plans: while in prior designs, fievery expedient was used to display the expensive efforts 
of art, by which nature had been subdued,fl Repton strove to fistudiously conceal every 
interference of art, however expensive, by which scenery is improvedfl (84-5).   
                                                 13 In fiMansfield Park 
and Estate Improvements: Jane Austen™s Grounds of Being,fl Alistair M. Duckworth makes a 
similar but broader argument, claiming that, in making Fanny and EdmundŠwhom he brands as the fianti-
Reptonianfl charactersŠthe new figuardians of the estatefl at the end of the novel, Austen suggests that a desire to 

preserve the trappings of the estate should be understood as
 a metonym for a desire to preserve fian entire cultural 
inheritancefl (26).    49 Repton™s above remarks highlight two important points with regard to the novel.  First, 
his emphasis on concealing any indications that an
 estate has been updated further illustrates how 
the landed gentry attempted to distance themselves from the rural poor both psychologically and 

visually, even though the sustenance of the estate as an institution depended increasingly on 
labor-based income as old family inheritances dwindled.  The overly symmetrical appearance of 

the older estate designs, such as that of Sotherton, not only would have indicated that the tastes of the landholder were outdatedŠor perhaps worse, that financially he lacked the ability to make 

the necessary renovationsŠbut straight lines would also recall the look of plowed fields, which would link the estate visually with productive land.  Such a connection would serve as a 
distasteful reminder of the purposely distant sites of labor that likely provided the bulk of the 

estate™s wealth, and it could jeopardize the family™s social standing in its indication of intimacy 

with the inferior classes.  As Repton puts it, fi[–] although it is not necessary that a lawn near a 
mansion should be fed by deer, yet it is absolutely necessary that it have the appearance of a 
park, and not that of a farm; because, in this consists the only difference betwixt the residence of 
a landlord and his tenant, the gentleman and the farmer [–]fl (
Observations 211).  In placing key terms in opposition to each other, such as park/farm, landlord/tenant, and gentleman/farmer, 

Repton™s diction sets up a dichotomy between 
those who labor and those who do not, which suggests that replacing the look of symmetrical lines with that of uncultivated land on one™s 

estate is important not just for purposes of fash
ion, but also in order to maintain divisions among 
the classes and to confirm one™s standing as part of the landed gentry.   
In this light, Rushworth™s fervent desire to renovate his property, despite his marked lack 
of aesthetic sensitivity, takes on a new dimension: rather than blindly following trends, he is 

looking to reestablish the now-obsolete visual boundaries that separate him from his social 
 50 inferiors and his property from public land.  The 
symmetrical lines that characterize Rushworth™s 
partitioned and expensively manicured grounds had at one time signaled leisure, wealth and 

social consequence, but they are now associated with labor and the production of goods.  While 

Edmund, who is appreciative of nature™s splendor, contemplates designing his own 

improvements for the Parsonage because he fiwould rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of 

[his] own choicefl than allow a professional improver to make renovations based on trendiness 

alonefl (50), Rushworth is more interested in ensuring that what he finds aesthetically pleasing is 

appropriate for someone of his standing; in shor
t, the reader can assume that Rushworth would 
approve of any renovations that Repton might pr
opose (as he approves of all the suggestions given to him by Crawford, who serves as Repton™s stand-in) because he is determined to be 

pleased by what men of his class are supposed to find aesthetically pleasing.   
The second point that Repton™s above remarks highlight is that Fanny, in disliking the 
trend of improving estates and the resultant destruction of established vegetation and landforms, 
seems to favor the older style of symmetrical, fiunimprovedfl estates, which in turn suggests that 
she prefers manicured outdoor areas to those that 
appear to be uncultivated.  Given that Fanny is largely perceived as a conservationist and a nature-lover, the idea that she could prefer the 
artificial regularity of the old style of estate design seems contradictory, yet she has been familiar 

with only a manicured version of nature throughout her time in the countryside.  To return to the 

example of her dismay at the thought of Rushworth cutting down the avenue of trees, for 

instance, she does not actually lament the loss of the trees themselves: fiCut down an avenue!  

What a pity!  Does it not make you think of Cowper?  ‚Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn 

your fate unmerited.™ [–] I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place as 

it is now, in its old state [–]fl (50).  In omitting any mention of trees, Fanny™s language suggests 
 51 that she is focusing on the loss of the avenue as an entity, not on the unnecessary destruction of healthy vegetation.  She also uses the word fiitfl a few sentences later without clarifying the 
pronoun™s referent, which initially causes the phrase fibefore it is cut downfl to appear to refer to 
Sotherton rather than the avenue.  This grammatical construction not only calls additional 

attention to the avenue by compelling the reader to recall the earlier sentence for the correct 

referent, but it also implies a certain interchangeability between Sotherton and the avenue, 

suggesting that for Fanny, established vegetation and landforms are not just ornaments of the 

estate but rather are the estate: they distinguish the estate as an estate.  In Fanny™s eyes, the concept of the estate is congruent with the symmetr
ical lines of the older style of grounds design.   Even the poetry Fanny chooses to quote, Cowper™s The Task (1785), can be read as esteeming the old style of estate design as well.  In his essay on landscape gardening in 

Mansfield Park, Stephen Clarke points out that much of
 what Cowper™s poem celebrates about 
the countryside is that which is fimannered and designed,fl such as the lines that commemorate a 
surviving avenue of chestnut trees:  fiNot distant far, a length of colonnade/ invites us.  Monument of ancient taste,/ Now scorn™d, but worthy of a better fate [–]fl (Clarke 63; Cowper 

I.252-4).  Clarke argues that the novel posits the older style of estate design as an embodiment of 

the fiold-fashioned formality and old-fashioned valuesfl that are being lost among all the modern 

improvements and the modern morals, which clearly troubles Fanny, and he suggests that it is 

the sentimentality and fiunaffected freshnessfl of Cowper™s descriptions that most appeal to 

Fanny as a way of articulating her aversion to drastic estate renovations (63).  However, I would argue that the above lines suggest that Cowper is commemorating the formality of the old estate 

style in its own right rather than the vegetation or the moral values the avenue might represent: 

he compares the avenue to a ficolonnadefl and calls it a fimonument of ancient taste,fl which 
 52 specifically draws attention to the avenue™s structural and aesthetic qualities and calls to mind 
revered Roman architecture rather than an endangered or defunct moral code.  In indicating that 

contempt for the old estate style is akin to contempt for ancient monuments, and that destroying 

a remnant of the old style is like destroying such a monument, Cowper suggests that the avenue 

is more valuable as functional art rather than as nature; also, given that the basis of his sorrow is 

that the avenue is now fiscorn™d,fl his resentment appears to be directed toward philistines rather 

than people who fail to value trees in their own right.   In lauding the old style of estate design, Cowper is essentially endorsing the manicuring 
of private property so that it is immediately recognizable as inhabited upper-class land.  As 

Repton points out, the earlier style of estate design not only flaunted the wealth of the landholder but also indicated that, within the bounds of the estate, finature had been subdued,fl suggesting 
that the excessively symmetrical look ultimately was intended to communicate the magnitude of 

the landholder™s power (Sketches and Hints 84).  Fanny, too, prefers land that looks like upper-class land, though her preference is not consciously materialistic, nor is it rooted in a relish for 
displays of power: rather, she has known nature only as it has existed in the form of an estate 

park, so it follows that she would favor a more ordered and manicured version of the outdoors.  

Despite the fact that the narrative provides very little information about the layout of the grounds 

at Mansfield, where Fanny has developed her understanding of nature and the countryside, Tom 
Bertram™s extravagances and the family™s subsequent shortage of funds, along with the failure of 

any character to comment on the layout of Mansfield among so much conversation about estate 

improvements, suggests that, while not as artificially ordered as the grounds at Sotherton, 

Mansfield has not been modernized to look distinctly uncultivated, either.  In the only sustained 

description of Mansfield™s exterior, which is given from Mary Crawford™s point of view, we are 
 53 told that the house is fiso well placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen™s seats in the kingdomfl (42).  Mary™s observations point to the careful 

planning that must have gone into the design of Mansfield in order to produce such an ideal 

placement of the house and the trees that screen it, and her belief that an engraving should be 

made of the house and grounds implies that the property was arranged and has been maintained 

with an eye to aesthetic appeal as well as practicality.  Thus Fanny™s experience of the outdoors has been mediated by the grooming and ordering of 
nature that was standard for a property such as Mansfield at the time despite the fact that, when considered alongside the overly symmetrical 

design of Sotherton or the drastic plans for property renovations suggested by Henry Crawford, Mansfield™s grounds would have likely seemed artlessly beautiful by comparison.   
More importantly, though, Fanny herself consci
ously associates Mansfield with both visual and behavioral order and stability, but she does not realize that such an orderly home is 
not a given until she visits Portsmouth.  She expresses this idea explicitly when she compares her 
parents™ home to Mansfield: the Prices™ house is 
fithe abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety,fl 
where nobody is fiin their right placefl and nothing is fidone as it ought to befl (354); at Mansfield, 
however, fino sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence was ever heard,fl and fiall proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderlinessfl (357).  Fanny™s 
intense yearning for orderliness once she arrives in Portsmouth suggests that an established order 

with regard to an expected daily routine, as well as proper locations for people and objects, was 
something that she took for granted at Mansfield.  She has learned that the way of life at 

Mansfield, which she had previously understood as being natural and ordinary, is actually the 
result of a deliberate cultivation of manners and appearance on the part of the Bertrams.  This 

insight foreshadows another realization that Fanny makes about the nature of her affection for 
 54 the countryside: although her marked enjoyment of the outdoors seems to be an inherent and 
unaided part of Fanny™s personality, her time in Portsmouth reveals that it is actually a result of a 

privileged upbringing, specifically with regard to her access to rural land and her acquired way 
of appreciating certain arrangements of vegetation and landforms.           

 While it is evident throughout the novel that Fanny admires the beauty of Mansfield Park, 

the narrative provides no real description of the house and its grounds besides Mary Crawford™s 
observation that Mansfield deserves to be in a collection of engravings.  Mary™s remark situates 

the estate grounds within the idealized form of a popular printed landscape image, indicating that 

Mary evaluates the attractiveness of Mansfield according to the organizational and 
representational standards of landscape painting.  It is important to note that Austen, in providing 

no other images of Mansfield, compels the reader to envision the estate in terms of a landscape 

painting as well, which suggests that she is drawing on the idea of landscape paintings as having 
standard, well-known systems of order and representational conventions; otherwise, the allusion 
would not make sense.  However, by not supplementing the engraving reference with additional 
details about the estate grounds, Austen also calls attention to the disassociation between the 
objects or patterns that are actually present in a given view, and how such objects and patterns 
can be modified, erased, or even invented.  In
 pointing out that one™s enjoyment of a landscape 
image stems only in part from the visual objects themselves (or, in the case of prose descriptions 

of scenic views, the objects that are described with visual details), Austen implies that the rest of 
one™s enjoyment, and even the very transformation of
 the view from a series of disjointed objects 
into a coherent, meaningful image, comes largely from one™s own imaginative engagement with 

the image rather than from the inherent merits of the objects being viewed.  
 55  Indeed, in a discussion of the differences between landscape paintings and scenic views 
of the outdoors, which he refers to as fireal landscapes,fl Humphry Repton likewise emphasizes 

that imagination is a crucial component of the ability to appreciate a striking view.  Repton 

defines landscape as fia view capable of being represented in paintingfl which ficonsists of two, 
three, or more, well marked distances, each separated from the other by an unseen space, which 

the imagination delights to fill up with fancied beauties, that may not perhaps exist in realityfl 

(Sketches and Hints 97).  Repton™s description highlights how the idea of landscape itself entails not only the standard structural directives and expected aesthetic points of interest but also requires the spectator to supply a degree of invented or exaggerated detail.  This imaginary 

component of Repton™s definition of landscape is 
rather surprising given his evident desire to predict and control exactly how a spectator will experience a given outdoor sight in relation to 
any number of variables, such as the viewing position, the time of day and amount of sunlight, 

the extent of the field of vision, and the changeable quality of the objects. 14
  Moreover, his phrase fifancied beauties that may not perhaps exist in realityfl points to a component of desire 
for an imagined something that is visually and materially unattainable, either because the object 

of desire cannot be seen from the spectator™s position, or because it simply does not exist.  The 

fact that even Repton acknowledges the roles of desire and imagination in his otherwise 

carefully-orchestrated views indicates that the act
 of appreciating a landscape requires a spectator to imaginatively provide a portion of the image from his private store of wants and interests in 

order to achieve the intended effect of the landscape, whether the landscape was painted or 
planted by a designer, or if the spectator just happened upon a pleasing view during a casual ramble in the countryside.   
                                                 14 For more on Repton™s discussion of the unique challenges associated with landscape gardening as opposed to 
landscape painting, see Chapter VII, fiConcerning Approaches,fl of 
Sketches and Hints
.      56  Accordingly, Austen aims to demonstrate how much detail canŠand mustŠbe supplied 
by the imagination when the idea of a landscape painting is invoked, regardless of what concrete 

information is available: while the concept of a landscape painting provides a subtle, perhaps 

even unconscious organizational framework for the interpretation of a pleasing view, the 

spectator still shapes the prospect and selects what details to notice, ignore, or even imagine 

according to his or her own expectations.  As an example of this process, I™d like to examine two 

distinct moments in the novel: one in which Fanny looks out a window onto Mansfield™s 

grounds, and one in which Henry Crawford describes seeing Mansfield™s parsonage for the first time.  Both scenes involve the characters desc
ribing and reacting to pleasing views, but Fanny™s enjoyment seems to be spontaneous and authentic while Henry™s appears to be artificial and self-

serving.  Yet a close reading of the passages dem
onstrates that, though their responses seem to be 
dissimilar, both characters nevertheless draw upon landscape paintings as a way of giving their 

observations organizational and contextual meani
ng, and both use their imaginations to flesh out 
the image according to what each of them wants to see; thus, Fanny and Henry are actually 
interpreting their respective views in comparable ways.   

 While Fanny™s appreciation for nature often seems to be artless, other charactersŠ

specifically, those characters in favor of large-scale land fiimprovementsflŠuse landscape 

paintings as a framework for interpreting and evaluating outdoor views in a much more obvious 

fashion.  They unapologetically impose a sense of order on a given piece of land even if no such 

order was planned in its design, or if it was designed with some other method of order in mind.  

For instance, in the passage where Crawford relates the story of how he happened to come across 

the family parsonage, Thornton Lacey, he describes the experience of seeing the parsonage for 
 57 the first time in a way that is reminiscent of a landscape painting as he deliberately directs the 
mind™s eye to notice key details in a certain order:   
I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of 

a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to be 

forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my rightŠwhich church was 

strikingly large and handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or half a 

gentleman™s house to be seen excepting oneŠto be presumed the Parsonage, 

within a stone™s throw of the said knoll and church.  (217)   In providing spatial details regarding how the points of interest relate to each other as well as to 
his own position, Crawford not only structures the image around the sights that he deems most 

worthy of notice, but he also guides the mind™s eye 
to perceive the sights in the particular order and within the positions of his choosing (fibefore me,fl fito my right,fl etc.).  He mimics the estate-

design concept of the fiapproach,fl which is derived from the organizational principles of popular 
landscape paintings and dictates that a manor home must appear as if it is part of a striking 
picture upon one™s carefully orchestrated first glimpse of it, by describing the parsonage as 

suddenly materializing within a frame of stock rural icons, such as the stream that makes up the 

image™s foreground and the little village that is situated as the backdrop.  Crawford™s use of 

noticeably flowery phrases like fidowny field,fl firetired little village,fl and figently rising hillsfl 
indicates that he is intentionally romanticizing and softening the image in a way similar to how a 

landscape painter might depict the scene.  Additionally, while landscape art always assumes a 

spectator in that the depiction, whether in the form of a picture or in language, deliberately 

constructs a particular point of view, Crawford goes one step further and underscores his role as the spectator through his explicit use of the first person: by inserting references to his own person  58 within a description from which he could be 
virtually erasedŠwhich would have allowed each of his listeners to imagine himself or herself as
 the spectator, as landscape depictions most often 
doŠCrawford instead persistently reinforces that he has control over the image.    

 After describing the parsonage as he encountered it, however, Crawford goes on to 

describe how he imagines it being improved:  
The farm-yard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut out the 

blacksmith™s shop.  The house must be turned to front the east instead of the 

northŠthe entrance and principle rooms, I mean, must be on that side, where the 

view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be done.  And 
there must be your 
approachŠthrough what is at present the garden.  You must make you a new 

garden at what is now the back of the house; which will be giving it the best 
aspect in the world [–].  The meadows beyond what 
will be the garden, as well as what now is, sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to 
the principle road through the village, must all be laid together of course; very 
pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.  They belong to the living, 

I suppose.  If not, you must purchase them.  Then the streamŠsomething must be 

done with the stream [–]. (218-9).  
Crawford™s vision of the parsonage nicely illustra
tes how the concept of improvement, which can 
be interpreted as a desire to apply the organizational and aesthetic principles of landscape 
painting to large-scale outdoor spaces, is rooted in a calculated reimagining of nature that, 

somewhat paradoxically, is intended to produce a precisely ordered arrangement of vegetation 

and landforms that nevertheless appears to be organic and artless.  His nonchalant 

recommendations for complete rearrangement of long-established land features, along with his 
 59 unhesitating willingness to uproot and rearrange the terrain to his liking without regard for the renovations™ effects on the townspeopleŠsuch as the blacksmith whose shop he is so eager to 

conceal from viewŠsmack of a sense of indisputable entitlement to the land, which seems to 

provide his only source of pleasure with regard to the enjoyment of such scenic views.  Rather 
than appreciating any beauty in the existing imagery, he focuses on how the various elements of 

the image could be rearranged in order to comply with the standards dictated by the 

contemporary trends in garden design about which he is supposedly so well-informed.  While his 

failure to explain the purpose, aesthetic or otherwise, behind any of his proposed renovations 
could be read as additional evidence of his arrogance, it also has the effect of making his 

recommendations seem rather arbitrary instead of being guided by an overarching aesthetic 

theory: without, at the very least, a clear motive to make such drastic renovations, Crawford™s 

suggestions to rotate the house toward the east and relocate the garden, for instance, come off as 

being especially superficial and impractical, especially given the Bertrams™ recent financial 
problems.  Crawford™s apparent lack of enjoymen
t in the view of the parsonage in its own right indicates that he is more interested in how the execution of land improvements advertises and 

furthers the political, social, and cultural power of the landholding class rather than in the overall 
aesthetic effect of such improvements.  For him, the principles of contemporary estate design, 

such as those put forth by Repton, provide not a guide for implementing and appreciating a 
specific type of artistic expression but rather a code by which a landholder™s influence and status can be measured.  

 In contrast to Crawford™s aggressive, opportuni
stic approach to evaluating the merits of a 
scenic view, Fanny appears to seek out such views for the sole purpose of relishing them.  One of 
the reasons Fanny™s appreciation for nature seems so genuine and organic is that, despite the 
 60 varying degrees of orderliness and symmetry she encounters during her limited travels through 
the countryside, her firhapsodizingfl about the beauties of nature, as she calls it, has a distinct lack of organization and coherence, which causes her observations to seem artless rather than studied.  

For instance, in the passage where Fanny, Edmund, and Mary discuss what motivates a man to 

enter the clergy, the three of them are describe
d as fistanding at an open window [–] looking out on a twilight scenefl (97), and the beauty of the image stirs Fanny to describe what she sees: 
Here™s harmony! [–] Here™s repose!  Here™s what may leave all painting and all music 

behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe.  Here™s what may tranquilize every 

care, and lift the heart to rapture!  When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if 

there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be 
less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried 

more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene. (102)     
The number of deictics in the passage, such as Fanny™s repetition of fihere™s,fl indicate the 
spontaneity of Fanny™s observations by drawing the reader™s attention very specifically to Fanny™s perspective and emphasizing the immediacy of what she is seeing.  While at first glance 

her description of the view seems to be extensive, the passage™s noticeable lack of concrete 

detail, which would have elucidated the referents of the deictics, along with Fanny™s reliance on 
abstract ideas such as fiharmonyfl and fireposefl to communicate what, in this context, one would 

expect to be sensory information, convey Fanny™s sense of the richness of the view without 

having it appear that she is consciously structuring the image.  It is clear that Fanny is 

appreciative of this pleasing view of the outdoors, but she does not impose any kind of order on 
the view and does not even clarify the main features of the prospect.  
 61  However, in characterizing the object of Fanny™s gaze as a fiscene,fl Austen also draws on 
the theatrical connotations of the word to suggest that the characters all see a common, distinct 

image that, due to its easy recognition as such, could have been staged for the benefit of the 

spectator.15  The view outside is again referred to as a fiscenefl a few paragraphs later, when Mary leaves Edmund and Fanny alone at the window: fi[–] his eyes soon turned like hers 

towards the scene without, where all that was solemn and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the 

brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woodsfl (102).  By 
reiterating that the view outside is like a fiscenefl throughout the passage, and by employing 

painterly terms such as fibrilliancy,fl ficontrast,fl and fishade,fl the passage deliberately evokes the 

idea of a landscape painting, especially given that the view is conveniently framed by a window, 

and thus indicates that, though Fanny seems to be responding impulsively, the image she is 

seeing nevertheless encompasses those standards of organization, perspective, subject matter, 

and level of detail that are associated with the same types of landscape paintings from which 
Crawford takes his ideas about what constitutes a good view.    The discrepancy between the sense of order that is implied by the allusion to a painted 

scene and the lack of order present in Fanny™s description of the view calls attention to the 
inherent visual emptiness of Fanny™s depiction.  
While initially the reader is given the impression 
that a certain view of the outdoors has been described, a closer look at the passage shows that it 
offers only an abstract idea of a view, and it becomes apparent that any specific details about 
                                                 15 In The Frame of Art, David Marshall examines the passage where Fanny looks out the window and similarly 
emphasizes the significance of the view outside being refe
rred to as a fiscenefl; however, he reads the moment as 
being  indicative of how Fanny transforms her own sentiments into fiself-cons
ciously theatrical set piecesfl (74-5).  Building on Marshall™s reading in her essay fiImpartial Spectator Meets Picturesque Tourist: The Framing of 

Mansfield Park,fl Karen Valihora interprets this moment in
 the context of reading Fanny as a kind of picturesque 
tourist who leads the reader through the novel.  Valihora argues that, in 
Mansfield Park
, Austen investigates the picturesque as a way of exploring fithe detachment, distance, and impartiality implied in the third-person narrativefl 

(90), and she suggests that the scene at the window exemplif
ies fia view that is framed and mediated by an external 
principlefl (107).   
 62 what Fanny is seeing, which one had assumed to be part of the passage, were actually supplied 
by the reader™s imagination and her understanding of what such a view might look like.  In 

performing the extent to which the reader™s concept of a pleasant view (and, incidentally, a 

fitwilight scenefl) is entrenched in the popular conventions associated with landscape paintings, 
the text suggests that, similar to how Crawford looks at the land, Fanny™s perception of the view 

is also shaped by the prevalence of this model, but more subtly.        
Moreover, the above passage also reinforces Repton™s claim that the enjoyment of an 
outdoor view entails fulfilling a spectator role that is both passive and active, especially with 
regard to the use of one™s imagination.  Fanny alludes to this process through her diction when 

she asserts that there would be less wickedness and sorrow in the world if more people fiattended 

tofl the fisublimity of Naturefl and thus fiwere carried out of themselves by contemplating such a 

scene.fl  Fanny™s reference to the sublime, which in this context can be read as meaning the 

phenomenon of a sight in nature so striking that it seems to overpower the spectator, along with 
the passive structuring of her phrase fiwere carried out of themselves,fl suggest that the image 
itself acts on the yielding spectator; yet Fanny™s use of the verbs fiattend tofl and ficontemplate,fl 

which both point to a seemingly passive process 
that nevertheless demands action on the part of 
the subject, also indicates that the spectator must imaginatively and actively engage with the 

image rather than simply staring at it.  The assertion that the successful contemplation of a view 

will lead to one being carried out of oneself, a
nd thus to less sorrow and wickedness in the world, 
seems to imply that, for Fanny, such problems are largely rooted in self-absorption, and the 

degree of reflection inspired by a pleasing view can aid in shifting one™s thinking into a less 
destructive channel.  Yet, she does not indicate where one™s thoughts are supposed to turn 
instead, nor does she delineate exactly how the appreciation of such a view is supposed to help  63 counteract wickedness and sorrow, especially when the object of contemplation is merely a 
stretch of privately-owned, manicured land which would likely offer little fodder for profound 

thought.     The ambiguity embedded in Fanny™s phrasingŠi.e., the idea of being ‚carried out of 
oneself™ could refer to experiencing a relatively selfless feeling, such as empathy, or it could 

signify an even deeper form of self-absorptionŠand the vagueness of her logic regarding why 

looking at a scenic view can be morally benefi
cial indicates two key points.  First, although Fanny perceives that contemplating a view can help one to develop more noble sentiments, 

which helps to distinguish her way of looking at the land from that of Crawford and the other 
would-be fiimprovers,fl her failure to clarify how and why this process occurs, or even the nature 

of what one is supposed to contemplate while enjoying a view, is symptomatic of the novel™s 

overall reluctance to address the moral issues of landholding, particularly with regard to the 

economic consequences of enclosure.  As the novel™s moral compass, Fanny is compelled to at 
least acknowledge the plight of the rural poor, but she does so in a way that evades assigning blame to the landholding classes: as in the aforementioned exchange with Crawford about his 

visit to his tenets at Norfolk, Fanny expresses approval for any impulse or action that ostensibly 

benefits the poor, which situates her as being properly philanthropic, but she refrains from 
discussing either the less praiseworthy actions (and inactions) of the landholders toward their 
cottagers or the economic model that consolidates land among a few families and leaves laborers 

so utterly dependent upon their employers.  It would seem that a passage on scenic views and the 

development of higher moral sentiments would be a convenient and obvious place for the novel 

to address more explicitly the consequences of enclosure, especially as the rural poor are brought 

into the narrative primarily as components of larger discussions about land.  The novel™s 
 64 haziness on how the contemplation of a scenic view can lead to less wickedness and sorrow in 
the world thus suggests that it is struggling to reconcile its discomfort with the situation of the 

rural poor with its understanding of the merits of having unbroken scenic views right outside 

one™s window. Second, Fanny™s failure to elaborate on what it means to be ‚carried out of oneself™ 
suggests that it is a highly personalized experience that cannot be shared with others in a 
meaningful way, yet she also takes it for granted that Edmund (and, implicitly, the reader) will 

nevertheless understand what she means by the phrase.  While the enjoyment of a view can be an 

experience shared with others due to the widespread use of landscape paintings™ organizational 
structure as a way of pinpointing a certain, common image among an essentially infinite number 

of potential images identifiable from a given outlook, the passage suggests that the execution of 

the process of appreciation itself and one™s ensuing interpretation of a scenic view are 
nevertheless particular to the individual.  In other words, Fanny assumes that everyone has the 
ability to appreciate a view, and that a number of people can appreciate the merits of the same 
view, but as the differences between Crawford™s and Fanny™s interpretations of similarly scenic 

views demonstrate, each spectator must imaginatively supplement the image and engage with it 

in order to find meaning.  While the novel presents the scenic view as a common object of 

contemplation among spectators, and while landscape paintings provide a vocabulary and a 

frame of reference for a common aesthetic interpretation of the view, the act of appreciation 

itselfŠthe ability to be carried out of oneself, as Fanny puts itŠpresumably requires the 

spectator to supplement the image through her imagination in order to find the kind of meaning 

that could, for instance, amend a person™s predilection toward wickedness or her feelings of 

sorrow.    65  Given that appreciation of a scenic view is dependent upon the spectator™s imaginative 
interpretation of the image, it becomes clear that, for Austen, such a view is not necessarily 

pleasing in its own right, and in fact, the ability to enjoy one can be seen as a reflection of 

privilege, particularly with regard to having access to scenic views in the first place.  Fanny 
becomes painfully aware of this fact shortly afte
r she returns to her family™s home in Portsmouth 
for what turns out to be an extended visit.  While she is greatly distressed about having to live in 

such dirty, noisy, and cramped quarters, she seems to suffer the most from the lack of greenery 

and open spaces in Portsmouth and the harried pace of life that allows little time for the pleasure 

walks to which she had become accustomed at Mansfield.  For example, when Crawford comes 

to visit the Price house, he urges Fanny, Susan, and Mrs. Price to fitake their walk without loss of 
timefl as fia fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody not to delay their 

exercisefl (366).  His diction reveals his assumption that the women all take a daily walk (fitheir 

walkfl rather than fia walkfl), and his reasoning shows he believes that the purpose of the daily walk is not only to get exercise but also to enjoy the outdoors; otherwise, it would not matter 
whether the morning were fine or not.  Mrs. Pr
ice, however, quickly corrects him by pointing out 
that she rarely stirs out of doors except on Sundays because fishe could seldom, with her large 

family, find time for a walkfl (366).  This passage demonstrates how the simple act of taking a 

walk outdoors, which at first would seem to be 
an equal-opportunity source of pleasure for rich and poor alike, is actually a luxury reserved for those with leisure.  Mrs. Price makes it clear that 

walking for pleasure is an indulgence that she cannot afford, specifically because she does not 
have the income to hire more servants that would in turn give her free time.  For the Bertrams 

and the Crawfords, walking provides enjoyable exercise within what is a largely sedentary lifestyle, but for the Prices, it is primarily a means of transportation for purposes of work.  
 66 Accordingly, though Mrs. Price eventually agrees to let Fanny and Susan go on the walk, it is on the condition that they make practical use of the time by running errands in town.   

 Even if the Price women did have time for daily pleasure walks, Mrs. Price suggests that 

the city is not an ideal location for the activity as it lacks the spaces and the scenery that make a 

walk in the country so pleasant.  When Crawford petitions for a walk with Fanny and Susan, for 

instance, Mrs. Price admits that her daughters are fivery much confined,fl but she goes on to point 

out that the young women fi[do] not often get outfl 
because fiPortsmouth [is] a sad placefl (366).  
Here, fivery much confinedfl alludes to the multifaceted quality of the Price women™s 

confinement: along with being confined to the hous
e by the work that they must do, and confined 
within a house as it is too small for a large family, the women are also imaginatively and 

physically confined even when they are outdoors as the city, in being a fisad place,fl evidently 
cannot offer terrain and sights that would serve as a refreshing reprieve to someone who has been 
wearied by daily work.    Indeed, Fanny realizes that she had taken for granted the availability and accessibility of 
flora while she was at Mansfield, particularly during the springtime, and she mournfully reflects 
at length on the differences between going outdoors in the city versus in the countryside:           It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring.  She had not known before 
what pleasures she had to lose in passing March and April in a town.  She had not known before, how much the beginnings and progress of vegetation delighted 

her.ŠWhat animation both of body and mind, she had derived from watching the 

advance of that season, which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, 
and seeing its increasing beauties, from the earliest flowers, in the warmest 

divisions of her aunt™s garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle™s plantations,  67 and the glory of his woods.ŠTo be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have 

confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and 

verdure, was infinitely worse [–]. (393)  Fanny starts off by describing what she likes about springtime in the countryside in very general 

terms, such as the fiprogress of vegetationfl and fithe advance of that season,fl which, in the lack 

of specificity, would seem to imply that, in her mind, such pleasures are not proprietary to 

certain areas or people.  Yet as she continues her description, she begins linking each beauty to a 
specific piece of property and its ownerŠthe flowers of her aunt™s garden, the leaves of her uncle™s plantations, the glory of his woodsŠand thus indicates that living in Portsmouth has 
altered her understanding of the constitution of the countryside with regard to the idea of private property.  While Fanny™s observations about the land during her trip to Sotherton have made it 

clear that she is acclimated to the concept of the 
countryside as consisting of a series of private propertiesŠthat is, the idea that all the land she sees belongs to someoneŠshe now understands the components of the land, such as the flora and the fauna, as belonging to specific people as 

well.   
 Furthermore, Fanny™s time in Portsmouth has shown her that private property entails 

limited access to land with regard to individual properties and their components as well as to the 

countryside as a whole: without the Bertrams™ pe
rmission, she cannot travel to Mansfield, and in 
not being welcome at Mansfield, she is prevented from enjoying, for instance, the gardens, the 

plantation, and even the country sunshine that she regards as being so different from the fistifling, 
sickly glarefl of the sun in the city (400).  Fanny is sent to Portsmouth because Sir Thomas is 

angry with her, and though she is initially excited to return to her family, she soon wants to go 
 68 back to Mansfield and becomes frustrated that she cannot return to the countryside at will.   
Fanny™s feelings of frustration are rooted in her growing awareness of how dependent she is upon her uncle™s favor in order to go to the countryside, both in the sense of her having a place to stay and of having a means of getting there: without the aid of Sir Thomas, Fanny™s only means 

of transportation is accepting a ride from the Crawfords, which would place her under an 

uncomfortable obligation to a suitor whom she does not want to marry.  Fanny becomes 

especially frustrated when she contrasts her position of dependency with the relative mobility 

enjoyed by Maria and Julia: fiThey might return to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could 
be no difficulty to them [–]fl (394, emphasis Austen™s).  Maria and Julia not only have the 
incomes to support the various costs of traveling, but their social positions also ensure that they 

are welcome to travel throughout the countryside, as well as in London, because they can visit 

among friends, family, and acquaintances of their class; of course, Maria becomes acutely aware 

of how tenuous this privilege is once she ruins her character by running off with Crawford, after which she is banished to a firemotefl location in another country, where she has filittle societyfl 
outside of Mrs. Norris (424).   
 While Fanny had felt a sense of filibertyfl in the countryside as a resident of Mansfield, 

and thus as a member (albeit an honorary one) of the class that owns the land which makes up 

the countryside, she now realizes that, as a member of the urban working class, she is essentially 

barred from these same lands in a way that is similar to how Maria is eventually barred from 

them: i.e., when Fanny loses the favor of Sir Thomas, she loses her access to the English 

countryside and its beauties.  In reflecting on how she fihad lost ground as to health since her 
being in Portsmouth,fl Fanny comes to understand that the charms of life in the countrysideŠthe 

open spaces, the greenery, the fresh air, and so onŠare not only pleasurable but also vital to her  69 overall well-being (373).  However, she also begins to realize that access to the countryside is a luxury that cannot be enjoyed by everyone.  The novel indicates that the countryside has become 
privatized via not only the landholders™ legal ownership of enclosed land that is reachable by 
horse, carriage, or foot, but also the virtual appropriation of less-accessible, undeveloped wilderness areas by the visual alignment of private estate grounds with the look of nonproductive 

land; Fanny™s predicament, then, ultimately serves to illustrate how access to the countryside is 

regulated by the landholders™ ability to grant or withhold permission to enter what once was open 
countryside, but now has become 
their land.  Indeed, Fanny™s eagerness to return to Mansfield is tempered slightly by the thought that she will have to leave behind her sister, Susan, who has not 

been invited to Mansfield.  The thought of abandoning Susan in Portsmouth fidistressed [Fanny] 
more and morefl (382), especially as Fanny believes that the girl has a disposition similar to her 

own and thus could benefit similarly from living in the country; yet Fanny does not consider for 

a moment giving up Mansfield permanently in order to remain at her parents™ home and continue 
educating Susan.     Fanny™s choice to leave Portsmouth in the end, and the reader™s implicit approval of her 

choice, is perhaps made easier by Austen™s ostensible depiction of the Prices as being more or 

less content with their lot, whether it includes Fanny or not.  At first, the novel seems to suggest 

that some people are born with delicate sensibilities and sensitivities, like Fanny, while others are 

satisfied with a coarse, disorderly, and vulgar existence, such as the Prices; one gets the 
impression that, with the exception of Susan, either the Prices have no idea of what they are 

missing at a place like Mansfield, or that they woul
d not appreciate the quiet pleasures of country 
life and would prefer to remain in town if give
n the choice.  As it turns out, Sir Thomas invites 
Susan to Mansfield anyway, so Fanny is absolved of any guilty feelings about returning to the  70 countryside without her sister, and the reader is spared the difficulty of pitying Susan™s fate while feeling happy for Fanny at the close of the novel.  Had Austen decided to leave Susan in 
Portsmouth, however, the novel would not have wrapped up so neatly: both Fanny and the reader 

would have had to confront directly the uncomfortable fact that the privatization of the 
countryside necessarily privileges some people at the expense of others, and that FannyŠthe 

novel™s moral compassŠultimately chooses the luxury of private access to the countryside at the 

expense of those who must labor for a living, including her family, who are denied access so that 

the countryside can remain a haven for the leisured wealthy.   

 Austen softens this fact by allowing the ne
wly-deserving Susan to tag along to Mansfield while minimizing the reader™s emotional investment in the uncouth Prices, yet her more 

sympathetic depiction of Mrs. Price, who plainly wishes she had the time and the open spaces 

necessary for refreshing daily walks, indicates Austen™s underlying discomfort with a system that 
precludes the laboring classes from enjoying the beautiful views and the health benefits that 
come with access to the countryside.  Austen attempts to ameliorate her uneasiness about this 
system by suggesting at the very beginning of the novel that the characters are more or less 

responsible for their respective fates: Frances Ward 
could have married well, especially with the 
influence of Sir Thomas, and thus she 
could have had the comforts of a Mansfield Park, but she 
instead chose to elope with a common man who could not provide her with such a place.  Austen 

acknowledges that some are born into their circumstances without choice, such as Fanny, but she 

also suggests that the deserving will be lifted from environmental and aesthetic confinement by 

good fortune and the benevolence of the wealthy, which ultimately helps to validate the 

privatization of the countryside: i.e., not everyone can live at a place like Mansfield Park, but the gentle people who need such a place in order to thrive will earn their way there, just as Susan  71 earns a place at Mansfield by modeling Fanny™s be
haviors.  However, the novel™s strong stance against marrying for money (or, as in Mary Crawford™s case, being too concerned about the 

financial prospects of one™s intended) suggests that Austen recognizes how problematic her 

model is, especially as Fanny™s dilemma about marrying Crawford is rather similar to her 

mother™s situation in the opening of the novel in that she clearly recognizes Crawford as her 

means to a home of her own in the country: fiWere 
she likely to have a home to invite [Susan] to, 
what a blessing it would be!ŠAnd had it been possible to return Mr. Crawford™s regard, the 
probability of his being very far from objecting to such a measure, would have been the greatest 

increase of all her own comforts.fl (382).  Yet while the novel suggests that it might have been a 

mistake for Mrs. Price to marry her husband against the wishes of her family, Fanny is 

completely vindicated in her choice to refuse Crawford against the wishes of her uncle.   

 Everything seems to work out at the close of the novel in that the good-hearted and 

aesthetically sensitive characters end up living on the country estate while the boorish and the morally corrupt characters are barred from it.  But the lack of a surefire novelistic formula for 
attaining a place on the estate, along with inclusion of the morally questionable Sir Thomas and 

the useless Lady Bertram at Mansfield while the pitifully overworked Mrs. Price is left in 

Portsmouth, nevertheless indicates Austen™s ambivalence toward her model of personal choice 

and just deserts.  The novel ends on a happy note, and all the characters appear to be 
appropriately placed, yet this cheerfulness depends largely on the removal of the less fortunate 

Prices, and specifically Mrs. Price, from the last chapter: while William is reported as displaying 

ficontinued good conduct, and rising famefl (431), th
e narrator is silent on Mrs. Price™s unending drudgery and the unpromising conditions in which Fanny™s younger siblings continue to live.  

Indeed, Austen could have mollified the reader in the last chapter with a brief indication that the 
 72 Prices would be taken care of too, for better or for worse, but the narrator instead proclaims, fiLet 
other pens dwell on guilt and misery.  I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to 

restore every body, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with 

all the restfl (420).  As the fortunes of the Portsmouth Prices are not mentioned in the final 

chapter, it would appear that the narrator is dismissing them as deserving the guilt and misery 

upon which her pen will not dwell, yet she is happy to elaborate on the fates of Maria, Mrs. 
Norris, Mr. Crawford, and the other less-than-upstanding characters.  Though ostensibly placing blame on the Prices for their condition, it is clear that the narrator is silent about the Price family 

because reporting their fates can bring the reader no satisfaction: to indicate that they lived 
happily and contentedly would be untruthful, yet to suggest that they went on living in misery 

and squalor would seem more sad than appropriate, especially given the newly-deserving 

Susan™s narrow escape from the home.  Austen™s inability, or her refusal, to incorporate the 

Prices into her happy ending signifies the larger social problem at stake that plagues the novel: 
when the dichotomy of fideservingfl and fiundese
rvingfl people begins to break down, how can one justify denying certain populations access to the countryside for the benefit of others?   

Rather than addressing this problem directly, the novel instead acknowledges that such a 

problem exists and then quietly moves on.   
In fiJane Austen and the Enclosures,fl Robert Clark argues that Austen, in having come 
from a family that readily enclosed land for financial gain, and having lived on enclosed land and 

benefited from enclosure directly, not only fully
 understood the consequences of enclosing the countryside but accepted that the displacement of some was necessary for preserving the 

ficontinuity of values and ways of life [that were] of deep importance to the country at largefl 
(123).  Clark indicates that Austen willfully averts her novelistic gaze from the consequences of 
 73 enclosure because fiit is in neither her personal interest nor her class interest to noticefl (123), but I would like to suggest instead that Austen skirts the problem of displacement 
because she notices, and as a benefiting member of the landed gentry, it makes her uncomfortable.  By 

focusing on the dangers of estate improvements rather than the plight of the displaced, Austen is 

able to shift the discussion on the consequences of enclosure from one of the moral good and 

humanitarian obligations to one of the aesthetic good and historic preservation; as a result, Fanny 

can serve as the novel™s moral and aesthetic compass without having to address the ethical 

quandary that enclosure would inevitably present to a good-hearted woman who has a weakness 

for beautiful estates and sweeping views of the countryside.  However, Austen™s depiction of the Prices does gesture toward her cognizance of this problem in implying that their boorishness is at 

least partially a result of their environment: Fanny criticizes the noise and disorder of the home 

and her family™s lack of manners, yet she sees how different they all look and act on Sundays, 

which is the day of leisure, and in comparing her mother to Lady Bertram, it grieves Fanny to 
consider that fiwhere nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so 
muchfl (372).  It is evident that Austen sees the social injustices, the physical and mental 

ailments, and the economic problems that have been brought about by enclosure and the 

privatization of the English countryside, yet it seems that she cannot find a way to address these 

issues without either sacrificing some people to the mechanisms of the system or endangering all 

that she loves about life in the countryside.  Mansfield Park enacts this sacrifice: Austen does not sacrifice the Prices boldly, and she barely touches on the plight of the displaced rural laborers 
and the impoverished cottagers, but the novel acknowledges their existence and carries on 

nevertheless.  74 CHAPTER TWO 
THE MERITORIOUS LANDHOLDER AND THE MANOR HOUSE DILEMMA IN BLEAK HOUSE AND JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN  The previous chapter suggested that the landed gentry™s post-enclosure appropriation of open rural lands resulted in a prevalent sense of entitlement to the countryside, rather than one of 

common ownership and moral responsibility.  As Raymond Williams has noted, for instance, 

Jane Austen represents the English countryside as a finetwork of propertied houses and families,fl 

and the rest of the countryside is reduced to being fiweather or a place to walkfl (166).  This chapter, in turn, will argue that the mid-century realist novel works to inculcate a new 

understanding of what it means to own land in the countryside by linking the pleasures of 

ownership with a paternalistic sense of sociopolitical responsibility, thus reconciling the realist 
novel™s desire to preserve the institution of the country estate (in spite of the changes being 
brought about by industrial capitalism) with its moral concerns regarding how the propertied 

tend to abuse their economic and political power.  Specifically, I will examine Charles Dickens™s 
Bleak House (1852) and Dinah Craik™s John Halifax, Gentleman (1856), which are both set around the time of the 1832 Reform Act, as examples of how the mid-century realist novel 

attempts to shift the perception of landed estates from being exclusive pieces of land that are 

permanently linked with a family bloodline to being pieces of purchasable, transferable property.  

This shift allows for greater public access, both to the land itself and to what it signifies, due to 
the new political climate and the growing wealth and power of the middle-class industrialists.  

While these novels generally approve of the change as an antidote to the destructive excess and 

self-interest of the nobility, they are not calling for a radical dismantling of the institution of the 

estate itself; rather, they propose a model that places estates (and the accompanying roles of 

leadership within the community) into the hands of those who merit them instead of those that 
 75 have only an impressive pedigree.  I will argue that these novels use representations of land, 
especially land that had once served as a private haven for the privileged, in order to demonstrate 

how competent and deserving men of the middle class 
can step into the leadership roles that were 
formerly held exclusively by the landed aristocracy, thus challenging contemporary thinking on 

the dangers of allowing those of low birth to have political and social power.  

 However, in attempting to revise the attitude of the landholder from one of indulgence 

and excess to one of moral awareness and paternalistic obligation, the mid-century realist novel 

seems particularly unsure of how to handle the large manor house, both as a physical entity in 

which the characters live and as a symbol of the estate in general.  In the previous chapter, I 

discussed the psychological, political, and social domination that is symbolized by the estate, 

particularly with regard to how this symbolism is embodied by the manor house.
  This chapter, in 
turn, will suggest that the manor house became a point of tension mid-century as it signifies the 

extravagance and self-interest of the nobility, which the realist novel rejects as being immoral, 
but it also serves as a visible symbol of paternalistic leadership via the institution of the estate, 
which the realist novel does not want to relinquish.  Consequently, the presence of the manor 

house becomes something of a burden to the realist novel both symbolically and plot-wise, as my 

readings of Bleak House and John Halifax will demonstrate. 
This chapter will open with a reading of 
Bleak House (1852), where I will contrast the novel™s treatment of Chesney Wold, the estate of the baronet Sir Leicester Dedlock, with that of 

Bleak House, the estate of the philanthropist John Jarndyce.  I will suggest that Chesney Wold 

represents the dying estate model, the significance of which had stemmed from lineage and 

conspicuous excess, but it now seems sadly obsolete, especially when compared with Mr. 

Rouncewell™s bustling iron factory.  The renovated and renamed Bleak House, on the other hand, 
 76 represents the new model in which the estate becomes a useful channel for paternalistic 
charitable acts; yet in rewarding the humble and disinterested landholder, this model seems 

unable to provide a person who is visibly in charge of the estate, which is a crucial aspect of 
providing paternalistic leadership to the lower classes toward which the realist novel tends to 
gravitate.   I will then turn to John Halifax, Gentleman (1856) and give a reading that posits the novel as a model of the estate that attempts to blend the brand of visible leadership that was 

traditionally provided by the nobility, which this novel represents as dying off in a manner 

similar to that in 
Bleak House, with the modesty, empathy, and philanthropic impulses of the 
diligent laborer-turned-gentleman.  Though John tends to associate a pleasing view with 

fantasies of ownership rather than with landscape paintings, the narrative nevertheless is full of depictions of land that are described in terms of landscape paintings, which indicates that the 

novel is aligning these acts in ways reminiscent of Austen™s pre-Victorian landscape 
representations.  However, I will argue that the novel presents one™s ability to enjoy a scenic view as being proportionate to one™s duty to provide moral guidance and charitable aid to those 
dependent on him; in other words, as John gains increasing command of the land, both in terms 

of the scenic views he can enjoy and the amount of property he owns, his paternalistic 

responsibilities increase as well.  John solemnly assumes the responsibilities that are thrust upon 

him as a wealthy landholder, which includes buying an estate in order to fiwiden [his] circle of 

usefulnessfl and figuide and help the people.fl  However, John™s love of owning land does not lead to a desire to be ostentatious, so I will conclude by discussing how buying the Beechwood 
estate and moving his family into its large manor house is represented as a regrettable necessity, 

and even a sacrifice, rather than as a mark of success.   
 77 Both novels, while written in the 1850s, take place around the time of 1832 Reform Act.  
While it is clear that the novels are gesturing toward the contemporary political unrest that 

eventually led to the passing of 1867 Reform Act, their being set roughly during the period of the 

First Reform Act is significant for several other reasons.  First, both novels examine how the 

success of domestic industry (mills, ironworks, and factories situated locally, as opposed to the 

invisible labor that financed the Bertrams in 
Mansfield Park) has resulted in a new, powerful demographic whose interests were not being represented adequately by Parliament.  

Correspondingly, the 1832 Reform Act redistributed Parliamentary representation so that the 

number of MPs would be more proportionate to the populations they were representing; i.e., 

many seats in the House of Commons that had belonged to the now near-empty (and often 

corrupt) firotten boroughsfl were either abolished or transferred to areas covering the newly 
populous industrial towns.  Although these changes to the voting demographics have been 

characterized as being a ploy by political managers to make minimal concessions to the middle 
classes while actually working to revive and bolster the power of the large landholders (F.M.L. Thompson 20), the Act nevertheless gave non-pedigreed people more of a voice in the 

government.   
Second, both novels consider the consequences of giving the working class a political voice and, on the other hand, what happens when they are denied representation.  The First Reform Act had extended the franchise to men holding property worth at least £10, and while 
this was still an unattainable level of wealth for many laborers, the Act nevertheless extended the 
vote to thousands of men of common birth.
  In looking back to the time surrounding the First 
Reform Act without treating the Act as something broadly controversial, nor even making it a 

focal point of their plots, both Bleak House and John Halifax imply that a further extension of 
 78 the vote to the working classes is inevitable.  Despite the perceived educational, cultural, and moral shortcomings of the working class demographic, the novels also suggest that such a 

change need not be disastrous, especially when compared with, for instance, the insurrection that 

led to the overthrow of the French monarchy in 1848 and the resulting revolts that rapidly spread 

across Europe.   In the aftermath of these revolts, it became clear that those who wanted to maintain some 
semblance of the established order had to learn fithe politics of the people,fl at least to the point 

that the working classes could be placated, in order to keep their positions and not face the 
consequences of complete social upheaval (Hobsbawm, 
Capital 25).  Indeed, Eric Hobsbawm 
suggests that the election of Louis Napoleon as president of the new French Republic in 1848 
served to demonstrate to the rest of Europe th
at fithe democracy of universal suffrage [–] was 
compatible with the maintenance of the social orderfl as widespread unrest did not lead to the 

people electing leaders who wanted to overthrow society (26).   Accordingly, Bleak House presents Robert Rouncewell, the son of Sir Leicester™s servant who becomes a successful 
ironmaster and a candidate for Parliament, as being fia responsible-looking gentlemanfl who is 

intelligent, ambitious, and well-mannered, though Sir Leicester nevertheless (and unfairly) sees 

him as the embodiment of mob violence and the reason the traditional social order is crumbling.  

John Halifax, in turn, includes a scene in which working-class men (as tenants of houses owned 
by large landholders) are able to vote in an election, and with proper guidance, they elect a level-
headed, morally upright man who happens to be a member of the landed nobility. 
Finally, both novels explore the direct relationship between holding property and having social, political, and economic power, and the First Reform Act, in separating men who could 

vote from those who could not according to the cash value of their property, made this 
 79 distinction even more concrete, particularly in the context of the nobility being forced to parcel 
off and sell their ancient family estates as they could no longer afford to keep them.  Prior to the 

nineteenth century, enclosure had forced the rural poor off what had been common grounds and 

consolidated the countryside into large tracts of land held by the nobility, but the economic 

upheavals in the early to mid-nineteenth century, which were brought about by the booming 

business of industrial manufacturing, along with the 
unsustainable lifestyle of the nobility, led to entailments being cut off and family properties 
being divided up and sold, often to people of more humble origins.
16   In short, the newly wealthy manufacturers, iron masters and mill owners, along with the 
more modestly situated yet relatively well-off farmers and other working men, were able to 

benefit from the misfortunes of the aristocracy in that, by purchasing land, they were also able to 

purchase a portion of the sociopolitical power that had belonged exclusively to the nobility.  
While the landed nobility was loath to accept members of the ficommercial aristocracyfl and the 
fiindustrial bourgeoisiefl as their equals, the First Reform Bill essentially divided the population 
into those with what was deemed a significant 
amount of land, and thus political clout, and those 
without it.  Accordingly, when mid-century realist novels discuss landŠhow and when it is 

described in the narrative, how it is perceived by the characters, how it is owned, divided up, and 
utilized by the different classes that are represented in the narrative, and so onŠthey are 
exploring the shifting sociopolitical dynamics that
 had been brought about by both the passing of the 1832 Reform Act and the move to an economy grounded in local industrial production.  Thus 

it is significant that both novels being examined in this chapter have settings in which land is 

largely accessible by foot (with regard to how far the characters can see as well as the lack of physical barriers preventing them from walking to and within those spaces, if they choose), and 
                                                 16 Eric Hobsbawm discusses this process in his fiLandfl chapter in 
The Age of Revolution.  80 both represent ownership of the land as being unfixed as its possession is either contended or the properties are available for purchase.   
 Bleak House  While 
Bleak House might seem like an especially odd choice for a study of rural 
landscape depictions as it is read principally as an indictment of Chancery and the English 

judiciary system, the novel also examines the dissolution of the aristocracy and the 

accompanying obsolescence of hereditary wealth and power, particularly with regard to landed 

estates.  The novel™s exploration of this shift in the economic, political, and social power of the 
nobility, particularly in its representation of Chesney Wold, is pertinent to a study of Victorian 

landscape depictions because the English countryside had been appropriated largely by the 
landed gentry following enclosure, as I demonstrate in the previous chapter.  I want to suggest 

that Bleak House, in turn, portrays how the aristocracy™s loss of inherited power coincides with their loss of dominion over the land, both implicitly and legally, and how the model of inherited 
power is being replaced by a meritocratic model in which the new paternalistic ruling class is 

removed from the corrupting influences of inhe
rited power and wealth. Indeed, in being named 
Bleak House, which refers to both the decaying landed estate inherited by John Jarndyce and the small cottage that he buys as a wedding gift for Allan and Esther, even the novel™s title is 

suggestive of how the social model
 is shifting from one that abets a sense of entitlement among 
those of a certain birth to one that favors individual merit and paternalistic guidance of the less 

fortunate.  Moreover, in being named for the house, the novel™s title also calls attention to the 

problem of what should be done with the large manor house itself as the inheritance model, of 

which the large house is both a symbol and a remnant, continues to collapse; this is particularly 
 81 evident towards the end of the novel when fiBleak House is thinning fast,fl as Jarndyce points out a number of times.    
However, surprisingly little has been written overall, and especially in recent years, about the novel™s position on the problem of what should be done with the existing landed estates, and 

particularly the large manor houses, within its proposed social model of merit-based moderate 

wealth and paternalistic altruism.  In an artic
le from 1970, Alice van Buren Kelley considers why 
Dickens chose the title Bleak House, and she argues that the idea of a fibleak housefl can be read broadly as a metaphor for the various settings of the novel, and even England itself; she goes on 

to note that the decay of Chesney Wold as a physical structure reflects the decay of the 

aristocracy as an institution (255-6); however, Kelley does not go on to interpret Dickens™s use 
of this symbolism beyond identifying it.  Other ear
lier criticism that addresses the institution of 
the landed estate tends to focus on the novel™s representation of industrialists as the economic 

and political successors to the aristocracy, but it does not address the inevitable accompanying 
changes to how land must be distributed and utilized, specifically in the contrast between an 
estate like Chesney Wold and Rouncewell™s iron factory.
17  More recent works that address Dickens™s representation of landed estates tend to compare the novel™s depiction of a specific 

decorative or architectural component of the manor home with historical research on that 
                                                 17 For example, in a 1971 article published in 
Essays in Criticism
, Anne G. M. Smith takes up the topic of the 
aristocracy™s decay, but she directs her argument at another article published in 
the same journal a few years prior to 
her own, fiThe Ironmaster and the New Acquisitivenessfl 
by Trevor Blount.  Blount indicates that Rouncewell™s character, as the novel™s representative of the rising industrial class, should be read as nothing more than a 
replacement for the Dedlocks, or fithe old privile
ge translated into different termsfl (418).
  Smith, on the other hand, 
suggests that Rouncewell and Sir Leicester should be read 
as ficounterbalancing figures,fl with Rouncewell being put 
forward as a positive example of his class™s fiinventiveness, its dynamism, its capacity for hard work and efficiency, 

and above all its progressivenessfl (160-1, 162).  While Smith
™s analysis of Dickens™s language is interesting, she 
limits her argument to establishing that Dickens admired and approved of men of Rouncewell™s class.  A few years 
later, Harvey Peter Sucksmith also takes up the topic of the Ironmaster™s role in the novel, but his article focuses on 

demonstrating Dickens™s admiration for Wat Tyler, and thus Dickens™s sympathy for the Chartist movement, 
without addressing what I see as a key component of such a reading: the Chartists™ demand for the elimination of the 
property requirement for members of Parliament, and thus 
the problem of property distribution as it is taken up by 
the novel.        
  82 component™s social, political, and/or economic role, using their findings to interpret the novel™s 
broader stance on key issues involving the imminent collapse of the aristocracy.
18    Other studies have discussed the depiction of land in Bleak House, but they do not specifically address how Dickens uses language to construct (or withhold) a scenic view of a 
given piece of land in the novel.  For example, in 
Dickens and Landscape Discourse, Jane Berard opens her study by claiming that Dickens purposely represents the English countryside, 

including landed estates like Chesney Wold, as being lifeless and dreary in order to counter the 

public taste for fiEdenic, idyllicfl landscape paintings that erased evidence of the suffering 
brought about by a ficultural system which [–] governed the power relations within capitalismfl 

(82).  However, her study tends to use filandscapefl merely as a synonym for filandfl or fisettingfl 

without discussing how Dickens employs the concept of landscape through language, and aside 

from a nod to Claude Lorrain and a brief summary of how poets ranging from Philip Sidney to 

William Wordsworth and John Clare wrote about fr
eedom via descriptions of the countryside, 
she does not indicate that her work (or Dickens™s, for that matter) is informed by any particular 
theory or understanding of what constitutes a filandscape.fl  While these studies have been 

helpful in shaping my thinking about 
Bleak House, none of them specifically investigates 
Dickens™s depiction of the relationship between land ownership and paternalistic responsibility.  
Although critics have overlooked the significance of how Dickens represents the shifting                                                  18 In her essay fiGlass Windows: The View from 
Bleak House,fl for instance, Katherine Williams suggests that the 
novel™s depiction of windows is significant because they function both as narrative framing 
devices and as historical indicators of the increased use of glass as a common architectural material.  Williams goes on to argue that the 
novel™s treatment of windows, particular
ly in light of the contemporary spect
acle of the Crystal Palace, indicates Dickens™s ambivalence about the emerging modernist belief 
that political and social transparency is possible in political and social relations.  In a slightly different vein, Regina B. Oost examines the representation of portraiture 
versus photography in the novel as commentary on the breakdown of the aristocracy, specifically with regard to 
portraiture™s new affordability to the moneyed middle 
classes and its new visual availability through cheap reproductions, along with the ability of photography to create filikenessesfl that previously could be made only with 
paint.  Oost goes on to argue that the Dedlock family portr
aits express fideclinefl rather than potency since they are depicted as fivanish[ing] lifelesslyfl into the walls of Chesney Wold, which suggests that the fading portraits also 

reflect the fading of the manor house and the power it once represented (149).   
  83 dynamic of land ownership and, consequently, the problem of the obsolete manor house, it is 
crucial for understanding how the mid-century realist novel attempts to correct the failings of the 

existing hierarchical, patriarchal, ruling-class model of leadership without radically changing the 

model itself
.  Bleak House acknowledges the unsuitability of the now-obsolete aristocracy to act as the ruling class by gently mocking Sir Leicester™s archaic notions of proper behavior and his 

insistence on rigid boundaries among the classes, yet the novel does not advocate anything as 

radical as breaking up the Dedlock family wealth and property and distributing it among the 

deserving poor.   In fact, as the problems with the litigation of 
Jarndyce v. Jarndyce illustrate, the novel treats massive wealth and property, and especially inherited or gratis wealth and property, as 

corrupting forces.  This understanding of inherited wealth can be further clarified by looking at John Stuart Mill™s justification for taxing inherited wealth at a higher rate than earned wealth:  It is not the fortunes which are earned, but those which are unearned, that it is for the public good to place under limitation. With respect to the large fortunes 
acquired by gift or inheritance, the power of bequeathing is one of those 
privileges of property which are fit subjects for regulation on grounds of general 
expediency; and I have already suggested, as the most eligible mode of restraining 

the accumulation of large fortunes in the hands of those who have not earned 

them by exertion, a limitation of the amount which any one person should be 

permitted to acquire by gift, bequest, or inheritance. (739) 
While Mill is concerned with the overall disparity in wealth and quality of life across the English 

population, he is hesitant to place a higher tax on all wealth as he does not want to discourage prudence in spending and ingenuity; instead, he focuses on curbing inherited wealth because it  84 rewards the receiver simply for being related to (or favored by) the one who worked for the 
wealth, and not because he did anything of value himself.  
Bleak House addresses similar 
concerns and suggests that a model of inheritan
ce (for wealth, status, and political clout) is not only impractical but also dangerous.  Sir Leicester, the product of several generations of 

inherited wealth and power, is archaic in his thinking and trivial in his concerns.  He is unfit to 
be a leader, but his shortcomings become comedic rather than tragic within the novel only 

because he has very little real power.  The modern counterpart of a family legacy represented by 

the Jarndyce v. Jarndyce suit, in which people can use legal channels in order to claim unearned 
wealth and status, is shown to be much more treacherous as the lure of easy money and leisure 

ruins the lives of several people, most notably Richard.   

 Despite the aristocracy™s failings as represented by the Dedlocks, the novel makes it clear 

that a ruling class is still necessary by depicting the overall irresponsibility and selfishness of 
those with the means but not the motivation to do beneficial workŠsuch as Richard, Mr. 
Skimpole (who has medical training), and Mrs. JellybyŠas well as the sheer helplessness of the 
less fortunate characters, such as Charley and Jo, who clearly need to be supported, educated, 
and guided by those in a position to do so.  Similarly, government-backed charities, like all 

government agencies in the novel, are inefficient and ineffective, as is evidenced by poor Jo™s 

inability to get admitted into a shelter that will care for him:  
At first it was too early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at 
last it was too late.  One official sent her [Liz, a woman trying to help Jo] to 

another, and the other sent her back again to the first, and so backward and 
forward; until it appeared [–] as if both must have been appointed for their skill 

in evading their duties, instead of performing them. (432) 
 85 The main problem with private paternalistic leadership, as it is presented in the novel, is how to 
ensure that those at the top of the meritocracyŠthe proposed new ruling classŠhave the 

material means to act as benefactors and guides to those in need without having so much that 

they live extravagantly and risk being corrupted by their wealth.  This involves precluding people like Esther and Allan from residing in the large manor homes that not only serve as 

concrete symbols of excess but, due to the tenets of contemporary estate design, also purposely 

isolate the residing families both visually and physi
cally from the from less fortunate people that 
live among them.  Yet the novel also refuses to dispose of Chesney Wold and the original Bleak 

House: while Dickens could have made a cl
ear statement by destroying one or both manor 
houses by the end of the novel, or by perhaps converting them into communal homes for the sick 

or the needy, he instead chooses to abandon them, leaving them largely empty and beginning to 

decay.  In continuing to stand despite their evident obsolescence, the superfluous manor houses 

represent the novel™s inability to resolve the problem of how to reconcile its understanding of the 
flaws inherent in the feudalistic social model with its desire to nevertheless preserve it somehow.   
While 
Bleak House highlights how the aristocracy is failing, it does not demonize the 
traditional nobility as some other novels, including 
John Halifax, Gentleman, do.  Although Sir Leicester is wealthy and arrogant, he is presented as pitiful and insignificant rather than 

villainous.  The irrelevance of his social and political standing is encapsulated by his ongoing 
property dispute with Mr. Boythorn over the rights to a small pathway that runs through the park 

of Chesney Wold.  The feud is clearly presented as a comic storyline, yet the land dispute alludes 

to the more serious issue of the landed gentry™s former appropriation of the countryside and how 

the politics of land division and distribution are changing.  In Mansfield Park, the countryside was presented as belonging wholly to the landed classes as laborers and the rural poor are  86 omitted from the novel, creating the illusion that only people like the Bertrams inhabit the area.  
In Bleak House, however, the various stratums of society are visible and vocal, and the wealth of 
the rising industrialists allows non-pedigreed people to legally own land that used to belong 
exclusively to men of Sir Leicester™s class.  As 
Mansfield Park demonstrates, previously even 
rural land that had no known owner was assumed to be owned by someone of pedigree, but 

during the mid-nineteenth century, the aristocracy no longer had the wealth nor the social clout 

to dominate the land as they once had.  Thus when Sir Leicester fights with Boythorn about the 

rights to the pathway, they are really arguing about whether the aristocracy still has dominion 

over the countryside.    
 Sir Leicester begins the feud by writing to
 Boythorn and asserting that fithe green pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of Mr. Lawrence Boythorne, is Sir Leicester™s right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of Chesney Wold; and that Sir 

Leicester finds it convenient to close up the samefl (119).  The ambiguity of Sir Leicester™s 
sentence construction, which makes it unclear whether the fipropertyfl spoken of refers to the 
green path, the parsonage house, or both, seems to acknowledge Boythorn™s right to the land 

while simultaneously undercutting that right in i
ndicating that Chesney Wold, while distant from 
the parsonage, still subsumes it.  In other words,
 though Sir Leicester never sees nor has occasion 
to use the pathway that is adjacent to Boythorn™s residence, he wants to close it up as a way of 
both demonstrating the expanse of Chesney Wold, which he understands as reaching well into 

town, and forcing his perceived social inferiors to respect the entire park as his private property rather than appropriating it as common land.  Hence Sir Leicester gives no reason for closing the 

path other than that doing so is ficonvenientfl for him, which makes it clear that he is closing it 

according to his whim as a powerful landholder and not because doing so will be beneficial to 
 87 anyone, common or titled.  However, Boythorn in turn asserts the rights of the new class of 
landholders by emphasizing that Sir Leicester lacks the feudalistic authority that a man of his 

class once held; Boythorn states that Sir Leicester fi[–] should not shut up my path if he were 
fifty baronets melted into one, and living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like 

the ivory balls in a Chinese carvingfl (119).  Boythorn underscores the meaninglessness of Sir 

Leicester™s position by comparing the potential magnitude of a baron and his estate multiplied 

with that of a decorative ivory puzzle ball, thus indicating that the feudal estate is aesthetically 
pleasing but ultimately functions as nothing more than a showpiece (Gabriel 27).   

 When Boythorn informs Sir Leicester that he will not allow the pathway to be closed, the 

argument shifts from taking place via letter to taking place on the land itself:  Sir Leicester erects 

barricades along the pathway, and Boythorn just as quickly tears them down.  As Boythorn tells 

it,  The fellow [Sir Leicester] sends a most abandoned villain with one eye, to 
construct a gateway.  I play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine, until the breath is nearly driven out of his body.  The fellow erects a gate in the night.  I 
chop it down and burn it in the morning.  He sends his myrmidons to come over 

the fence, and pass and repass.  I catch them in humane man traps, fire split peas 

at their legs, play upon them with the engineŠresolve to free mankind from the 

insupportable burden of existence of those lurking ruffians. (119) While comedic, this passage enacts and literalizes the mid-century struggle for access to the 

countryside that was going on between the landed gentry and the rising moneyed classes.  

Mansfield Park represents the structures that enclose private property, such as fences and walls, as being fairly effective at keeping out intruders due to both the physical barriers and the  88 psychological barriers (i.e., intimidation) they present.  Sir Leicester™s barricades, however, are 
shown to be useless as Boythorn, who has access to a number of hand tools and simple 

machinesŠinstruments that are representative of industry and laborŠcan easily destroy the 

gates Sir Leicester erects, especially as he has no deferential respect for the Dedlock family 

name, and thus has no respect for the gates that represent that name.  Though Boythorn, being a 

peer of Mr. Jarndyce, does not belong as solidly to the rising middle class as someone like 

Robert Rouncewell, who is a successful iron mast
er and the son of Sir Leicester™s servant, Boythorn nevertheless represents the interests of this class in that he is fighting for the right to 
common access to the landŠaccess that had been traditionally withheld from those not born into 

the aristocracy.            At the end of the novel, with Lady Dedlock in the family mausoleum and only a small 
host of desperate and pathetic relatives to carry on the family legacy, it is clear that the Dedlock 

reign has permanently ended.  Sir Leicester has become obsolete in the emerging social 
hierarchy in which self-made wealthŠwhich is depicted as the result of initiative and hard 
workŠis valued above noble lineage and an idle, if genteel, way of life.   Even the political 
power that used to belong to men of noble birt
h is shifting to those with growing wealth, regardless of their family lineage; this fact becomes painfully evident to Sir Leicester when he 

hears that Robert Rouncewell has been invited into Parliament.  As Sir Leicester mourns what he 

calls fithe confusion into which the present age has fallenfl (392), and as he watches the old social 
order crumble, taking with it his wife and almost
 all he holds dear, the deterioration is again enacted literally, but this time it takes place on his body instead of on his land: by the end of the 

novel, Sir Leicester is left defeated, debilitated, and nearly blind.  Boythorn™s aversion to Sir 
Leicester quickly turns into pity, and though he is willing to forget the land dispute as a show of  89 good will, Sir Leicester takes the concession as a sign that Boythorn is being condescending, and Boythorn is compelled to commit flagrant trespasses, post placards on the pathway, and publicly 

speak out against Sir Leicester in order to assure the feeble baronet of his remaining influence, 

thus allowing him the fidignity of being implacablefl (873).     
Similar to the collapse of the Dedlock family, the manor house at Chesney Wold has 
begun falling into decay as well.  While it used to be a show house and a visible symbol of the 

Dedlock family™s prominence, it has been mostly closed up and now serves as nothing more than 

a fiwaste of unused passages and staircasesfl (875).  Yet the novel does not destroy the manor 

house to suggest the beginning of a completely new order, nor does it give the promise of a 

future and perhaps more commendable purpose for the building, which might have indicated a 

contemporary, more relevant role for the nobility and what is left of its inherited wealth.  Instead, 

the house remains standing yet is conspicuously devoid of life, thus serving as a concrete symbol 

of how the institutions of noble birth and the landed estate, while continuing to exist, are immaterial and even quaint within the new social order.  The Dedlock manor house and estate 
stand as remnants of a past in which birth alone determined whether one would be among the 

powerful or whether one would be among the dependent, and the sheer magnitude of the 

Dedlock property, especially when compared with the dwellings in Tom-All-Alone™s, points to 

how those in power have treated themselves to excess rather than paternalistically supporting 

less fortunate people.  Indeed, when discussing the contrast between the size of figreat housesfl 
and the small farms and cottages that surround them, Raymond Williams has observed that large 

manor homes ultimately serve as visual testaments to the firobbery and fraud there must have 

been, for so long, to produce that degree of disparityfl (CatC 105).   90 Accordingly, it is significant that the novel depicts Robert Rouncewell, a prominent 
representative of the rising middle classes, as 
not aspiring to directly replace the old nobility by, for instance, buying the Dedlock property, restoring the manor house, and using his earned 

wealth to live in opulence as those with inherited wealth used to do; nor does he directly 
challenge and subsequently overthrow the nobility by, for instance, directly ousting Sir Leicester 
from Parliament, which would seem to imply a comp
lete rejection of the traditional social model.  
The novel instead chooses to amend the old social model by placing deserving people who 

eschew the idea of a moneyed life of leisure
Špeople who understand both the value of labor and the importance of providing opportunities for others to improve their own circumstancesŠinto 

the positions of influence that used to be held by the aristocracy, creating instead more of a 

meritocracy in which the grand estates have no purpose nor any appeal for those who can now 

afford them.  However, as Chris Vanden Bossche points out in his article on popular agency in 

the novel, Rouncewell is not idealized as the perfect replacement for the failing aristocracy, 
either: while we know Rouncewell is industrious and values education, we are never shown how he treats his workers or whether he engages in meaningful philanthropic work, so it is unclear 
whether he would be a good leader in the paternalistic social model (22).  Thus while the novel 

highlights the need for a change in leadership, it does not oversimplify the solution by suggesting 

that the self-made industrialists are necessarily the perfect men to take on the social and political 

position formerly held by men of Sir Leicester™s class, especially because charitable paternalism 

is such an important component of the proposed model. 
 While not idealized as a perfect leader, Rouncewell does embody and represent the shift 
in popular sentiment regarding expanded political representation and the possibilities for social 

mobility, which Sir Leicester views as being nothing better than fithe obliteration of landmarks, 
 91 the opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctionsfl (392).  As a result, the Dedlock house has become a filabyrinth of grandeur, less the property of an old family of human beings 

and their ghostly likenesses, than of an old family of echoings and thunderings which start out of 

their hundred graves at every sound, and go resounding through the buildingfl (875).  This quote 
demonstrates two ideas.  First, the image of the house as a filabyrinthfl suggests that it has gone 

from being a visible symbol of the Dedlock fam
ily™s power and influence to being a vessel that entraps them: though the figrandeurfl of the house used to provide them with a kind of social 

currency, it now marks them as obsolete and represents how their values differ from those of the 

larger populace.  This figurative entrapment is highlighted when Sir Leicester begins failing to 

secure votes for his political party despite offering bribes to the constituency.   
Second, given that family portrait paintings of each generation (fighostly likenessesfl) 
served to both demonstrate the nobility of one™s lineage and give visual proof of one™s place 

within that lineage, this passage not only emphasizes the lack of life in the Dedlock homeŠa 
house fiwith so many appliances of habitation, and with no inhabitants except the pictured forms 
upon the wallsfl (563)Šbut it also indicates that the aristocracy, while being the predecessors of 
the Robert Rouncewells of the world, are not the ancestors of such men.  In other words, because 
Rouncewell, a man who has no place in a gallery of generational portraits, has established 

himself independently by gaining his wealth and 
influence from sources that have no connection 
to inherited wealth, Sir Leicester thus has bequeathed nothing to Rouncewell either literally 
(wealth, education) or figuratively (precedent, guidance): the portraits, while once representing 
wealth and power, now stand as testament to the fact that Sir Leicester and his kind essentially 

have been cut off from the new succession of wealth and power in society.  Moreover, in 

reducing the family™s existence to mere fiechoings and thunderings,fl the passage suggests that, 
 92 though the Dedlocks still have a perceptible social presence, it has been reduced to one that has no concrete nor lasting effect. While Chesney Wold represents the decay of the aristocracy, Bleak House, on the other 
hand, represents the new, morally-grounded estate model.  After inheriting a crumbling estate 

formerly known as the Peaks from his great-uncle, John Jarndyce renovates the manor house and 

turns it into a channel for philanthropy.  However, this manor house eventually becomes a 

burden too as Ada and Richard move away to start their own lives, leaving the large house 

feeling empty, and Esther becomes torn between her love for Allan Woodcourt and her promise 

to become the fimistress of Bleak House.fl  In 
a bizarre twist of events, Jarndyce solves the dilemma by creating a second, miniature version of Bleak House from a cottage, and he gives it 

to Esther and Allan as a sign of his blessing on their wish to marry.  By specifically transforming 
the cottage into a miniature fiBleak House,fl the novel indicates that the paternalistic symbolism 

of the large manor house is important to maintain, even if such houses are too extravagant for the 
philanthropic, paternalistic aims of its model meritocracy.  Hence in making the cottage a replica 
of Bleak House, Jarndyce plainly intends for Esther and Allen to carry on the tradition of treating their home as a center for philanthropic paternalism as he has done, yet he wants them to live 

modestly due to what he perceives as the corrupting power of inherited wealth.  As a result, the 

original Bleak House is relegated to being a satellite home of sorts.  At the end of the novel, 

Jarndyce informs the widowed Ada that the older Bleak House now ficlaims priorityfl as her 

home, yet the new, smaller Bleak House clearly becomes the novel™s central location, both as a 

gathering place for the characters and as a channel for charitable acts, leaving the original house 
conspicuously empty and thus rather superfluous.     
 93 Perhaps the biggest change that comes with both the disintegration of Chesney Wold and 
Jarndyce™s symbolic move from Bleak House manor to Bleak House cottage is the novel™s loss 

of obvious, if flawed, patriarchal figureheads.  John Jarndyce, who is identified as fiJarndyce of Bleak Housefl throughout the novel, acts as the literal and symbolic head of his manor, and his 

home essentially serves as the surrounding community™s center for moral guidance and 

charitable aid: even poor Jo is brought to Bleak House for a brief stay when no one else will take him in, though he is lodged in the stables rather than in the main house.  However, Jarndyce™s 

disillusionment with Chancery (and governmental agencies in general) makes the business of 

governing and arbitrating distasteful to him.  Jar
ndyce can afford to give generously and freely, which suits him for philanthropic work, but he sometimes gives unwisely, as in the case of Mr. 

Skimpole: in short, while he can guide and set a good example, he is incapable of disciplining 

others and makes poor decisions regarding suitable recipients for aid.  Furthermore, while he is 

generally known as being a generous man, Jarndyce shies away from recognition for his good 
work and prefers to give anonymously.  All of these traits prevent him from being an ideal 
candidate for the kind of principled feudalistic leadership that the novel proposes. Sir Leicester, on the other hand, seems to have the opposite qualities: he revels both in 
being recognized as belonging to the nobility and in being shown deference by those he 
perceives as his social inferiors, and he is not afraid to use the authority of his rank in order to 
correct or discipline people (such as Boythorn) when he deems it necessary.  However, while he 

is not portrayed as being miserly or coldhearted, he does not appear to do much philanthropic 

work either, aside from ensuring that the children of the local laborers get a limited education 

that he believes is appropriate for their station in life.  In sum, Sir Leicester appears to enjoy the 

prestige and power of being a feudalistic-style lord, but he is less interested in paternalistically  94 caring for the people beneath him.  Yet due to the rising availability of factory work, 
contemporary laborers of the time were not as dependent on the local nobility as laborers had 

been in previous times, and as a result, Sir Leicester™s style of leadership comes off as being 

simply pretentious, outdated, and essentially ineffective. 
In placing these two men alongside each other, the novel seems to suggest that it is not 
possible for a single leader to have the humility and compassion necessary to be properly 

philanthropic while also being commanding enough to be an effective modern arbitrator and 
authority figure.  Yet the novel still posits that such a man, who can be seen as an updated 

version of the old feudalistic lord of the manor, would be an ideal leader for the contemporary 

problem of governing the newly independent
 laboring classes with compassion and good 
judgment.  The novel™s approach to a solution is in Esther and Allan™s placement in a miniature 

version of the manor house, but due to the confusing family hierarchy that emerges as a result 

(i.e., Who is now the head of the family? Which Bleak House is the main family property?  In 
inheriting a Bleak House, are Esther and Allan considered to be the successors of Jarndyce, or does their movement away from the original manor signal a new, separate family line?), there is 

still no clear patriarchal figure.  Moreover, the novel™s overall resistance to the inheritance of 
wealth and power along family lines make these complications even muddier: in a way, the 

confusion of the family hierarchy brought about 
by the new Bleak House befits the disarray of the Jarndyce family tree and the accompanying problem of determining appropriate inheritance 

recipients, all of which is encapsulated by the mess of 
Jarndyce v. Jarndyce.  Thus the novel ends without providing a clear solution to this problem.  Accordingly, both Chesney Wold and 
Bleak House manorŠsymbols of both the old kind of patriarchal feudalism and the novel™s 

inability to put forward a modern counterpartŠare more or less abandoned, yet they remain 
 95 standing as a testament to the novel™s desire for a modern feudalistic leader that will govern with 
patriarchal authority and compassion without the corrupting wealth and self-indulgence of the 

aristocracy.   
 John Halifax, Gentleman Despite its contemporary popularity, relatively little criticism been written on 
John Halifax, though the novel has attracted increased critical attention in recent years.  Much of the recent criticism has focused on how the novel explores what it means to be a figentlemanfl and 

the accompanying implications for upward class mobility.  For example, Kiran Mascarenhas has 

pointed out that, while it is clear that John is of genteel heritage (figood stockfl) despite his lowly situation, the novel nevertheless challenges conventional contemporary thought in advocating the 
idea that men are not born into gentlemanliness, especially given that John fitakes an active hand 

in the fall of the aristocracyfl (258).  In a reading that finds the novel similarly subversive, Lynn 
Alexander discusses how Condition-of-England writers and artists attempted to depict the 
suffering of the working classes while mitigating the accompanying images of violence and 

uprisings by purposely relegating their male workers to the domestic (i.e., peaceful, feminine) 

realm, thus stripping these characters of potentially menacing connotations.  Silvana Colella, on 

the other hand, reads the novel as a mild endorsement of gentlemanliness via capitalism, arguing 

that John Halifax promotes a fivision of disinterested generosityfl while still demonstrating the 
benefits of self-interest, thus naturalizing self-interest at a time when the pursuit of profit was 
discouraged by much social and cultural criticism (397).  In a slightly different vein, Valerie 

Sanders™s recent article suggests that the novel can be read as a contemporary exploration of the 
 96 difficulties self-made gentlemen encounter in trying to raise their sons to be both hardworking 
and gentlemanly, and her reading contrasts John™s success with the failures of his son, Guy. 
In parsing the novel™s treatment of gentlemanliness, the abovementioned essays help to 
shed light on Craik™s vision of class mobility, partic
ularly with regard to the social effects of 
capitalism and the viability of placing working-class men into positions of leadership and power; 

such considerations are an important component of my own approach.  My reading, however, 

will not consider John as a model of capitalistic gentlemanliness so much as a model of 

capitalistic feudalism: rather than focusing on how John™s financial successes win him 

acceptance into higher social circles, I will examine how the novel represents John as taking on 

more sociopolitical responsibility within the community as his economic successes, which come 

largely from investments in his mills, allow him to buy up land and eventually acquire an estate, 

making him a patriarchal figure in the community.  I will argue that John™s love of the outdoors 

signals his suitability as a member of the new ruling class within the novel™s model of capitalistic 
feudalism.  Indeed, the novel suggests that in learning to appreciate land™s concrete uses as well 
as its sociopolitical significance and aesthetic qualities, John is actually learning how to be a 
competent leader in his community as his respect for the land coincides with respect for what it 

supports and symbolizes.  His multifaceted appreciation for land also serves to demonstrate the 

self-made gentleman™s ability to fill the sociopo
litical roles formerly held by the aristocracy, 
including that of acting as cultural preservationists for art and beauty.  In using variations of the term fifeudalism,fl I do not intend to invoke it in the strict sense 
of medieval society, but rather in the way that 
Eric Hobsbawm describes the late eighteenth- and 
early nineteenth-century sense of a fifeudal orderfl in England that resulted from landholders 

enjoying the benefits of being at the top of the socioeconomic hierarchy while non-landholders 
 97 were compelled to depend upon them for political representation.  As Hobsbawm points out, in 
the years leading up and into the rise of localized industry that drew laborers away from 

traditional agriculture and toward wage-work in localized factories and mills, the fifeudal orderfl 

was more of a political and social construct than an economic system (
Revolution, 16-17).  Hobsbawm claims that the inefficiency of the traditional agrarian structure had caused finoble 

and gentle incomes [to] limp increasingly far behind the rise in prices and expenditure,fl leaving 

titled families unable to support the laboring class economically as they had in the past, yet the 

nobility still enjoyed the fiinalienable economic assetfl of birth and status, which, along with their 

status as landholders, allowed them to remain as the ruling class (16).  So while the nobility still 

enjoyed all the privileges of rank, they were no longer taking on the responsibility of supporting 
those beneath them socioeconomically; the outcome of this model is evident in 
Mansfield Park, where the laborers and rural poor are invisible, and the Bertrams appear to live a life of isolated 

privilege among others of their class.   
Yet the economic asset of a good name can only last so long if there is no income to pay 
the family debts, and many landholders had to begin parceling off and selling their estates as 

they could no longer afford to keep them.  By depicting the financial collapse of titled families 

alongside the growing success of middle-class industrialists, the mid-century novel highlights the 

sociopolitical and economic importance of owning land, 
particularly in the context of widespread 
social tension over the issue of extending the franchise.  As voting rights were being awarded 
according to the value of one™s land, the middle classes were literally buying power away from 

the aristocracy when they bought up the old estates.  Given this context, the manner in which the 

novels represent land and the outdoors is especially significant.  For example, in an essay on 

English landscape drawings, Ann Bermingham argues that following the French Revolution, 
 98 open prospectsŠbroad, sweeping views that appear to go on indefinitely and have few or no features to lead the eye away from the horizonŠw
ere distinctly associated with fithe leveling tendencies of democratic governments and revolutionsfl (83).  Indeed, several prominent 

authorities on landscape art, such as Richard Payne Knight and Uvedale Price, explicitly linked 
one™s taste in landscape design with one™s political sympathies: while broad expanses of open 

land were associated with democracy and the overthrow of established institutions and social 

hierarchies, the more varied and visually disconnected picturesque aesthetic was seen as 

symbolizing and celebrating how disparate elements are necessary for both a good picture and a 

balanced society (85).        John Halifax is saturated with references to how much the characters, and especially 
John, take pleasure in being outdoors: they go for frequent walks, and Phineas specifically points out how much they enjoy the surrounding scenery as they stroll.  However, while we are often 

told that John is enjoying a view, and while he often expresses that he is enjoying a view, there are very few broad, sweeping descriptions of what he is seeing: either the descriptions of the outdoors are given in abstract and generic terms, or
 one aspect of the view is depicted while the rest is left undescribed for the reader.  In light of Ann Bermingham™s argument about the French 

Revolution™s effect on taste in English landscape art, the novel™s method of representing scenic 

views becomes especially significant, particularly given that the novel expressly discusses the 

French Revolution as a firemarkable historical
 crisisfl upon which fimost English people looked 
back with horror,fl and one of the novel™s subplots involves the unhappy discovery that the 
Halifax family™s governess is the daughter of a man who was a key player in the Reign of Terror 

(401).  With a plot suggesting that the title of figentleman,fl which refers to the general sense of 

being respectable as well as its more narrow designation as a sociopolitical leader, can be 
 99 acquired by one who was born into the working class, the novel risks appearing to advocate a vision of radical democracy in which the sociopolitical hierarchy is demolished in favor of a 

leveling of distinctions among the classes.  However, by omitting passages that describe broad, 

sweeping viewsŠwhat Bermingham refers to as 
fiopen prospectsflŠin a story so grounded in the significance of owning land, the novel avoids aligning itself with the ultra-liberal and democratic 
ideals that had become associated with such a perspective.   
For example, John says, fiWho would guess now that I who stand here delighting myself 
in this fresh air and pleasant view, this dewy common, all thick with flowersŠwhat a pretty blue 

cluster that is at your foot, Phineas!Šwho would guess that all yesterday I had been stirring up 
tanpits [–]?fl (142).  John indicates that the view is pleasant and that the common is full of 

flowers, but instead of going on to describe the view in more specific terms, the narrative draws 

the reader™s attention away from the open prospect to a single cluster of blue flowers at Phineas™s 

foot.  Similarly, during a time when Phineas and John go to Enderly, Phineas points out how 
much John enjoys the view: fiHis figure was outlined sharply against the sky, his head thrown 
backward a little, as he gazed, evidently with the keenest zest, on the breezy Flat before himfl 

(130).  Phineas goes on to describe what John looks like rather than the view he is enjoying so 
much.  Later, when they are looking at the view together, John describes it as follows: fiWhat a 

broad green sweepŠnothing but sky and common, common and sky.  This is Enderly Flat.  We 

shall come to its edge soon, where it drops abruptly into such a pretty valley.  There, look 

downŠthat™s the churchfl (131).  The use of deictic words (fithis,fl fithere,fl fithatfl), while giving 
spatial cues about how the visual components of th
e view are situated, also effectively shuts out the reader from sharing the view by attaching the special cues to locations that are specific to 

where the two men are standing.   
 100 Later in the novel, there is a moment where John, Ursula, Phineas, and the children walk 
to Enderly, and the children are hesitant about climbing a winding road in order to see the view 

over Nunneley Hill into the valley below.  In order to coax them into climbing the ascent, 

Phineas goes to Ursula and fi[helps] her describe the prospect to the inquisitive boysfl (324).  So 
while we are told that there is a view and it is even described, the reader is not privy to the 
depiction.  When Phineas does describe the same view over Nunneley Hill, he does it via 

enclosed references that give the reader very little information: fiThis seat on the wall, with its 

small twilight picture of the valley below the mill, 
and Nunnely heights, with that sentinel row of sunset trees, was all mine [–]fl (324).  Although 
Phineas is describing how pleasing the view is, he does not give sufficient details to allow the reader to envision it: he gives no colors, few 

concrete spatial cues, and his descriptive phrases (fisentinel row,fl fitwilight picture,fl fisunset 
treesfl) are too abstract to evoke a specific image.  The possessiveness he articulates (fiall minefl) 

is reflected by the overall privacy of the description: though he indicates that the view is beautiful and that he enjoys it, Phineas essentially keeps it for himself and does not share the 
image with the reader.       
Yet even if a grand view is not described, the above passages indicate that John is enjoying the kind of open prospects that Bermingham discusses: throughout the novel, he 

surveys the sweeping commons, stands on hilltops to look across the horizon, and walks across 

Nunnely Flat until he reaches the edge, where it drops off into a scenic valley.  In conveying that 
John is looking at open prospects without depicting them, the novel can represent John in a 

position that evokes a fipatriarch of the valleyfl image, as he puts it, where he admires the English 

countryside with appropriate reverence, without the act being associated with radical democracy.  
This distinction is particularly important as he was born into the working class, and the act of 
 101 him looking at open prospects in a possessive stance 
could be falsely read as desire to overthrow the ruling class.  In fact, as the novel stresses how land ownership is conflated with sociopolitical and economic power in both a symbolic and a literal sense, an appreciation for the outdoors and 

its sweeping scenic views can be understood as ultimately signaling John™s appreciation and 

respect for the established order that places landholders at the top; such a reading is supported by 
his dignified deference to his social superiors, his scrupulousness about making sure that he 
remains within his social and political boundaries, 
and his staunch defense of property rights.   However, the old social model placed men into positions of leadership based on noble 
birth alone, and given the inconsistent quality of the nobility™s moral uprightness and suitability 

for leadership, the novel suggests that this model has failed.  The new feudalistic model being 

proposed by the novel maintains the hierarchical structure, including that of keeping the bulk of 

society™s wealth and power among landholders, but it rewards, among other attributes, a 

comprehensive appreciation for the socioeconomic and aesthetic functions of land, along with an 
understanding of what the landholder™s responsibility is with regard to ensuring that his land fulfills those functions for both his own family and the community as a whole.  In other words, 

the novel works to strike a balance between respecting the established hierarchical framework of 

English society while also indicating that the requirements for membership in the top tiers could 

be adjusted without affecting the integrity of the structure itself.   Thus in being shown appreciating a scenic view, John is demonstrating his esteem for the basic principles that govern 

society, including that of a social hierarchy in which the wealthy and powerful govern the poor and uneducated, while also indicating that he has the necessary qualities to be among the ruling 

class despite his origins.    102 John™s connection to the land, and his gradual success as a landholder and patriarch, suggests that a more comprehensive understanding of the complexities of how land is used not 

only signals leadership potential in a person, but it actually helps to cultivate that potential in that 
it provides a visual, tangible counterpart to the principles that govern society.  At the beginning of the novel, John has a very organic relationship to the land as he has no home of his own and 

sleeps outside on a bark heap.  When Phineas asks why he does not find lodging somewhere, 

John answers that he does not care for the quality of the places he can afford on two pence a day 
and goes on to observe, fiBetter keep my own company and the open air. [–] You don™t know 

how comfortable it is to sleep out of doors; and so nice to wake in the middle of the night, and 

see the stars shining over your headfl (61).  John™s preference for sleeping in a bark heap rather 
than in a bed highlights the extent of his organic, concrete connection to the land, and while his 
observation that he enjoys looking at the stars indicates that there is a slight aesthetic component 
to his enjoyment, John is mainly focused on the physical comfort that he gets from sleeping 
outside.   In a similar vein, John focuses on the tangible, concrete aspects of the view from Abel 
Fletcher™s garden when he first sees it.  Although Phineas expects John to go into fiecstasiesfl 
upon seeing the garden, John™s reaction is quite cool: aside from remarking that it is a finice 

place,fl John™s initial observation is that the grass plot is fivery evenfl and probably fithirty yards 
squarefl (44).  When Phineas asks him how far he has walked that day, John goes on to describe 

the view in relation to how the land affects him physically: fiFrom the foot of those hillsŠI 
forget what they call themŠover there.  I have seen bigger onesŠbut they are steep enoughŠ

bleak and cold, too, especially when one is lying out among the sheep.  At a distance they look 

pleasantfl (44).  As a young and impoverished rural laborer, John™s experience of the land thus 
 103 far has been largely physical in that he engages with the land in a very hands-on way: when he can get work, he acts as a hired hand, fihop picking, apple gathering, [and] harvestingfl (37); when he travels, he does so on foot and thus feels the land beneath his feet with each step; when he retires for the night, he sleeps on the ground outdoors.  Despite his preference for being 
outside, the adjectives John uses (steep, bleak, cold) point to the harshness of a life that requires 
one to engage with the land on such a physical level, and his lack of a descriptive vocabulary 
with which to convey what the hills look like indicates that he is unused to looking at land as an 
aesthetic object.  Accordingly, John seems surprised that the same hills he has experienced as 

being severe can nevertheless be pleasing to the eye (fiAt a distance they look pleasantfl) when 
considered as something other than a physical barrier with which he must engage.  John is 

similarly fascinated by the appearance of the Severn River from a distance, which until then he 

had only seen up-close: fiHe stood there gazing at it a good whileŠa new expression dawning in his eyesfl (45).  This moment can be read as a turning point in the novel, marking when John 
begins to understand that land features can be viewed as aesthetic objects in which he can take a purely noncorporeal pleasure that is separate from his more concrete connection to them. 
The physical nature of John™s initial contact with the outdoors is important as it grounds 
his experience not only in the tangible features of the landŠi.e., what it feels like to sleep on 
bark, to walk the steepness of the hills, and split timber with his handsŠbut also with the 

bleaker, more challenging aspects of engaging with the land, specifically as a poor laborer.  

Although he expresses a preference for living in the open air, his appearance betrays the 
hardships he has faced as one who works outdoors: his hands are figrimed with bark dustfl (57), 

his clothes are shabby from the firepeated drenchingsfl he had suffered during the wet autumn 

(52), and before he got a job at the tanyard, he was visibly emaciated.  This organic experiencing 
 104 of the land seems to temper his later aesthetic and economic appreciation for it by showing him 
what is endured by those who work the land, especially as such hardships are not perceptible 
when seen from a distance that is either physically or aesthetically imposed; in turn, John is able 

to empathize with the working poor while still protecting the interests of landholders.  Moreover, 

while John eventually learns how to look at the land as an aesthetic object via scenic views, 
walking the land and learning about it in the direct manner of working with his hands allows him 

to also understand the functions and potential of the land in a way that higher-born men in the 

novel (and specifically Lord Luxmore) do not.  This more comprehensive understanding gives 

John a unique perspective on the various uses for public and private property and, as I will 
suggest, the larger ramifications of those uses as well. 
The novel opens with Phineas™s recollection of the first time he sees John, a moment he 
describes as a fipicturefl in which John is the fiprinciple figurefl (32).  However, in the long 
description that follows, John is not presented as the focus of the image:  
[–] the narrow, dirty alley leading out of the High Street, yet showing a glimmer 
of green field at the farther end; the open house-doors on either side, through 
which came the drowsy burr of many a stocking-loom, the prattle of children 

paddling in the gutter, and sailing thereon a fleet of potato parings.  In front, the 
High Street, with the mayor™s house opposite, porticoed and grand; and beyond, 

just where the rain clouds were breaking, rose up out of a nest of trees, the square 
tower of our ancient abbeyŠNorton Bury™s boast and pride.  On it, from a break 

in the clouds, came a sudden stream of light.  The stranger lad lifted up his head 

to look at it. (32)  105 The description organizes the image from the lowlie
st of High Street™s sights (the dirty alley, the humble homes) to the most grand (the mayor™s house, the abbey) without treating any one of 

them as the focal point, resulting in a degree of sp
atial confusion.  While it is relatively clear how 
some of the landmarks stand in relation to one anotherŠi.e., we are told that the green field is 

visible at the end of the narrow alley and that the alley is flanked by the homes of the working 

poorŠthe overall image is muddled as the description jumps from the middle-ground (the alley 

and houses) to the foreground (the mayor™s house) and then to the background (the abbey).  John 

can be seen as the fiprinciple figurefl of the picture only in that he appears last, which, due to the 
broader organizational scheme, suggests that he is the grandest sight of all, yet he is not actually 

part of the image because, like Phineas, he is presented as a mere spectator, and an anonymous 

one at that.  While the description contains specific spatial and sensory details about the other 

aspects of the image, John remains unnamed and undescribed, excepting his motion of lifting his 

head to look at the stream of light.  In fact, if the image can be said to have a focal point at all, it 
would likely be the stream of light that falls upon the abbey as Phineas™s description privileges it 
as a fisuddenfl occurrence that attracts his attention as well as John™s.   
 While the above depiction can be read in a number of ways, especially with regard to the 

relationship between Phineas and John, its most important aspect for the purposes of my reading 

is how it establishes John as a spectator of scenic views early on in the novel.  Even though 
Phineas imagines John to be the focal point of the image, John is able to shift from being a 

component of the view to being a spectator via th
e deliberate act of looking at the view himself.  
He is not depicted as necessarily enjoying the viewŠhe lifts his head to look at the stream of 
light without any noticeable reaction to itŠbut in gazing at the same image that Phineas is 

admiring, he removes himself from the role of aesthetic object and takes on that of a fellow 
 106 spectator.  As John Barrell has noted, the idea that working-class men were intellectually 
incapable of enjoying art in an aesthetic sense influenced 18th-century thinking about the use and purpose of art.  According to Barrell, the contemporary belief, which was grounded in classical 

writings, was that because men who worked in a mechanical trade were concerned with the 

concrete aspects of material objects, they could regard objects only as ficoncrete particularsfl and 

not fiin terms of the abstract and formal relations among themfl (
Political Theory 8).  Similarly, 
Raymond Williams has observed that when it became fashionable to look at the countryside as 

an aesthetic objectŠto take in a scenic view and evaluate it as one would a landscape paintingŠ
the elite and educated found it necessary to begin dividing such observations into the fipracticalfl 
and the fiaestheticfl (120-1).  The resulting fiself-conscious observer,fl as Williams puts it, 

represents how the moneyed and landed classes appropriated what was deemed to be legitimate 

enjoyment of the beauties of the outdoors by insisting that an fielevated sensibilityfl is necessary 

to separate the aesthetic aspects of the natural world from the more utilitarian ones.  Thus, while 
the educated and leisured self-conscious observer could look at a field and see both its economic 
possibilities as well as its aesthetic qualities, an ordinary laborer would supposedly be able to see 
only a work site.  Williams argues that it is not the division of land into the utilitarian and 

aesthetic categories that matters; rather, it is the fact that the observer fineeded and was in a 

position to do it, and that this need and position are parts of a social history, in the separation of 
production and consumptionfl (121).  For Williams, the self-conscious observer embodies the 

divisions between the classes and yet another way that the rich stole from the poor: not only did 
they take land from the poor for their own economic and political ends, but they also refused to 

recognize that a laborer could enjoy the beauty and visual complexity of a scenic view in the 

same way an educated man could.  Thus when a character stops to enjoy a scenic view and acts 
 107 as a self-conscious observer in a novel, he can be read as reinforcing the aristocracy™s position of inherited privilege and power.   
 Craik™s novel, however, challenges Williams™s concept of the self-conscious observer as 

it links John™s appreciation for scenic views with both his respect for the land-based 
socioeconomic hierarchy and his ability to move through that hierarchy in order to become a 

landholder himself.  Barrell™s discussion of the ci
vic humanist theory of painting points out that 
the laboring classes were seen as being unable to comprehend abstract ideas and thus were 

deemed unable to enjoy the aesthetic qualities of material objects; this idea was extended to also 

suggest that a laborer would also be incapable of meaningful public service as he would be 
unable to think beyond his own immediate wants in order to act instead for the public interest 

(7).  However, John™s act of consciously enjoying scenic views subverts the idea that one must 

have been born into the leisured upper classes in order to appreciate the aesthetic qualities of 
material objects, which in turn suggests that one does not need to have been born into the upper 
classes in order to be a good leader.  This perspective reinforces the novel™s approval of the dissolution of the purely hereditary aristocracy in favor of what is essentially a meritocracy, 

similar to the model proposed in 
Bleak House.  As John, who is clearly the self-conscious observer of the novel, puts it, fi[–] I belong to the people.  But I nevertheless uphold a true 
aristocracyŠthe best men of the countryŠdo you remember our Greeks of old?  These ought to 
govern, and will govern, one day, whether their patent of nobility be birth and titles, or only 
honesty and brainsfl (293).   
 Even Lord Luxmore, the novel™s representative of the old aristocracy founded upon 

inherited wealth and a sense of entitlement, sees th
at fiin these chaotic days of contending parties, 
when the maddened outcry of ‚the people™ was just being heard and listened to, it might be as 
 108 well not to make an enemy of this young man [John], who, with a few more, stood as it were 
midway in the gulf, now slowly beginning to narrow, between the commonality and the 

aristocracyfl (268).  While the sociopolitical shift is framed as a narrowing of a gulf between 

those with inherited titles and those without, the novel does not actually advocate the termination 

of class distinctions; rather, it seeks to have these distinctions between sociopolitical leadersŠ

the fiaristocracyflŠand the commonality be determined by merit rather than birth and wealth 

alone.  As the novel reimagines the aristocracy as being comprised of the fibest men,fl meaning 

those who have a more comprehensive understanding of sociopolitical dynamics and take on the 

responsibility of ensuring that the community as a whole thrives, it represents this quality in John 

with his appreciation for scenic views: much as he is able to balance pursuing his own interests 

with taking responsibility for ensuring the financial and political health of his community, he is 

also able to balance his aesthetic appreciation for tracts of land with his social, political, and 

financial understanding of the land™s importance. 
 For instance, although Phineas is of a higher social rank and is much better educated than 
John, his disability prevents him (both physically and within the novel™s ideological framework) 

from marrying and taking on patriarchal and paternalistic responsibilities; accordingly, he does 

not look at land in the same way that John does.  Physically, Phineas is simply unable to travel to 

many of the locations that place one in a position to take in a scenic view.  Even when he is 

transported to such a location, however, he still does not take in a sweeping view and instead 
focuses on individual components of the view, primarily those in the foreground.  When Phineas 

wants to show John his garden shortly after their initial meeting, for example, Phineas does not 

have the physical strength to walk up to the clematis arbor, which overlooks the Avon and 

presents a good view of the garden, so John must carry him to the spot; yet even when they 
 109 arrive at the arbor and Phineas begins to describe the view, it becomes clear that he does not see 
it as a single sweeping image: 
A large square, chiefly grass, level as a bowling green, with borders round.  
Beyond, divided by a low hedge, was the kitchen and fruit gardenŠmy father™s 

pride, as this old-fashioned pleasaunce was mine.  When, years ago, I was too 

weak to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-

patterned carpet, bounded by its broad gravel walk; and above that, apparently 
shut in as with an impassible barrier from the outer world, by a three-sided fence, 

the high wall, the yew hedge, and the river. (44)  In describing the view, Phineas breaks it down into its component parts, which is reflected by his 

diction: his description is peppered with dependent clauses and an excessive use of adjectives 
(fithe soft, green, mossy, daisy-patterned carpet,fl), resulting in a halting cadence that compels the 

reader to perceive the view in a similarly pi
ecemeal fashion.  His description also foregrounds 
how the view is bounded in that each sentence mentions a border, barrier, or division of some 
kind.  Furthermore, Phineas points out that his primary way of experiencing the land is by 

crawling fievery inchfl of it, indicating that he perceives the outdoors at an almost microscopic 
degree (as opposed to the macroscopic level necessary for taking in a broad view consisting of 

several visual components).   

 Similarly, when Phineas and John live at Enderly, John delights in taking rambling walks 

along the Flat and taking in the fipanoramafl of a view that can be seen from the spot he calls his 

fiterrace,fl while Phineas, on the other hand, experiences the countryside on a much smaller scale: 

he describes going outside and lying on the ground in the same spot each morning, where fioften 

a square foot of ground presented [him] with enough of beauty and variety in color and form, to 
 110 criticize and contemplate for a full hourfl (147).  
So while Phineas clearly enjoys being outdoors as much as John does, his tendency to concentrate his attention on a small area nearby his person 

and focus on individual components of a larger image reflects the degree to which his disability 

prevents him from thinking too far beyond his ow
n needs (and thus from taking on a role of 
public responsibility), as John eventually does.    While John™s realization that land can be an aesthetic object begins in Phineas™s garden, 
the scope of his scenic views quickly grows to encompass much larger areas.  When he has been 

working long enough to be able to rent a small attic room, for instance, he expresses delight not 

over the concrete comforts of finally having a bed, 
or private quarters, or even simply a roof over 
his head; rather, upon showing the room to Phineas, 
he exclaims, fiI declare I shall be as happy as 
a king.  Only look out the windowfl (64).  Phineas goes on to narrate that the window provides 
access to the roof, which in turn offers a vantage point for the fifinest view in all Norton Bury,fl 
and he characterizes the view as fia picture, which in its incessant variety, its quiet beauty, and its inexpressibly soothing charm, was likely to ma
ke the simple, everyday act of ‚looking out o™ 
window™ unconsciously influence the mind as much as a world of booksfl (64).  While John still 

says nothing about the view himself, his unders
tanding that the placement of the window is an 
asset indicates his new interest in looking at land features as aesthetic objects, especially given 
that he connects his forthcoming happiness, and not
 some more practical function, with what is 
visible from the window and on the rooftop.   
Moreover, the novel presents John™s learning to read as being not only a source of enjoyment 
and of a position-bettering education, but also a conduit for his moral development, particularly with regard to his study of the Bible; thus 

Phineas™s comparison of the effect of regularly l
ooking at a scenic view to that of reading books  111 suggests that both activities, while pleasant, also come with greater overall awareness and, 
consequently, greater personal responsibility.   
 After the above scene, the novel skips ahead to six months later, after John has been 

awarded a promotion at work for teaching himself how to read and do arithmetic.  He meets with 

Phineas for a walk, and they go to a small hill called the Mythe from which the Avon River is 

visible.  John describes it as follows: fiWhat masses of white foam it makes, and what wreaths of 

spray, and see! ever so much of the Ham is under water.  How it sparkles in the sunfl (67-8).  

While John is still considering only the river by itself (rather than several land and sky features 

all together, which would make up a single sweeping view), the simple yet poetic quality of his 

diction in this passage demonstrates how his aesthetic sense is developing, especially in how his 

language here contrasts with his earlier, much more matter-of-fact description of the steep hills 

visible from Phineas™s garden.  John includes the flooded Ham among the fiprettyfl components 

of the view he is enjoying, and he goes on to remark, fiYou can™t think how fine this is from my 
window; I have watched it for a week.  Every morning the water seems to have made itself a 
fresh channel.  Look at that one, by the willow treeŠhow savagely it pours!fl (68).  In 
connecting the view from his bedroom window to what he sees from the Mythe, John also 

demonstrates that he is beginning to understand how
 different prospects affect the appearance of a given object.   
 The delight John takes in noting how fisavagelyfl one of the channels pours across the 

plain nearly suggests an unarticulated appreciation for the sublime, especially as he quickly 

connects the power of the water with the potential for serious flood damage to the town.  

However, it is this tendency to pair the enjoyment of a scenic view with a resulting concern for 

the condition of the land and its inhabitants, and especially the interests of property holders, that  112 identifies John as material for the position of a paternalistic landholder as the role is imagined by 
the novel.  When the rapid spring thaw causes Norton Bury to flood, Phineas™s narration of the 
event glosses over the humanitarian aspects and frames it as a largely economic crisis: fiBridges 

were destroyedŠboats carried awayŠhouses inundated, or sapped at their foundations.  The loss of life was small, but that of property was very
 greatfl (74).  Bridges, boats, and houses are all structures that serve crucial purposes for the people who use them, and thus these structures 

could be read as being representative of the human suffering that likely resulted from the flood; 

yet in minimizing the fact that people died in
 favor of focusing on how much property damage 
was caused, the passage suggests that the boats, bridges, and houses should instead be 
understood as symbols of the loss of capital and investments.  John™s persistent worries about the 

possibility of flooding (which are entirely dismissed by Phineas) thus foreshadow the damage 

done to Norton Bury by the floodwaters while also indicating his economic concerns with regard 
to how flooding would affect the town as a whole, and specifically the property and assets of Abel Fletcher, despite the fact that John has no property himself and thus has very little personal 
stake in the matter as of yet.   

 John™s concerns about the economic effects of the flood also foreshadow his role in 

suppressing the food riot at Fletcher™s mill and reflect how the riot is presented primarily as a 

question of property rights, with humanitarian inte
rests factoring in as a secondary concern.  In prioritizing property over human life, the novel appears to confirm Karl Marx™s understanding of 

how private ownership of land within a capitalistic economy inevitably corrupts the property 

holders.  In the first volume of 
Capital, during his discussion of the rise of industrial capitalism, 
Marx argues that the expulsion of the rural population from the countryside through enclosure 

led to the dissolution of feudalism, which in turn allowed the capitalistic economy to take hold in 
 113 England.  He ties this shift in rural land distribution to the escalation of industrial production in areas that had become newly populated with the expelled rural poor, who in turn became an 

abundant source of cheap manual labor.  Whereas in the past, Marx suggests, the rural poor had 

been relatively independent and self-sustaining, enclosure compelled them to begin selling their 

labor as opposed to producing for themselves:  
In spite of the smaller number of its cultivators, the soil brought forth as much or 
more produce, after as before, because the revolution in the conditions of landed 
property was accompanied by improved methods of culture, greater co-operation, 
concentration of the means of production, &c., and because not only were the 
agricultural wage labourers put on the strain more intensely, but the field of 
production on which they worked for themselves became more and more 
contracted. With the setting free of a part of the agricultural population, therefore, 
their former means of nourishment were also set free. They were now transformed 
into material elements of variable capital. The peasant, expropriated and cast 
adrift, must buy their value in the form of wages, from his new master, the 
industrial capitalist. (817)  While Marx appears to grant that this economic shift allowed for a degree of social and 

economic mobility through accumulation and investment, much in the way that both Abel and 

John are able to overcome their social disadvantages in order to become manufacturers and 

landholders, he also points out that such mobility only comes at the price of exploiting one™s 

fellows: fiDoubtless many small guild-masters, and yet more independent small artisans, or even 

wage-labourers, transformed themselves into small capitalists, and (by gradually extending 

exploitation of wage-labour and corresponding accumula
tion) into full-blown capitalistsfl (478).      114 This exploitation, Marx claims, is inevitable as the capitalist, in having no relationship with his 
workers beyond the payment of wages, finds it in his best interest to extract the maximum 

amount of labor from his workers at the smallest cost
 to himself in order to make the best profits.  
In couching the flood as a primarily economic disaster while minimizing the loss of human life, 

the novel at first seems to support Marx™s claims: the loss of capital is portrayed as being the 

most important consideration.  Accordingly, the food riot at Fletcher™s mill is also presented as 

being largely an issue of property rights rather than one of humanitarian interest or morality, 

despite the fact that the rioters are visibly emaciated.   

 Yet in calming the rioters by giving them charity in the form of a meal and notes 

redeemable for flour, John™s approach demonstrates that paternalism is actually a shrewder 

business strategy than the mere pursuit of profit in that he is able to save the mill, preserve the 

bulk of the grain, and placate the laborers, all at minimal cost to Abel.  The novel thus posits 

paternalistic responsibility as the key to ensuring that the industrialistsŠwho have replaced the corrupted, crumbling nobility as society™s leadersŠwill not become cruel to those economically 
dependent on them, despite their pursuit of ever-gr
eater profits.  Accordingly, the food riot scene validates the novel™s desire to maintain the institution of the landed estate in that it demonstrates 

its economic feasibility, and it shows that the rights of property holders can be further protected 

if the laboring poor are raised into a better, less desperate condition.  
 Moreover, John™s ability to interpret a pleasing view from multiple perspectivesŠi.e., the 

economic, the aesthetic, and the sociopolitical meanings that can be attached to a given piece of 

landŠreflects his belonging in the new fiaristocracyfl that has arisen as a result of the 
contemporary shift from an economy grounded in inherited wealth and offsite labor to one of 

domestically-based industry.  As is demonstrated by the traditional aristocracy™s inability to 
 115 adapt to the new model in order to maintain power, not everyone is equipped to understand and 
thus govern within the economic, sociopolitical, and aesthetic challenges presented by the shift 

to a domestic industrial economy; the novel illustrates this idea by showing how the various 

characters perceive and behave toward key pieces of land.  For example, the food riot is 

introduced with Phineas™s observation that, as summer begins to wane, Jael notices that people 

have begun fito watch with anxious looks at the thin harvest-fieldsfl (101).  The fact that JaelŠa servantŠpoints this out suggests that it is the wage-earning classes that are anxious about the 
bareness of the fields; this idea is reinforced a few lines later, when Phineas goes to sit outdoors: 
fiDr. Jessop came in, and I stole away gladly enough, and sat for an hour in my old place in the 

garden, idly watching the stretch of meadow, pasture, and harvest land.  Noticing, too, more as a 

pretty bit in the landscape, than as a fact of vital importance, in how many places the half-ripe 
corn was already cut, and piled in thinly scattered sheaves over the fieldsfl (102).  The disconnect 
between how Jael and Phineas respectively interpret the appearance of the thinned fieldsŠJael emotionally, Phineas with a superficial aestheticismŠindicates a broader disconnect between the 
moneyed classes and the laboring classes: Jael appr
ehensively looks at the fields of prematurely 
harvested corn, seeing forthcoming hunger and want, whereas Phineas looks on them with 

leisured idleness and sees only fia pretty bit.fl   
 Abel, on the other hand, sees economic significance in the thinned fields, but, as Marx 

would predict, as an industrial capitalist, Abel sees the shortages only as an opportunity to make 

a bigger profit and thus keeps his grain locked up, waiting for even higher market prices before 

milling it into much-needed flour.  In presenting these three perspectives on the appearance of 

the thinned wheat fields, the novel underscores how each character™s interpretation of the view 
reflects not only his or her socioeconomic status 
but also how he or she relates to the surrounding  116 community, which includes the well-off but is mainly made up of laboring poor: Jael feels 
compassion and makes sacrifices of her own in solidarity, Abel is unmoved and sacrifices having 

luxury items at his table only so that his ne
ighbors will not gossip about him, and Phineas, 
restricted to the house and the surrounding grounds by his ill health, is all but oblivious to the 
famine and resulting social unrest and instead evalua
tes the appearance of the fields aesthetically.   
The thinned fields can be read as a symbol of the broader difficulties of functioning within a 

capitalistic economy, and each of these three perspectives on the fieldsŠthe 

sympathetic/empathetic, the isolated aesthetic, and the detachedly economicŠrepresents a single 

component of the more comprehensive view that is necessary not only for effective sociopolitical 

leadership on the part of the new capitalists, but also for the capitalists™ own economic success as 

well.  Indeed, the consequences of the food riot demonstrate that, alone, none of these 

perspectives adequately reflects the number of factors that must be taken into account in order to 

fill the traditional role of social, political, and cultural leadership that has been left open by the 
disintegration of the nobility.  By focusing only on the economic opportunity afforded by the 
shortage, Abel ends up losing the anticipated profits, and he nearly loses his home and his mill 

due to the anger of the rioters; by focusing only on the aesthetic aspects of the thinned fields, 
Phineas ends up losing part of his outdoor sanctuary as the rioters knock down his garden wall, effectively forcing him to notice the human consequences of the small harvest; and Jael, in 

reacting emotionally, feels sorry for the hungry men but nevertheless becomes angry and violent-

minded when the rioters threaten to break into the Fletchers™ home, and her eagerness to take up 

a pistol (despite the Quaker doctrine of nonresistance) suggests that, while failing to feel any 
empathy for the laborers is ineffective, neither does being guided by feeling alone as it makes 

one overly reactive.  Only John is able to juggle all three perspectives successfully, as is  117 evidenced by his ability to pacify the rioters while still saving Abel™s property and, in quieter times, enjoying the view of the fields while understanding their socioeconomic significance. 

 The supreme right of the property holder over other moral considerations is ultimately 

upheld by the novel, even in the case of extreme human starvation: John demonstrates this when 

he chastises the rioters by pointing out, fiEven soŠit was his [Abel™s] wheat, not yours.  May not a man do what he likes with his own?fl (118).  The novel goes on to claim that the rioters 

themselves are convinced by this argument as fithere is always a lurking sense of rude justice in a 

mobfl (118).  It is important to note that it is the riotersŠthe working poorŠwho force the 

thinned fields to be considered with a more balanced perspective.  If the working poor were 

removed from the equation, neither Phineas nor Abel would have been checked in their 

individual interpretations of the fields, and Jael would have no reason to care about the state of the harvest beyond that of her own welfare.  In short, while men like Abel own the land and 

control when and how the wheat will be used, and while the rights of property trump even those 
of human life, the novel suggests that the industrialists are prevented from being tyrannicalŠat 
least economicallyŠby both the influence of the laboring classes and by their own moral 

consciences.        

 While prioritizing property over human life might seem to go against the novel™s larger 

project of naturalizing the idea of the hard-working, morally-upright, paternalistic landholder, it 

is nevertheless compatible with John Stuart Mill™s model of morally-grounded property holding.  

In Principles of Political Economy, Mill argues that land itself should be seen as belonging in common to all of humanity, but he adamantly defends the right of property holders to do what 

they wish with the profits they gain from their 
use of the land: fiThe rents or profits which [the landholder] can obtain from [his land] are at his 
sole disposal [–]fl (239).  In acknowledging the  118 property-owner™s right to do as he wishes with his own property, John Halifax posits a similar 
model of landholding that complies with the increasingly capitalistic economy in recognizing 

that, unlike models dependant on family inheritance and strict feudalism, the landholder has no 

legal or social obligation to support those who are dependent on him economically, nor must he 

distribute his wealth in a particular way: in short, he has no responsibility beyond paying the 
wages of his workers.  Indeed, while ostensibly sympathetic to the plight of the hungry, the novel 
is somewhat Malthusian in its attitude toward the working poor overall: as Phineas narrates, 

fiNorton Bury was not a large place, and had always an abundance of smallpox and fevers to 

keep the poor down numericallyfl (104).   

 Yet, as the food riot scene demonstrates, the novel also suggests that the landholder has a 

vested interest, even in the absence of a moral responsibility, in not ignoring the needs of those 

who are beneath him socioeconomically.  Accordingly, Mill™s model stipulates that, while the 

landholder can do as he wishes with the profits (including any produce) he garners from the land, 
his use of the land itself must still somehow benefit the community as a whole by either 
providing a service/commodity or upholding common access to the land:  fi[–] but with regard 

to the land, and everything which he [the landholder] does with it, and in everything which he 
abstains from doing, he is morally bound, and should whenever the case admits be legally 

compelled, to make his interest and pleasure consistent with the public goodfl (Mill 239-40).  

In contrast to John™s more paternalistic approach to protecting and enforcing the rights of 

landholders while ensuring the well-being of the population in general, Lord Luxmore 

demonstrates the sense of entitlement among the nobility that is ultimately causing their 

downfall.  John™s better suitability as a public leader, as opposed to the high-born and politically 
powerful Luxmore, is highlighted by the difference in how they regard land and how their 
 119 subsequent actions concern the public good: while John is always thinking of how his actions will affect the community as a whole, Luxmore 
acts only according to his own interests.  For example, after John successfully lobbies to prevent Luxmore™s corrupt candidate from being 

elected to Parliament, Luxmore retaliates by rerouting the stream that provides power for John™s 

mill at Enderly.  By depriving the mill of its power source, Luxmore not only affects John™s 

livelihood but also that of the mill™s workers.   

 This moment in the novel foregrounds one of the key shifts in the period with regard to 

how private land use is interpreted: in Mansfield Park, using a stream to feed decorative 
fountains on an estate would not have been seen as a moral issue, largely because the novel 

would not have acknowledged that anyone depended on or had rights to the stream beyond those 
whose property it touched.  The issue of how rerouting the stream might affect workers would 
not have been a concern because the workers are absent from that narrative.  However, the 

Victorian realist novel, which strives to represent society in a more comprehensive manner, takes 
into account the laborers because, unlike in Austen™s narrative, they are now visible.  This idea is perhaps best illustrated by the moment when John goes to the Luxmore Arms where, because the 

voters have been bribed, Gerard Vermilye is about to be elected to Parliament.  The room is 

described as follows: fiSir Ralph Oldtower, who was sheriff, sat at a table, with his son, the grave-looking young man who had been with him in the carriage, near them were Mr. Brithwood 

of the Mythe, and the Earl of Luxmorefl (294).  The run-on sentence suggests an attempt at 

representing the gentry as dominating the room: they are the first thing described as John enters 

the parlor, and the string of clauses suggests a fullness, or a larger-than-life inability to be 
contained.  However, the next paragraph begins with, fiThe room was pretty well filled with 
farmers™ laborers and the likefl (294).  The succinctness of this sentence contrasts with the 
 120 preceding one describing the gentry, which serves to jar the cadence of the passage.  As the passage continues, the laborers appear to slowly encroach upon the dominion of the gentry.  For 

instance, although the passage does not at this point mention that the laborers are making any 

noise, Brithwood snarls, fiLess noise there! [–] Silence, you fellows at the door!fl (294).  As this 
exclamation seems unprovoked in that no mention has been made of the crowd being noisy, 

Brithwood™s reprimand suggests that he is fearful of the crowd™s potential to become a mob.   

 As the passage goes on, the laborers become increasingly noticeable: fiA murmur arose 

from the crowd of mechanics and laborersfl and continues to get more audible until fia loud cheer 

[breaks] from the crowd at the door and under the open windows, where, thick as bees, the 

villagers had now collectedfl (296-7).  The passage goes on to note that fiThey, the unvoting, and 
consequently unbribable portion of the communityŠbegan to hiss indignantly at the fifteen 

unlucky voters,fl and Sir Ralph filisten[s] uneasily to a sound, very uncommon at elections, of the 

populace expressing an opinion contrary to that of the lord of the soilfl (297).  The passage opens with the gentry controlling the room but ends with them being overwhelmed and outnumbered 
by the commoners, who seem to be so numerous that they spill out of the parlor.  The diction of 

the passage represents the way that the aristocracy is compelled to take notice of the laborers and 

how such commoners are beginning to affect political
 decisions.  It is interesting that Sir Ralph characterizes the gentry as fithe lord[s] of the soilfl because it gestures toward how wrapped up 
land is in political matters: men needed to own land to vote, and the voters (who are 

characterized specifically as farmers and laborers) work in the soil.  It seems to give the phrase 

new meaning, alluding to the shift in power that is taking place.   This narrative encroachment of 

the commoners upon the gentry takes place in tandem with John™s choice to exercise his rights as 

a freeman of his borough.   
 121  To return to the issue of the stream being rerouted, the novel makes it clear that it is 
John™s appreciation for the importance of both private ownership and public usage of land that 

qualifies him to be a leader and part of the new, merit-based aristocracy model being proposed.
  John™s concerns about how his workers will manage on the reduced pay that would accompany 

the mill being shut down for three days a week contrasts with Luxmore™s use of the stream to 

produce decorative fountains on the grounds of his estate: John™s use of the stream, while serving 

his own interests, also serves those of the community, whereas Luxmore™s use serves only 

himself, and for a vain reason at that.    

 While the descriptions of the countryside in 
Mansfield Park emphasized its purpose as a 
site of leisure for the privileged, land in 
John Halifax is beautiful and functional.  Indeed, when Lord Luxmore reroutes the stream, its aesthetic value decreases at the same rate as its 

functionality: Phineas narrates, fiVery often Muriel and I followed him [John], and spent whole 
mornings in the mill meadows.  Through them the stream on which the machinery depended was 
led by various contrivances, checked or increased in its flow, making small ponds, or locks, or 
waterfalls.  We used to stay for hours, listening to its murmur [–]fl (325).  Though the first 

description acknowledges the artificiality of the stream (ficontrivancesfl), Phineas also indicates 

that he and Muriel find it pleasing to the senses as well.  The stream thus mingles economically 

profitable mechanisms and structures with more organic aspects of the outdoors that can be 

enjoyed solely for their aesthetic value, suggesting that land has a dual purpose in being 
functional and beneficial to the community while also being pleasing to look at.   

 Accordingly, when Luxmore diverts water from
 the stream in order to power his private 
fountains, the stream is stripped of both its functionality and its aesthetic pleasantness: Phineas 

notes, fi[–] the water courses along the meadows, with their mechanically forced channels, and 
 122 their pretty sham cataracts, were almost low or dry.  It ceased to be a pleasure to walk in the 
green hollow, between the two grassy hills [–]fl (332).  What had been a flowing stream with 

fismall pondsfl and fiwaterfallsfl has become a body of fimechanically forced channelsfl and fisham 

cataracts,fl which suggests that the practice of modifying natural formations (such as streams) in 

order to profit from them will succeed only if 
the balance between function and beauty is maintained; otherwise, both aesthetic and economic profit are lost.  Moreover, the ambiguous 

use of the word ficourses,fl which, when applied to water, evokes both the noun describing its 
paths and the verb that indicates a rushing motion, causes the reader to stumble: it first appears 

that the word is being used as a verb (fithe water courses along the meadowsfl), yet the 

subsequent clause reveals that it is being used as a noun (fiwith their mechanically forced 

channelsfl).  This wordplay serves to emphasize the new emptiness of the stream: while the first 

clause calls to mind rushing water, the following one snatches away that image by clarifying that 

ficoursesfl is being used as a noun, and the narrative essentially enacts the draining of the stream 
with grammar and diction.   
 The novel contrasts John™s understanding of the use and purpose of land with that of 

Luxmore again during the economic crash brought on by speculation.  Sir Herbert is appalled 

that Luxmore would allow his estate to fall into fidisgraceful decay,fl and moreover that he had 

begun cutting down the pine woods around Luxmore Hall.  Sir Herbert exclaims, fi‚Woods, older 

than his [Luxmore™s] title by many a centuryŠdownright sacrilege!  And the property being 

entailed, tooŠactual robbery of the heir!™fl (378).  Sir Herbert™s indignation over Luxmore™s 

actions points to both the monetary value of the estate (firobberyfl) as well as its symbolic value 

(fisacrilegefl).  Even Lord Ravenel, while not protesting his father™s actions, still wants to take 

Maud and Walter to see the fimagnificent firs that were being cut down in a wholesale massacre, 
 123 leaving the grand old hall as bare as a workhouse frontfl (443).  The word fiwholesalefl denotes the large scale of the felling while also suggesting that Luxmore is treating the trees as mere 

goods to be sold as opposed to respecting the non-monetary values of their aesthetic and 

symbolic qualities.  fiMassacre,fl in suggesting an indiscriminate butchery rather than deliberate 

action, accordingly indicates that Luxmore is able to clear the trees because he does not see any 

value in them beyond how they can benefit him immediately as timber that he can sell.  

Comparing the hall to a workhouse suggests that the Luxmore estate has had the grandeur taken 

from it; in other words, the symbolism of the estate is quickly stripped away when the owner no 

longer fulfills his duties to those beneath him.   

 As Luxmore has no respect for the symbolism and the gravity of his position as a 

landholder, and Ravenel recognizes himself as being unfit to take on the role, they arrange to 

have the entail cut from the estate just before Luxmore™s death, thus fimaking the whole property 

saleable, and available for the payment of creditorsfl (458).  The estate is accordingly liquidated 
after Luxmore™s death, and Lord Ravenel succeeds to what is now considered an fiempty title,fl 
suggesting that attaining the rank of earl is meaningless if one has no family estate to back it.  

Likewise, the fact that the estate can be broken down and converted into currency for the 
payment of debts indicates that, within the novel, the estate has become little more than another 

saleable good in a capitalistic economy.  Eric Hobsbawm has noted that as the success of 

industry produced a sector of newly wealthy men, entry into the landholding class was 
firelatively easyfl in England if one had enough wealth, yet fithe link between estate-ownership 
and ruling-class status remainedfl (
Revolution 16).  In other words, while the link between owning an estate and having ruling-class status originated when there had been a broad 
educational and economic divide between those born into noble families and those who were not, 
 124 the success of the industrialists and the concurrent decline of the agriculturally- and rent-based economy led to an upset of these established social values: instead of being born into the ruling 

class, which had been composed of the same esteemed family names (more or less) for 

generations, one could now simply purchase an estate and thus buy a place in the ruling class, 

regardless of one™s origins or suitability for social or political leadership.  While Hobsbawm™s 

analysis implies that the newly-rich industrialists were immediately welcomed into the upper 

classes simply because they had money, mid-century novels like 
John Halifax and Bleak House, on the other hand, imply that there was a good amount of social anxiety over the idea that low-

born men could buy their way into political and social prominence by purchasing the estate of a 

fallen noble family, especially in light of the 
fears about democracy brought about by the French 
Revolution. 
 As an institution, the estate, along with its feudalistic and paternalistic associations, is 

most often represented symbolically by the iconic manor house.   However, the manor house is 
also representative of the destructive excesses of the nobility and, as many noble families were 
subsequently unable to maintain their estates, it can be read as signifying the troubling 

purchasability of power in the capitalistic economy as well.  In order to disconnect the new 

merit-based paternalistic estate model from these negative associations, the mid-century novels 

strip the houses of independent symbolic meaning, instead presenting the houses as vessels 

whose meaning comes solely from the actions of their occupants.  In the above discussion of 

Bleak House, I point out how the decay of Chesney Wold reflects the decay of the Dedlock 
family™s relevance within the new social model, and while someone like Rouncewell, the 

successful ironmaster, could have purchased and restored the house as a way of indicating his 

place within the reorganized social hierarchy, it is instead essentially abandoned and left to rot.   125 Despite the political and socioeconomic value of old family estates and their contemporary 
purchasability, as Hobsbawm has pointed out, the house itself appears to have no independent 

worth within the novel; instead, it serves as no more than an uncared for relic of the past.  

 Similarly, 
John Halifax does not represent Beechwood Hall, the figreat house of Enderly,fl as a symbol of John™s financial success; rather, the home is taken on almost as a 

sacrifice so that John can be more accessible to the people who depend on him.  As John and 

Ursula discuss the possibility of moving, he muses, fiWhether now that our children are growing 

up, and our income is doubling and trebling year
 by year, we ought to widen our circle of usefulness [by taking Beechwood Hall], or close it up permanently within the quiet bound of 
little Longfieldfl (363).  This perception of the manor house as an accessible and functional space 

contrasts with the more common representation of it as an isolated space that is used primarily 

for leisure activities, such as the house in Mansfield Park and Chesney Wold in 
Bleak House.  The novel goes on to minimize the usual perks and reasons for taking on a manor house: when 
John™s children express excitement over how the house is such a good investment, the 
opportunities for shooting and fishing they will have on the property, and the prospect of being visited as the family of fiJohn Halifax, Esquire, of Beechwood Hallfl (365), John gently points 

out that those are not among the reasons why he wants to take the house.   

 Instead, John observes that, as one who was once poor, he believes he is best equipped to 

help the poor, and he will be better able to do so as a landholder in a position of influence than as 
a man in modest circumstances.  In fact, he points out that, as a large landholder, he will increase 

the family™s responsibilities and concerns along with their income, and he anticipates no new 

pleasures that will be as sweet as what they are giving up by leaving their small house.  John™s 

son, Guy, responds by arguing that the family 
should enjoy the pleasures that owning an estate  126 affords, such as having fox hounds and throwing balls, and he sees it almost as a duty that the 
family should live within their means and not below them, especially, as everyone in town 

knows that they are the wealthiest family in Enderly (370).  John, however, remains firm in his 

belief that the family should not alienate th
eir less well-off neighbors by flaunting their own fortune, and they continue to live unostentatiously, with the exception of hosting a lavish 
coming-of-age party for Guy; however, along with the local nobility, the party guests include 

fiboth gentle and simple [–], towns people a
nd country people, dissenters and church folk, professional men and men of businessfl (378).   

 As the relative heterogeneity of the guest list suggests, John uses the extravagant party 

not to parade his wealth but rather as a means for both demonstrating and reinforcing the 

qualities that make him a suitable leader in the new feudalistic model, especially as he also gives 

a dinner for the very poor in the mill yard earlier the same day.  The party takes place during the 

stock market crash of 1825, and the narrative emphasizes how the crash devastated fithousands, 
of all ranks and classes,fl leaving many hungry and desperate.  In this context, John™s act of 
serving dinner to so many people from different st
rata of the social hierarchy takes on a special significance; in short, the large manor house is important only in its capacity to literally and 

figuratively allow John to provide for more of the community than he could at Longfield.  While 

the symbolism of the manor house could have been revised and reappropriated for the purposes 

of the novel, just as the feudalistic estate model is, it is instead rendered almost invisible in the 

narrative, which emphasizes its role as a means to achieving more good rather than as a sign of 

success.     
  The main reason John is unaffected while nearly everyone else suffers during the stock 

market crash is that, rather than speculating with his money, John instead invests it in buying 
 127 land: fiHe stopped, gazing with a sad abstraction down the sunshiny valleyŠmost part of which 
was already his own property.  For whatever capital he could spare from his business he never 
sunk in speculation, but took a patriarchal pleasure in investing it in land, chiefly for the benefit 
of his mills, and those concerned thereinfl (376).  While the image of a large landholder gazing 

over his many acres of land usually evokes a impression of possession and domination, John™s 

approach is specifically characterized as one of 
fipatriarchal pleasure,fl indicating that his motives 
in buying up the countryside are grounded in protecting it (and its people) rather than exploiting 
it for his private gain or pleasure.  Unlike Williams™s self-conscious observer, John does not gaze 

upon the land as a way of separating himself from the people who work and live upon it.  In 

contrast to the sheltered walks on the estate grounds taken by the Bertrams in 
Mansfield Park, for instance, John does not limit his travels to ar
eas where he need not look upon laborers and the signs of a working-class presence; instead, he tramps all over the countryside, and he particularly 

enjoys looking on those spots where land features (such as streams) are utilized in a way that 
preserves their beauty while also producing something beneficial to the community as a whole.  
Indeed, as I suggest earlier, it is the combination of walking the landŠknowing it physicallyŠ

and learning to appreciate it aesthetically that makes John into a strong paternalistic leader.  One 

of the ways the novel conveys this idea is through the contrast between the way John enjoys 
scenic views versus the limited scale on which Phineas sees them, as I discuss earlier; 

nevertheless, Phineas is still able to enjoy the aesthetic qualities of the outdoors in his own way, 
and he relishes the beauty of things that are accessible to him, such as individual trees and small 

patches of grass.   
 The women in the novel, on the other hand, are never shown enjoying the aesthetic 

qualities of a scenic view.  The entire Halifax family clearly enjoys being outdoors, but the 
 128 women seem to have a much more limited approach in that they never stop to admire a scenic 
view in its own right; rather, their enjoyment of the outdoors is simply a complement to some 

other activity.  For example, Ursula seems to look at the land in a purely utilitarian manner.  

Early on in the novel, while she is still Miss March, Ursula takes frequent walks in the 
countryside, yet she always takes the same path along the Flat and has never been in the beech 

wood, which contains fern glades, woodbine tangles, and a gurgling stream (161).  She is 
completely unaware of these features until John and Phineas point them out to her, which 

suggests that she takes her walks purely for running errands and getting exercise rather than 
simply enjoying the countryside and its scenery.  Similarly, when Lord Luxmore reroutes the 

stream and causes it to dry up, forcing John to implement his steam engine, Phineas laments that 

it ficeased to be a pleasurefl to walk along the stream anymore, and he goes on to list how the loss 

of the stream has affected his overall enjoyment of the area (332).  Ursula, however, only 

remarks that, fiIt looks desolate, but we need not mind that nowfl (341).   
 Ursula™s above remark reflects her perception of the stream as having a purely practical 
value in that she is able to dismiss the desolation of the empty bed once John™s mill no longer 

depends on the power generated by the stream.  While the experience of learning to see the 

aesthetic qualities of land is valuable for John as it serves as an allegory of sorts for how to be an 
effective social leader within his community, Ursu
la appreciates the components of a scenic view 
only for their practical applications, ostensibly because, as a woman living in the heavily 

patriarchal and paternal social model being proposed by the novel, she has no need for honing 

leadership skills of her own.  Indeed, the narrative often emphasizes how Ursula and John 

generally agree, but when they do not, she is quick to defer to his judgment.  She also takes pride 

in anchoring her own identity in his, such as when she declares that, despite her genteel pedigree,  129 she refuses to be visited as anything but the wife of John Halifax.  Accordingly, her daughters interact with the outdoors in a similarly limited manner: Muriel is blind and thus cannot enjoy 

the outdoors visually at all, and while Maude likes taking long walks, she tends to use them as an 

excuse for visiting with others, such as Lord Ravenel, rather than enjoying the views she 
encounters in their own right.  In short, the novel does not spend much time exploring how 

female characters perceive the land because it is irrelevant within a socioeconomic and political 

model that grounds power in male land ownership.  In this model, women are properly attached 

to strong men who guide their families in a just, compassionate manner, and the better men 

extend out that familial leadership in order to guide the community a whole; good women listen 

to their husbands and fathers, who in turn listen to the men who are above them in the feudalistic 

social hierarchy. 
 The relationship between women and the land is slightly different in the model proposed 

by Bleak House.  While the women in 
John Halifax often spend time outdoors, the women in 
Bleak House tend to remain indoors, but when they do go outside, the occasion is depicted as 
being significant and sometimes fatal.  For exampl
e, Esther goes to stay at Mr. Boythorn™s empty 
house in the country as she recovers from her debilitating illness, and she goes for daily walks 

outdoors not just to enjoy the scenery but also as a vital part of her therapy.  Esther also meets 

the woman who turns out to be her mother, Lady Dedlock, during a walk in the woods that is 

thwarted by a sudden rainstorm.  Later on, they are able to speak frankly about their relationship 

for the first and only time when Lady Dedlock fi
nds Esther alone outdoors.  Lady Dedlock is also known for taking moonlight walks, ostensibly for her headaches, and what is seen as her 

peculiar habit eventually leads to her being accused of murder, which then prompts her to flee 

from Chesney Wold to a miserable death at the gates of a graveyard.  On a related note, Chesney 
 130 Wold is supposedly haunted by an earlier Lady Dedlock who died while taking her daily walk 
outdoors (with difficultly as she had been lamed), and her ghost is said to still pace on the terrace 

outside.  As a final example Hortense (Lady Dedlock™s maid) expresses anger at her mistress by 

stamping barefoot across a wet field in the rain. 

 In all of the above instances, the women go outdoors in order to develop or express 

themselves without the social, physical, and psychological constraints placed upon them when 

they are inside their houses.  However, as the fates of the Lady Dedlocks suggest, the constraints 
of the home are also a type of security, and when a woman leaves them, she is freer yet more 

vulnerable, even if she remains on the grounds of the estate.  In other words, the women in 
Bleak House seem to find the act of being outdoors freeing despite the fact that they remain on the 
private property that is a key component of the 
patriarchal, hierarchical structure from which 
they are ostensibly seeking respite.  However, the novel also calls attention to the struggle for 
dominion over the land that is taking place between the old aristocracy and the rising middle 
class, and the feud between Sir Leicester and Mr. Boythorn about ownership of the path by Boythorn™s house is thus suggestive of a larger problem of uncertainty regarding land ownership.  

While land in 
John Halifax, for instance, has clear boundaries of ownership despite the fact that so much is saleable (and thus available for purchase by John), ownership of property is variable 

and often indeterminate in 
Bleak House: Sir Leicester wants to extend the grounds of Chesney Wold as far as possible, but Boythorn insists that there is a definite boundary where that estate 

ends and his own property rights begin; there is an overall lack of ownership and thus responsibility for Tom-All-Alone™s, which allows it to breed all kinds of pestilence that affects 

the areas surrounding it, effectively extending the slum into the larger community indefinitely; 

John Jarndyce erects a second Bleak House, suggesting both a transfer and an extension of the  131 scope of the original estate property; and of course, the novel hinges on the Jarndyce v. Jarndyce lawsuit, which illustrates the fundamentally impreci
se and unfixed nature of property ownership.    Perhaps it is this state of flux and indeterminacy with regard to who owns the land that 

allows the novel™s women to temporarily break free of their domestic roles in order to do things 

such as express anger, think introspectively, explore their relationships with each other, and heal 
themselves.  For example, while taking her therapeutic walks during her stay at Mr. Boythorn™s, 

Esther also takes pleasure in being able to enjoy the beauties of the outdoors.  Unlike Ursula 
Halifax™s purpose-driven walks, Esther actually stops to admire scenic views she encounters: 

fiThere was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney Wold, where a seat had been 

erected commanding a lovely view.  The wood had been cleared and opened, to improve this 

point of sight; and the bright sunny landscape beyond, was so beautiful that I rested there at least 
once every dayfl (507).  This is one of the few moments in the novel where a character stops to 

look at a scenic view, and it is the only moment involving an outlook that has been designed and 
molded solely for the pleasure of the spectator. 
 In taking the position of the spectator, which was likely designed by and intended for a man, Esther is able to ficommandfl a view and see spaces 

that stretch well beyond the boundaries of her domestic life.  Significantly, it is at this moment 

that Lady Dedlock approaches her in order to confess that she is Esther™s mother, and the two 

have a tender moment before social constraints force them apart and back into their respective 

roles as Sir Leicester™s wife and John Jarndyce™s ward.  Bleak House proposes a revised feudalistic social model that posits merit rather than birth as a qualification for leadership, but 

this model nevertheless maintains the patriarchal component of the social hierarchy.  However, 

the blurry lines of property ownership within the novel transform land into a liminal space in 
which women are temporarily freed from their place in the social hierarchy, and while such 
 132 breaks are presented as being beneficial, they are also dangerous in that, by leaving the confines of the patriarchal social hierarchy, they are also leaving its protections, as Lady Dedlock™s death demonstrates.  When Esther takes the position of the commanding spectator, she does not inhabit 

the role of the paternalistic patriarch, surveying his land and his people, as John Halifax does; 
rather, she uses the moment as an opportunity to physically inhabit the space at the top of the 

social hierarchy, thus temporarily releasing her 
from the duties and constraints of her actual 
place within it and allowing her to feel a bit of freedom.  Rather than containing the countryside 

via the framing tools provided by the intentional setup of the scenic outlook, Esther instead 

allows the view to transport her from her own constraints via the scope and scale of what the 

image presents to her.   
 133 CHAPTER THREE LANDSCAPE, THE PICTURESQUE, AND THE ENCROACHMENT OF THE MIDDLE CLASSES IN THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY   As capitalism and the decline of the aristocracy were transforming rural land into less of 
a birthright for the pedigreed and more of a purchasable product for those with wealth, some 

realist novels, such as those discussed in the previous chapter, posited a model of merit-based 

landholding that coupled the pleasures of owning la
nd with paternalistic responsibility in order to 
address the problem of the displaced rural poor.  This chapter will look at Charlotte Yonge™s 
The Clever Woman of the Family (1865) as an example of a realist novel that is more ambivalent 
regarding the shift of land and the accompanying power to the upwardly mobile classes, and it 

instead attempts to find a solution that allows the gentry to adapt to the new socioeconomic 

circumstances and maintain its position
.  Clever Woman explores how the encroachment of the 
middle classes into the countryside served to complicate the politics of landscape, particularly 

through the popularity of the picturesque, as the newly moneyed were appropriating these modes 
of seeing as a means of gaining ownership of
 the countryside.  I will argue that the novel presents the preservation and appreciation of private landscape as being a crucial means of 

battling the social and economic ills of capitalism, particularly as the picturesque framework 

allows for a feudalistic style of charity that seems necessary amid the exploitation of the poor 

that stems from the free market.  However, the novel also recognizes that resistance to the forces 

of capitalism is futile, so the model it proposes for preserving the position of the landed gentry 

ends up mobilizing the picturesque as a conscious fantasy, in which the gentry enjoys the 

imagery as proof of their continued success without questioning whether the success is real.  
In this novel, the sensitive landscape painter, Mauleverer, convinces Rachel Curtis, a pedigreed woman who resists traditional feminine 
roles and longs to do something useful with 
 134 her life, to embark with him on a charitable undertaking.  Against the advice of her friends and 
family, Rachel partners with Maulever, but he e
nds up being a swindler, and the project ends in disaster for all involved.  Rachel blames hers
elf for being so headstrong, and she suffers a nervous breakdown.  Although she has always been opposed to marriage, her weakened state 

leaves her unable to resist Alick Keith™s proposal, and she only begins to recover from her 

breakdown once she is married.  
The Clever Woman of the Family might seem like an odd choice 
for this study in that the plotlines regarding land ownership and representations of the 
countryside are secondary to that of Rachel being tamed by her new husband.  On the surface, 

the novel is a simple cautionary tale of a woman who has overstepped feminine boundaries and 

needs a man that can rein her in and guide her; however, a closer look reveals that the novel is 

much more complex both structurally and ideologically than it is generally given credit for, 
especially with regard to issues of land ownership and how land is perceived.  Yonge™s novels are largely dismissed as being conventional and didactic at the expense of having literary merit.  
This was true even during Yonge™s own time, as fellow writers such as Charles Dickens and 
Wilkie Collins rejected her as a serious novelist because they saw her as incapable of thinking 
beyond a narrow set of ideas (Shakinovsky 78).  Recent criticism has tried to address this 
problem by, for instance, reading Yonge as exploiting literary convention in order to open space 
for individual reader interpretation and development of unconventional social models and 
characters; other scholars have argued that conventional novels are worthy of being studied regardless of whether they can be interpreted as being subversive or feminist.
 19
  While 
                                                 19 For instance, Susan E. Colón looks at how Yonge™s novels can be read as parables that invite the reader to 
interpret them outside the bounds
 of conventional morality.  
Talia Schaffer has suggested that Yonge™s novels 
should be read as having an ideological structure that, while consciously utilizing parallelism between familiar and 
foreign spaces, is also unconsciously undergirded by a paradigm that posits horticultural handicrafts as a metaphor 
for how foreign spaces might be Anglici
zed and tamed.  June Sturrock has 
suggested that Yonge proposes church involvement not as a mere cons
olation for spinsters but rather as an interesting and necessary alternative to marriage 
that gives women the opportunity to do meaningful work.  Catharine Vaughan-Pow calls attention to how Yonge™s 
 135 enlightening different aspects of Yonge™s work, these approaches do not adequately address the novel™s overall ideological and structural complexity, particularly with regard to the treatment of 

land and landscape.      
 Clever Woman presents a unique perspective on how socioeconomic issues intersect with 
aesthetic ones, particularly with regard to scenic views of the countryside, and it is significant 
that, after briefly introducing the reader to Rachel and her sister, the novel opens with detailed 
information about the family™s estate, including where it is located, what it is worth, and what its 

views are like: Of that home, Grace and Rachel were joint-heiresses, though it was owned by the 

mother for her life.  It was an estate of farm and moorland, worth some three or 

four thousand a year, and the house was perched on a beautiful promontory, 

running out into the sea, and enclosing one side of a bay, where a small fishing-

village had recently expanded into a quiet watering-place, esteemed by some for 
its remoteness from railways, and for the calm and simplicity that were yearly 
diminishing by its increasing popularity.  It was the family fashion to look down 

from their crag at the new esplanade with pity and contempt for the ruined 

loneliness of the pebbly beach [–]. (41) Immediately, the novel is situated as being undergirded by a story about control over the land, 

and the endangered privileges of landholding by the nobility emerge as one of the main points of 

tension.  As the only remaining country gentry in an area that is quickly becoming a popular 

middle-class resort, the Curtises have visual c
onfirmation of how the socioeconomic status of 
those dependent on inherited wealth is shifting in favor of those who have become wealthy as a 
                                                                                                                                                             ostensibly domestic fiction neverthele
ss grapples with global sociopolitical issues and looks at Yonge™s treatment 
colonialism as a paradox of nation-building.   
  136 result of industrial and market involvement.  Mrs. Curtis attempts to keep her daughters away 
from the society of the resort as much as possible, and while the narrator allows for the 

possibility that fiperhaps there was more of timidity and of caution than of pride in the mother™s 

exclusivenessfl (41), her marked displeasure over how
 the resort has ruined her view of the ocean indicates that she resents the new residents largely for inhabiting land and ruining a scenic view that used to belong to her family.   

 The diction of the above passage accordingly reflects the change in the demographics of 

the countryside by foregrounding the gap between the seclusion that Mrs. Curtis perceives as 
being a right of her station, and the desire of the middle classes, represented by the resort and its 

visitors, to enjoy the traditionally upper-class leisur
e activities and pleasures that they perceive as 
being part of what they have earned in the new economy.  The house is described as being 

fiperchedfl on a promontory, indicating that it sits above the rest of the town and is in a position 

of visual dominance, and the Curtis land fienclos[es] one side of a bay,fl which brings to mind the 
enclosure movement and how it placed the privilege of rural land ownership completely into the 
hands of the aristocracy.  As the highest point in town, the house allows the family to literally 

look down on those who are socially beneath them.  This language suggests that the family, 

while enjoying visual and social dominance over the town, do not actually engage with the 

townspeople in any significant way, treating them in
stead as part of their view.  Yet fiperched,fl in evoking a temporary resting place, also implies that the manor house and what it signifies are 

in a somewhat precarious position with regard to their permanence.   

 The description also points out that the Homestead is an fiestate of farm and moorland,fl 

which suggests a self-sufficient, if contradictory, feudal isolation by characterizing the estate as a property dedicated to traditional agriculture (fifarmfl) while also being largely uncultivated and 
 137 undeveloped (fimoorlandfl).  By failing to elabor
ate on the type and scope of the farming, the 
narrative is able to gesture toward the sentimental idea of an old-fashioned feudal relationship 

between the family and the townspeople without calling attention to specific economic aspects, 

such as what labor is performed and by whom, as this would undermine Mrs. Curtis™s fantasy of 

isolation from her social inferiors.  This r
eading is supported by Raymond Williams™s critique of 
grand manor houses, discussed in Chapter 1, that had grounds designed to create an illusion of fia 

rural landscape emptied of rural labour and of labourers; a sylvan and watery prospect [–] from 

which the facts of production had been erased [–]fl (125).  However, while Williams refers to 

the wealthy wanting to block from sight the exploited people upon whom their wealth was built, 

Clever Woman demonstrates how this dynamic has shifted by the mid-nineteenth century: rather 
than wanting to hide from view an exploited population in order to create the illusion of a self-

sustaining landed nobility, thus allowing the nobility to treat both open and private land as 
belonging solely to them with no sense of obligation to the lower classes, Mrs. Curtis wants to 
block from sight the trappings of the populati
on that is encroaching upon her territory, both socioeconomically and with regard to land ownership, as a means of maintaining the illusion that 

she can sustain her way of life without either bending to capitalism or acknowledging an 

obligation to share the family lands.   

 The estate is presented in a similar manner: by characterizing the estate with the inexact 

value of fiworth some three or four thousand a year,fl the narrative communicates the general 

financial position of the Curtises without making it appear that they are overly concerned with it, 

which is befitting of the nobility in that it seems 
to separate them from the money-making middle 
classes.  Indeed, the very name of the estateŠfithe HomesteadflŠsuggests that it is perceived by 

the family as being the only possible estate of significance in the area, negating the prospect that 
 138 other families might rise to importance and erect their own estates.  To further break down the 
description of the estate, it is noteworthy that it consists largely of a run-on sentence with a 
number of clauses, which serve to obfuscate what exactly is being described: fiIt was an estate of 

farm and moorland, worth some three or four thousand a year, and the house was perched on a 

beautiful promontory, running out into the sea, a
nd enclosing one side of a bay, where a small 
fishing-village had recently expanded into a quiet watering-place, esteemed by some for its 

remoteness from railways, and for the calm and simplicity that were yearly diminished by its 

increasing popularity.fl  This description could have been easily divided into three shorter, 
clearer sentences that would have blended with the novel™s overall syntax style, but the sheer length of the run-on serves to mimic the sweeping scale of the family™s sense of their position as 

the area nobility.  The seemingly unending string of clauses, which describes first the estate and 
the manor house, then the promontory and its relationship to the sea, then finally the fishing 

village turned watering-place, both overwhelm the reader with information and blur the 
distinctions between what is family property and what is part of the view from the family 
property, suggesting that the family perceives all of it as belonging to them.   

 However, this blurring of distinctions also confirms Mrs. Curtis™s concerns about the 

encroachment of the middle classes: their visibility has ruined the family™s fantasy of complete 

dominion over the area, which had been symbolized by the undisturbed view that they used to 

enjoy.  Whereas the family used to have a view of a quaint fishing village, they now see the 

village being commercialized into an increasingly popular vacation spot for the middle classes.
  The watering place does not have the same visual appeal as the old village did, especially as the 

sight of the village served to reinforce the family™s sense of their social position, whereas the 

resort signifies a challenge to it.  Accordingly, the next sentence in the passage reads, fiIt was the  139 family fashion to look down from their crag at the new esplanade with pity and contempt for the 
ruined loneliness of the pebbly beach [–].fl  fiTheir cragfl reinforces how the family™s sense of 
social and visual ownership over the area conflicts with the middle classes™ desire to begin 

exerting ownership themselves, which is symbolized by the finew esplanade.fl  The esplanade 

acts both as a practical means of making the pleasures of the beach accessible to the new 

population and as further visual evidence of the new population™s existence, and the Curtises 
look down on the walkway both figuratively (fiwith pity and contemptfl) and literally.  The 

description goes on to note that the family mourns the beach™s firuined lonelinessfl; firuinfl and 

filonelyfl are both words associated with the picturesque aesthetic and are typically suggestive of 
structures that are decayed and no longer in use.  Yet here they are being used ironically to 
describe the visual effect of a new walkway, indicative of development of the land and extended 
common access to the beauties of the beach.  Because the picturesque was considered a middle 

class movement, the contrast between diction, in
 evoking the picturesque, and the subject of the new walkway calls attention to how the middle classes have spoiled certain aesthetic pleasures 
by commercializing them and making them accessible to large populations.  

 The passage also suggests that Mrs. Curtis wa
nts to preserve the layout and appearance of the land as a means of sustaining the visual illusion of isolation from her social inferiorsŠan 

illusion in which her land and her way of life are not being encroached upon by the middle 

classes and she does not have a responsibility to support the local poor.  Her attempt to sustain 

this illusion of socioeconomic isolation is evidenced by her refusal to allow young ladies from 

the resort to walk upon her land and sketch her views.  When Mauleverer apologizes to Mrs. 

Curtis for having inadvertently trespassed on her land, the narrator remarks,  
 140 These incursions of the season visitors were so great a grievance at the Homestead that Mrs. Curtis highly approved his forbearance, whilst she was 

pleased with his tribute to her scenery, which he evidently admired with an artistic 
eye.  Love of sketching had brought him 
to Avonmouth; and before he took leave, 
Mrs. Curtis had accorded him permission to draw in her little peninsula for which 

many a young lady below was sighing and murmuring. (208) 
Mrs. Curtis controls access to her grounds as a means of enforcing her sense of class privilege, 

especially as the passage reiterates that it is the young ladies who are fibelowfl Mrs. Curtis (both 
geographically and socially) that are being denied permission to sketch there.   Phrases like fiher 

sceneryfl and fiher little peninsulafl emphasize Mrs. Curtis™s sense of ownership over not only the 

land she owns, but also the views visible from her property.  Similarly, the spot the artist has 

chosen to sketch is called Spinster™s Needles, which is a view of  fitwo sharp points of red rock that stood out in the sea at the end of the peninsula, and were especially appropriated by Rachel and Gracefl (210).  fiAppropriatedfl is an interesting word choice in that it conveys that the Curtis family perceives the view as being their private property while also implying that they have 

taken it and made it their own, as opposed to owning it legitimately.  Thus the passage 
demonstrates the family™s sense of ownership over the views while also subtly undercutting their 

ability to make such a claim: even if the Curtis family refuses to acknowledge the middle 

classes™ encroachment onto their land and their privileges, the novel is more clear-sighted about 

the inevitability of change. 

 When the Curtises find out Mauleverer is not a born gentleman but is an artist, they give 

him special privileges that they explicitly would not have accorded another working- or middle-

class stranger.  In presenting Mauleverer as a landscape painter, the novel calls attention to both  141 his unique social position and the fact that this position is what grants him access to the Curtis 
family and their land.  As Julie Codell argues in
 her study of biographical writings on Victorian artists, the popular image of the Victorian artist cast him or her as being thoroughly British, 

hardworking, morally upright, and a model of  fisuccess, decorum, [and] proper manliness or 

femininityfl; this is in contrast to the late eighteenth/early nineteenth-century perception of the 

artist as a morally-questionable charity case who needed to be patronized and monitored by the 

aristocracy (3, 8).  Successful artists were treated as public figures on par intellectually and 
morally with professional writers, scientists, and statesmen, and the quality of one™s artwork was 

strongly associated with the quality of one™s moral fiber, making artists seem like safe company 

(2, 8).  Consequently, artists had a high degree of social mobility, even among the upper classes, 

regardless of their pedigree.  This mobility is made evident in the novel as Mrs. Curtis permits 

Mauleverer, who is a stranger, to sketch on her grounds despite the fact that he had been found 
trespassing on her land.      Along with the artist™s unique social position, the traditional relationship between patrons 
and artists allows Mrs. Curtis to deny the middle-class young ladies the privilege of sketching on 

her grounds while giving it to Mauleverer without contradicting her social values.  Yet despite 
the tradition of commissioning a painter to produce pictures of one™s estate grounds, Mrs. Curtis 

is reluctant to have copies made of her private views.  She allows Mauleverer to sketch on her 

grounds as a reward for helping to rescue a dog, and she very much admires the first drawing he 

makes, but she is shocked when he asks for permission to sell the pictures as doing so fihardly 

agreed with her exclusive notions of privacyfl (222).  Once Mauleverer sees how taken aback she 
is, he apologizes and explains that he enjoys using the proceeds of his picture sales in order to help the poor, in the small way in which he is able.  Mrs. Curtis immediately retracts her 
 142 disapproval and remarks, fiIf it is for a charity, I am sure some of our friends would be very glad 
to take some sketches of our scenery; they have been begging me this long time to have it 

photographedfl (223).  She goes on to tell Rachel, fiI should like to have that drawing myself, it 

would please your aunt so much, if we sent it to herfl (223).  Her discomfort with the idea of 

selling depictions of her private views is mitigated only by the knowledge that such pictures will 

be purchased by her and not via the open market, that they will be given to her intimates and not 

distributed to strangers, and that the proceeds will go to charity and not to enrich the artist 
himself.   

 The next day, Mauleverer leaves the finished watercolor painting at the Curtis™ door, 

fihandsomely mountedfl and filooking so grand and meritorious that poor Mrs. Curtis became 

much troubled in mind whether its proper price might
 not be five or ten guineas, instead of the one for which she had mentally bargainedfl (223).  She also worries that Mauleverer will now 

expect her to buy an entire series of drawings as he is already out making another sketch when 
she finds the first picture.  When Rachel attempts to resolve the issue by asking him outright how 
much the drawing is worth, she is fimet with 
a profession of ignorance of its value, and of readiness to be contented with whatever might be conferred upon his projectfl (223).  In the end, 

the narrative does not disclose how much Mauleverer is paid for the painting, or whether he is 

paid at all, as Rachel gets so wrapped up in discussing the school project with him that she never 
returns to the topic.   
 This passage brings up two important aspects of the shift in the socioeconomic power 

dynamic as it relates to landscape paintings.  First, the passage calls attention to how Mrs. Curtis, 

as the upper-class patron, no longer has firm control over the content, audience, or price of what 

the artist produces because the art market now has more influence than she does.  While 
 143 Mauleverer acts as if Mrs. Curtis is in control of what he does with the painting, he easily manipulates her into allowing him to sell it, and while he professes that he will allow her to set 

the price for the picture, her concerns over how much she will have to pay demonstrate that the 

market is really in control of the price: Mrs. Curtis knows that she must pay Mauleverer close to 

what he could get by selling the painting publicly if she is to prevent him from distributing the 

representations of her private views to strangers.  Furthermore, her worries about possibly being 
obligated to purchase a series of drawings indicate that Mauleverer is ultimately in control of the 

content of what he paints with regard to the subject and the quantity of images, and if she wants 

to keep her views private, she must continue to purchase whatever he produces, or she risks the 

images going to the market for public consumption.  With this passage, the novel draws attention 

to the relatively new position of the artist as being commercially driven.  As Codell points out, 

debates about the role of the market in the production of artwork emerged in the eighteenth 

century, and there was an fientrenched, residual hostility to commercial demands in art 
productionfl during that time (10-11).  It was not un
til the Victorian period that artists were able to openly participate in the market without being seen as charlatans.  Codell attributes this shift 

in cultural attitudes to contemporary growth in the art public, which was brought about by the 

legal, social, and economic changes that made distinguished art and literature more accessible to 

the middle and working classes, and the drive for national acculturation through canonical art 

and literature, fueled by the prevalent Whig belief that fievery person had the capacity for 

aesthetic appreciation or a potential for appreciation that could be educatedfl (7).  Even those 
who opposed the ficontaminationfl of art by commercial interests, such as Ruskin, nevertheless 

acknowledged the Victorian artist™s ficomplex and contradictory place in capitalismfl (11).   
 144  Second, the passage calls attention to how paintings and other landscape depictions can 
affect the value, interpretation, and even ownership of the land.  Mrs. Curtis™s scruples about 
commissioning any representations of her vi
ews, including via photograph, despite being fibeggedfl by her friends, suggests that she is uncomfortable with the idea of disseminating such 

images.  Her discomfort brings to mind Nanc
y Armstrong™s discussion of the strength of the 
ficopyfl as a semiotic substitute during this period.  Regarding the reproducibility and wide 

dissemination of visual representations, and par
ticularly representations of the countryside, Armstrong argues,  
[–] to those early Victorians who first turned to the literature of the picturesque 

for a style of home and garden that would properly reflect their newly won 

prosperity [i.e., the middle classes], the countryside provided a model that could 

be reproduced in part and on a smaller scale to serve as a refuge from one™s 

business in the city.  In the hands of photographers [–], the substitution of the visual representation for the object represented was complete, and the countryside 
served as raw material for photographs that consumers could enjoy at exhibitions, 

in galleries, and even in the comfort of their own homes (33).   
Armstrong™s point indicates that if Mrs. Curtis a
llows paintings or photographs to be taken of her estate and her private views, she risks having the aesthetic charms of her property being 

transformed into something purchasable by the middle classes, thus stripping the property of the 

exclusivity that she is trying to maintain.  Likewise, participating in the art market, even 

indirectly, would go against Mrs. Curtis™s values as the enterprise is linked with capitalism and 

the loss of her class™s former way of life. 
 145 While Mrs. Curtis is pleased with Mauleverer™s admiration of her views because he is an 
artist, she denies access to the middle-class young ladies, who are likely sketching as part of the 

picturesque trend, when they express the same kind of admiration.  She refers to their trespassing 

as an fiincursion,fl suggesting that Mrs. Curtis sees the young ladies not only as trespassers but as 
enemies poised to conquer her land.  In allowing the artist access to her grounds in order to 

sketch them, Mrs. Curtis is participating in the aristocratic tradition of commissioning an artist to 

paint pictures of the family estate, but if she allows the middle-class young ladies to sketch as a 

leisurely pastime, she will relinquish yet another privilege of her class.  Moreover, by allowing 

the women to sketch on her land, she would be permitting them take on the role of spectators of 

privileged, private, aristocratic landscape viewsŠviews in which the young women currently 

serve as ornamental objects, if vexing and unapp
ealing ones.  Given the contemporary historical 
context of what has been characterized as an fiaesthetic democracyfl (Dowling xiii), which refers 

to the arts movement that strove to make art more accessible to a wider public, the novel™s 
emphasis on Mrs. Curtis™s protectiveness toward her scenic views is especially significant 
because it suggests she wants to reserve not just land but landscape as a birthright, as something 
that cannot be acquired on the market. If she allowed the young women to walk upon her 

grounds and sketch her landscapes, Mrs. Curtis would thus be supporting a  fidemocratizationfl of 

ownership of the countryside, essentially promoting the middle-class women to social equals, if 

not allowing them to take over effective ownership of the countryside outright.  Furthermore, by 

preventing the young women from sketching on her land, Mrs. Curtis reinforces the role of 

women as consumers rather than producers of landscape: while it is acceptable for a male artist 

to draw landscapes on her land, it would be deemed socially inappropriate for her to allow a 

female artist the same privilege.         
 146  The conflict over land is not limited to preventing the middle classes from encroaching 
on the privileges of the landed nobility, though; like other mid-century realist novels, 
Clever Woman also looks at the moral concerns regarding reserving land for purposes of private 
aesthetic enjoyment when it could be used to help the local poor in some way.  The poor in this 

novel are less visible than the rioting workers in other realist novels, however, and that is the 
crux of the problem.  The novel focuses its attention on the plight of child lace-makers who, due 

to an oversupplied lace market, work for very little money in miserable conditions.  At Mrs. 

Kelland™s establishment, the children work for ten hours a day in what is described as a fiblack-

hole under the stairs,fl with just enough space for them to sit (100-1).  The children™s labor is 

largely unseen, taking place within one of the quaint cottages in the village, and this concealment 

allows the trade to be romanticized in terms of the picturesque aesthetic and as part of the 

ficonventional pastoral imageryfl that John Barrell has identified as what artists and their 

audiences fiwished to believe was the actuality of rural lifefl (
Dark Side 23).  Lace-making is thus 
popularly perceived by the townspeople as a charming remnant of a simpler way of life, 
especially as the lace is handmade when so many goods are mass produced by machines and, as 

the town continues to grow as a middle-class vacation area, very little remains of the quaint 

fishing village that people remember.  Rachel sees firsthand how the sentimentalization of lace-

making creates consequences for the child workers in that it disseminates a fantasy version of 

rural poverty and excuses those in better circumstances from attempting to remedy the situation: 

she calls this fithe selfishness of willfully sentimental illusionsfl (322).  She also sees how such 
fiwillfully sentimental illusionsfl further serve the interests of the moneyed by allowing them to 

buy cheap lace without qualms: as the narrator points out, fiPeople who did not look into the 

circumstances of their neighbours thought lace furnished a good trade, and by no means wished 
 147 to enhance its pricefl (231-2).  Rachel is one of the few people concerned about the welfare of the girls, particularly as they are prevented from attending school, and she wants to educate them 

and help them find better ways of making a living.  She understands that there is nothing 

charming or picturesque about the girls™ existence, and she longs for a traditional feudalistic 

social model
20 in which she, as part of the landed gentry, can provide relief in the form of good 
employment, education, and leadership to the local poor, but because the lace-makers are 

employed in a capitalistic enterprise over which she has no control, all Rachel can do is read to 

them while they work.            
  One way Rachel could help the girls would be to fund apprenticeships in better paying 

trades, but she is thwarted by her mother™s refusal to develop the family lands for more money.  

Mrs. Curtis owns the fiBurnaby Bargain,fl a small piece of land that a Curtis ancestor placed in 

trust over two hundred years earlier for the purpose of apprenticing poor children to a trade.  
Although the value of the land has risen considerably since the trust was established, the rent collected has remained the same, resulting in artificially low proceeds that can no longer cover 
the tuition required by expert tradespeople.  The only apprenticeship that has low enough fees for 
the trust is lace-making, so the family™s ficharitable workfl is actually perpetuating the miserable 

circumstances that it seeks to relieve.  Rachel remarks that the Burnaby agreement fibelongs to a 

worn-out state of thingsfl (216), which gestures to how she believes that the traditional feudalistic 
model no longer works due to the economic changes brought about by capitalism and the free 

market.  Indeed, Rachel laments how fioverwork, 
low prices, and middle-menfl have turned lace-
making into ill-paying work despite the skill required to produce it, and she declares, fiThe only 

means that seems to me likely to mitigate the evil [–] would be to commence an establishment 
                                                 20 Of course, Rachel™s vision of an idealized feudalistic 
relationship between the landed gentry and the poor is a 
fantasy as well, as I will discuss later.  
 148 where some fresh trades might be taught, so as to lessen the glut of the market, and to remove the 
workers that are forced to undersell one another, and thus oblige the buyers to give a fairly 
remunerative pricefl (224).  Rachel™s heavy and uncharacteristic use of economic terminology in 

this passage purposely resists the idea of lace-making as a remnant of a pastoral, romanticized 

past while also placing blame primarily on the market for the children™s misery.    

 Despite her wish to undo the evils of the market, Rachel believes that developing the 

Burnaby land and raising its rent to make it consistent with current market values would better 

carry out her ancestor™s intentions in placing the land in trust.  The increased rent would fund a 
good education for the apprenticed children, yet the land sits untouched with rents well below 
market value only because, as Rachel puts it, fiit would break my mother™s heart to see it built 

onfl (269).  Rachel goes on to remark, fiYou know how well it [the Burnaby land] looks from the 

garden-seat, but it always grieves me when people admire it, for I feel as if it were thrown awayfl 

(269).  Because the undeveloped Burnaby land is best viewed from the specific position of the 
Curtis™ garden bench, the passage suggests that Rachel is describing a landscape, even though she does not identify it as such.  Accordingly, the Burnaby view is a class privilegeŠone must 

have permission to access the Curtis™ property and the leisure to linger on a garden seat in order 

to enjoy itŠand it features land that has been left undeveloped for aesthetic purposes, which 
serves to represent and reinforce the status of the family, especially in an area where housing 

shortages have made land particularly valuable.  The Burnaby land thus encapsulates the tension 

between the landed gentry™s desire to preserve certain lands for their private aesthetic enjoyment 

in the form of landscape views, particularly amid 
increased pressure to share such privileges with 
the upwardly mobile middle classes, and their moral obligation to assist the local poor.      
 149  Despite her mother™s fondness for the Burnaby land and what it represents about the 
family™s social position, Rachel sees it only as waste, as something fithrown away,fl because she 

believes such aesthetic pleasures are an unnecessary indulgence, particularly when they come at 

the expense of aid for the poor.  For her, the landscape view serves as a symbol of suffering 

rather than as a source of pleasure, and she looks at other types of scenic views in these terms as 

well.  When she remarks that she longs to travel, for example, she specifies that she wishes to go 

to Scotland only for the purpose of better understanding an educational model practiced there, 

and the only other places she would like to visit are fithe Grand Reformatory for the Destitute in 

Holland, and the Hospital for Cretins in Switzerlandfl (164).  Alick, her future husband, teases 
her by responding, fiScotch pedants, Dutch thieves, Swiss goitresŠI will bear your tastes in mindfl (164).  The joke is that Rach
el has no fitaste,fl per say: while others travel to such locations specifically to enjoy landscape, she rejects aesthetic pleasure in favor of visiting sites that cater 
to marginalized and poor populations, suggesting that the two activities are mutually exclusive.  
For Rachel, one can be interested either in scenic views or in aiding needy populations because she sees the aesthetic not only as a waste of resources but also as a sym
bol of how the poor suffer the sake of pleasures for the moneyed.   

 When Rachel gets the opportunity to open a charitable school in partnership with the 

landscape painter Mauleverer, whom she believes to be a fellow philanthropist, she is thrilled 

that she will finally be able to offer support to the lace-making girls in the paternalistic style she 

desires.  The plan is to enroll the girls in the new school and apprentice them to learn 

woodcutting, a practical skill that will allow them to earn a living wage, while also giving them 

an education appropriate for their station.  After some fundraising and personal sacrifices, Rachel 
opens the school and apprentices three former lace-makers, who will be supervised by a matron 
 150 and taught by Mauleverer.  The school™s location in another town prevents Rachel from 
overseeing the students herself, so after a few weeks, Mauleverer brings her a pair of woodcuts as a sample of the learning and work being done by the girls.  Because Rachel is invested in 

combating the picturesque imagery that depicts lace-making as a charming occupation, she is 
especially pleased that the woodcuts feature an exposé of lace-making conditions, and she is 

thrilled to show them off to her skeptical friends as proof of the good work being done at the 

school:  They [the woodcuts] were entitled fiThe free maids that weave their thread with 

bones,fl and one, called the fiIdeal,fl represented a latticed cottage window, with 
roses, honeysuckle, cats, beehives, and all conventional rural delight, around a 
pretty maiden singing at her lace pillow; while the other, yclept the fiReal,fl 

showed a den of thin, wizened, half-starved girls, cramped over their cushions in a 
lace-school.  The design was Mr. Mauleverer™s, the execution the children™s [–]. (322) The narrator notes that, upon seeing the woodcuts, Fanny Temple gives fimuch admiration, 

declaring that no one ought to wear lace again without being sure that no one was tortured in making it, and that when she ordered her new black lace shawl of Mrs. Kelland, it should be on 

condition that the poor girls were not kept so very hard at workfl (322-3).  This line confirms that 
Fanny had hitherto purchased lace without knowing how it was produced, and while her plan to 
spare the workers seems naïve, it also suggests that the imagery of the fiIdealfl woodcut is 

familiar enough to her that it does not seem ridiculous or overly exaggerated.  The pervasive 

picturesque fantasy of the happy laborer has allowed Fanny, an otherwise kind-hearted woman, 
to purchase lace and thus support the system of exploitation of impoverished children without 
 151 guilt (322).  Fanny™s shock at seeing the fiRealfl imagery contrasted against the fiIdealfl 
demonstrates that she now believes the fiRealfl image to be the more accurate one, and so the 

woodcuts are doing exactly what Rachel had hoped they would do: they undermine the 

picturesque imagery that romanticizes lace-making while also representing the good she has 

done by rescuing the girls from the capitalist lace system and enrolling them in her paternalistic 

school project.    
  It is ironic, then, that the woodcuts end up being part of the picturesque imagery that they 

appear to be combating.  While Fanny, who is known to be gullible, believes in the authenticity 

of the woodcuts, the rest of Rachel™s friends look at them skeptically because they recognize the 
imagery as being part of the popular picturesque aesthetic with which they are all familiar.    

When Alick asks Rachel to rub water on the fiIdealfl woodcut in order to test its authenticity, the 

image begins to dissolve and peel away, revealing that the engravings are counterfeit and that the 

images have been cut from a popular news magazine.  The discovery that the woodcuts are fake 
is a turning point for Rachel as she begins to understand that she has been fooled by the same 
picturesque imagery that she condemns others for indulgingŠthe fiwillfully sentimental 

illusionsfl that allow the poor to be exploited.  While she had thought that the woodcuts were 

exposing the popular fallacy of the happy rural laborer, they were actually indulging her own 
version of this fantasy: that of an idealized feudal order in which the ills of capitalism are 

vanquished by a return to paternalistic support of the poor.  As Raymond Williams points out in 
The Country and the City, the idea of such a happy relationship having ever existed between the landed gentry and the rural poor is part of a cultural tendency to idealize the past, particularly the 
pre-capitalist past, as a more natural or moral economy, and he argues that historical versions of 

this type of feudalism were actually fias hard and as brutal as anything later experiencedfl in 
 152 capitalist economies (37).  In light of Williams™s observations, it is unsurprising that Rachel ends 
up discovering that her school is actually a facade for an even crueler lace-making establishment 

than Mrs. Kelland™s: the girls confess that they are routinely starved and beaten for not producing enough lace, and Mauleverer keeps all the school™s wealth and comforts for himself.   
Even though the images on the woodcuts were cut from a popular magazine, making 
them a direct product of the popularized picturesque aesthetic, Rachel is unable to recognize 

them as such due to her disinterest in landscape and scenic views.  Because rural landscapes, 

such as the celebrated view of the Burnaby land, are admired for their picturesque qualities, 

those who enjoy looking at them are undoubtedly familiar with the picturesque aesthetic and its 

popular imagery, even if only to lament how the commercial dissemination of such imagery has 

ruined the picturesque by making it banal.  Rachel dismisses the enjoyment of landscape and the 

picturesque as being a waste of resources and a cause of suffering for the poor, but she does so without ever having studied what she condemns.  
Thus while she is aware of how the picturesque aestheticŠwhat she calls fiwillfully sentimental illu
sionsflŠcontributes to the exploitation of the 
lace-makers, she is unfamiliar with its attendant imagery, so when she sees it on the woodcuts, 

she fails to recognize the images as conventional, commercialized art.  Accordingly, when 

Colonel Keith points out that the images on the woodcuts look familiar, Rachel, believing the 

artwork to be a genuine representation of the work being done by the girls, insists that they must 
be fia satire on conventional picturesfl because she is too unfamiliar with the genre to recognize 

the images as complying with the conventions rather than resisting them (323).  It is not until the 

fiIdealfl image literally dissolves before her eyes that Rachel begins to realize she has been taken 

in by the very picturesque imagery that she has been working to combat.  The result of this 

sudden awakening for Rachel is a complete loss of faith in her own judgment. 
 153  In this light, the novel is not telling the conventional story of an out-of-control woman 
who must be broken and tamed by marriage, as it is most often read; rather, it is telling a story of 

a woman who is victimized because she does not know how to interpret the picturesque 

aesthetic.  The novel demonstrates how this process occurs through her interactions with 

Mauleverer.  Despite featuring an artist character and concerning itself so heavily with aesthetic 
matters, 
Clever Woman uses relatively little painterly diction and imagery in its depictions of the 
countryside, and it does not discuss works of art or styles of landscape painting directly.  In Realism, Representation, and the Arts in Nineteenth-Century Literature, Alison Byerly describes the prominent place that is held by paintings in the realist novel, and she goes so far as to suggest 

that a defining characteristic of the genre is allusion to and discussion of artwork (2).  Byerly points out that realist novels demonstr
ate an apparent distrust of art that is rooted in how it can be used to deceive, yet they also consciously use painterly diction in order to evoke fia non-literary 
mode of description and representationfl (3).  Byerly suggests that the most common purpose of 
this non-literary mode in realist novels is to call attention to a particular passage and perhaps 
showcase the writer™s aesthetic taste, yet such moments also fitend to efface the narrative voicefl 

by separating the passage from the sphere of realism via the shift to language that is more 

consciously refined and affected, which in turn serves to confirm the realism of the rest of the 
narrative by comparison (3-4). 

 By applying Byerly™s analysis to 
Clever Woman, however, it becomes clear that the 
novel™s sparse use of the finon-literary modefl serves a different purpose overall: rather than 

consciously using painterly diction and imagery as a means of either highlighting key passages 

or contrasting with the plainer language of the less-refined, more firealisticfl parts of the 

narrative, the novel instead tends to weave them into the narrator™s standard manner of 
 154 storytelling, causing such moments to blend into the general narrative.  Thus instead of 
interrupting the narrative and effacing the narrative voice, the diction melds with the narrative 

voice and overtakes it in way that makes it seem as though the language is being generated by 

the character.  A passage that illustrates this is when Rachel walks with Mauleverer (who is at 
this time still just fithe strangerfl) after they rescue the dog.  The narrator makes the reader privy 

to Rachel™s thought process as she sizes up Mauleverer: fiStill the gentleman himself was far 

from objectionable, in appearance or manner; his ai
r was that of an educated man, his dress that 
of a clergyman at large, his face keen.  Rachel 
remembered to have met him once or twice in the 
town within the last few days, and wondered if he could be a person who had called in at the lace 
school [–]fl (207).  Surmising that he might be
 a fellow philanthropist, she decides that, even though he is fione of the casual visitors, against whom her mother had such a prejudicefl (206), 

she is pleased nevertheless that the incident with the dog had procured her an introduction to 
him:   
So she [Rachel] thawed a little, and did not leave all the civility to Miss Keith, but 
graciously responded to the stranger™s admiration of the views, the exquisite framings of 

the summer sea and sky made by tree, rock, and rising ground, and the walks so well laid 

out on the little headland, now on smooth turf, now bordering slopes wild with fern and 

mountain ash, now amid luxuriant exotic shrubs that attested the mildness of Avonmouth 

winters. (207). In the preceding paragraph, the narrator describes Rachel™s thought process while she evaluates 
Mauleverer.  In the above quote, the narrator is still speaking through Rachel™s perspective, but 
now the descriptive details are clearly Mauleverer™s: the flowery language of the passage does 
not correspond with Rachel™s usual utilitarian outlook, and she does not use such terminology or 
 155 notice such details at other times.  Also, the surr
oundings are described with a distinctly painterly eye befitting a landscape artist, especially given that the description begins with a purposeful 

framing of the sea and sky.     

 The pairing of the painterly diction with Rachel™s perspective is odd because the syntax 

makes it seem as though Rachel is the one who is noticing and responding to the imagery rather 

than simply listening to Mauleverer™s praise of it.  In other words, the narrative appears to be 

purposely blurring Mauleverer™s perspective with that of Rachel, particularly given that the 
details could have been attributed to Mauleverer with a simple clarification, such as fi
He pointed out the exquisite framings [–],fl or perhaps by presenting the passage as a dialogue between the 
two.  The ambiguity of the perspective in this passage illustrates how easily she accepts his 

interpretation of the view as her own because she does not realize she is performing an 

interpretationŠshe believes she is seeing the view through her own eyes when her perspective is 
actually being controlled by Mauleverer.  While Mauleverer has not yet painted a representation 
of the view, he has nevertheless created a landscape by guiding Rachel to look at the view according to his own way of seeing it.  The fact that Rachel does not separate her own thoughts 
on the view from Mauleverer™s interpretation suggests that she has unconsciously assimilated to 

his way of seeing it, even down to the exact moments in which he reveals a given detail, which is 

emphasized by the repeated use of the deictic fi
nowfl:  fi[–] the walks so well laid out on the little headland, now on smooth turf, now bordering slopes wild with fern and mountain ash, now 

amid luxuriant exotic shrubs [–].fl  So while 
Rachel is looking at a visually unmediated viewŠ
meaning she is looking at the land itself, and not
 a painting or a photograph of itŠher perception is nevertheless affected by the way Mauleverer presents it to her.  She might think she is looking 

at the view objectively and evaluating it according to her own ideas and understanding, but the  156 diction of the passage shows that Rachel™s perception of it is still being molded by Mauleverer, 
who represents a commercial interest, and it is happening without her knowledge.  For Rachel, 

this lack of understanding of how her perceptions are being swayed ultimately leads to the 

breakdown of her faith in her own judgment when
 she realizes how the images on the woodcuts 
were able to fool her.  
 This moment brings to mind Ruskin™s discussion of seeing versus knowing in Volume I 

of Modern Painters: Ruskin writes, fiFor a man may receive impression after impression, [–] 
and yet, if he take no care to reason upon those impressions, and trace them to their sources, he 

may remain totally ignorant of the facts that produced them [–]: (56).  These principles coincide 

with what Ruskin argues throughout his highly influential Modern Painters, which was published just a few years prior to Clever Woman, but Clever Woman presents an alternative model for how it envisions the responsibilities of the artist versus those of the audience.  Ruskin 

sees a good artist as being inherently more perceptive and noble than his audience, and thus the 
artist must serve as an aesthetic and moral guide to the spectator.  Ruskin claims that great 
landscape painters must do more than simply provide a faithful representation of natural objects 

in order to create a truthful image: they must also figuide the spectator™s mind to those objects 

most worthy of its contemplation, and [–] inform
 him of the thoughts and feelings with which 
these were regarded by the artist himselffl (Vol. I, 47).  Ruskin does admit that the spectator must 

do some legwork in order to appreciate hi
gh artŠordinary powers of observation and intelligence can be made more acute through cultivation, he writes (53)Šbut it is the artist™s 

responsibility to produce truthful paintings of appropriate subjects that, in turn, will guide the 
spectator to a higher plane of thought and understanding.  157  Ruskin goes on to suggest that great artists, rather than leaving the less-enlightened 
audience to its own devices, will use a painting to fitalk tofl the audience and showcase the 
artist™s own keener vision and nobler intelligence, thus allowing the audience to briefly see 
through more educated eyes and leading them to new sensations and ideas (48).  This is not the 

same as using landscape painting as a vehicle for the glorification of oneself, which Ruskin 

characterizes as bad art, or the  fipainter™s taking upon him to modify God™s works at his 
pleasure, casting the shadow of himself on all he 
seesfl (xxvi).  The difference is that, whereas the bad artist depicts natural objects in a way intended to show off his artistic talents and garner 
admiration for himself, the good artist, on the other hand, uses his paintings to help the spectator 

appreciate God™s creations from a fresh and more enlightened perspective.  In Ruskin™s mind, it 

is in this way that good art, in being mediated by the artist, is more fitruthfulfl than art that merely 

imitates a given view or object, however perfectly, as he counts such representations as being 

little better than outright deceptions (20).     Looking at Ruskin™s thoughts on the representational responsibilities of the artist versus 
the interpretive responsibilities of the audience highlights just how different Clever Woman™s approach is to the issue. Ruskin believes that a representation can communicate a particular and 

predictable type of truth to the spectator, and that the responsibility for enlightening the audience 
lies with the artist: he appeals directly to artists to choose their subject matter and methods of 

depiction carefully, and for him, bad artists are t
hose who depict subjects that glorify themselves 
rather than God.  Clever Woman, on the other hand, focuses more on the responsibility of the 
spectator to properly interpret an image, especially since so many artists are motivated by 

something other than a desire to communicate a truth in the representations they produce.  The 

fact that the novel™s chief artist-figure is a crook does not necessarily impugn all artists, but it 
 158 does call attention to their potential to be manipulative and to the fact that, due to the new art 
market, they are often motivated by something other than a desire to represent the truth.  

Throughout the novel, Mauleverer produces pieces of representative art that could arguably meet 
Ruskin™s criteria for truthful depictions: when he admires the view with Rachel, for instance, his 
observations merge with her own stream of thought in a way that is indicative of Ruskin™s 

description of the artist as guide.  Nevertheless, rather than using his power to reveal a moral 

truth, Mauleverer instead abuses not only the contemporary trust placed in artists but also his 
artistic abilities of depiction in order to cheat others into giving him money.   

 In contrast to Ruskin, 
Clever Woman places the responsibility of interpretation on the spectator rather than upon the artist.  Regardless of how truthful or unmediated an artistic 

representation appears to be, it still aestheticizes the subject being depicted by the very act of 

depicting it, and since every depiction is mediated by an artist who wants to appeal to a given 

audience, the novel posits that artistic representations cannot be trusted as reliable sources of information, at least in the sense for which Ruskin argues.  Artistic representations, such as 
picturesque images and landscapes, can serve a purpose, the novel suggests, but in order to 

properly interpret them, one must learn to recognize how aesthetic is an ideological construction.  

Rachel was victimized by Mauleverer because she couldn™t read the meaning of the woodcuts, 

and the tragedy of the school could have been prevented if she had been able to recognize the 
images as belonging to the popular picturesque aesthetic, as her friends were able to do.  

Accordingly, Rachel™s friends largely blame her for the tragedy, and not Mauleverer, because 

Rachel was the one who failed to understand the meaning of the imagery on the woodcuts: Colin 

and Ermine criticize the fiabsurdity of her conductfl (400), and they go on to scorn her for having 

fimanaged matters so sweetly, that they [the court] might just as well try her as him [Mauleverer] 
 159 [–]fl (364).  Alick is the only one who feels sympathy for her, and he takes action by teaching 
Rachel how to properly read the imagery on the woodcuts.    

 Once she understands the significance of the deception and the full tragedy of the school 

comes to light, Rachel suffers a nervous breakdown that leaves her dependent and docile.  Alick 

convinces her to marry him, and once she is his wife, he begins the process of reeducating her as 

a means of helping her both recover from her breakdown and recover faith in her judgment.  

Significantly, this education comes in the form of traveling and introducing her to landscape 

views.  Alick begins by taking Rachel through Wales, where fithe enjoyment of the fine scenery 

might, it was hoped, be beneficial to [Rachel™s] jaded spiritsfl (436), and the chapter opens with a 

long description of a sunset: The level beams of a summer sun, ending one of his longest careers, were tipping 

a mountain peak with an ineffable rosy purpl
e, contrasting with the deep shades of narrow ravines that cleft the rugged sides, and gradually expanded into valleys, sloping with green pasture, or clothed with wood.  The whole picture, with its clear, soft sky, was retraced on the waters of the little lake set in emerald 

meadows, which lay before the eyes of Rachel Keith, as she reclined in a garden 

chair before the windows of a pretty rustic-looking hotel; but there was no 
admiration, no peaceful contemplation on her countenance, only the same weary 

air of depression, too wistful and startled even to be melancholy repose [–]. 

(435) The painterly diction of the description is similar in style to the moment when Mauleverer™s 

observations about the view of the ocean get entwined with Rachel™s own thoughts, but Rachel is alone this time, and her apathy makes it is clear that the observations are the narrator™s alone.  
 160 Rather than being used as a means of contrasting with the firealismfl of the less flowery language 
in the novel, as Alison Byerly suggests that such moments often do, the painterly diction serves 

primarily as a contrast to Rachel™s indifference to the view despite its potential as a source of 

aesthetic enjoyment.  The narrator™s description demonstrates that the view 
can be enjoyed as a picture from the perspective at which Rachel is seeing it; indeed, the language of the passage 

(fithe whole picture [–] which lay before the eyes of Rachelfl) indicates that the view has been presented to Rachel as neatly as if it had been a landscape painting, and the fact that she and 
Alick are touring Wales primarily for the scenery suggests that the view could even be one of 

those outlined and recommended by a guide book.  However, as Rachel looks at the view, she 

does not see the characteristics of a landscape painting as she is unused to admiring and 

evaluating works of art.  Instead, she feels confused as to what she is supposed to find interesting 
about the view.   
 For instance, when Alick asks her if she is enjoying the sunset, Rachel simply responds, 
fiI don™t know.fl (436).  She goes on to say, fiI want to like what you are showing me [–].  IŠI 
don™t know!  I see it is grand and beautiful!  I did love my own moors, and the Spinster™s 

Needles, butŠ.  Don™t think me very ungrateful, but I can™t enter into all thisfl (437).  She 

concludes by crying filike a child unable to learn a lessonfl (437).  Rachel™s broken language, 
peppered with repetition and pauses, is representative of how she has no framework with which 

to interpret the view.  Before she lost faith in her own judgment, she depended on an interpretive 

framework that allowed her to evaluate artistic representations (both tangible, such as a painting, 

and intangible, such as a scenic view that is perceived as a landscape) in a way that ignored their 
aesthetic characteristics in favor of more practical
 concerns.  Rachel would look at scenic views within the framework of the land™s potential for development and its possible use for charitable 
 161 causes.  When Rachel looked at the woodcuts, she judged them not by an aesthetic standard but 
rather by her own understanding of capitalistic labor conditions and, with regard to the woodcuts 
themselves, as proof of how much better her own feudalistic model was.  Now, however, she is 

trying to look at a scenic view as a landscapeŠa purely aesthetic objectŠfor the first time, and 

she does not understand why it is supposed to appeal to her as she has no context for interpreting 
it.  The simile about learning a lesson indicates that, at least at some level, the ability to consider 

a landscape aesthetically and take pleasure in it must be learned.   

 The concept of learning how to look at a representation aesthetically, particularly in the 

form of looking at a scenic view as a landscape, recalls Raymond Williams™s self-conscious 

observer: i.e., one who fiis not only looking at land but who is conscious that he is doing so, as an experience in itself,fl and accordingly divides his observations into fipracticalfl and fiaestheticfl 
(121).  However, Williams describes the self-conscious observer as a product of class privilege 

and exploitation, and this observation sheds light on what happens to Rachel during the process of Rachel™s reeducation.  For example, she begi
ns to look at her surroundings differently when, at the end of their honeymoon, Alick takes her back to the English countryside to visit his uncle: 
fiBishopworthy is happily defended by a Dukery,fl explained Alick, as coming to 

the end of the villas they passed woods and fields, a bit of healthy common, and a 

scattering of cottages.  Labourers going home from work looked up, and as their 

eyes met Alick™s there was a mutual smile and touch of the hat.  He evidently felt 

himself coming home.  The trees of a park were beginning to rise in front, when 

the carriage turned suddenly down a sharp steep hill; the right side of the road 
bounded by a park paling; the left, by cottages, reached by picturesque flights of 
brick stairs; then came a garden wall, and a halt. (439)    
 162 While Alick™s voice is the more prominent one in this passageŠindeed, Rachel is not even 
namedŠthe perspective given is undoubtedly Rachel™s: Alick is said to be 
explaining, which indicates that he™s speaking directly to her, and the observation that he fievidently felt himself at 
homefl (emphasis mine) suggests that we are not be
ing made privy to his thoughts.  Despite the 
perspective being Rachel™s, the diction and content of the passage is quite different from that 

associated with her up to this point in the novel, which suggests that something about her 

perception of the countryside is changing.  The passage is dictated by the movements of the 

carriage, the view being interrupted by its sudden turns and, at the end, even halted by it.  As a 
passenger in the carriage, Rachel is not in control of what she sees, so she cannot separate herself 
so as to take on the role of a detached spectator quite yet, and the description of the way to the 
parsonage is not given as a fipicturefl in that the sights are not deliberately organized: they are 
related as they are perceived.  Nor are the things Rachel notices described in a way to suggest 
that they are particularly striking to her, and the narrator does not attempt to make them striking 
to the reader through vivid, specific, or evocative detail.  However, the fact that Rachel is taking notice of the view at all is noteworthy, especially as she has not been aware of such things until now, and she is noticing specifically picturesque details (fia bit of healthy common,fl fia 

scattering of cottages,fl fithe trees of a park,fl etc.).  In fact, the passage specifically uses the word 
fipicturesquefl to describe the brick stairs, and Rachel perceives a laborer touching his hat to 
Alick; as Clare Simmons points out in her foot
note on this passage in the Broadview edition of the novel, the fitouch of the hatfl is a sign that fiold-fashioned class deference is still in force,fl 
especially given the presence of the Dukery (439, ftnt 1).  As the scene goes on, Rachel sees a 
ficouple of village ladsfl who also touch their caps to Alick, along with such sights as a bounding 
white dog and a snowy cat.  The language and imagery suggest that Rachel is beginning to 
 163 recognize the aesthetic qualities of rural life, particularly rural labor, and she is seeing them as 
part of the picturesque.   
 Once Rachel exits the carriage, she continues to take note of her surroundings, and 

gradually more sensory and spatial details are added to the description: 
Rachel, alighting, saw that the lane proceeded downwards to a river crossed by a 
wooden bridge, with an expanse of meadows beyond.  To her left was a stable-

yard, and below it a white gate and white railings enclosing a graveyard, with a 
very beautiful church standing behind a mushroom yew-tree.  The upper boundary 
of the churchyard was the clipped yew hedge of the rectory garden, whose front 
entrance was through the churchyard.  There was a lovely cool tranquility of 
aspect as the shadows lay sleeping on the grass; and Rachel could have stood and 
gazed, but Alick opened the gate [–]. (439) While the language is repetitive and rather spartan for a scenic view, the amount of detail given 
in this description contrasts with the basic observations Rachel made while riding in the carriage.  
The spatial cues (i.e., fito her left,fl fibelow it,fl fiupper boundary,fl fibehind a mushroom yew-

treefl) signal that Rachel is now noticing how the view is visually organized, which in turn 
indicates that she™s beginning to see the view as a picture, or rather as a landscape.  The 
anthropomorphic line fias the shadows lay sleeping in the grassfl demonstrates that she is also 

beginning to see the view more poetically instead of the purely practical and literal terms in 

which she saw such sights in the past.  Most importantly, however, is the realization that she 

ficould have stood and gazedfl as it indicates that, unlike the frustration she suffered while trying 
to enjoy the scenic views in Wales, she is beginning to understand how to appreciate the 

aesthetic characteristics of a landscape, and specifically a rural, picturesque landscape.  In doing  164 so, she also begins to exhibit characteristics of the self-conscious observer in that her impulse is 
to stop and gaze, which, in tandem with her attempts at framing the view as a landscape, 

effectively distances her as a spectator both positionally and intellectually. 
 Alick eventually presents an alternate plan for setting up the school of Rachel™s dreams, 

which involves working with a new family lawyer, a man who shares Rachel™s philanthropic 

bent and knows how to navigate around the legal restrictions on the Burnaby land without 
developing it, so as to raise the rent on it and fund a school (433).  Shortly before Alick marries 

Rachel and begins her aesthetic reeducation, he describes a plan that would allow them to 

implement the school in tandem with a new convalescent home.  When Rachel realizes how 

successful her school could have been if she had not misread the imagery on the woodcuts, she 

begins to cry, and the narrator describes her feelings: fiThe prayer of her life had been for action 
and usefulness, but when she had seen the shadow in the stream, her hot and eager haste, her 

unconscious detachment from all that was not vi
sible and material had made her adhere too 
literally to that misinterpreted motto, 
laborare est orare.  How then should her eyes be clear to discern between substance and shadow?fl (434).  By comparing Rachel™s impulsiveness to 

attempting to catch a shadow, the passage nicely sums up the problem of rejecting an education 

in aesthetic principles in favor of concerning oneself with material problems: i.e., if Rachel had 
been taught to understand the visual tricks played by shadows, she would have been better 
prepared to make a practical judgment before jumping into the metaphorical river.  The diction 

of the passage indicates that this is the precise moment when Rachel understands that she needs 

to learn how to read aesthetic imagery so that she will be able to develop sounder judgment 

overall, which she characterizes as knowing the difference between fisubstance and shadow.fl  
Her fiunconscious detachment from all that was not visible and materialfl alludes to how, until 
 165 this point, she had been unaware of the ways in which the eye can be tricked by picturesque imagery that seems to represent the truth but is actually slanted by the inherent romanticization 

by which the picturesque is characterized.   
 The passage also seems to present a paradox in that Rachel desires that her fieyes be clear 

to discern between substance and shadowfl so as to undo the problems caused by her 

fidetachment from all that was not visiblefl; in other words, she wants to correct what she 

characterizes as a heavy dependence on visual evidence by further enmeshing herself in the 

visual.  However, the apparent paradox calls attention to the fact that, though she does not quite 
yet understand it as such, her problem is not so much a dependence on material evidence as it is 

an inability to decipher the ways in which artistic representations distort their original entities; in 
other words, she must grapple with how to read how an artistic representation mediates the 

original entity, not with distinguishing a representation from an original.  In the case of the 

example she gives of a shadow in a river, she believes that she needs to learn how to distinguish 
a shadow from a fish, but the novel goes on to demonstrate that what she actually needs to learn 
is why the shadow tricked her in the first place.  
To apply this logic to the woodcuts, for instance, 
Rachel likely believes that she should have been able to recognize them as fakes immediately, 

but what the novel suggests is that she will be better served by learning why they appealed to her 
and why they looked genuine; had she been able to do so, her sharper eye might have allowed 

her to prevent the disaster at the school by shutting down or modifying the school well before the 

woodcuts were ever produced.  This is why the novel indicates that Rachel needs to study 
landscape, and specifically the picturesque imagery of rural landscape. 

 Yet in a realist novel, it seems as though employing the picturesque mode through a 

character like Rachel, who is so sensitive to the plight of the laboring poor, would be a regressive 
 166 step in that it encourages the spectator to see the trappings of rural poverty and exploitation as sources of aesthetic pleasure.  However, as Rachel recovers from her breakdown, she is still 

interested in helping the poor, and she believes she is growing wiser about how she directs her 
energies, which will prevent her from making another mistake like the one she made with her 

school.  For instance, in the last chapter of the novel, Rachel talks to her friend Ermine about 

how she has modified her approach to charity work, and she gives an example of a recent 

incident:  It was about the soldiers™ wives married without leave, who, poor things, are the 

most miserable creatures in the world; and when I first found out about them I 

was in the sort of mood I was in about the lace, and raved about the system, and 

was resolved to employ one poor woman [–].  I was nearly as bad as ever; I 

could have written an article on the injustice of the army regulations, and indeed I 

did begin, but what do you think the end was?  I got a letter from a good lady, 
who is always looking after the poor, to thank Mrs. Alexander Keith for the help that had been sent for this poor woman, to be given as if from the general fund.  

After that I could not help listening to him [Alick], and then I found out it was so 

impossible to know about the character, or so be sure that one was not doing more 

harm thanŠ[–]. (542)   
She is then interrupted by the appearance of some children, so the thought is left unfinished.    

Rachel™s initial impulse was to jump in and fix the problem, and her comparison of the situation 

with how she dealt with lace-making suggests that she believes such an intervention could have 

been equally disastrous.  She goes on to realize that it is difficult fito know about the character 
[of the wives], or to be sure that one was not doing more harm than [good]fl in attempting to help 
 167 them via donations, campaigns, or offers of employment, which demonstrates her belief that she 
needs to have a better understanding of the women™s circumstances before she can be certain that 

her actions will result in a positive outcome.  By admitting that her knowledge about the military 

wives is incomplete, Rachel casts doubt upon the source from which she got her first impression 

of the problem, whether it was from a third party or something she saw with her own eyes.  

Indeed, the point is that it does not matter where she got the impression as she is now beginning 

to understand how even seemingly truthful images can be misleading depending on the context 

in which they are interpreted, and she is not sure that she has the correct interpretive framework.  

For example, part of the illusion that sustained operations at her failed school was that the 

children always looked presentable in white pinafores when visitors arrived.  On the surface the 
children looked healthy, and it was not until the pinafores were removed that their emaciation 

and injuries from having been beaten were revealed.  While visitors saw the abused children, the 

white pinafores nevertheless signaled happy innocence and girlish activities, seeming to confirm 
the pastoral fantasy held by Rachel and obscuring the actual circumstances in which the girls 
were living.   
 However, the fact that Rachel leaves her thought about the military wives unfinished 

signals something else as well: it calls attention to how she has stopped her work on their behalf 

without actually having done anything for the women 
herself.  Alick sent aid to one woman in 
Rachel™s name, and although Rachel is aware of how little she knows about the women™s 

circumstances, she is satisfied with the token donation and does not pursue the matter further to 

learn more about what might be done.  She is instead pleased with her own restraint in not 

charging in to help as she would have done in the past, and she is content to imagine that the 

matter is resolved.  Yet her observation that she fifound out it was so impossible to know about 
 168 the character, or so be sure that one was not doing more harm,fl followed by her abandoning of 
the subject, smacks of the same kind of willful 
ignorance for which she criticizes the local lace buyers early on in the novel.  In this light, her dropping of the matter is not so much due to 

restraint as it is a deliberate choice not to engage.  It seems significant, then, that this moment 

takes place during a rustic festival, which is described in picturesque and pastoral terms from the 
perspective of a spot on top a hill that, in the narrator™s words, ficommanded the scenefl (543).  

Moreover, the festival is a celebration for the opening of a new charitable school that is almost 

identical to the one Rachel wanted to erect, except it has been built on the Burnaby land and 
serves the poor by training girls for service through the care of convalescents.  The school is not 
running yet, so no one knows if it will be any more successful than Rachel™s attempt, but the 

festival is represented as being idyllic: the narrator says, fi[–] after an orthodox tea-drinking, the 
new pupils and all the Sunday-schools were turned out to play on the Homestead slopes, with all 

the world to look on at themfl (541).  Then the children, all wearing their Sunday best, link hands 
and play a charming game together.  Because this moment is so similar to Rachel™s feudalistic 
fantasy, it seems almost too good to be true, and the ending of the novel seems too perfect and 

too tidy.  Accordingly, the new school has been built on the Burnaby land, making it part of the 

private landscape view cherished and protected by Mrs. Curtis.  One reading of the ending could be that the Burnaby view, as Mrs. Curtis knew it, has been ruined because it has been built upon, 
which is exactly what she wanted to prevent by keeping the land undeveloped and its rents below 
market value, but the sacrifice is worth it because
 now there is a school that will help to relieve the problems of poverty in the village.   

 However, in light of Rachel™s new appreciation for rural landscape and picturesque 

imagery, the ending can also be read as simply incorporating the school into the private 
 169 landscape view and romanticizing it accordingly, thus allowing Rachel to enjoy her fantasy of 
feudalism from a site of privilege.  In this reading, it does not matter so much whether the school 

is successful: what matters is that, due to the pastoral imagery and picturesque subject material, 

the school looks as though it is providing care for the girls, and Rachel is pleased and gratified 
by this image.  As Rachel has begun seeing the aes
thetic appeal of landscape and the picturesque, and accordingly has started looking at her surroundings through this framework, the novel 

suggests that it is her perspective that has changed rather than the problems of rural poverty.  Just 

as it is not clear whether the laborers touching their hats to Alick are actually content, or whether 
it is the effect of Rachel looking at them as 
part of what she is recognizing as picturesque imagery that makes them seem to exhibit the feudal deference that she imagines has been lost in 

her own village due to the changes brought by capitalism, it is also not clear whether the new 

charitable school is as happily ideal as it seems, or
 whether that is how Rachel is interpreting it in the framework of a rural landscape view.  Before her breakdown, she associated landscape 
views, such as that offered by the Burnaby land, with neglect of the poor and a waste of resources, but now she has learned to enjoy landscapes without thinking about such 
consequences, as her mother does.  When a new genteel acquaintance invites Rachel to go see fia 

view of the Devon coast done by a notable artist in water-coloursfl in her home, for instance, 

Rachel fireadily accept[s],fl which suggests that she is now seeking out the kinds of private landscape views that are open only to women in her station, and this is presented as part of her 

recovery (458).   
 While Raymond Williams tends to criticize the self-conscious spectator as a person of 

privilege who exploits the laboring classes and their lands, The Clever Woman of the Family, through the depiction of Rachel™s recovery, posits it as a coping mechanism for the landed gentry 
 170 as their customary way of life crumbles and capitalism takes over.  The novel recognizes the 
problems of rural poverty as they are manifested through the capitalist economy, represented by 

the lace-making establishment, but it also recognizes that the traditional landed gentry is no 

longer in control of the land, and they no longer wield the social power that used to come with 

that control.  As Mrs. Curtis™s dealings with Mauleverer, in his role as a landscape painter, 
demonstrate, her class does not really own the countryside through landscape paintings anymore 

either, as artists now largely work for the market in which art production is dominated by 

middle-class buyers who are eager to own pieces of the countryside in the forms of both 

landholding and landscape art, and many views that used
 to be considered a birthright are now in danger of being distributed to a broader, more moneyed public.  Rachel, on the other hand, was 

unconcerned about preserving class privilege but rather wanted to undo the ills of the capitalist 
economy as they affected the lace-makers by rein
stating her vision of feudal-style support for the rural poor, but she inadvertently allows the girls to be exploited in an even worse way.  The novel recognizes how these problems of rural poverty are embedded in the conflict over 
ownership of the countryside, but it seems unable to offer a model with a feasible solution.  The 

family holds on to their private land and views as best as they can, and building the school on the 

Burnaby land can be read as an attempt to reconcile the problems of maintaining privileged 

access to private land while mitigating the problems of poverty.  Yet the idyllic terms in which 

the school is presented suggests that it also offers a retreat into fantasy via enjoyment of rural 

landscape and the picturesque, which allows the gentry to ignore contemporary problems of 

poverty by viewing them through the framework of 
pleasing pastoral imagery.  While Rachel™s 
first charitable school failed and she was misled because she was unable to read the meaning of 

the picturesque imagery as it was presented to her by Mauleverer, she has now learned how to 
 171 use the picturesque imagery for her own fulfillment, putting to rest her concerns about local 
poverty because she now sees her vision of old-fashioned feudal harmony, and her mother will 

still have a view that signifies and reinforces the family™s social status.  Ironically, as the novel 

makes clear through Mauleverer™s manipulations, it is also the same popular picturesque imagery 

that the middle classes use in an attempt to claim their share of the countryside, which suggests 

that both the landed gentry and the moneyed upwardly mobile classes are sharing the same 

fantasy.    
 
 
 
 
  172 CHAPTER FOUR THE ENCLOSURE OF COMMON LANDS FOR SOCIAL STABILITY IN SHIRLEY  The previous chapter argued that in one approach of mid-century realist writings, the 
preservation and appreciation of private landscape is a crucial means of battling the social and 

economic ills of capitalism, particularly the gentry™s loss of control over the land and the 

exploitation of the poor that stems from the free market.  This chapter, in turn, will examine a 

different perspective: that the pleasures of undeveloped land are a luxury that must be sacrificed 
for the greater social good.  Specifically, I will discuss Charlotte Brontë™s Shirley (1849) in tandem with George Meredith™s 
The Egoist (1879).  Shirley, which is set during the Luddite uprisings but is understood to be gesturing to the tensions surrounding Chartism, ends with 

undeveloped common lands being enclosed in order to expand the local mill and provide work 

and housing for the poor, but the novel suggests that the loss of the open land particularly affects 
women of genteel classes, thus gendering the issue in an interesting way.  The novel
 presents the village™s undeveloped, unmanicured outdoor spaces as a haven for Shirley Keeldar and Caroline 
Helstone, with the open land allowing the women to temporarily escape the social roles and 

expectations to which they are so strictly held.  The Egoist, a comedy of manners that satirizes a 
the landed nobility™s sense of its own importance while critically examining the contemporary 

understanding of women as property, in turn illustrates how the layout and design of private 

estate grounds serve to restrict genteel women™s bodies and minds, with the Patterne property™s 

decorative bounding structures, walking paths, and arranged scenic views ensuring Clara 
Middleton™s total confinement as she awaits her marriage to Sir Willoughby.  I will demonstrate 

that, within these novels, private, developed land embodies and reinforces the constrictive social 

mores that dictate what is appropriate behavior for genteel women, whereas uncultivated areas 
 173 are both visually and materially unstructured and thus do not restrict the women™s movements 
and thinking; however, when the needs of the local poor require that the open land be developed, 
the women must sacrifice their freedom outdoors for the greater social good.    
Shirley tells the story of Caroline Helstone, a woman who sees marriage to her cousin, 
Robert Moore, as her only means of escaping the wretched existence of a spinster, and her 

friendship with Shirley, a female landholder who inherits the estate that contains Robert™s mill.  

Caroline pines for Robert, but he is financially unable to marry, and he is preoccupied with 

running his mill anyhow.  The wartime economy has slowed his business, and he tries to ease his 

losses by replacing mill workers with cost-effective and efficient machines.  The discarded 

laborers revolt, and while Robert is largely unconcerned, Shirley, as the large landholder, does 
her best to soothe the laborers™ anger while still protecting the mill as part of her property.  When 

the war finally ends and Robert™s finances improve, he becomes wealthy enough to marry 

Caroline while expanding the mill, which will allow him to rehire the discarded laborers and 
build new housing for them.  The ending of the novel leaves the reader with the image of the 
countryside being altered by industry, ostensibly for the better, as Robert describes his vision of 
the mill prospering and the barren Hollow filling with laborers™ cottages and gardens.  While this 

moment should be heartening in that Robert™s plan will solve the problems that have plagued the 

laborers throughout the novel, it becomes strangely uncomfortable as we learn that these 

renovations can come only at the expense of the village™s undeveloped outdoor spaces: Robert™s 

improvements include transforming the copse into firewood, leveling out the ravine, and paving 

the green terrace into a street.  The mill expansion will provide steady work and sanitary housing 

for the working poor, yet Caroline protests the plan in spite of her sympathetic and altruistic 

nature.  The narrator, looking back forty years later, acknowledges the overall success of  174 Robert™s project, yet seems ambivalent about this success when she (or he, perhaps) looks at the 
view of the mill.  As readers, we too mourn the loss of the novel™s green spaces even though we 

have been led to pity the displaced laborers throughout the narrative.  The novel™s ending should 
be a happy one, especially since it brings Robert™s long-awaited financial success, marriage for 

the lovers, and long-term aid for the suffering poor.  So why does it feel like something 

significant has been lost with the development of these fiwaste landsfl?  I want to suggest that it is 

because Caroline and Shirley will no longer have a place where they can freely walk together.    
 In the nineteenth century, walking outdoors was seen as an important means of 

developing the intellect.  In her study of walking in the nineteenth century, Anne Wallace 

discusses the popularity of pleasure walking, tracing interest in the activity from the influence of 

Wordsworth and Coleridge, and she indicates 
that by mid-century, pedestrian touring was 
considered a component of one™s overall education (167-8).  She describes how excursive 

walking, particularly in uncultivated areas without footpaths, was seen as an intellectual activity among the upper classes (170).  Accordingly, Wallace gives examples from a number of 
nineteenth-century essayists who wrote about how fithe physical act of walking restores the natural proportions of our perceptions, reconnecting us with both the physical world and the 
moral order inherent in it,fl which leads walkers to experience fian enhanced sense of self, clearer 

thinking, more acute moral apprehension, and higher powers of expressionfl (13).  It is in this 

context that John Ruskin, for instance, insists that spending time outdoors and observing nature 

firsthand is crucial for learning how to distinguish what is true from what is false.  Throughout 
Modern Painters, Ruskin urges the reader to go outside: fiGo to the top of Highgate Hill on a clear summer morning at five o™clock, and look 
at Westmister Abbeyfl (Volume 1, 210); fiTake a 
blade of grass and a scarlet flower, and place them in the sunlight [–]fl (166); fiGo out some 
 175 bright sunny day in winter, and look for a tree with a broad trunk [–]. Stand four or five yards from it, with your back to the trunkfl (184).  
As evidenced by these quotes, simply being outdoors 
is not enough: Ruskin™s reader must 
go, which can be read as a directive to walk, before being able to properly contemplate the various recommended sights.  

 The necessity of walking outside in order to gain enlightenment posed something of a 

problem for Victorian women as their freedom out
doors was very limited, particularly when they 
were alone and on foot.  For example, Deborah 
Cherry has pointed out that being outdoors while alone was seen as largely inappropriate for women, except under certain controlled and 

monitored conditions.  Women who wanted to go outside under other circumstances, particularly 

if they were alone and ventured to the wilderness or other undeveloped areas, found themselves 

fion the margins of respectability,fl and they risked being demeaned with fithose gazes from 

which bourgeois women were generally shielded,fl meaning stares and resulting gossip from 

strangers and acquaintances alike (169-71).  As a way of protecting women from such exposure, 
walled gardens became a popular way for Victorian women to go outdoors while remaining 
contained within a fivirtuous feminine spherefl (Piehler 20).  Walking was likewise considered 

risky for women as it was associated with sexual promiscuity.  Anne Wallace notes that 

fistandard prejudices about women™s ‚nature™ a
nd proper roles in society [–] make women™s 
walking, even on local footpaths, unusually perilous to their reputationsfl (30).   
 Indeed, both 
Shirley and The Egoist allude to how women who are outdoors by 
themselves get censured when they go beyond the areas that have been deemed appropriate for 

them.  In 
The Egoist, when Clara prepares to go for an hour™s walk by herself, Laetitia looks at her incredulously and asks, fiAre you walking on the road alone?fl (133).  Later, one of Sir 

Willoughby™s driving staff reports that he sa
w Clara while she was walking alone, and  176 Willoughby wonders to himself, fiWhat was meant by Clara being seen walking on the highroad 
alone?Š What snare, traceable ad inferas, had 
ever induced Willoughby Patterne to make her the 
repository and fortress of his honour!fl (139).  Willoughby approved of Clara™s plan to walk with 

Laetitia, likely because the older woman would serve as a chaperone as well as a companion, but 

simply hearing that Clara was seen on the road alone is enough for him to question her honor and 

his judgment in choosing her to be his wife.  In Brontë™s novel
, Shirley desires the fiwilder solitude which lies out of doors,fl but her uncle disapproves of her going out alone because her 
doing so makes her the subject of gossip in the village: fiTwiceŠthree times, the eyes of 

gossipsŠthose eyes which are everywhere: in the closet and on the hill-topŠnoticed that instead 
of turning on Rushedge, the top-ridge of Stilbro™ Moor, she [Shirley] rode forwards all the way 

to the town.  Scouts were not wanting to mark her destination there [–] (499).  The fieyes of 

gossips,fl which track Shirley™s every move, resonate with the kind of intense surveillance of 

women that Cherry describes, and the details of which the figossipsfl and fiscoutsfl take note 
emphasize the degree to which women are monitored: not only do they notice her particular path 
and destinations but also the number of times she takes the same path.  As a wealthy and 

powerful landholder, Shirley gets some privileges and considerations that other genteel women 

are denied, but even she is subject to monitoring and censure when she goes out alone.   

 In light of the intense scrutiny to which Victorian women were subjected when they were 

outdoors, it is understandable that escape to an unpopulated area, when feasible, would be 
appealing to them.  So when Robert announces that he intends to enclose and develop the 

common lands in 
Shirley, a good portion of Caroline™s dismay stems from her loss of access to 
those areas.  The novel suggests that the main negative consequence of the enclosure project will 

be the women™s deprivation of the common lands, especially as the laborers will be the ones to 
 177 directly benefit from the housing and additional employment that the project promises to deliver.  
This is a rather odd narrative turn as enclosure is typically understood to deprive the rural poor of their right to open lands, thus further impoverishing them rather than providing aid to them.  

Consequently, Caroline™s dismay in a seemingly happy narrative moment can be read as an 

interruption of sorts, intended to cast doubt on the beneficial effects of the project: her protests 
against the loss of the open land call direct attention to how it will affect her access to the outdoors as a genteel woman, but it also brings indirect attention to how the poor will lose their 

access to the land as well.   
 Raymond Williams famously argued that when common and waste lands were enclosed, 

what was lost was the fimarginal independencefl of the rural poor who depended on having 

access to the lands in lieu of having their own property (101).  Williams frames the damage in 

terms of the poor™s lost independence, however marginal, in order to indicate that they had 

desires and needs beyond those of basic sustenance and shelter.  In fact, research on resistance to mid-century enclosure bills has revealed that part of this independence for the poor included 
using the common lands for recreational purposes, particularly for taking refreshing walks in 

open spaces, away from sites of their labor (Wallace 169).  So when Robert encloses and 

develops the common lands, neither the women nor the laboring poor will be able to take walks, 

admire the views, find a bit of privacy, or indeed do anything but what is sanctioned as the 

business of the mill.  A popular vein of scholarship on 
Shirley explores the parallels between the novel™s unmarried women and the unemployed laborers, largely for the purpose of arguing that 

the magnitude and urgency of the laborers™ difficulties gives weight to the problems being faced 

by the women; indeed, Sally Shuttleworth suggests that the analogy between the two groups is 
 178 ficentral to the structural organization of the novelfl for that reason (183).21  I want to suggest that these novelistic parallels between the laboring poor and the genteel women likewise call 

attention to the similarities in how both groups™ access to the open land is monitored, controlled, 

and finally withheld in the name of social stability.   

 During the latter half of the nineteenth century, the issue of public access to land was 

getting significant political and popular attention.  Liberal thinkers and writers were raising awareness about how raw land, as a finite natural resource, should be considered a unique form 

of property in that it is merely claimed (and not created) by individuals, and as such, raw land 

should be seen as belonging equally to all people, with every person being entitled to a fair share 
of it.  This school of thought accused landholders of having an unfair and unearned economic 

advantage over those who did not have land of their own.  However, mainstream liberals did not 
advocate confiscating land from private owners or
 transitioning to communal ownership: instead, 
they lobbied for increased public access to the land (Vogel 110).  The political arguments for 
broadening access to land ownership also drew contemporary attention to how the restrictions of 
private land affected the mobility and even the thinking of those who did not own land.    

 For instance, in 1851, Herbert Spencer wrote, fiSupposing the entire habitable globe to be 

so enclosed, it follows that if the landowners have a valid right to its surface, all who are not landowners have no right at all to its surface.  Hence, such can exist on the earth by sufferance 
only.  They are all trespassers.  Save by the permission of the lords of the soil they can have no 

room for the soles of their feetfl
 (qtd. Vogel 112).  By extrapolating the reach of landholding                                                  21 In addition to Shuttleworth, see, for instance, Albert D. Pionke™s fiReframing the Luddites,fl in which he argues 
that Brontë draws a parallel between the women and workers in order to champion middle-class paternalism and 
leadership; Peter J. Capuano™s fiNetworked Manufacture in Charlotte Brontë™s Shirley
,fl in which he suggests that 
Brontë™s historical treatment of manufacturing is used to make a connection between women and the machine-

breakers; and Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar™s 
The Madwoman in the Attic
, in which they link the hunger of the 
starving, jobless laborers to the hunger of the fisurplusfl women who feel that their lives have no purpose.  
 179 rights to the extreme of branding all non-landholders as fitrespassersflŠa label that has both legal 
and moral implications (fiTrespass,fl 
OED)ŠSpencer calls attention to the degree of power that landholders have over those who find themselves on private property.  He ignores the possibility 

of public spaces and roads, where even non-landholders would be allowed to set foot, in order to 
suggest that landholders™ control extends beyond the boundaries of their individual properties.  In referring expressly to the feet of the people he terms fitrespassers,fl Spencer alludes to the act of 

walking and suggests that landholders ultimately control how the rest of the population moves 

throughout the countryside, especially as he elevates the landholders™ influence beyond their own properties to the broader level of the fiearthfl and its fisoil.fl  Moreover, in emphasizing that non-

landholders need the permission of the landholders in order to walk upon their property, Spencer 

points to the implicit psychological power held by the landholders: needing to ask permission 

serves as a consistent reminder to non-landholders of their dependence and social inferiority, 

especially as receiving permission entails behaving according to the landholders™ rules while 
moving through privately held areas.    
 While Spencer is advocating on behalf of the laboring classes who do not own land, his 

remarks can be read as applying to contemporary women as well since they, even when they did 

hold land, were not considered filords of the soilfl in the same sense that men were.  When 

applied to women, Spencer™s remarks take on new meaning that sheds light on the way women 

are depicted novelistically as they traverse private or developed properties in contrast to how they interact with open lands.  Part of what shapes women™s experiences in this area is how the 

layout of private and developed lands is designed to control their movements, their thoughts, and 

their gaze.  Daphne Spain discusses this understanding of spatial arrangement in 
Gendered Spaces, in which she demonstrates how topographic and architectural spatial arrangements 
 180 institutionalize gender segregation and reinforce male privilege.  Building on Foucault™s concept 
of the Panopticon as the archetypal example of privilege and power asserted through 

architectural and geographical spatial design, Spain points out how certain edifices and land layouts contain barriers, both concrete and psychological, that prevent women from acquiring the 
same quality of knowledge to which men have access (10).  These places embody fithe taken-for-

granted rules that govern relations of individuals to each other and societyfl in how their designs 
both reflect social mores and enforce them (7).
22  In sum, Spencer™s remarks demonstrate how 
women can be either permitted guests or trespassers on private land, nothing more, and Spain™s 

theory of gendered space indicates that properties are designed to contain women within specific 

areas, largely to prevent them from gaining the types of knowledge that have been deemed 

inappropriate for them.
       I want to suggest that the attitude regarding private land that Spencer describes, with the 

addition of the gender considerations delineated by Spain, is ingrained in Shirley to the point that it is part of the fitaken for granted rulesfl within the novel, to use Spain™s phrasing, and thus is not given emphasis in the narrative.  Because the oppression associated with private property is so 

subtle in Shirley, I would like to take a brief look at George Meredith™s The Egoist in order to highlight some of the contemporary assumptions and attitudes underlying how women 

interpreted and interacted with private property.  Published in 1879, The Egoist examines 
woman™s place within the institution of property as it is implemented by the landed gentry.  

While much of the novel focuses on Clara Middleton™s frustration with being considered as a 
                                                 22 To illustrate this idea, Spain gives the example of women attending universities in America.  To paraphrase her, 
women were barred from attendi
ng universities because higher learning was thought to be bad for their health, so colleges were built for men; this spatial segregation (no wo
men™s dorms at prestigious schools, etc.) in turn reduced 
women™s ability to gain admission to th
ese schools (4-5).  Thus the knowledge attainable at universities was made 
inaccessible to women by social mores,
 and the design of the schools both enforced and reinforced these mores by 
denying women access to the space.   
 181 marriageable piece of property, it also explores her thoughts on the prospect of spending the rest 
of her life on Willoughby™s estate and land.  Given the contemporary context of philosophical 

and political debates on land reform and gender i
ssues amid which the novel was written, it is not 
surprising that these issues intersect in the novel, and the narrative accordingly examines the 

ways in which Clara feels controlled not only by Willoughby himself but also by simply being 
on his land.  This perspective makes it a useful companion piece for 
Shirley because concerns about private property are just as central to Brontë™s novel, though they are not articulated as explicitly as they are in The Egoist.  Once Clara Middleton realizes that she does not want to marry Willoughby, she tries to 

find a way to escape from their engagement.  Not only is she legally promised to Willoughby, 

who is determined that she marry him, but she™s literally trapped on his estate as well: every time 

she tries to get away, even if she just wants to take a solitary walk somewhere other than on the 

designated walking paths that run through the estate, she is somehow thwarted and ends up back 
at Willoughby™s house.  Early on in the novel, th
e narrative establishes that Willoughby exercises 
control over others largely through the way he manages his land and estate.  After rushing Clara 

into their engagement, he insists that she live at his country house (with her father as chaperone) 

while they prepare for the wedding.  Willoughby™s wish to keep Clara contained within his estate 

is attributed to his desire to prevent her from being exposed to ideas other than what he chooses 

to bestow on her.  He fears that if she is exposed to outside people and ideas, he will not be able 
to mold her and control her to his wishes, which would render her incompatible as his mate.  

Fittingly, the narrator points out that men like Willoughby ficannot enjoy the sense of security for 

their love unless they fence away the worldfl (40).  fiFence,fl in evoking the image of a physical 

barrier, alludes to how Willoughby™s plan requires 
not only keeping his estate free of unwanted  182 influences but also making sure that the people that he wants to keep on the estate cannot leave.  
Willoughby carefully chooses the people he allows onto his estate as friends or employees, and 

once accepted, he ensures that they become dependent upon in him some way.  If anyone 

subsequently attempts to pursue independence, Willoughby bans the person from both his 

company and his estate permanently, and he patrols his grounds to make sure the offenders do 

not return.   
 In the passage where Clara first tries to tell Willoughby that she wants to break the 

engagement and leave him, the narrative alludes to the connection between Willoughby™s control 

of his land and his control of others.  As they are walking in the Patterne gardens, Clara says, fiI 
am unworthy.  I am volatile.  I love my liberty.  I want to be free–,fl but Willoughby interrupts 

her in order to yell at Flitch, a former coachman of his that he sees near his land; he exclaims, 

fiThe man you see yonder violates my express injunction that he is not to come on my grounds, 

and here I find him on the borders of my garden!fl (89).  Although the interruption and 
Willoughby™s ensuing description of Flitch initially appear to be an attempt to avoid Clara™s 
concerns about their upcoming marriage, it is significant that Willoughby begins to talk of 

trespassing at this narrative moment.  He interweaves his account of why Flitch is not welcome 

on his land with reassurances to Clara that her desire for freedom is due to her inevitable 

nervousness about becoming a wife, which suggests that for him, the two topics are interrelated: 

in telling Clara why she must stay with him on the estate, it seems natural to him that he would 

also tell her why others must be kept off the estate
.  This points to one aspect of how he exercises control over his land in order to control others: by handpicking who he will and will not allow on 
his grounds, he not only controls the movement
s of those on or around his property but also controls with whom the people on his grounds can interact.   
 183  Willoughby tells Clara how Flitch had left service with him in order to try running a shop 
of his own in town despite knowing that pursuing independent work would get him banned from 
the Patterne estate permanently.  fiOf course the shop failed,fl Willoughby observes, fiand Flitch™s 

independence consists in walking about with his hands in his empty pockets, and looking at the 

Hall from some elevation nearfl (90).  Willoughby™s remarks call attention to two points of 

interest.  First, Willoughby mentions that Flitch is not actually on his land but rather is standing 

fion the borders of his garden,fl yet he still compels the man to leave.  This suggests, in 

accordance with Spencer™s observations above about the nature of private property, that even the 
areas surrounding private land are monitored and controlled by the landholding class in a way 

that affects how others can move through the area.  Willoughby also points out that Flitch spends 

time filooking at the Hall from some elevation near,fl indicating that Flitch, even when not 

actually on the estate grounds, can still be seen from the estate.  This remark reinforces the idea 

that the reach of Willoughby™s monitoring of and control over the land extends beyond his own 
property lines, and it goes on to suggest that Willoughby counts on the sight of the unemployed 
and essentially disowned Flitch to serve as a cautionary spectacle of sorts.    

 Second, Willoughby points out that Flitch™s independence has resulted in his fiwalking 

aboutfl with fiempty pockets.fl  In purposely li
nking fiwalking aboutfl with having no money and 
no place within the estate, Willoughby attempts to give walking a negative connotation so as to 

discourage Clara from rambling too much.  While
 he approves of leisurely strolls through his park, Willoughby considers taking long walks for exercise or enjoyment to be a fisour businessfl 

(26), and his remark about Flitch suggests that he sees walking as an accessory to yearnings for 

independence and thus as a threat to his control.  Clara and Vernon, Willoughby™s intellectual 
friend, on the other hand, love to take long walks, and Clara dreams of hiking through mountains 
 184 one day.  Indeed, before Clara decides that she must break the engagement, she first requests 
some time to travel through the Alps before the wedding, but both Willoughby and her father 

forbid it.  She muses, fiFive weeks of perfect lib
erty in the mountains [–] would have prepared 
her for the day of bells.  All that she required was a separation offering new scenes, where she 
might reflect undisturbed, feel clear againfl (51)
.  Her reasons for wanting to walk in the mountains are precisely why Willoughby does not want her to leave the estate: while she is not 

thinking of permanently escaping from him at this
 point, she recognizes that being restricted to walking on the estate actually limits the scope of her thought, and in order for her to fireflectfl 

and fifeel clear again,fl she understands that she must have fiseparationfl and finew scenes.fl  Her 

diction resonates with the contemporary ideology that touted the intellectual benefits of 

excursive walking, and she realizes that getting away from the manicured lawns and deliberate 

layout of the estate grounds is crucial for imaginative, independent thought that ranges beyond 

the contemplation of her social duties.   
 Since Clara cannot travel to the Alps, however, she instead takes an imaginary climb with 
Vernon during one of their walks together: fiThey went up some of the lesser heights of 

Switzerland and Styria, and settled in South Tyrol, the young lady preferring this district for the 
strenuous exercise of her climbing powers because 
she loved Italian colour [–]fl (98).  Clara attempts to use the moment in order to speak frankly with Vernon about her concerns over 

marrying Willoughby, but the illusion of being in the mountains and away from Willoughby™s 

land is not enough to release her from the psychological control Willoughby exerts over her.  

Instead of articulating her wish to break the engagement, she ends up repeating familiar 

platitudes about how poorly Willoughby™s first fiancée behaved toward him: fiShe did very 

wrong. [–] Was she not unpardonable?fl Clara as
ks Vernon (99).  Likewise, when Vernon  185 suggests that the end of Willoughby™s first engagement ended up being for the best as it resulted 
in Clara and Willoughby being together, Clara is 
only able to nod and agree with him, speaking 
fias the awe-stricken speakfl (100).  Her response is suggestive of a kind of cognitive paralysis, 
and the contrast between Clara™s fears about marrying Willoughby and what she ends up 

expressing underscores both how she is stifled by being on the estate and how she is unable to 
escape its hold imaginatively.              

 Along with the psychological control that Clara experiences, Willoughby is also able to 

exert control over the movements of people on his estate via the layout of his land.  For example, 

Clara tries to get away from Willoughby permanently by sneaking away to the train station after 

breakfast one day, and while we do not see how she gets there, Vernon pursues her trail and, in 
the process, demonstrates just how difficult it is to traverse the land: he must vault over stiles (a 

skill which is envied by another man who cannot do the same) and spring across the wet fields as 

it is too slippery to run on the field-path (218).  Clara™s uncommon athleticism is emphasized 
throughout the novel, and given that Vernon is very physically fit as well, his difficulties making 
it to the train station suggest that a less robust woman would not have been able to clear the 

obstacles, thus forcing her to have remained within the bounds of the estate.  In other words, 

Clara is able to leave Willoughby™s property by a nonstandard route only because she is 

unusually agile and quick.  Along with the decorative and practical fifortificationsfl that partition 
Willoughby™s land and discourage people from strayi
ng off the approved pathways, there is also a deliberate lack of privacy that ensures movement does not go undetected on the property.  

When Willoughby is searching for Clara, for instance, he and the others are able to gather 

information about her whereabouts from the 
following witnesses: Clara™s maid, who knows 
when Clara left the house and what she took with her (which helps alert the search party to how  186 long she had planned to be gone); the lodge-keeper and his family, who can attest to what gate 
Clara took, what time she was seen, who she was with, and whether she was seen returning to the 

park; and a tramp who happens to be sitting on a stile and sees Clara heading toward the train 

station.  The fact that all this information about Clara was gathered from casual observations and 

not from targeted surveillance underscores the degree to which her movements on the property 

are constantly monitored and thus can be controlled.   

 Perhaps because she does enjoy walking so much, Clara is unusually sensitive to how the 

layout of Willoughby™s estate grounds seem designed specifically to entrap her.  When Clara and 

Laetitia, a spinster who greatly admires Willoughby, agree to take a walk on the grounds 

together, they begin their conversation by commenting on the view.  After Clara expresses her 

indifference to the scenery before her, Laetitia defends it by saying, fiWe have undulations, hills, 

and we have sufficient diversity, meadows, rive
rs, copses, brooks, and good roads, and pretty by-pathsfl (127).  Rather than describing the view she sees before her, or any specific view found on the estate, Laetitia rattles off a list of land features in which nothing is specific or clearly 
depicted, resulting in a kind of empty image that
 gives only an impression of fullness.  Clara 
responds by saying, fiIt is very pretty to see; but to live with, I think I prefer ugliness.  I can 
imagine learning to love ugliness.  It™s honest.  However young you are, you cannot be deceived 

by it.  These parks of rich people are a part of the prettiness.  I would rather have fields, 

commonsfl (127-8).  At first, Clara seems to be rejecting the beautiful scenery from sheer 

contrariness, but her association of the word fiprettyfl with fithe parks of rich peoplefl indicates 
that what she actually dislikes is artificially bounded and manicured grounds.  For Clara, fiugly,fl 

rather than being an aesthetic judgment, seems 
to mean uncontoured or 
unadorned.  Her concerns about being fideceivedfl by prettiness indicate that she sees something misleading or threatening 
 187 about manicured estate grounds, and the fact that she contrasts them with commons and fields 
suggests that it is the illusion of openness that she detests.  While the grounds appear to allow 

one to choose where, when, and with whom to walk, Clara has come to realize that such 

decisions are actually determined by Willoughby and enforced by the layout of the grounds 

because the design allows him to direct her path via walkways and monitor her movements.  

Accordingly, when Laetitia points out that private parks like Willoughby™s provide fidelightful 
green walks, [and] paths through beautiful woods,fl Clara exclaims, fiI chafe at restraint; hedges 
and palings everywhere!  I should have to travel ten years to sit down contented among these 

fortificationsfl (128).  Where Laetitia sees clearings made so that she can easily traverse the land, 

Clara sees restraint in that the pathways and their markers preclude her from walking wherever 

she pleases. 
 As Clara and Laetitia walk along the grounds, Clara finally confesses her desire to free 

herself from Willoughby.  Shocked, Laetitia attempts to defend Willoughby by steering the 
conversation back to praise of his land: she asks Clara, fiNow, do you not admire that view?fl 
(130).  Clara considers the view that Laetitia points out and sees firolling richness of foliage, wood and water, and church spire, a town and horizon hillsfl (130).  Clara™s interpretation of the 
view strips away any descriptors that would convey a specific image, so while Clara™s 
construction of the view is organized like a landscape painting in that we get a foreground of 
foliage, a middleground consisting of woods, a body of water and a church, and a horizon that 

features a distant town and some hills, no concrete image is conveyed due to the lack of 

descriptive detail that would have indicated what is special or beautiful about the view.  The depiction of Clara™s interpretation of the view can be read as purposely omitting detail so that the 

reader must draw upon stock landscape imagery in order to complete the image, which indicates 
 188 that she, in contrast to Laetitia, finds the view to be commonplace and perhaps artificial.  Yet 
while serving as a contrast to Laetitia™s enthusiasm, Clara™s interpretation also recalls the list of 

features Laetitia gives in defense of Willoughby™
s grounds and suggests that the views from the 
estate are just as empty of meaning as that generic list. 

 Clara goes on to apologize to Laetitia for her disinterest in the view by claiming, fiI 

cannot separate landscape from associations,fl (130).  Although a view that stretches all the way 

into a distant town should seem cheering for Clara in that it could suggest both unlimited space 

and a link to a world beyond the estate, thus allowing her to imagine that she is not so thoroughly 

trapped on Willoughby™s land, she makes it clear that she cannot participate in such a fantasy 

because, in recognizing the view specifically as a filandscape,fl she understands that it is just 
another possession of Willoughby™s.  As a landscape presupposes a specific spectator position, 

she knows that Willoughby™s grounds have been organized so as to guide her to the spot on 

purpose (via the course of the walking path), and she understands that rather than offering imaginative freedom, the view is both bounded by the limits of the spectator position and 
available to her from that spot alone, which links it to Willoughby and thus negates it as a source 

of imaginative escape for her.  Thus rather than
 being an aspect of the estate that Clara can admire, as Laetitia wishes, the deliberate organization and placement of the landscape view 

instead reinforces Clara™s awareness that she is under Willoughby™s control. 

 Even if the view is beautiful, Clara™s disint
erest indicates that her experience of it is tainted by the knowledge that, although she is outdoors, she is not free to explore the land 
beyond the areas that Willoughby has contoured and approved specifically for walking, and she 

knows that everything she sees is the result of the deliberate design of the estate.  Clara exposes 
how the layout of the country estate, with its fences, hedges, walls, private walks, and other  189 marks of ownership and boundaries, allows the landholder to not only oversee and manage the 
movements of people on and around the estate but also influence their thinking as well.  Laetitia, 

whose admiration for Willoughby™s grounds is noted several times, initially sees the landscape 

view as a reflection of Willoughby™s inherent nobl
eness, but Clara™s aesthetic rejection of it prompts Laetitia to reexamine the view despite her worry that doing so could firob her of her one 

ever-fresh possession of the homely picturesquefl (130).  The moment marks the beginning of 

Laetitia™s disillusionment with Willoughby, and it is significant that it is tied to her being 

prompted to look at his grounds in a new way.  In characterizing the aesthetic appeal of 

Willoughby™s grounds as being rooted in fithe homely picturesque,fl Laetitia implies that she is 

already aware of how the estate™s scenery and views project a distinctly romanticized 

representation of Willoughby, but until she consciously acknowledges the illusion, she allows it 

to guide her thinking about what kind of man Willoughby is.  Moreover, the use of the term 

fipicturesquefl in this context suggests that the view™s inclusion of basic landscape elements and 
organization (a foreground of foliage, a church spire in the middleground, and so on) can be read 
as representing a kind of conventionality with regard to social roles and expectations, especially 
as the view is being used as a means of convincing Clara that it is proper for her to marry 

Willoughby.  When Clara tells Laetitia that she ficannot separate landscape from associations,fl 

she makes it clear that she is rejecting the idea that the view is admirable because she rejects the 

idea that she will find fulfillment in following convention and submitting to Willoughby™s rule.  

Clara reads the design of the estate, including the locations and contents of its scenic views, as an 
embodiment of Willoughby™s influence and authority, and she worries that with access to only 

outdoor spaces that have been designed with Willoughby™s aims in mind, she will eventually 
 190 become inured to her surroundings in the same way Laetitia has, thus losing her ability to think 
clearly and critically. 
 
 While Clara recognizes how the aesthetics of landscape complement the politics of the 

patriarchal estate in the way they serve as a means for landholders to exert control over others, 

Caroline, in Shirley, does not articulate her understanding of this dynamic despite the fact that 
the politics of land are similarly constructed in 
Brontë™s novel.  
While a number of studies have 
considered the novel™s depiction of how the women are suppressed and controlled, my approach 

emphasizes how this social, patriarchal control is enforced and reinforced by the layout of the 

land.  To begin with, the action of the novel never leaves the small village of Briarfield,
23 which is presented as being divided into a series of privately-owned properties that have well-defined boundaries.  The result of the novel™s narrowly-focused setting is that Briarfield appears to be 
remarkably self-contained and circumscribed with regard to both its population and its 
geography, and the pathways within it seem to be direct and invariable in a way that limits how 
the characters can move through the village.  This apparent lack of choice with regard to 

Caroline™s route through the village recalls Clara™s frustration with being limited to the walking 

paths that run through Willoughby™s park, yet Caroline does not similarly dwell on how she is 

restricted because the arrangement likely seems inevitable to her. 
When Caroline goes to make visits in town, for example, the narrative does not describe 
how she gets to her destinations: one moment she is home at the rectory, and the next she is 

entering someone™s abode with seemingly no travel in between.  At one point Caroline is 

wrapped in shawls in preparation for a visit to Miss Mann, and after a brief tangential memory of 
                                                 23 Caroline and Shirley do plan to leave Briarfield in order to take a northern tour over the summer, but they must 
cancel and remain in town as Shirley™s aunt and uncle (in)
conveniently arrive for an extended visit during that time. 
 191 Robert mocking Miss Mann for being an old maid, Caroline is suddenly ushered into the 
woman™s parlor without having been shown trave
ling there (178); the next day she appears in Miss Ainley™s home in a similarly abrupt manner (180).  Likewise, on the day she visits Shirley 

for the first time, Caroline™s uncle goes into the rectory™s  parlor and tells Caroline to put on her 

bonnet, and in the next moment, she is walking with him fiup the broad, paved approach leading 

from the gateway of Fieldhead to its porchfl (194).  Because she is not shown traveling to these 

places but instead simply arrives at them, the act seems nearly automatic rather than as a result of 

conscious choice.     Given that so much detail is provided about the walks Caroline takes for pleasure through 
the course of the novel, the omission of descriptive passages at these moments of travel through 

the village is significant.  The fact that she appears at her destinations without narrative 
commentary on how she arrived suggests that the pathway she has taken is obvious: while 

Caroline™s course from one place to another is not mapped out for the reader, the omission calls 
attention to itself in a way that both highlights the lack of description while presuming such 
description is unnecessary.  As Anne Wallace has argued, the walks that took one to daily 

business tended to be fiinsular and confiningfl (26).  This type of walking, Wallace explains, fiset 
boundaries and did not break themfl; such walks would take a person fito labour, to church, to 

market, to courting,fl for instance, but these paths also fikept him, both literally and figuratively, 

in his placefl (26).  Thus the omission of descriptions of Caroline™s walks through the village 

indicates that there is no room for individual choice or variety with regard to the paths she takes 

for her genteel errands, which in turn serves to reflect the broader social confinement she faces.  

Even the language used to describe her arrival at Shirley™sŠfithe broad, paved approach leading 
from the gateway of Fieldhead to its porchflŠreinforces the notion of restriction as to where she 
 192 can walk because her way has been predetermined by the design of Fieldhead™s grounds: the 
figatewayfl and the  fiapproachfl tell her where to enter the property, the fact that it is fipavedfl tells 
her where to walk, and the fiporchfl designates where she will wait until she is admitted into the 

home
.  While she could veer away from such guidi
ng structures if she wished, doing so would upset social convention and thus threaten stability in a way similar to how the unemployed 

laborers do when they march together as a mob, as I will discuss later. 
Accordingly, when Caroline does take an alternative way to someone™s home, it is 
presented as a punishable act.  While she is walking in the wood of Briarmains, supposedly 

because she has lost her way, she is discovered by Martin Yorke.  Upon seeing her, Martin 
privately reflects on how he has never met a lady in the wood before, and when he asks Caroline 

why she is out so late, she claims to be lost and replies, fiI never was here before, and I believe I 

am trespassing now: you might inform against me if you chose, Martin, and have me fined: it is 

your father™s woodfl (570).  This exchange illustrates how the threat of consequences, both direct and implied, influences how people can move on and among private lands.  Along with the direct 
threat of being fined for trespassing, there is an implied risk to her social standing that is 

indicated by Martin™s observing that he had finever met a 
lady in this wood beforefl (568, emphasis mine).  Martin™s remark suggests that Caroline is doubly barred from the Yorke woods 

as they have been gendered as a male space, which Caroline confirms when she notes fiit is your 

father™s wood,fl and both comments imply that Caroline, as a lady, belongs in parks and on 

pathways, not in spaces that have not been designated for walking.  As Martin leads Caroline out 
of the wood, he fails to consider that it will be difficult for her to ficlimb a wall or penetrate a 

hedge,fl and he takes her through a short cut that has no gate, which compels him to fihelp her 

over some formidable obstaclesfl (571).  Unlike Cl
ara Middleton, whose athleticism allows her to 
 193 scale such obstacles on Willoughby™s land, Caroline is essentially entrapped by them and 
requires assistance in order to make it to the gate that will allow her to leave the Yorke estate.   
Caroline encounters similar obstacles when she and Shirley run across fields in order to 
warn Robert about a mob of rioting unemploye
d laborers that is approaching the Hollow:  Many a wall checked but did not baffle them. Shirley was surefooted and agile  

[. . .].  Caroline, more timid, and less dexterous, fell once or twice, and bruised 

herself [. . .].  A quickset hedge bounded the last field: they lost time seeking a 

gap in it: the aperture, when found, was narrow, but they worked their way 
through: the long hair, the tender skin, the silks and muslins suffered [. . .].  On 

the other side they met the beck, flowing deep in a rough bed: at this point a 

narrow plank formed the only bridge across it. (340) 
The passage specifically foregrounds how the women are hindered to the point of injury by 

constructed obstacles that have been placed to bound and divide the land: even the beck, which is 
likely a natural barrier, has become an intentional divider as its shores have been connected with 
only a dangerously narrow plank.  Although Brontë could have summed up Caroline and 

Shirley™s trek across the fields quite briefly, she purposely lingers on this image of the women 

struggling to cross the barriers, and even the halting punctuation of the passageŠwith its 
abundance of colons and semicolonsŠforms a type of barrier to the reader that echoes the 

characters™ difficulties.  The damage done to the women™s bodies and clothing illustrates the 

physical difficulties of overcoming these bounding 
structures and points to why most people 
travel on the main pathways, where their direction 
is fixed and conspicuous.  It is significant that the moment in the fields with Caroline and Shirley takes place at the same time that the rioting 

laborers are marching to Hollow as it is the visibility of the rioters™ movement along the main 
 194 road that allows the women to anticipate the mob™s destination; this further demonstrates how 
keeping private fields and other private land relatively inaccessible not only deters intruders but 
also ensures that people walking near the property can be monitored.      
While the organizational structure and layout of local private properties dictate where 
Caroline may walk, the novel suggests that it also directs and influences her thoughts, at least to 

some degree.  For instance, when Caroline tries to reconcile herself to living as an unmarried 

woman, she begins taking long solitary walks as 
a means of coping with her unhappiness, but she 
keeps walking to Robert™s home each night and, as a result, keeps returning to thoughts of him:    
Her long and late walks lay always, as has been said, on lonely roads; but 
whatever direction she rambled, whether along the drear skirts of Stilbro™ Moor, 

or over the sunny stretch of Nunnely Common, her homeward path was so 

contrived as to lead her near the Hollow.  She rarely descended the den, but she 
visited its brink at twilight almost as regularly as the stars rose over the hill-crests.  
Her resting-place was at a certain stile under a certain old thorn: thence she could look down on the cottage, the mill, the dewy garden Œground, the still, deep dam; 

thence was visible the well-known counting-house window, from whose panes at 

a fixed hour shot, suddenly bright, the ray of the well-known lamp.  (186-7) 
The diction of the passage calls attention to the fixedness of Caroline™s movements once she 

reenters the village and heads towards the Hollow: she visits firegularly,fl at a ficertainfl stile, 
under a ficertainfl tree; the counting house and lamp are both fiwell-known,fl and she sees 

Robert™s light at a fifixed hour.fl  The use of the passive tense in the phrase fiher homeward path 

was so contrivedfl leaves Caroline™s agency ambiguous, suggesting that she is not necessarily 

acting according to conscious choice.  It is not surprising, then, that Caroline™s train of thought is  195 similarly fixed and repetitive during these walks.  As regularly as she watches for Robert™s lamp, 
Caroline weeps over the loss of him and remembers what it was like to be in his company: as she 

thinks of his features, she imagines that fihis heart might welcome her presence yet,fl and fihe 

might be willing to extend his hand and draw her to him, and shelter her at his side as he used to 

dofl (187).  While she does not articulate marriage as what she longs for, the bodily terms in 

which she thinks of Robert make it evident that 
she is thinking of him as a husband.  The text ties 
the recurrence of Caroline™s thoughts about being with Robert to the fixedness of her walking 
route, which takes her to the same vantage point with the same scenic view of his home each 

night.   This passage brings to mind the moment in 
The Egoist where Clara expresses her dislike of the scenic outlook from Willoughby™s estate.  In both pieces, a landscape view evokes specific 

thoughts in the female spectator about domesticity and marriage.  Caroline™s landscape view 

differs from Clara™s in that there is no indicati
on that Robert or anyone else specially chose or arranged the vantage point, yet Caroline, in consistently thinking of marriage with Robert when 
she goes there, responds to the view of the Hollow in a way that recalls what repulses Clara 
about Willoughby™s grounds.  The similarity in the women™s experiences suggests that the layout 

of the land surrounding Caroline™s walking path, which winds around Fieldhead (the area™s manor house) and leads to the Rectory, serves to influence her thoughts in a way that is 

comparable to the way the layout of Willoughby™s land affects the thinking of those on the 

Patterne estate.  Yet while The Egoist suggests that the design of the Patterne estate is expressly an extension of Willoughby™s controlling personality, 
Shirley lacks a corresponding figure to which the intent of the land™s layout can be assigned.  Rather than attributing the controlling 
aspects of Briarfield™s layout to one person, then, Shirley instead suggests that the overall  196 organization of the village reflects the influence of a broader social force that strives to maintain 
a traditional paternalistic and patriarchal social model.   

        In contrast to the private and developed spaces of the fields and the mill, Briarfield also 

contains a number of undeveloped open areas.  These unenclosed, unpartitioned spaces tend to 

be much easier to traverse, and as a result, they can foster communication by providing places in 

which people can congregate that are separate from the controlled spaces in and around private 

property.24  When Caroline and Shirley take their first walk along Nunnely Common and have 
their first private talk, their conversation begins with the view and what they most admire about 

it.  Both women articulate their preference for th
e view of natural heath over that of manicured 
residential grounds, agricultural enclosures, or other types of privately owned and structured 
land.  Indeed, Shirley remarks that, while she likes the Common, she likes the fiheath on its 

ridgesfl even better because it reminds her of moors, and she fondly remembers a fidistrict 

traversedfl when she was traveling near Scotland which fiseemed a boundless waste of deep 
heath, and nothing had [she] seen but wild sheep; nothing heard but the cries of wild birdsfl (211).  The terms fimoorfl and fiheathfl both expressly refer to areas of land that remain 

unenclosed and are considered waste ground with regard to their potential for development, so 

Shirley™s preference for the heath indicates that, despite being Briarfield™s chief landholder and 
having a vested interest in the income-generating potential of open land, she aesthetically values 
                                                 24 Other critics have done readings of this section of the novel and have come 
to conclusions similar to the reading 
for which I am arguing.  Sally Shuttleworth, for example, s
uggests that the novel™s natural spaces serve as the site of fian alternate female society,fl and thus the enclosure project signals the loss of the women™s identities and their 

vision of a life in which there are options for women beyond being either married or fisurplusfl (218).  In a reading 
that pays close attention to the novel™s use of amateur botany, Danielle Coriale™s fiCharlotte Brontë™s 
Shirley 
and the 
Consolations of Natural Historyfl interprets the common lands as a site for fidynamic social interactionsfl among the 

classes and fia pluralistic vision of British life,fl and she thus sees the enclosure of the lands as signifying the 
sacrifice of these ideals in the name 
of social peace and prosperity (128-9).  My reading similarly emphasizes the 
characterization of the common lands as a space that is both 
largely feminine and a threat
 to social stability, but I ground my reading in the historical 
context of public and feminine access 
to outdoor spaces, which these other studies ignore.    
 197 land that is uncultivated and uncultivatable.  In using language that highlights the heath™s undeveloped state (fiwild,fl fiwastefl) and its walkability (fiboundless,fl fitraversedfl), the passage 
indicates that Shirley™s aesthetic appreciation of the heath is rooted in its being an area where 
both her vision and her movements are unstructured and unrestricted.  Also, while the economic 

implications of the descriptor fiwaste,fl especially when used by a landholder, might suggest that 

Shirley is critical of how the land has been insufficiently utilized, the phrase fiboundless wastefl 
undercuts the economic connotation by suggesting that the waste provides a kind of abundance.  

In this context, fiwastefl refers to both the lost economic value of unused land 
and the non-economic gains that result from it.
  Thus fiboundless wastefl acknowledges the lost economic 
potential of the land while in turn indicating that the lack of development is precisely what 

makes it valuable to Shirley, especially as fiboundl
essfl indicates not only the land™s literal lack of 
bounding structures but also suggests limitlessness with regard to its traversability and its 

imaginative potential.
   The openness of the land leads to a similar openness in the women™s conversation with 
each other.  At first, Shirley and Caroline™s remarks about the view seem to be the impersonal 

and conventional discourse that would be appropriate for two newly acquainted ladies of their station, but they linger on the view of the heath and the Common for several pages, taking the 

topic beyond the superficial observations required for polite conversation.  We are told that this 

fivery first interchange of slight observations sufficed to give each an idea of what the other wasfl (211).  By indicating that the women™s remarks 
on the view somehow reveal personal and private 
information about themselves, the narrative suggests that, in contrast to the way the view of the 

Hollow seems to direct and limit Caroline™s thoughts to those of marriage, looking at the 

unstructured and undeveloped Common invites the women to explore their own ideas and 
 198 thoughts as their eyes explore the terrain.   The phrase fito give each an idea of what the other wasfl is purposely nonspecific so as to communicate a sense of possibility and limitlessness, 

especially as the reader is not made privy to what exactly the women have discovered about each 

other during this exchange. Caroline and Shirley™s ensuing conversation illustrates how looking at open land allows the women to think beyond the conversational bounds of conventional topics, which in turn leads 

them to challenge social norms.  The women first compare the Scottish moors to the local heath 

in language that emphasizes the intensity of the colors and the resulting effects on their 

imaginations.  After listening to Shirley™s depiction of the Scottish heath, Caroline says, fiI know 

how the heath would look on such a day [. . .]; purple-black: a deeper shade of the sky tint, and 
that would be livid.fl  Shirley responds, fiYesŠquite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and 
here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid tinge, and which, as you looked at it, 

you momentarily expected would kindle into bli
nding lighteningfl (211).  The women describe 
the view with adjectives that not only indicate the dark palette of colors but also allude to a sense of violence and horror: according to the OED, filividfl refers to a bluish color that is reminiscent 
of discoloration by bruises (fiLivid,fl OED); fighastlyfl indicates a pale shade of white that is fideath-likefl (fiGhastly,fl OED); and filuridfl means pale or glowing red in color with connotations 
of being fiominousfl or fisensationalfl (fiLurid,fl 
OED).  Their language is evocative of the gothic, suggesting that the women are aligning their discu
ssion of the heath with a brand of storytelling known for its imaginative plots and descriptions.  The link to the gothic is reinforced by their 

evident enjoyment of the moment despite the foreboding connotations of their language, 

especially as Shirley manages to build suspense into her recollection of the view (fias you looked 

at it, you momentarily expected would kindle in
to blinding lighteningfl).  By framing the 
 199 women™s remarks about the heath as a piece of gothic storytelling, this passage suggests that the 
view of the open Common is charged with a potential for narrative and imagination.   
Accordingly, Shirley and Caroline™s discussion of the view of the Common reads more 
like a story than a simple description of the view they are seeing.  They blend their commentary 

on the immediate view of the Common with memo
ries of similar views in Scotland and even 
hypothetical views, resulting in a shared perspective through which they build their narrative and 
explore the terrain both visually and imaginatively.  For instance, as the women cross the 

Common and marvel at the view of Nunnwood, Caro
line describes the wooded area as a haunt of Robin Hood and likens it to an encampment of 
fiforest sons of Anakfl (213).  By including references to folklore and mythical figures in her description of the wood, Caroline suggests that 

she is using storytelling and imagination as much as she is using her eyes to interpret and enjoy 

the view.  Linguistically, Shirley and Caroline are able to weave their individual recollections 
and impressions of scenic views into a single shared experience via empathetic use of the 
conditional mood (fiI know how the heath would look on such a dayfl) and use of the second 
person (fias you looked at it, you momentarily expectedfl), thus inserting each other into one 

another™s perspective and blurring the distinctions between which of them is seeing what.  

Moreover, their discussion conflates the current view with ones they have seen before and ones 
they can imagine, which complicates what is being treated as the object of their observations.   
A landscape is most often presented as a framed scenic view that contains specific focal 
points and assumes a certain spectator, be it th
e landholder himself admiring his property (actual 
or appropriated), or an audience admiring the view as something that belongs to and reflects 

upon the landholder.  Thus by blurring both the spectatorial role and the object of observation 
while the women contemplate a scenic view, the novel challenges the traditional sense of what a 
 200 landscape constitutes, which in turn subverts the patriarchal values that underpin that model.  
The fluidity with which the women can shift among their own and each other™s memories, 

observations, and imaginings about the heath, especially when contrasted with Caroline™s 

seemingly mechanical thoughts about Robert and 
marriage when she contemplates her regular 
view of the Hollow, suggests that looking at and traversing the open land allows them to reflect 

and speak without the socially mandated constraints that typically govern their behavior.  The 

open land, in being free of the markers that both denote and enforce private ownership and its 

accompanying economic and social concerns, invites the women to think and imagine beyond 

the immediate social roles and obligations that limit them in other areas. 
As Elizabeth Helsinger points out in Rural Scenes and National Representation, landscape and private property are linked in that both are rooted in fian understanding of 
possession that conveys the right to control the shape, use, and even appearance of the landfl 
(23).  Both forms of possession are enacted by imposing order onto the land, be it the order 
created by a landholder™s renovations to his property or a spectator™s visual ordering of the land.  So when Caroline asks Shirley to fistand still now, and look down at Nunnely dale and wood,fl 
the reader expects that the ensuing image will be ordered according to a familiar pattern 

associated with conventional landscape design, but that is not the case: They [Shirley and Caroline] both halted on the green brow of the Common: they 

looked down the deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied meads, some 

pearled with daisies, and some golden with kingcups: to-day all this verdure 

smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams plated over it.  On 

NunnwoodŠthe sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose 

lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heatherŠ 201 slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent 

greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury 

snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven™s foundations. (212)   
The depiction draws on color terminology associated with landscape paintings (fishadow,fl 

fishaded,fl fitinted,fl etc.) and accordingly emphasizes the variety of colors found in the vegetation 

and the clouds, including the colors™ specific hues, layers, and degrees of translucency.  Words 

such as fihorizonfl and fidistantfl provide spatial cues that evoke landscape paintings in this 
context as well.  This use of landscape terminology in a description of a scenic view, prefaced by 

Caroline placing Shirley in a particular spot and directing her to fistand still nowfl and filook downfl (my emphasis), indicates that the spectator position has been arranged so as to offer a 
specific image that is ordered in a particular way.  Similar to the moment in 
The Egoist where Clara Middleton is asked to admire the view from a certain spot on Willoughby™s estate, it would 
seem that such a structured view would leave Caroline and Shirley less engaged as spectators 
than when they are looking at the heath and adding their own and each other™s memories and 

imaginings to the view.   

 However, a closer look at the passage reveals that while the description has a lot of detail, 

it lacks perspective and a definite focal point: the spectator™s eye is directed from valley, to 

flowers, to verdure, all without a sense of what falls in the foreground or the background of the image or how they relate to each other spatially.  For instance, despite the broad scale of the 

image, which includes the sky, woods, valley, and meadows, the passage names the particular 

kinds of flowers that color the meadows.  Such 
detail indicates a close vantage point that would place the flowers in the foreground of the view in order for them to be identifiable.  However, 
 202 since the women are looking down into the valley and its meadows from the Common, the 
flowers cannot be in the foreground, so the sense of perspective in the passage is skewed.  The 
lack of smooth visual transitions between the sights is highlighted by the syntax of the 

description, which contains colons, semicolons, and dashes that interrupt the cadence and 

separate the elements being considered.  This separation results in the view being presented in 

pieces rather than as a coherent image, which in turn indicates that the women are not looking at 

the land in a way that imposes a certain visual order onto the view.  The lack of order in the 

image is reinforced by the description of the co
lors of the horizon fimeltingfl into those of the 
clouds above: fimeltingfl suggests a downward or outward movement rather than an upward one, 

so the diction confuses the direction of the mind™s eye.   

 The open, unordered quality of the land also encourages the women to assert the validity 

of their own knowledge and perceptions in a way that does not happen when they are on and 
around privately held land.  The narrative points to this change when Shirley and Caroline first set out for their walk by noting that it is the act of fitraversing the extensive and solitary sweep of 
Nunnely Commonfl that allows Shirley to fieasily [draw Caroline] into conversationfl (211).  

Accordingly, Caroline, who is typically quiet and humble, soon declares just how much she 

knows about Nunnwood as she and Shirley begin planning an excursion into the area: fi[–] I 
know all the pleasantest spots; I know where we could get nuts in nutting time; I know where 

wild strawberries abound; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden glades [–].  I know groups of trees that ravish the eye [–]fl (214).  Caroline™s repetition of fiI knowfl draws attention to the 
phrase and points to an uncharacteristic confidence in her own knowledge that is not seen 
elsewhere in the novel.  The link between the women™s walk on the Common and Caroline™s 

assertion of her knowledge of the area suggests that, in contrast to how Caroline responds to the  203 bounds and markers of private land, the lack of psychological and material restraint that is 
offered by open land allows her to draw upon her own understanding with confidence.       
As the women continue to walk, their conversation reflects the open land™s lack of restraint upon 

their thinking in that they begin to critically examine some principles by which they are 

supposed to govern their behavior.  For instance, rather than taking for granted that they should 
aspire to marry well, or even marry at all, Caroline and Shirley instead discuss their concerns 

about marriage as an institution.  In some ways, this topic is unsurprising as much of the novel 

addresses the problem of excess women within a socioeconomic model in which meaningful 

occupation and financial stability are the exception for unmarried women.  Accordingly, 

Caroline often worries about what will happen to her if she does not marry, and though she looks 

into other options for how she might spend her life, such as becoming a governess, her affection 

for Robert makes it clear that marriage is nevertheless her first choice and, she believes, her best 

chance at happiness.    However, when Caroline and Shirley discuss marriage on the Common, they do not 
approach it from the assumption that, for a woman, being married is necessarily the ideal 

situation.  Instead they question this premise and speculate on whether it is possible for either 

men or women to find satisfaction in marriage at all: they wonder whether any man is able to 

retain interest in the same woman after spending every day with her, and they worry that women 

are deluded about what it is really like to have a husband.  Caroline goes so far as to remark, fiI 

wonder we don™t all make up our minds to remain single,fl (217).  In suggesting that marriage 

itself may be the problem (rather than the women who cannot find husbands), Shirley and 

Caroline undermine the social norms and expectations that are supposed to govern them.  It is no 

coincidence that the women critically examine marriage only while they are walking on open 
 204 land, especially given that the discussion immediately ends once Caroline announces, fiWe are 
here at the Rectory gates,fl as if the gate itself, and thus the return to the bounded private land, 
compels the women to return to more conventional topics (219).  The common lands provide the 

women with a space outside the boundaries that limit their movements and thoughts when they 

are in the village proper, and exploring the open terrain both visually and on foot allows them to 

explore beyond conventional thinking and mores as well.        
So when Robert announces that he plans to enclose Nunnely Common and expand his 
mill into the surrounding areas, Caroline™s dismay is understandable, especially as Robert wants 

to do more than simply erect buildings and clear the land: he wants to obliterate all traces of the 

existing land features and replace them with marks of industry and residential development.  He 

tells Caroline, fiThe copse shall be firewood ere five years elapse: the beautiful wild ravine shall be a smooth descent; the green natural terrace shall be a paved street: there shall be cottages in 

the dark ravine, and cottages on the lonely slopes: the rough pebbled track shall be an even, firm, 
broad, black, sooty road, bedded with the cinders from my mill [–] (644).  The passage 
emphasizes that the open lands will be reshaped and repurposed in order to make them 

industrially useful and economically profitable: i.e., the copse will be chopped up and used for 

fuel, the terrace will be paved to better accommodate traffic, and the ravine and slopes will be 

turned into housing for the mill™s workers.  Moreover, the passage reflects the proposed changes 

on a linguistic level.  Paired poetic adjectives are used to describe the open lands, and they 
almost read like run-ons as they have no commas to separate them, which can be read as 

imitating the unstructured and unbounded character of 
the land.   Accordingly, in the descriptions of the proposed changes to the land, the paired expressive adjectives are replaced with single-
word, fact-based descriptors, and when multiple descriptors are used, each one is enclosed by 
 205 punctuation.  For instance, the fibeautiful wild ravinefl becomes simply a fismooth descentfl; 
figreen natural terracefl becomes a fipaved streetfl; and the firough pebbled trackfl becomes an 

fieven, firm, broad, black, sooty road.fl   
Robert™s determination to completely destroy the green spaces, rather than attempting to 
preserve them in some capacity as he expands the mill, suggests that he sees the open land as 

being incompatible with his project of providing a space for the displaced laborers.  The 

language of the passage implies that the psychological effect of open land is to blame for 

Robert™s extreme plans.  The adjectives used to describe the existing green spaces, such as 

filonely,fl fiwild,fl fidark,fl and fibeautiful,fl point to qualities than can be both aesthetic and 

emotional, indicating that a spectator on open land experiences the land in a way that engages 

her on multiple levels.  On the other hand, the adjectives used to describe the proposed mill 

expansion (fipaved,fl fisooty,fl fismoothfl) provide concrete information that relates only to each 

feature™s industrial usefulness, suggesting that a spectator on the mill grounds will have no 
thoughts or observations aside from the work being done at the mill.  The implication that the 
enclosure and development of the open land will lead to a corresponding narrowing of the 

perceptions and observations of those who inhabit the land is confirmed by Caroline and 

Shirley™s experiences: when they are in town, their movements, thoughts, and observations are 

confined to what has been deemed appropriate for them according to patriarchal social norms, 

but when they are on the Common, they are able to explore their surroundings as they please 

(both visually and on foot), which in turn allows them to begin challenging the norms that guide 

their behavior.  In light of this connection, it is telling that the destruction of open land is 
presented as being necessary before local laborers are relocated to the area, especially because 
the novel is clearly concerned about what can happen when the poor are uncontrolled.   206 Historically, the enclosure of common lands has been recognized as cheating the rural 
poor of land that had belonged to them, but here it is being presented as a solution to their 

problems.  While acknowledging that the expansion will lead to profits for the mill, Robert 

points out that it will also provide work, wages, and housing for the local poor, many of whom 

are starving and living in squalor.  Yet his language indicates that there is a third motive for his 

proposed renovations, and it has to do with containment.  He says, fiI can line yonder barren 

Hollow with lines of cottages, and rows of cottage-gardens [–].  I will pour the waters of Pactolus through the valley of Briarfield. [–]  I will get an act for enclosing Nunnely Common, 

and parceling it out into farmsfl (644).  Robert
™s language stresses how his proposed renovations to the land will result in its being divided, bounded, and ordered: the Hollow will be lined with lines of cottages and rows of gardens, the Common will be 
enclosed and parceled out, and while it is not clear if he literally wants to flood the valley, he nevertheless reimagines it as being split 

by an artificial waterway.  The emphasis on how the land will be reshaped and straightened into 
standardized tracts suggests that Robert is concerned about the visual impact of the land as well 
as its traversability.  Dividing the land into rows of individual properties, with each one marked 

off and bounded in some way, will regulate the movements of the inhabitants as they will no 

longer be able to walk wherever they want, and the straight lines of standardized tracts of land 
will visually order the land and regulate the view as well.   Robert™s insistence that the common lands be demolished is understandable in light of 
what happens in the novel when the rural poor are permitted to gather in open spaces.  Many 

laborers have lost their jobs to machines, which has left them with no wages and nowhere to 

work.  Since the mills have no place for them, the laborers have taken to congregating in open 

areas and, instead of working, they linger and talk.  Unsurprisingly, such behavior among the 
 207 rural poor is unsettling to the gentry due to the recent eruptions of mob violence, which also 
begin with the poor gathering and talking.  To elaborate on this idea, the passage in which the 
local cottagers gather at Fieldhead™s dairy can be read and unpacked in tandem with the more 

violent interclass conflicts that occur at Robert™s mill in order to demonstrate why even a 

seemingly innocent gathering of the poor is nevertheless viewed as a threat by the gentry.   
Just hours after the big attack on Robert™s mill, the local cottagers go to the dairy at 
Fieldhead to get milk.  When Shirley and Caroline arrive at the manor house, they find fithe 

back-yard gates open, and the court and kitchen seemed crowded with excited milk-fetchersŠ

men, women, and children, whom Mrs. Gill, the housekeeper, appeared vainly persuading to take 

their milk-cans and departfl (354).  Through the use of the words fiseemedfl and fiappeared,fl the 

passage emphasizes that Shirley and Caroline are actively shaping and interpreting the view of 

the yard.  The open gate is foregrounded as the first detail they notice about the view, which 
indicates that it is a significant detail for them, followed by how the yard is crowded with people.  
The fact that the gate is open suggests that the courtyard is temporarily functioning as open land, 
particularly as the cottagers are loitering there as if it is their own space, and the ladies™ 
immediate notice of the gate indicates that the situation alarms them.   
Yet, instead of being an inherently alarming moment, the scene includes several elements 
commonly found in the pastoral picturesqueŠchatting peasants, milk cans, well-fed cows, and 

even the manor house itself, which is described 
as being picturesque on account of its fiirregular architecturefl and figray and mossy colouring communicated by timefl (187)Šand the narrator 

alludes to such a reading by interrupting the description of the yard with a parenthetical aside as 
the next sentence in the paragraph:    208 (It is, or was, by-the-by, the custom in the north of England for the cottagers on a 
country squire™s estate to receive their supplies of milk and butter from the dairy 

of the Manor-House, on whose pastures a herd of milch kine was usually fed for 

the convenience of the neighborhood.  Miss Keeldar owned such a herdŠall 
deep-dewlapped, Craven cows, reared on the sweet herbage and clear waters of 
bonnie Airedale; and very proud she was of their sleek aspect and high condition.) 
(354-5).   Immediately after the parenthetical, the narrative resumes its description of Shirley™s response to 

what she sees in her yard.  Such interruptions are uncommon in the novel, so it is noteworthy that 
the narrator breaks in at this moment.  The narrator™s self-correction from fiit isfl to fiit 
wasfl reiterates that the story is taking place in the past, and the archaic, poetic language (fimilch kine,fl 

fisweet herbage,fl fibonnie Airedalefl) suggests that, within the aside, this past is being 
romanticized in the picturesque tradition as a simpler time of paternalistic abundance.  In 
evoking the picturesque, the aside serves as an alternate interpretation of the view of the yard, in which the gathering of the cottagers is a charming reflection of both the landholder™s generosity 

and the cottagers™ esteem for their patron.  It also serves as a reminder that the cottagers are not 

trespassing but rather have a right, dictated by local custom, to gather in the yard.   

 However, Shirley™s first impulse upon entering her yard is to break up the gathering of 

cottagers: fiSeeing now the state of matters, and that
 it was desirable to effect a clearance of the premises, Shirley stepped in amongst the gossiping groupsfl (355).  The formal language and 

convoluted phrasing (fidesirable to effect a clearance of the premisesfl) indicates a shift back to 
Shirley™s perspective, but more importantly, it contrasts with the more poetic language of the 

narrator™s aside in order to signal that Shirley does not see charm or picturesque beauty in the 
 209 scene.  By congregating and lingering instead of taking their milk and leaving, the cottagers have 
effectively transformed Shirley™s yard into a common, open space that they have appropriated as 

their own, and this use of her land evidently makes Shirley uncomfortable.  She goes on to berate 

the cottagers with what appears to be good-natured teasing but, as the reader is told candidly, her 
manner is actually calculated to get results with finumbers [that] belonged to the working-classfl 

(355).  When the word finumbersfl is used to mean fipeoplefl at other times in the novel, it refers 

specifically to the poor and acts as a synonym for fimobfl: for instance, at one point Shirley asks 

Caroline, fiWould you, any more than me, let Robert be borne down by numbers?fl (267).  

Indeed, the tendency to automatically conflate the poor with mobs and violence is so prevalent 

among the gentry that even Caroline comments on it: she says, fi[–] I cannot help thinking it 

unjust to include all poor working people under the general and insulting name of ‚the mob,™fl 

(93).  When the poor are thought of in terms of potential mobs, any assembling of them is seen 

as a threat, specifically a threat to property as so many mills and pieces of equipment have been 
destroyed during recent Luddite uprisings.  So when Shirley takes note of her open gate and labels the cottagers in her yard as finumbers,fl it 
implies that she perceives them as disobeying the 
property boundaries that should govern their movements and, consequently, she senses a 

potential for mobbing and violence.   
Along with disapproving of the cottagers gathering in her yard, Shirley also dwells on the fact that they are standing around talking.  When Shirley asks the cottagers why they have not 
yet left her yard, one of them replies, fiWe™re just talking a bit over this battle there has been at 

your miln, Mistress,fl (355).  The cottagers™ take on the attack is not clearŠthey could be 

weaving a narrative that heroizes Robert and condemns the rioters, for instanceŠbut Shirley 

does not seem to care about what their interpretation might be: it is the fact that they are 
 210 discussing and interpreting the incident all that troubles her.  She replies, fiTalking a bit!  Just like you! [–] It is a queer thing that all the world is so fond of talking over events: you talk if 
anybody dies suddenly; you talk if a fire breaks out; you talk if a mill-owner fails; you 
talk if 
he™s murdered.  What good does your talking do?fl 
(355, emphasis Brontë™s).  Shirley stresses the 
word fitalkfl in order to indicate to the cottagers the inconsequentiality of their discussions.  Yet 

each of the possible incidents she mentions could eith
er incite riots or help reinforce social mores 
depending largely on how it was represented to and interpreted by the people through such 
discussions: a natural death versus a murder or a
ssassination; an accidental fire versus arson; a victim of a sluggish economy versus a perpetrator of unjust business practices; or the murder of 

an innocent versus deserved vengeance.  In this sense, the cottagers™ talk has the potential to be 
quite powerful, especially given the heightened tensions among the classes.   
The poor are aware of the power of their talk as well, at least to a degree.  For instance, Moses Barraclough, identified by Robert as one of the mob leaders, is known as a great orator 
among the laboring class, and he is thus considered extremely dangerous as he is able to 
persuade large groups of men to join the mill attacks he organizes.  When Moses takes a group of 

the displaced laborers to the mill in order to convi
nce Robert to give up his machinery, one of the 
men says, "I'm not for shedding blood: I'd neither kill a man nor hurt a man; and I'm not for 

pulling down mills and breaking machines: for, as ye say, that way o' going on 'll niver stop 

invention; but I'll talk,--I'll make as big a din as ever I can," (137).  The laborer's statement is 

bold in that he claims his talking is more powerful than violence as a means of resistance and as 

a force for social change.  A fidinfl is a noise fiutter[ed] continuously so as to deafen or wearyfl 
(fiDin,fl OED), and it implies an amalgamation of voices (rather than that only of the laborer 
himself) that creates a single noise; so for the laborer to pledge to fimake as big a din as ever I 
 211 canfl suggests that he will use his talking, along with the talking of his fellow displaced laborers, to ensure that the privileged are unable to exist peacefully while the poor suffer.  Since the 
laborers™ talk often leads to social unrest and mob uprisings, which is reflected in the 

connotations of chaos in the word fidin,fl the man™s statement also works as a subtle threat of 

violence against property and privilege, even as he ostensibly rejects violence as a means of 

accomplishing social change.   

 So when the cottagers are talking in Shirley™s yard, she becomes uncomfortable because 

she fears that their talk will lead to more discontent and, as a result, more uprisings.  When this 

moment is read alongside Caroline and Shirley™s first walk together, it becomes evident that 

Shirley is also worried because the cottagers are talking while the gate to her yard is standing 
open.  As noted above, the open gate is the first thing Shirley notices when she returns to 
Fieldhead: she finds fithe back-yard gates open, and the court and kitchen seemed crowded with 

excited milk-fetchers.fl  A closed gate signifies private property: it marks the beginning of a 
boundary and indicates that the land belongs to someone.  It signals that permission must be 
given before entry is granted, and entry comes with an obligation to follow certain rules and 

customs.  An open gate, on the other hand, signifi
es that these restrictions do not apply as no permission is needed for entry; it signals that the land is acting as a common space.  With the 

gate left standing open, the cottagers are not respecting the yard as being Shirley™s property, and they are likely ignoring the other markers a
nd bounding structures that would normally guide 
their thinking and behavior.   
 Gathering and talking on what is being treated as open land could lead the cottagers to 

begin thinking and speaking more independently, just as Shirley and Caroline did when they 

walked on the Common.  Even though the cottagers are not directly challenging Shirley, their 
 212 talking in what is being treated as an open space, in which boundaries and bounding structures are not effectively functioning, could result in their subverting social norms and authority, 
particularly the authority of Shirley as a landholder.  Shirley fears such a lapse when she sees the 
cottagers loitering and talking in her yard instead of leaving immediately after receiving their 

milk, as they are supposed to do.  Accordingly, when one of the cottagers responds to Shirley™s 

criticism of their talk by asking, fiWe™re no war nor some ‚at is aboon us; are we?fl (355), the 

question is especially meaningful.  That the cottager is questioning Shirley at all suggests he has 

a large degree of confidence in his own understanding of the situation and thus is positing 
himself as an authority figure.  His diction emphasizes this idea as the remark is split by a 

semicolon: rather than being phrased as an out
right question, which could be read as a sincere appeal to Shirley for knowledge, the remark is composed of a statement that is followed by a 

rhetorical question, which perhaps alludes to the oratorical style of Moses Barraclough, the mob 
leader.  Such a connotation would be troubling to Shirley since the displaced laborers, led by Barraclough, questioned Robert and asserted their own authority in a similar manner just before 
the attack on the mill.  During that episode, for instance, one of the displaced laborers tells 

Robert, fi[–] I know it isn™t right for poor folks to starvefl (137), with his use of fiI knowfl anticipating Caroline™s repetition of the phrase as she walks with Shirley on the Common.  

Another laborer chides Robert with the accusation, fi[–] you have not that understanding of huz and wer ways [–]fl (134).  The laborer™s use of his vernacular, especially as he initially 
addresses Robert in the formal diction more familiar to the genteel classes, serves to reinforce his 

claim that he has a kind of knowledge of which 
Robert is ignorant, thus placing himself in a 
position of authority over the mill owner.     
 213  Moreover, the cottager™s question to Shirley subtly undermines the established 
sociopolitical hierarchy by equalizing the cottagers and the gentry: fiWe™re no worse than some 

that are above usfl implies that they should all be 
held to the same standard, and it also denies any 
difference between the behaviors of the two classes.  If this scene is read as echoing the earlier 
moment shared between Shirley and Caroline on the Common, the cottager™s question invites a 

comparison between the cottagers™ talking and that of the women: ultimately, he wants to know 

why some people are able to meet in open spaces for unhampered thought and discussion, while 

others are forbidden from doing the same.  Shirley, being good at handling finumbers,fl 

immediately shuts down the discussion with an answering rhetorical move: she takes the 

cottager™s claim to the extreme and declares that the poor are actually better than their social 

superiors.  Shirley lectures the cottagers on how they, as fimodels of industry,fl should not be 

wasting their time by fi
talk[ing] scandalfl (355-6): she says, fiFine, rich people that have nothing to do, may be partly excused for trifling their time away: you who have to earn your bread with 
the sweat of your brow are quite inexcusablefl (355).  Shirley inverts the relative positions of the working poor and the gentry with regard to how their time is employed: even the unmarried 

gentlewomen without professions find occupation in
 caring for others, particularly in dispensing charity, while many discarded manual laborers truly have nothing to do.  She grounds her 

critique of the cottagers in the pre-industrial model of the village economy, but as a landholder 

with a mill on her estate, she knows firsthand that the sluggish wartime economy and the 

introduction of machines have severely limited the amount of work available to the lower 

classes, leaving many of them starving and desperate.  Shirley™s use of phrases like fimodels of 

industryfl and fiearn your breadfl are painfully ironic given this context, but her flattery of the 
cottagers nevertheless succeeds in convincing them to leave her yard.  After the cottagers file 
 214 out, Shirley ficlose[s] the gates on a quiet courtfl (356), thus reinstating the bounding structure that protects her grounds and transforming the yard from a common space back into a piece of 

her private property.   
 Shirley™s eagerness to eject the cottagers from her land and quiet their talk suggests that 

she too sees a similarity between her discussion with Caroline on the Common and the cottagers™ 

talk in her open yard.  This parallel, by aligning the women™s talk with the threat of rebellion and 

violence, serves to call into question the harmlessness of Shirley and Caroline™s discussion with 

regard to the potential consequences to the social order, thus foreshadowing the novel™s ending.  
Moreover, the possibility that the cottagers will likewise question and challenge social norms 

while on her land concerns Shirley because, as the recent riots have demonstrated, there is no 

guarantee that the poor will return to respecting property boundaries and observing the 
accompanying behavioral norms once they have begun to operate outside them.  Shirley and 

Caroline questioned and challenged social norms as they walked on the Common, but they 
resumed respecting the tenets of society, as embodied by property boundaries and private land, 
once they reached the gates of the rectory: their conversation returned to the conventional, they 
allowed their steps to be guided by the provided paths, and they resumed the roles and duties 

expected of them.  The recent riots, on the other hand, demonstrate that the poor are not similarly 

compelled to resume their respect of property boundaries, nor the tenets that those boundaries 

embody, after they have left them.   

 To clarify, when the displaced laborers were still working at the mill, for instance, they 

each had a space in which they belonged within the bounds of private property, and their 
movements and thinking were guided by the parameters of their employment.  However, once 

they are ousted from their jobs in favor of machines, they have no stake in upholding a system 
 215 that does not support them.  When they were Robert™s employees, the laborers respected the 
physical and psychological boundaries communicated to them by the layout of the mill: i.e., they 

entered and left the mill by the appropriate gate and only at the times when they had permission 

to do so; they did the work assigned to them and accepted that both the equipment and the results 

of their labor did not belong to them; and they 
bowed to the authority of the mill owner.  But 
once they are ousted from their positions in the mill, the displaced laborers are free of the 

specific mill boundaries that used to guide them, and they no longer have an incentive to respect 

property boundaries in general as they have no stake in that system.   

 Accordingly, during the riot at Stilbro™ mill, the displaced laborers break down the gates 

to the mill and tramp through the yard as they please, intent on gaining entry without Robert™s 

consent.  When the gates to the mill are broken down, they fall with a crash that Caroline 

describes as being filike the felling of great treesfl (343); this remark brings to mind the great 

trees that populate the private wooded areas of manor homes, such as that belonging to the 
Yorkes upon which Caroline trespasses.  The connection suggests that Caroline fears the homes 
of her class may be the next targets of mob violence, especially as she overheard the rioters 

discussing whether they should break into the Rectory as they made their way to the mill.  So 

when Shirley™s cottagers leave open her gate and congregate in her yard, thus failing to heed the 
gate as a bounding structure and respect her land as private property, the women fear it may be 

the beginning of more uprisings and mob violence, even if the gesture is read as being merely 

symbolic of a shift in attitude.  When Shirley successfully shoos the cottagers from her yard and 

closes the gate, then, she confirms that the cottagers will still acquiesce to property boundaries 

and the accompanying behavioral codes as they appl
y to the laboring poor.  Closing the gate also puts in place yet another structure that will affect how Shirley and Caroline can view and move 
 216 across the land, but as long as the laboring poor treat it as a boundary, it also gives the women a 
bit more security. 

 Historically, Luddites gathered on the outskirts of villages in order to plan their attacks 

and practice their drills, so they were associated with the undeveloped and unenclosed lands that 
would lie on the outskirts of towns.  One early study of Luddism describes how rioters would be 
found practicing martial drills fion the heaths and moors,fl and people travelling late at night who 

had to fipass near wild moors and unfrequented
 placesfl would often hear the men drilling, with 
fithe word of command and the measured tramp of many feetfl (Peel 35, 66).  This quote evokes 

the passage in Shirley where Caroline and Shirley, huddling behind the shrubs in the rectory garden, listen as the mob marches along the road toward Robert™s mill: fiIt was not the tread of 

two, nor a dozen, nor of a score of men: it was the tread of hundredsfl (337).  The difference 

between the information in the study and the novel™s depiction of the rioters is where the men are 

located: Shirley and Caroline hear the tread of the mob just outside their garden, not while they 
are walking among the heath and moors.   
 In fact, the novel™s displaced laborers mob, march, and congregate only in the village.  

Even when Robert is shot by one of them while he is out riding, the incident happens 
after he crosses into the village, just as fiStilbro™ Moor was left behindfl and fiplantations rose dusk on 

either handfl (543).  The novel does imply that Luddites have made some use of the village™s 

common lands: Caroline and Shirley allude to it during their walk on the Common, when they 

discuss how the wood was once one of Robin Hood™s haunts, with fimementos of him still 
existingfl in the area25 (213).  Yet the novel never actually shows the displaced laborers using the common, undeveloped lands surrounding Briarfield for martial drilling or any other purpose.  
                                                 25 Ned Ludd, the leader of the Luddite movement, was popularly likened to Robin Hood, and letters attributed to 
him were often signed with addresses such as fiR
obin Hood™s Cavefl or fiSherwood Forestfl (Thompson, 601). 
 217 Shirley and Caroline do not even see peasant shacks, charming or otherwise, dotting their scenic 
views when they walk on the Common.  Such a representational omission is surprising because 

Luddites were so widely known to use the moors for their meetings and training, and the rural 

poor often made their homes on the common lands.  I would suggest that the novel purposely 

does not depict the laborers gathering, training, or living on the common lands outside the village 
in order to convey that it is unknown exactly what the poor do when they are on undeveloped, unenclosed land as these areas are difficult to monitor and regulate.  Given the intense social 

unrest threatening Briarfield, such unknowns are particularly worrisome, and they underlie why 
Robert feels the need to obliterate the existing land features and enclose the common lands 

instead of simply modifying the existing layout when he expands his mill. 

 On the surface, Robert™s project is largely altruistic in that he appears to be sacrificing 

bigger profits for the sake of helping fithe houseless, the starving, the unemployedfl (644), and 
Caroline™s protests over losing her favorite walking spots seem selfish in comparison.  However, 
a closer reading of the narrative reveals that the enclosure project is largely about dividing and containing the poor: the potential mobs will be disbanded, the laborers will be kept in their filines 

of cottagesfl and firows of cottage gardens,fl and the open lands will be bounded and parceled into 
farms.  At the end of the novel, he narrator informs the reader that Robert™s project was 

successful, and forty years later, the land still bears his mark: fithe manufacturer™s day-dreams 

[are] embodied in substantial stone and brick and ashesŠthe cinder-black highway, the cottages, 

and the cottage-gardens; [–] a mighty mill, and a chimney, ambitious as the tower of Babelfl 

(645).  The language of this description gestures to the achievement of the desired psychological 
effect of the renovations, with the wishes of the manufacturer literally embodied in the layout 
and composition of the land (and no trace of the laborers™ wishes), and the reference to the tower 
 218 of Babel indicating that the poor have been divided and prevented from talking to each other.  
The limited traversability of the land makes it more difficult for the laborers to congregate and 

talk, and the visual impact of the proposed renovations serves to channel the laborers™ thinking 

toward their work, similar to how Caroline™s thoughts are channeled toward marriage when she 

walks in the village. 
 Accordingly, while Caroline™s dismay over the loss of the open land might like a selfish 

disregard for human suffering, she is actually mourning the loss of the space in which she and 

Shirley were able to move, talk, and reflect
 without the boundariesŠboth the social mores and 
the bounding structures that reinforce those moresŠto which they are otherwise subjected.  

While enclosure is typically portrayed as taking land from the rural poor, here it is being 

presented as taking land from women of the gentry, specifically beautiful land that affords them 

pleasant places for walking and thinking.  The poetic descriptions that characterize the Common 

and the natural terrace, the heaths and moors, the copse, the ravine, and the other land features 
that make up the undeveloped lands outside Briarfield suggest the magnitude of the aesthetic 
sacrifice being made by the women, but the narrative indicates that the women are also losing 

their only bit of freedom as well.  Because the layout of the village, along with the bounding 

structures that mark and divide individual pr
operties, guide the women™s movements, thinking, 
and behavior while they are in town, the time they spend on unbounded, undeveloped land serves 

as respite from those restrictions.  When they are on the Common, they walk where they want to 

walk instead of following paths, they admire the views and perspectives that they find pleasing 

rather than those that are arranged for them, and they are able to talk and think beyond what is 

conventional and deemed acceptable for women of their class.  The loss of the open lands means 

the loss of those freedoms for them.   
 219  It is significant, then, that once Robert determines that he will enclose and develop the 
common lands, Caroline acquiesces silently and does not speak for the remainder of the 

narrative: she only smiles at Robert in response and fimutelyfl offers him a kiss (644-5).  The 

novel suggests that the enclosure of the open land is necessary for the greater good of society, 
both with regard to the well-being of the laborers and the security of private property in the 
village, but these benefits must come at the cost of women™s freedom outdoors.  This style of 

unfortunate compromise, laden with the sense that something significant is being lost, is 

characteristic of realist novels that attempt to reconcile the opposing interests of preserving the 

countryside while adapting to the housing and employment needs of the laboring classes.  Yet in 

this instance, it appears that Caroline™s consent to the sacrifice of her freedom outdoors is also 

her acknowledgement that women™s access to open, undeveloped lands is part of the problem 

being solved by the enclosure project.  Developing the common lands will not only contain the 
laborers and keep them in view, but it will also prevent the women from escaping the eyes of the 
village.  While Caroline and Shirley enjoy their private time on the Common, away from the 
eyes of the figossips and scoutsfl who monitor their every move otherwise, they themselves 

participate in a similar policing of the land when they return to Shirley™s dairy and disperse the 

cottagers due to concerns about potential uprisings against the status quo.  Yet the threat 
presented by the talk of the village poor while they are gathered in an open space indicates a 
parallel threat posed by the talk of the women when they walk along the common.  While the 

women do return to observing social codes and mores upon their return to the village, the fact 

that their thinking strayed at all, particularly in their questioning of marriage, presents a threat to 

social and domestic stability.  The ending of 
Shirley suggests that Caroline and Shirley, after sampling the subversive line of thinking available to them outside the boundaries and scrutiny of 
 220 the village, ultimately decide that such freedom is too dangerous for the interests of social 
stability.  Instead, they consent to the destruction of the common lands and get married, 

disappearing into their husbands™ identities as fiMrs. Robertfl and fiMrs. Louisfl (646).  
Meanwhile, their men implement the vision of an increasingly capitalistic society properly 

tempered with traditional paternalistic, patriarchal values, keeping both the village women and 

the laboring classes contained and under control.  The novel presents this model as having the 

best chance at achieving peace and prosperity in volatile times.       

 While walking on the open land allowed Shirley and Caroline to question social norms 

and consider ways in which a woman could have purpose outside marriage, the novel suggests 

that such radical thinking is too dangerous in the midst of class tensions and social upheaval; so 

the land is enclosed and developed, and, rather than continuing to challenge the status quo, the 
women end up marrying and revert to the traditional social model for the sake of stability.  

Indeed, the inability to implement a working social model that preserves privileged access to the 
countryside while also taking into account the needs of the rural poor in a capitalist economy is a 
theme that runs throughout the realist novels discussed in this dissertation.  The novels either 

indicate the necessity of reverting to an earlier social model in order to protect the interests of the 

landholding class, or they depict their characters as being unable to move past the old models in 

a lasting way.  This tendency is most evident in 
The Egoist, which was published in 1879 but reads like a much earlier novel (such as 
Mansfield Park) given its insularity regarding class conflict and other contemporary social issues.  This insularity, which contrasts with the reach of 

typical mid-century novels regarding social, political, and economic issues, is part of the novel™s 

general mocking of Willoughby™s sense of his own importance, but it can also be read as a 

comment on how the landed nobility must live in a carefully controlled bubble in order to 
 221 imagine that they still have dominion over the countryside: Willoughby must shut away the 
outside world and keep those who live on his estate dependent on him in order for his estate and 

his landscape views to remain relevant.   

 In this light, 
The Egoist has a lot in common with 
The Clever Woman of the Family as both novels feature the implementation of a paternalistic and picturesque fantasy vision as a 

coping mechanism for the landed gentry as they f
ace the loss of their traditional way of life.  In depicting how Rachel™s attempt to alleviate local rural poverty while preserving the family land 
fails so miserably that she suffers a nervous breakdown, 
Clever Woman recognizes that there is a social problem at stake without being able to 
offer a satisfactory solution: instead, Rachel, like her mother, ultimately retreats into a fantasy vision of picturesque imagery in which she has 

fulfilled her paternalistic duty to the poor.  The utopian vision of the charitable school at the end 
of the novel indicates that the problems underlying the poverty have not actually been addressed, 

but Rachel is nevertheless satisfied because the picturesque imagery of her landscape view 
makes it seem as though they have been.  It is essentially an updated version of the social model 
presented in Mansfield Park, where instead of ignoring the existence of the poor, these mid-
century novels instead acknowledge the problems of rural poverty but admit that they do not 

have a way to fix them.  I would suggest that th
e conscious disregard of such social problems, 
which are grounded in the legacy of enclosure and the exploitation of the rural poor for the sake 
of the institution of the estate, is largely what distinguishes The Egoist from 
Mansfield Park: while Mansfield Park takes for granted that the landed gentry owns the countryside outright, The Egoist subtly parodies this insularity and indicates that, as Willoughby™s dependents begin to 
disperse and his remaining friends refuse to
 continue supporting his social tyranny, Willoughby™s 
patriarchal fantasy is unsustainable, and his rule as the lord of the soil will be short-lived.            
 222   Bleak House and John Halifax, Gentleman, on the other hand, attempt to solve the 
problem by merging the interests of the landholding class with those of the rising industrialists 

and self-made men, thus combining the work ethic and empathy of men who have struggled with 

the leadership traditionally provided by the landed aristocracy.  However, it is significant that in 
both texts, the presence of the manor house (and, by extension, what it symbolizes) is what 

prevents this model from succeeding as neither novel is able to fully incorporate it.  In 
Bleak House, the large manor homes are left empty and crumbling as the novel concludes without an 
obvious patriarchal figure to do the work of governing and guiding the laboring classes with 
compassion and discerning judgment.  The novel identifies the lack of leadership and social 

volatility that has been brought about by the dissolution and subsequent cultural irrelevancy of 
the aristocracy, but it is unable to identify a replacement that could step into this leadership role 

without being corrupted by the attendant wealth and power necessary to make it effective.  The 

novel tries to move forward with regard to its social model, but in attempting to preserve the 
leadership formerly provided by the aristocracy while excluding the corrupting influences of 
inherited wealth and power, it cannot find a solution, and ultimately it cannot move past the 

legacy of the manor house.  
John Halifax is more successful in positing a model in that John, as a 
self-made man with a respect for authority, turns out to be an ideal candidate for leadership: he is 

able to temper his power as a wealthy industrialist and landholder with his compassion for the 

laboring poor, and he is even able to acquire a large manor house without it affecting his 

humility.  The only problem is there is no one to take over for him once he dies: the novel 

suggests that his sons, and particularly his eldest, do not have the moral strength to take on the 

role of the benevolent patriarch, especially as their principles are tested and ultimately altered as 

a result of the family™s move to the large manor house.  Thus while the novel posits John as a 
 223 solution to the leadership of the corrupt aristocracy and the greedy industrialists, it has no plan for how his brand of leadership can be passed along to the next generation in order to ensure 
good leadership continues.  In short, the novel acknowledges that John™s passing along his 
wealth and land to his children leads back to the trap of inherited wealth and power, making its 
proposed social model no different from that which led to the problems it is trying to solve.  

Thus the solution to the problem dies with John at the end of the novel, and his children are left 

with the manor house and the estate, with no indication from the narrative as to how things will 

turn out for them, and nothing has actually changed with regard to the problem of how land, 

wealth, and political power are distributed among the population.    

 Even the ending of 
Shirley suggests that the manor house, and thus the institution of the 
landed estate, has become superfluous: as the narrator discusses the look of the present-day 

Hollow, his (or her) observations consider only how the mill has endured and expanded over the 

years.  The mill, rather than the estate, is what organizes the land and dominates the view at the 
end, and it is where the power and wealth are now located.  The open green spaces are gone and have been replaced with the trappings of successful industry.  The mid-century realist novels 

discussed here search for a social model that will allow for the preservation of the institution of 

the estate and its privileged scenic views while also making amends to the rural poor (in the form 

of paternalistic support) for having been cheated of their share of the land.  However, each of the novels fails to find a working solution, and their depictions of the land instead serve as a vehicle 
to explore the underlying social, political, and economic reasons why these solutions, along with 

the estate itself, must fail.  This underlying disc
ourse is not obvious when depictions of land and landscape are read only as decorative detail within the novels, but by close reading these 
depictions and analyzing them according to the historical, political, and aesthetic contexts in 
 224 which they take place, they provide new ways of understanding how the novels not only engaged in but helped to shape thinking on these issues.     
 By positing social models that nevertheless attempt to preserve the estate as the site from 

which the countryside is organized and controlled, realist novels are essentially participating in 
the picturesque tendency to mourn and romanticize a lost rural past.  In this light, the depiction 

of the estate as an entity that regrettably no longer works, even after the realist novel™s attempts 

to reconfigure and adapt it to new socioeconomic and political circumstances, is not so much a 

call for a return to old-fashioned paternalistic care of the poor as it is a lamentation of a fallen 

social model.  Thus the moral enterprise of the realist novel, which is invested in combating 

picturesque imagery that romanticizes rural poverty, ends up being subordinated to the 

sentimental project of memorializing the grand estate, along with the model™s potential for happy 

feudalistic relations among the classes, as something that has been lost as a result of the shift to a 

capitalistic economy.  In this reading, the realism of these mid-century realist novels, particularly 
with regard to how they depict land, is actually an indulgence in the kind of conscious fantasy that realist novels ostensibly combat in rejecting the picturesque as an appropriate means of 

representing the countryside.  The difference is that, by admitting that the models must fail, the 

novels eventually acknowledge that the fantasy is unsustainable even as they temporarily indulge 

it.  
 These novels can be read as participating in the picturesque fantasy of an idealized rural 

past through their representations of land and the estate, yet they do not present the same type of 

fantasy that Raymond Williams criticizes in his discussion of the self-conscious observer of 

landscape.  For Williams, the self-conscious observer, who also represents the interests of the 

estate, is privileged, English, and male.  The self-conscious observer believes that his ability to 
 225 admire a scenic view is indicative of his inherently heightened sensibility and his overall 
superiority.  He looks on the land as one who owns it, and he imposes a certain visual order on 

the land that both reflects and reinforces his power as a landholder.  This understanding of the 
role of one who consciously enjoys a scenic view suggests a specific method for reading 

landscape depictions in realist novels, yet Williams™s approach does not work with the novels 

discussed in this study, at least not in a straightforward way.  These novels lack the exemplary 

moment in which a wealthy male landholder looks proudly on a view of his land; instead, the 

novels™ self-conscious spectators are largely genteel women, and the male spectators are not the 

pedigreed but those of humble origins.  The titled landholding men simply are not shown 

admiring scenic views, and when they do look at the land, it is for some purpose other than 

enjoyment.  Perhaps this discrepancy between Williams™s theory of the spectator and how the 

novels depict the enjoyment of landscape is indicative of how the novels, while mourning the 

loss of the estate, are also exploring alternative models of order so as to prepare for the social 
and political changes being brought about by capitalism and the increased pressure for women™s 
and workers™ rights, which would come to a head later in the century.  As this dissertation has 

demonstrated, the spectators looking at landscapes in these novels do not see them in the same 

way that Williams™s archetypal self-conscious observer does: they impose different types of 

visual order on the land, and they assign different meanings to the imagery.   In resisting the 

traditional mode of landscape, the novels provide alternatives to the vision and control exercised 

(and abused) by the noble patriarch, and thus they undercut and challenge this traditional site of 
authority even as they mourn the loss of the estate as an institution.   

 However, the realist novel™s reliance on landscape as its means of representing the 

countryside and exploring issues that pertain to access, ownership, and utilization of rural land  226 ultimately prevents it from moving past the old attitude of entitlement, such as that portrayed in 
Mansfield Park, that it critiques and attempts to correct.  As Alison Byerly has pointed out, 
realist novels are filled with passages of painterly language and imagery that are intended to be 

read as narrative artwork, yet in the case of landscape depictions, this use of artwork serves to 
keep the novels grounded in the oppressive power structures that they wish to expose and 
challenge.  Consequently, the novels are unable to perform the kind of social transformations and 

compromises they envision with regard to the treatment of the poor and the preservation of the 

estate.  In the end, these novels either offer problematic, unworkable solutions to the old model 

of landholding that preclude them from escaping its ideological hold, or, as 
The Egoist demonstrates, they satirize their own efforts to move past the old model and its attendant 

attitudes at all.            
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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