Austen: Character and Disposition

     Based on my prior knowledge of Austen’s domestic novel form in general, I wasn’t surprised at how well she develops her characters, and the way she leaves readers feeling as if they know them.
      Austen allows the psychological interiority of her characters to manifest themselves physically, almost as if Austen expects that readers will be able to understand the characters’ emotions based on what they do physically. On Austen’s part, there seems to be many deliberate strategies of interiority to illuminate their dispositions. For example, in chapter two, Austen differentiates between external character and internal disposition.  She notes, “…lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what her character is meant to be; that her heart was affectionate, her disposition cheerful and open, without conceit of affectation of any kind…” (9). Austen continues to describe her mannerisms which illuminate Catherine’s interiority. Here, Austen notes that she will inform the readers of what Catherine’s disposition is like, lest we miss proper interpretation based on her action. Accordingly, I wonder what this indicates in terms of Austen’s employment of the domestic novel? That is, is it so domestic that the narrator must describe the interiority of her characters? It’s nearly as if Austen doesn’t trust reader interpretation of them based solely on what the characters do on the outside.
      One strategy of interiority Austen employs is blushing. For example, at the end of chapter 3, during the dance scene between Mr. Tilney and Catherine, Mr. Tilney asks Catherine what she is thinking of. He says, “not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory” (17). At this point, Austen writes, “Catherine coloured, and said, ‘I was not thinking of any thing’” (17). Accordingly, her blushing perhaps suggests her sexual naivety. Further interesting, is how Mr. Tilney reads into her physical movements as indicative of internal thoughts. Austen’s link between interiority and outside appearance can illuminate many aspects of character we have looked at in the past. For example, and most interestingly, in Richardson’s Pamela is frequently described to be blushing in the face of Mr. B’s advances towards her. While we have debated whether or not Pamela is truly innocent and naïve to his advances, the fact that Austen employs such strategies of interiority makes me reflect on our previous debates and the reasons Pamela did blush.
      Another example of character versus disposition is in the middle of chapter 9. Austen writes, “Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing…” (44)… and Austen continues to describe what is going on in her head and how she’s rationalizing the two accounts. This quote reveals Catherine’s two layers: the first is how she is acting on the outside (listening), and the second is her interior thought process. What is interesting is how Austen tells us that Catherine wanted to ask Mr. Thorpe to clarify his opinion but “checked herself” and decided otherwise.
       Just another example of the same point, in chapter 24 after Henry turns Catherine’s suspicions that the General killed Mrs. Tilney, he asks her boldly how she could think such thoughts in the first place. Upon realizing the truth, and feeling shame for her suspicions, Austen writes in a single sentence paragraph “They had reached the end of the gallery; and with tears of shame she ran off to her own room” (136). Here, Catherine cries, but Austen is quick to ensure readers know exactly why she is crying, and what emotions her tears consist of (shame). Thus, the “tears of shame” indicate to the reader that Catherine is embarrassed of her prior suspicions, and she runs to her room in shame and humiliation.
      These types of character behaviors, like blushing and listening attentively, reveal psychological interiority on a far more complex level than anything we have read thus far. While we have established that there wasn’t a particular rise in the novel genre, I do agree with Watt’s argument that Austen was particularly successful in demonstrating a new extent of interiority of characters in the novel.

Three Articles on Watt

The three articles I chose to read out of the Project Muse Journal Eighteenth Century Fiction Special Edition Issue (January-April 2000) were Ian Watt’s “Flat Footed and Fly-Blown: The Realities of Realism,” Max Byrd’s “Two or Three Things I Know about Setting,” and Robert B. Alter’s “A Question of Beginnings.” Today’s post will briefly highlight a few points I found particularly interesting.   

Reading Ian Watt’s 1978 speech "Flat Footed and Fly-Blown: The Realities of Realism” delivered to Stanford University struck me with epiphanies in terms of both practicality as well as critical thought. On a simple level, the earlier parts of his speech illustrated the importance of perspective when putting together a big body of work. In our class, we have had long discussions about Watt’s work, and whether literary criticism agrees or not with his thesis in The Rise of the Novel, it has become evident that his work remains highly influential in eighteenth century literary studies. Yet, in his talk, he illustrates the importance of putting a work aside upon initial completion, and navigating through various influences upon revisiting it. He acknowledges through case in point with R of N, and  his influence by Theodore Adorno (I read parts of Dialectic of Enlightenment in my critical theory course).

Yet more than practical techniques of producing thoughtful work, what struck me as particularly surprising was the simplicity of his argument—to which I agree but never thought any one of his intellectual level would openly acknowledge. That is, Watt basically argues that literary critical theory, what essentiallly passes for philosophy, has become practically regarded as superior to the literature itself. He notes, “It assumes that literature, like the Platonic forms, is not visible to the naked eye, and that we need special equipment to see it. But unlike the mysteries or metatechniques,…the literary work is really there, and needs only our own experience of life and language for us to be able to decipher its meaning” (162). Criticism is certainly helpful, and gives us the tools by which we can dilate a text. Yet, what Watt felt in 1978 of the critical world, is what I still feel ever strongly today. In an effort to make the literary field more scientific, there is an immense amount of pressure on upcoming scholars to holistically accept and apply these literally critical thoughts to their arguments; in fact, it is to only argue such critical terms. Sometimes, it sucks the life out of what the original purpose of studying literature is about—and as Ian Watt notes its for the “love of literature” (166) and the ways in which we can understand the world around us. I think teachers of literature should be cautious not to put criticism in the front of literature, but rather a tool by which we can engage and work with the material at hand.

Watt notes that maintaining the importance of the literature itself while performing a critical trace of the eighteenth century novel in Rise of the Novel did not go unacknowledged by many of his readers.  In fact, Max Byrd in “Two or Three Things I Know About Setting” opens up his essay by noting Watt’s effectiveness in staying true to the text which he examines. He notes, “I like especially the fact that, for all its impressive historical and sociological learning, The Rise of the Novel is a highly literary book, by which I mean that is chiefly concerned with matters such as plot and character…” (186). His particular interest from Watt’s book involves his examination of “space” in setting, to which he uses literature to prove his progression through novel history. Byrd uses Robinson Crusoe to teach imperative aspects (particularly setting) dealing with the rise of the novel (no, not the book) as well. The critical point that strikes me in Byrd’s work is the importance of using literature itself to examine these historical progressions of space and time rather than primary criticism as a necessary means to approach these works.

Along the lines of literary investigation, in “A Question of Beginnings,” Robert Alter discusses the short falls in Watt’s work that we have already visited in our seminar thus far. The most prominent argument holding that Watt misses a lot of unpredictability of the genre that was going on in the eighteenth century in his teleological approach to tracing a central rise in the novel. While I have not read Watt’s work, Alter’s piece was interesting because he demonstrates the timelessness of his argument despite critical scholarship; he illustrates why, despite popular critics of today, Watt’s thesis is still among the most studied and influential pieces of scholarship on the eighteenth century novel. What Alter argues is an essential component which can’t be overlooked in Watt’s work is that the novel enables the reader to be “in contact…with the raw materials of life as they are momentarily reflected in the minds of protagonists” (225). Alter illustrates how two works (Lolita and If on A Winters Night A Traveler) unrelated to Watt’s thesis demonstrate the novel genre’s universal characteristics of interiority that Watt names. It is an insightful look, at the least, of Watt’s influential thesis, which seems to be mainly discussed in terms of what it lacks rather than what it illuminates. Cooper’s presentation did a fair job maintaining this balance, and Alter’s articles reinforced those notions on the novel’s function for me.

The articles all engaged in a critical conversation about Watt’s work in The Rise of the Novel, and while I only read three of many articles in the Project Muse special issue, I am curious to know what other classmates read, and if they, too, have touched upon similar aspects. 

Another New Novel Kind--"The Romance of the Forest"

Reading Ann Radcliffe’s Romance of The Forest took me by surprise from the very beginning, as it seemed that I was reading a text from a completely different era of time than what we have been exposed to thus far in our course readings. For one, unlike what we have read so far, Radcliffe is very in sync with the landscape she imagines and the portraits she descriptively paints throughout the text. Her vivid drawing of the outside world reminded me of the gothic and romantic works that came later in time. For example, Radcliffe describes, “He approached, and perceived the Gothic remains of an abbey: it stood on a kind of rude law, overshadowed by high and spreading trees, which seemed coeval with the building, and diffused a romantic gloom around” (16). The descriptions of the abbey and the landscape in which the action of the text takes place is just as imperative to the plot as are the character’s events that unfold. The gloominess of the setting coincides with the fear of the La Motte’s will get caught by their creditors, for example.

The romantic characteristics of the text were also evident in various characters. Adeline’s sensibility and connection in nature reminded me of the Romantic writers of Coolridge and Wordsworth. Throughout the text, Adeline situates herself in vast, dark and gloomy spaces where she thinks, and she is always inclined to go out to a garden. This type of connection with nature, especially for a central female character, is somewhat new amongst the novels we have read. She also shows much self-sacrifice and sincerity that we have not yet seen in central characters such as Pamela, who was parodied for readers’ doubt in her true intentions. For example, when Adeline refuses the Maruqis (126-127) she even tells La Motte that she is willing to go back to her father if her refusal of the Marquis is to cause him any harm. She never changes her mind about any of his advances, regardless of the “danger” it places her in.

                La Motte himself is a new type of male character that we have not yet seen. He isn’t the rake of Mr. B, nor does he have the masculine demeanor we have gotten in our impressions of others such as Sir Charles. Instead, he is described in feminine terms and seems very small in the face of nature and his surroundings. For example, Radcliff describes him as “He was a man whose passions often overcame his reason…but though the image of virtue, which Nature had impressed upon his hear, was sometimes obscured by the passing influence of vice, it was never wholly obliterated” (2). Accordingly, characteristics that are typically attributed to women in this time—virtue and passion—are laid out in the earliest descriptions of him. 

             While surfing around the net for more information about this text, I came across this blog from Marymount University that highlights the emotions of many of the male characters in the text, and it also provides links to other interesting sites (i.e. for more information on Radcliff). 

The major differences that separate this text from what we have read so far perhaps suggest the turn and new beginnings of a new space carved out for the novel in terms of setting and gender constructions.

Different Kinds of the Same Language in "The Female Quixote"

          In Charlotte Lennonx’s The Female Quixote, the articulation of language plays as much an important role in Arabella’s adventures as it does to finally get her to undo her fictional romantic thought process that clouds her judgment of reality. That is, throughout the tale we see Arabella’s struggles with talking a different language than everyone else around her—she speaks the language of classic romantic fictional tales, while everyone else around her is speaking the language of everyday real life. Over and over we see Arabella conversing with various characters, yet she is always on a different wave length. All of the characters around her are constantly puzzled by her overly romanticized interpretations of various events, yet she can not fathom their confusion. However, it is not until the near ending to the novel is someone able to effectively communicate reality to her—the Countess is somewhat successful (as the author Lennox notes, this is the first time Arabella is moved) in doing this only by using Arabella’s own romantic articulation of language. Thus, she is only able to get through to Arabella because she is on the same level of communication. Yes, all of the characters speak the same English language, but only the Countess is able to properly articulate reality through employing the same romantic rhetoric that Arabella is accustomed to. The importance of language articulation is especially highlighted by this scenario is Book VIII.

            Lennox highlights the difference between the ways the Countess and Arabella converse with language versus Arabella with everyone else early on in their meeting, as we see the reactions of Sir Charles, Arabella, and Mr. Glanville to the Countess’ ability to speak the same way to Arabella. Sir Charles is frustrated that he can not understand the heroic and romantic greeting Arabella delivers to the Countess upon meeting her. Lennox writes, “Sir Charles star’d at this extraordinary Speech…was concern’d to think how the Lady…would understand it” (324). Mr. Glanville, too, is nervous, but much to his relief, Lennox writes, “Mr. Glanville look’d down, and bit his nails in extreme Confusion; but the Countess who had not forgot the Language of Romance, returned the Compliment in a Strain as heroick as hers” (325). When finally someone is on the same language level as herself, Arabella is also relieved and excited. Lennox writes, Arabella was quite transported to hear the Countess express herself in Language so comfortable to her own” (325). Yet particularly interesting, here, in the midst of this overwhelming encounter, is that everyone is speaking the same English language—it is, however, the articulation of the same language that plays an imperative role for Arabella and her understanding of the world. Because the men can not articulate in the same ways as she, she is not able to understand them. It is not until she meets someone who can make her understand by using her own “Language comfortable to her own” are the early stages of understanding reality able to get across to her.

            Of course, it may be argued that the Countess is not the only character in the tale that speaks the highly romanticized language of literature that Arabella does. Sir George creates a history of his life through this language, and he plays on Arabella’s disillusionment of reality to try to court her. However, it is imperative to note that he is unsuccessful because he over looks important details of romantic literature, and those are the areas where Arabella catches his phoniness. The Countess, on the other hand, understands the classic and romantic literatures, and thus uses the aspects on which they are extolled to show Arabella how they can not logically play out in reality. Thus, it becomes not only important to be able to speak on the levels of highly crafted literature, but also to negotiate through it and reality through the artful articulation—as does the Countess.

Princess Hebe's Fairytale and Some Orientalism

Sarah Fielding’s work in The Governess is compelling on many levels considering the context within which it was published. As generally regarded as one of the earliest pieces of children’s literature, the work though, doesn’t fall short in teaching adult lessons to children; yet its difficult to negotiate through that specific idea of teaching children as if they were adults because the ways in which children were regarded in the 18^th Century is an imperative piece to the discussion. Yet, what did strike me as particularly fascinating about the stories of the girls were the ways in which Fielding employs fairy tales and the function of the genre she assigns as reiterated by Mrs. Teachum. Here, I want to examine “The Princess Hebe: A Fairytale” for its oriental undertones and the ways Mrs. Teachum situates the “take-home” lesson of the tale she instructs her students.

Reading the beginning of the tale immediately reminded me of the argument made by Srinivas Aravamudan in Enlightenment Orientalism. To reiterate the main point of my presentation: oriental literature greatly influenced the prolific writings of many Western 18 century writers, who employed the allegories of orientalism—such as thrones, fantasy, etc—to morally construct their audiences. The beginning of “The Princess Hebe: A Fairytale” was full of such enlightenment orientalist features he discusses. For one, the King is Abdullah and his brother is Abdulham—popular Arabic names. The King’s throne, his wife’s jewels, and the location of Tonga all support these orientalist notions, and of course, as Aravamudan indicates—they were not exclusive to Arabian orientalism. The fairies of the tale, Sybella and her sister Brunetta, are also oriental aspects—Brunetta’s immaculate and sexualized beauty was a typical characteristic used to describe the oriental woman. Fielding uses all of these oriental undertones to create a fairytale that is set to construct her audience on the importance of obedience and a piece of mind. As Aravamudan suggests, such authors nearly painted pictures of societies that were moralistically superior to that of the English readers. Fielding uses a fairy to illustrate the importance of a content piece of mind to the girls in her tale, in turn to the children (or arguably adult) audiences.

While the fairy story implicates many lessons to its readers on beauty versus a piece of mind, Fielding is sure to bring the story back to realistic settings when reitering its lessons. In doing so, Mrs. Teachum talks to the girls about the importance of understanding the functions of such fairytales. She first says, “And as to Fairy Tales in general, remember, that the Fairies…are introduced by the Writers of those Tales, only by way of Amusement to the Reader. For if the Story is well written, the Common course of Things, would produce the same Incidents, without the Help of Fairies” (141). She continues to note that regardless of whether or not Sybella was a fairy, her virtue and content mind enabled her to stay away from accidents. The Princess, on the same note, was able to achieve happiness only by way of obedience. At the end of the tale, Mrs. Teachum reiterates, “But let me once more observe to you, that these Fairies are intended only to amuse you; for remember that the Misery which attended the Princess Hebe, on her disobedience, was the natural consequence of Disobedience” (143). This reiteration perhaps illustrates Fielding’s own fear of the backlash from using fairytales by Western audiences, and she perhaps reiterates its function as solely amusement. Furthermore, it may also suggest that since she was one of the earliest writers to employ such fairy usage, she wanted to ensure that her audiences interpreted the tale correctly rather than dismissively.

On a side note, the blogging of our course has made me interested to know what my peers across the world are saying about literature I have been reading. While in graduate school we are accumstomed to always turn to critical conversations on these literary works, I am pleased with the ways this course has taught me to value more casual conversations on these works—which prove interesting. With that being said, I’d like to share a blog I stumbled upon. The blogger’s name is Ellen Moody, and she doesn’t say much about herself, other than the fact that the blog focuses on 18^th century literature and she blogs frequently—she also highly encourages linking to her blog (smile). The link will take you directly to her post on The Governess.

http://reveriesunderthesignofausten.wordpress.com/2011/09/30/sarah-fieldings-the-governess/

Tomorrow's Class discussion should be fun!

Fielding: Trying to stay Far by Being So Close

           I find it extremely interesting that Henry Fielding was so affected by the Pamela Media event that he participated with not one, but two responses to the original virtuous tale of Pamela. As we discussed in class last week, Shamela came in the form of extreme satire and mockery of the original tale. Yet putting all of the humor in the margins, we saw that Fielding was making a serious argument about all of the reasons Pamela was a dangerous tale for society (in terms of both instructing both young men and women), and why the original story was not believable despite Richardson’s claim that it was true. In Joseph Andrews, Fielding takes yet another jab at the story but this time in a more serious way through a spin off telling the story of Pamela’s brother. This spin off is comical yet serious in its story progression; its as though perhaps Fielding wanted to take his own turn experimenting with the new form of the novel, and used the Pamela Media Event’s momentum as a stepping stone for the story he wanted to tell. The interesting part is the way in which he completely distances himself from calling his work a novel.

            Fielding spends an entire five pages in the Preface distancing himself from the new genre of the novel. He uses terms such as “Epic” and “Poetry” to describe his own work, while extensively distinguishing between other genres of Romance, Tragedy, etc as he tries to reach a cohesive definition of the work he presents. In previous classes, we talked about the reasons why an author may or may not want to sell a piece of literature as a novel—it was generally regarded as a piece of lower class fiction for servants. Nonetheless, despite his attempts at distancing himself, the closeness in the genre has resulted in a continuous debate on whether or not Fielding’s work is one of the earliest examples of a novel. In fact, because of the heavy use of satirical elements throughout the work, many scholars debate the influence of satire on the early novel, and whether satire gave rise to the new form as evidenced by its use in Joseph Andrews. The first graduate paper I ever wrote (which was for Dr. Maruca’s eighteenth century course) argued that satire didn’t give rise to the new form of the novel, but rather influenced the new form which evolved with its own centered set of interests. My thesis statement read:

“A close examination of both the historical context of each literary form as well as the literary influence it had on audiences during the 18^th century illustrates that satire did not specifically lead to the formation of a new narrative form. Rather, the rise of the novel was strongly influenced by satire, but ultimately evolved with an initially more centered focus on internal and domestic issues more representative of reality rather than the wide ranges of public issues covered by satire (i.e. religion, politics, etc). Moreover, an analysis of the early novelist Henry Fielding’s Joseph Andrews exemplifies the influence the famous satirist Jonathon Swift had on his work—and ultimately the influence of satire on rise of the early novel.”

        

         What I found through research was that Jonathon Swift, renowned satirist of the eighteenth century, heavily influenced the works of Henry Fielding in many ways (which I will most fittingly save for class discussion tomorrow so I can explore other aspects here). However, despite how much Fielding attempts to distance himself from the new literary form, and associate himself with the epic and satirical elements found in his text which enable him to argue that it falls under a different genre, I think he finds himself falling into many similarities with Richardson. For example, both Fielding and Richardson use their characters as a gateway to preach their own ideals. We saw this in various instances such as when Pamela describes the ugliness of Mrs. Jewkes, when she describes what her virtue means to her, and when Mr. B preaches about why class won’t matter for a man to marry into the lower ranks to name only a few examples. In Fielding’s work, Adams preaches on and on in various instances about virtuous characteristics—especially in Book II when he discusses charity. It is only the form of the novel that enables these types of long speeches of morality that an author can preach through behind the voice of his characters.

            Another important aspect to note is that while he distances himself in selling the work as a novel, his contemporaries such as Eliza Haywood were specifically enthusiastic about selling their work as a novel as we seen in Love In Excess. The forms of each are similar, with long paragraphs, character interiority, third person narration, etc; yet each author’s identification with genres is interesting. I would certainly like to take this up for discussion in class. How successful was Fielding in distancing himself from the novel genre his book in now generally and most popularly regarded as one of its earliest forms? Did his contemporaries such as Haywood buy his distancing technique? What did it do for audiences? How far from the story of Pamela in term of morality and virtue is Joseph Andrews if we look past the satire?

Pamela, Shamela, and Anti-Pamela and All New Perspectives

Eliza Haywood’s Anti-Pamela and Henry Fielding’s Shamela both take Richardson’s original Pamela to new grounds with an altering perspective on what later became accepted as a conduct book. Following the plot closely, Fielding’s work satirically (and may I enforce hilariously) traces the adventures of Shamela in a mock form of Pamela. In it, we see all of the same characters, i.e. Squire (but here, Mr. Booby), Miss. Jervis, etc, and even the same scenarios, such as Mr. B’s attempted rape, and the marriage. On the other hand, in a somewhat more serious tone than Fielding, Haywood tells the tale of a different kind of Pamela personality all together. The star of her tale is Syrena, who is well aware of her social status, but is also aware of how to use it to her advancement and sexual advantage. While both of these mock tales of the original give a different perspectives, so too is the perspective in which each tale is told, and such perspective can certainly be seen to drive its specific narrative forward. That is, in Pamela, we have a tale told in epistolary form primarily from the perspective of Pamela herself—with only a few letters exchanged by her parents, and they are featured very early on in the tale. In Shamela, Fielding opens up the perspective of letter writing to include the letters of other characters such as Mrs. Jervis, Arthur Williams, etc. Finally, in Anti-Pamela, in addition to exclusively epistolary form of the other two texts, there is also a third person narrative perspective featured.

In class recently, we have speculated on the effects of having a single narrator and her series of letters to tell the tale. Of course, the epistolary form was quite popular for Richardson, as he had used it to write guides on letter writing. Pamela’s letters are a personal account of her virtuousness and offer her take of the events as they unfolded. Sometimes, we speculated on the timeliness of her letters, and questioned if she was holding back details from her parents. Furthermore, we doubted her honesty at some points, especially in the scene with Mr. B disguised in her dressing room.

Fielding addresses these issues of a single person narrative of letters, and suggests a collection of multiple letters to various people offers a more comprehensive picture on how the events unfolded—it also enables the much funnier version of how the events played out. For example, in Letter VII, Mrs. Jervis writes to Shamela’s mother letting her know that the Squire is taking her to the Lincolnshire Estate. As she details the event, she mentions that Shamela had previously a bastard child there from Parson Williams. She says, “The Squire, who thinks her a Pure Virgin,…resolved to send her into Lincolnshire,…were Miss had her small one by Parson Williams about a Year ago. This is a Piece of News communicated to us by Robin Coachman, who is intrusted by his Master to carry the Affair privately for him” (249). Putting the humor of these lines aside, Fielding is strongly suggesting potential back stories behind Pamela’s single handed letters, and he is very suspicious that a woman in such a vulnerable position could remain so virtuous. Pamela obviously wouldn’t tell her mother that she had a bastard child, but a servant certainly would (just as Parson Williams’ servant told the servants) thus reinforcing the need for letters from multiple characters.

Fielding also addresses Pamela’s ability to write such sophisticated and prompt letters in the original, and mocks the scenes where such issues are most apparent for readers. For example, in his version, with Shamela and Mr. Booby, of the scene in the bedroom where he is disguised, Shamela writes to her mother, “Mrs. Jervis and I are just in Bed, and the Door unlocked; if my Master should come----Odsbob! I hear him just coming in at the Door. You see I write in present Tense, as Parson Williams says” (247). In a footnote, Ingrassia notes that indeed Fielding is parodying Richardson’s “writing to the moment” he describes of Pamela’s letters. Furthermore, Shamela’s letters are far less sophisticated in language Pamela’s, thus illustrating Fielding’s doubt in Pamela’s ability to be so perfect as a lower class servant.

Haywood’s letter perspective illustrate also illustrate her doubts in entrusting in Richardson’s original narrative technique of Pamela. In fact, in the introduction to our Broadview edition, Ingrassia affirms Haywood’s doubts towards Pamela’s ability to write being from lower class. She notes, “the shift in narrative form underscores Haywood’s recognition that a servant, no matter how privileged, would never have the time to write so many letters” (41). Thus, Haywood is more realistic in terms of time, as well as in her ability to offer a more comprehensive alternative version to Pamela’s story. The story is told from the perspective of a third person narrator, who relays the events in between the letters of Syrena and her mother. For example, in one instance, the narrator inserts, “Hithero, Syrena had disguised nothing either of her Behavior or Sentiments from her Mother; but a very little Time made her alter her Conduct at that Point, and practice on her some of those Lessons of Deceit, she had so well instructed her in” (69). Accordingly, here, the narrator acts as an intermediator to tell readers whether or not she was faithful in her letters. Moreover, like Fielding, she places the mother as the root of deception. Shamela’s mother tells her not to cheat with Parson Williams until the “knot is tied” with the Squire, thus illustrating the mother’s role in breeding such corruption; here, Syrena’s mother is also responsible for Syrena’s ability to play conniving and deceitful roles with various men throughout the tale. We would not know any of these things if we were to rely on the single handed narrator technique Richardson uses in his original perfectly virtuous tale.

Accordingly, the difference in perspective of each drives the plot forward and works with the particular message each other is attempting to drive forward. Fielding is rather suspicious of a tale told exclusively from a single narrator’s point of view, and includes multiple perspectives to move the short plot forward. Haywood not only does not rely on letters of differing authors to tell Syrney’s story, but she also employs the third person perspective of the outside narrator as an additional spectator. The differences in each author’s way of telling the story illustrates the importance of perspective and the experimentation happening with the new genre form that can potentially facilitate moral instruction (Richardson), or offer alternative perspectives through satire and mockery.