A conflict between “sense and sensibility” was naturally to be expected; and, the year after Mrs. Radcliffe published The Italian, Jane Austen had completed her Northanger Abbey, ridiculing the “horrid” school of fiction. It is noteworthy that for the Mysteries of Udolpho Mrs. Radcliffe received L500, and for The Italian L800; while for the manuscript of Northanger Abbey, the bookseller paid Jane Austen the ungenerous sum of L10, selling it again later to Henry Austen for the same amount. The contrast in market value is significant. The publisher, who, it may be added, was not necessarily a literary critic, probably realised that if the mock romance were successful, its tendency would be to endanger the popularity of the prevailing mode in fiction. Hence for many years it was concealed as effectively as if it had lain in the haunted apartment of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic abbeys. Among Jane Austen’s early unpublished writings were “burlesques ridiculing the improbable events and exaggerated sentiments which she had met with in sundry silly romances”; but her spirited defence of the novelist’s art in Northanger Abbey is clear evidence that her raillery is directed not against fiction in general, but rather against such “horrid” stories as those included in the list supplied to Isabella Thorpe by “a Miss Andrews, one of the sweetest creatures in the world.”

It has sometimes been supposed that the more fantastic titles in this catalogue were figments of Jane Austens imagination, but the identity of each of the seven stories may be established beyond question. Two of the stories The Necromancer of the Black Forest, a translation from the German, and The Castle of Wolfenbach, by Mrs. Eliza Parsons (who was also responsible for Mysterious Warnings) may still be read in The Romancist and Novelist’s Library (1839-1841), a treasure-hoard of forgotten fiction. Clermont (1798) was published by Mrs. Regina Maria Roche, the authoress of The Children of the Abbey (1798), a story almost as famous in its day as Udolpho. The author of The Midnight Bell was one George Walker of Bath, whose record, like that of Miss Eleanor Sleath, who wrote the moving history of The Orphan of the Rhine (1798) in four volumes, may be found in Watts’ Bibliotheca Britannica. Horrid Mysteries, perhaps the least credible of the titles, was a translation from the German of the Marquis von Grosse by R. Will. Jane Austen’s attack has no tinge of bitterness or malice. John Thorpe, who declared all novels, except Tom Jones and The Monk, “the stupidest things in creation,” admitted, when pressed by Catherine, that Mrs. Radcliffe’s were “amusing enough” and “had some fun and nature in them”; and Henry Tilney, a better judge, owned frankly that he had “read all her works, and most of them with great pleasure.” From this we may assume that Miss Austen herself was perhaps conscious of their charm as well as their absurdity.

Sheridan’s Lydia Languish (1775) and Colman’s Polly Honeycombe (1777) were both demoralised by the follies of sentimental fiction, as Biddy Tipkin, in Steele’s Tender Husband (1705), had been by romances. It was Miss Austen’s purpose in creating Catherine Morland to present a maiden bemused by Gothic romance:

“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine.” In almost every detail she is a refreshing contrast to the traditional type. Two long-lived conventions the fragile mother, who dies at the heroine’s birth, and the tyrannical father are repudiated at the very outset; and Catherine is one of a family of seven. We cannot conceive that Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines even at the age of ten would “love nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.” Her accomplishments lack the brilliance and distinction of those of Adela and Julia, but,

“Though she could not write sonnets she brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, she could listen to other people’s performances with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil she had no notion of drawing, not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover’s profile, that she might be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the true heroic height...Not one started with rapturous wonder on beholding her...nor was she once called a divinity by anybody.”

She had no lover at the age of seventeen,

“because there was not a lord in the neighbourhood not even a baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a boy accidentally found at their door not one whose origin was unknown.”

Nor is Catherine aided in her career by those “improbable events,” so dear to romance, that serve to introduce a hero a robber’s attack, a tempest, or a carriage accident. With a sly glance at such dangerous characters as Lady Greystock in The Children of the Abbey (1798), Miss Austen creates the inert, but good-natured Mrs. Alien as Catherine’s chaperone in Bath:

“It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Alien that the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work and how she will probably contribute to reduce poor Catherine to all the desperate wretchedness of which a last volume is capable, whether by her imprudence, vulgarity or jealousy whether by intercepting her letters, ruining her character or turning her out of doors.”

Amid all the diversions of the gay and beautiful city of Bath, Miss Austen does not lose sight entirely of her satirical aim, though she turns aside for a time. Catherine’s confusion of mind is suggested with exquisite art in a single sentence. As she drives with John Thorpe she “meditates by turns on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Tilneys and trapdoors.” This prepares us for the delightful scene in which Tilney, on the way to the abbey, foretells what Catherine may expect on her arrival. The hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire, the deserted bedchamber “never used since some cousin or kin had died in it about twenty years before,” the single lamp, the tapestry, the funereal bed, the broken lute, the ponderous chest, the secret door, the vaulted room, the rusty dagger, the cabinet of ebony and gold with its roll of manuscripts, prove his intimacy with The Romance of the Forest, as well as with The Mysteries of Udolpho. The black chest and the cabinet are there in startling fulfilment of his prophecies, and when, just as with beating heart Catherine is about to decipher the roll of paper she has discovered in the cabinet drawer, she accidentally extinguishes her candle:

“A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect... Darkness impenetrable and immovable filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden fury, added fresh horror to the moment... Human nature could support no more ... groping her way to the bed she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far beneath the clothes... The storm still raged... Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided, and she, unknowingly, fell fast asleep. She was awakened the next morning at eight o’clock by the housemaid’s opening her window-shutter. She flew to the mysterious manuscript, If the evidence of sight might be trusted she held a washing bill in her hands ... she felt humbled to the dust.”

Even this bitter humiliation does not sweep away the cobwebs of romance from Catherine’s imaginative mind, but the dark suspicions she harbours about General Tilney are not altogether inexplicable. He is so much less natural and so much more stagey than the other characters that he might reasonably be expected to dabble in the sinister. This time Catherine is misled by memories of the Sicilian Romance into weaving a mystery around the fate of Mrs. Tilney, whom she pictures receiving from the hands of her husband a nightly supply of coarse food. She watches in vain for “glimmering lights,” like those in the palace of Mazzini, and determines to search for “a fragmented journal continued to the last gasp,” like that of Adeline’s father in The Romance of the Forest. In this search she encounters Tilney, who has returned unexpectedly from Woodston. He dissipates once and for all her nervous fancies, and Catherine decides: “Among the Alps and Pyrénées, perhaps, there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not spotless as an angel, might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was not so.”

Miss Austen’s novel is something more than a mock-romance, and Catherine is not a mere negative of the traditional heroine, but a human and attractive girl, whose fortunes we follow with the deepest interest. At the close, after Catherine’s ignominious journey home, we are back again in the cool world of reality. The abbey is abandoned, after it has served its purpose in disciplining the heroine, in favour of the unromantic country parsonage.

In Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen had deftly turned the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe to comedy; but, even if her parody had been published in 1798, when we are assured that it was completed, her satirical treatment was too quiet and subtle, too delicately mischievous, to have disturbed seriously the popularity of the novel of terror. We can imagine the Isabella Thorpes and Lydia Bennets of the day dismissing Northanger Abbey with a yawn as “an amazing dull book,” and returning with renewed zest to more stimulating and “horrid” stories. Maria Edgeworth too had aimed her shaft at the sentimental heroine in one of her Moral Tales Angelina or L’Amie Inconnue (1801). Miss Sarah Green, in Romance Readers and Romance Writers (1810) had displayed the extravagant folly of a clergyman’s daughter whose head was turned by romances. Ridicule of a more blatant and boisterous kind was needed, and this was supplied by Eaton Stannard Barrett, who, in 1813 five years before Northanger Abbey appeared published The Heroine or The Adventures of Cherubina. In this farcical romance it is clearly Barrett’s intention to make so vigorous an onslaught that “the Selinas, Evelinas, and Malvinas who faint and blush and weep through four half-bound octavos” shall be, like Catherine Morland, “humbled to the dust.” Sometimes, indeed, his farce verges on brutality. To expose the follies of Cherubina it was hardly necessary to thrust her good-humoured father into a madhouse, and this grim incident sounds an incongruous, jarring note in a rollicking high-spirited farce. The plights into which Cherubina is plunged are so needlessly cruel, that, while only intending to make her ridiculous, Barrett succeeds rather in making her pitiable. But many of her adventures are only a shade more absurd than those in the romances at which he tilts. Regina Maria Roche’s Children of the Abbey (1798) would take the wind from the sails of any parodist. In protracting The Heroine almost to wearisome length, Barrett probably acted deliberately in mimicry of this and a horde of other tedious romances. Certainly the unfortunate Stuart waits no longer for the fulfilment of his hopes than Lord Mortimer, the long-suffering hero of The Children of the Abbey, who early in the first volume demands of Amanda Fitzalan, what he calls an “éclaircissement,” but does not win it until the close of the fourth. Barrett does not scruple to mention the titles of the books he derides. The following catalogue will show how widely he casts his net: Mysteries of Udolpho, Romance of the Forest, Children of the Abbey, Sir Charles Grandison, Pamela, Clarissa Harlowe, Evelina, Camilla, Cecilia, La Nouvelle Heloise, Rasselas, The Delicate Distress, Caroline of Lichfield, The Knights of the Swan, The Beggar Girl, The Romance of the Highlands. Besides these novels, which he actually names, Barrett alludes indirectly to several others, among them Tristram Shandy and Amelia. From this enumeration it is evident that Barrett was satirising the heroine, not merely of the “novel of terror,” but of the “sentimental novel” from which she traced her descent. He organises a masquerade, mindful that it is always the scene of the heroine’s “best adventure,” with Fielding’s Amelia and Miss Burney’s Cecilia and probably other novels in view. The precipitate flight of Cherubina, “dressed in a long-skirted red coat stiff with tarnished lace, a satin petticoat, satin shoes and no stockings,” and with hair streaming like a meteor, described in Letter XX, is clearly a cruel mockery of Cecilia’s distressful plight in Miss Burney’s novel. Even Scott is not immune from Barrett’s barbed arrows, and Byron is glanced at in the bogus antique language of “Eftsoones.” Barrett, indeed, jeers at the mediaeval revival in its various manifestations and even at “Romanticism” generally, not merely at the new school of fiction represented by Mrs. Radcliffe, her followers and rivals. Not content with reaching his aim, as he does again and again in The Heroine, Barrett, like many another parodist, sometimes over-reaches it, and sneers at what is not in itself ridiculous.

Nominally Cherubina is the butt of Barrett’s satire, but the permanent interest of the book lies in the skilful stage-managing of her lively adventures. There is hardly an attempt at characterisation. The people are mere masqueraders, who amuse us by their costume and mannerisms, but reveal no individuality. The plot is a wild extravaganza, crammed with high-flown, mock-romantic episodes. Cherry Wilkinson, as the result of a surfeit of romances, perhaps including The Misanthropic Parent or The Guarded Secret (1807), by Miss Smith, deserts her real father a worthy farmer to look for more aristocratic parents. As he is not picturesque enough for a villain, she repudiates him with scorn: “Have you the gaunt ferocity of famine in your countenance? Can you darken the midnight with a scowl? Have you the quivering lip and the Schedoniac contour? In a word, are you a picturesque villain full of plot and horror and magnificent wickedness? Ah! no, sir, you are only a sleek, good-humoured, chuckle-headed, old gentleman.” In the course of her search she meets with amazing adventures, which she describes in a series of letters to her governess. She changes her name to Cherubina de Willoughby, and journeys to London, where, mistaking Covent Garden Theatre for an ancient castle, she throws herself on the protection of a third-rate actor, Grundy. He readily falls in with her humour, assuming the name of Montmorenci, and a suit of tin armour and a plumed helmet for her delight. Later, Cherubina is entertained by Lady Gwyn, who, for the amusement of her guests, heartlessly indulges her propensity for the romantic, and poses as her aunt. She is introduced in a gruesome scene, which recalls the fate of Agnes in Lewis’s Monk, to her supposed mother, Lady Hysterica Belamour, whose memoirs, under the title Il Castello di Grimgothico, are inserted, after the manner of Mrs. Radcliffe and M.G. Lewis, who love an inset tale, into the midst of the heroine’s adventures. Cherubina determines to live in an abandoned castle, and gathers a band of vassals. These include Jerry, the lively retainer, inherited from a long line of comic servants, of whom Sancho Panza is a famous example, and Higginson, a struggling poet, who in virtue of his office of minstrel, addresses the mob, beginning his harangue with the time-honoured apology: “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking.” The story ends with the return of Cherubina to real life, where she is eventually restored to her father and to Stuart. The incidents, which follow one another in rapid succession, are foolish and extravagant, but the reminiscences they awaken lend them piquancy. The trappings and furniture of a dozen Gothic castles are here accumulated in generous profusion. Mouldering manuscripts, antique beds of decayed damask, a four-horsed barouche, and fluttering tapestry rejoice the heart of Cherubina, for each item in this curious medley revives moving associations in a mind nourished on the Radcliffe school. When Cherubina visits a shop she buys a diamond cross, which at once turns our thoughts to The Sicilian Romance. In Westminster Abbey she is disappointed to find “no cowled monks with scapulars” a phrase which flashes across our memory the sinister figure of Schedoni in The Italian. At the masquerade she plans to wear a Tuscan dress from The Mysteries of Udolpho, and, when furnishing Monkton Castle she bids Jerry, the Irish comic servant, bring “flags stained with the best old blood feudal, if possible, an old lute, lyre or harp, black hangings, curtains, and a velvet pall.” Even the banditti and condottieri, who enliven so many novels of terror, cannot be ignored, and are represented by a troop of Irish ruffians. Barrett lets nothing escape him. Rousseau’s theories are irreverently travestied. The thunder rolls “in an awful and Ossianly manner”; the sun, “that well-known gilder of eastern turrets,” rises in empurpled splendour; the hero utters tremendous imprecations, ejaculates superlatives or frames elaborately poised, Johnsonian periods; the heroine excels in cheap but glittering repartee, wears “spangled muslin,” and has “practised tripping, gliding, flitting, and tottering, with great success.” Shreds and patches torn with a ruthless, masculine hand from the flimsy tapestry of romance, fitted together in a new and amusing pattern, are exhibited for our derision. The caricature is entertaining in itself, and would probably be enjoyed by those who are unfamiliar with the romances ridiculed; but the interest of identifying the booty, which Barrett rifles unceremoniously from his victims, is a fascinating pastime.

Miss Austen, with her swift stiletto, and Barrett, with his brutal bludgeon to use a metaphor of “terror” had each delivered an attack; and in 1818, if we may judge by Peacock’s Nightmare Abbey, there is a change of fashion in fiction. How far this change is due to the satirists it is impossible to determine. Mr. Flosky, “who has seen too many ghosts himself to believe in their external appearance,” through whose lips Peacock reviles “that part of the reading public which shuns the solid food of reason,” probably gives the true cause for the waning popularity of the novel of terror:

“It lived upon ghosts, goblins and skeletons till even the devil himself ... became too base, common and popular for its surfeited appetite. The ghosts have therefore been laid, and the devil has been cast into outer darkness.”

The novel of terror has been destroyed not by its enemies but by its too ardent devotees. The horrid banquet, devoured with avidity for so many years, has become so highly seasoned that the jaded palate at last cries out for something different, and, according to Peacock, finds what it desires in “the vices and blackest passions of our nature tricked out in a masquerade dress of heroism and disappointed benevolence” an uncomplimentary description of the Byronic hero. Yet sensational fiction has lingered on side by side with other forms of fiction all through the nineteenth century, because it supplies a human and natural craving for excitement. It may not be the dominant type, but it will always exist, and will produce its thrill by ever-varying devices. Those who scoff may be taken unawares, like the company in Nightmare Abbey. The conversation turned on the subject of ghosts, and Mr. Larynx related his delightfully compact ghost story:

“I once saw a ghost myself in my study, which is the last place any one but a ghost would look for me. I had not been in it for three months and was going to consult Tillotson, when, on opening the door, I saw a venerable figure in a flannel dressing-gown, sitting in my armchair, reading my Jeremy Taylor. It vanished in a moment, and so did I, and what it was and what it wanted, I have never been able to ascertain”

a quieter, more inoffensive ghost than that described by Defoe in his Essay on the History and Reality of Apparitions: “A grave, ancient man, with a full-bottomed wig and a rich brocaded gown, who changed into the most horrible monster that ever was seen, with eyes like two fiery daggers red-hot.” Mr. Flosky and Mr. Hilary have hardly declared their disbelief in ghosts when:

“The door silently opened, and a ghastly figure, shrouded in white drapery with the semblance of a bloody turban on its head, entered and stalked slowly up the apartment. Mr. Flosky was not prepared for this apparition, and made the best of his way out at the opposite door. Mr. Hilary and Marionetta followed screaming. The honourable Mr. Listless, by two turns of his body, first rolled off the sofa and then under it. Rev. Mr. Larynx leaped up and fled with so much precipitation that he overturned the table on the foot of Mr. Glowry. Mr. Glowry roared with pain in the ears of Mr. Toobad. Mr. Toobad’s alarm so bewildered his senses that missing the door he threw up one of the windows, jumped out in his panic, and plunged over head and ears in the moat. Mr. Asterias and his son, who were on the watch for their mermaid, were attracted by the splashing, threw a net over him, and dragged him to land.”

In Melincourt Castle a very spacious wing was left free to the settlement of a colony of ghosts, and the Rev. Mr. Portpipe often passed the night in one of the dreaded apartments over a blazing fire, with the same invariable exorcising apparatus of a large venison pasty, a little prayer-book, and three bottles of Madeira. Yet despite this excellent mockery, Peacock in Gryll Grange devotes a chapter to tales of terror and wonder, singling out the works of Charles Brockden Brown for praise, especially his Wieland, “one of the few tales in which the final explanation of the apparently supernatural does not destroy or diminish the original effect.”

The title Nightmare Abbey in a catalogue would undoubtedly have caught the eye of Isabella Thorp or her friend Miss Andrews, searching eagerly for “horrid mysteries,” but they would perhaps have detected the note of mockery in the name. They would, however, have been completely deceived by the title, The Mystery of the Abbey, published in Liverpool in 1819 by T.B. Johnson, and we can imagine their consternation and disgust on the arrival of the book from the circulating library. The abbey is “haunted” by the proprietors of a distillery; and the spectre, described in horrible detail, proves to be a harmless idiot, with a red handkerchief round her neck. Apart from these gibes, there is not a hint of the supernatural in the whole book. It is a picaresque novel, written by a sportsman. The title is merely a hoax.

Belinda Waters, the heroine of one of Crabbe’s tales, who was “by nature negatively good,” is a portrait after Miss Austen’s own heart. Languidly reclining on her sofa with “half a shelf of circulating books” on a table at her elbow, Belinda tosses wearily aside a half-read volume of Clarissa, commended by her maid, “who had Clarissa for her heart’s dear friend.”

“Give me,” she said, “for I would laugh or cry,
‘Scenes from the Life,’ and ‘Sensibility,’
‘Winters at Bath’: I would that I had one!
‘The Constant Lover,’ ’The Discarded Son,’

The Rose of Raby, Delmore, or The Nun
These promise something, and may please, perhaps,
Like ’Ethelinda’ and the dear ’Relapse.’
To these her heart the gentle maid resigned
And such the food that fed the gentle mind.”

But even the “delicate distress” of heroines, like Niobe, all tears, palls at last, and Belinda, having wept her fill, craves now for “sterner stuff.”

“Yet tales of terror are her dear delight,
All in the wintry storm to read at night.”

In The Preceptor Husband, the pretty wife, whose notions of botany are delightfully vague, and who, in English history, light-heartedly confuses the Reformation and the Revolution, has tastes similar to those of Belinda. Pursued by an instructive husband, she turns at bay, and tells her priggish preceptor what kind of books she really enjoys:

“Well, if I must, I will my studies name,
Blame if you please I know you love to blame
When all our childish books were set apart,
The first I read was ’Wanderings of the Heart.’
It was a story where was done a deed
So dreadful that alone I feared to read.
The next was The Confessions of a Nun
’Twas quite a shame such evils should be done.
Nun of no matter for the creature’s name,
For there are girls no nunnery can tame.
Then was the story of the Haunted Hall,
When the huge picture nodded from the wall,

“When the old lord looked up with trembling dread,
And I grew pale and shuddered as I read.
Then came the tales of Winters, Summers, Springs
At Bath and Brighton they were pretty things!
No ghosts or spectres there were heard or seen,
But all was love and flight to Gretna-green.
Perhaps your greater learning may despise
What others like and there your wisdom lies.”

To this attractive catalogue the preceptor husband, no doubt, listened with the expression of Crabbe’s Old Bachelor:

“that kind of cool, contemptuous smile
Of witty persons overcharged with bile,”

but she at least succeeds in interrupting his flow of information for the time being. He retires routed. Crabbe’s close acquaintance with “the flowery pages of sublime distress,” with “vengeful monks who play unpriestly tricks,” with banditti

“who, in forest wide
Or cavern vast, indignant virgins hide,”

was, as he confesses, a relic of those unregenerate days, when

“To the heroine’s soul-distracting fears
I early gave my sixpences and tears."

He could have groped his way through a Gothic castle without the aid of a talkative housekeeper:

“I’ve watched a wintry night on castle-walls,
I’ve stalked by moonlight through deserted halls,
And when the weary world was sunk to rest
I’ve had such sights as may not be expressed.
Lo! that chateau, the western tower decayed,
The peasants shun it they are all afraid;
For there was done a deed could walls reveal
Or timbers tell it, how the heart would feel!

“Most horrid was it for, behold, the floor
Has stain of blood and will be clean no more.
Hark to the winds! which through the wide saloon
And the long passage send a dismal tune,
Music that ghosts delight in and now heed
Yon beauteous nymph, who must unmask the deed.
See! with majestic sweep she swims alone
Through rooms, all dreary, guided by a groan,
Though windows rattle and though tap’stries shake
And the feet falter every step they take.
Mid groans and gibing sprites she silent goes
To find a something which will soon expose
The villainies and wiles of her determined foes,
And having thus adventured, thus endured,
Fame, wealth, and lover, are for life secured."

Crabbe’s Ellen Orford in The Borough (1810) is drawn from life, and in grim and bitter irony is intended as a contrast to these timorous and triumphant creatures

“borrowed and again conveyed,
From book to book, the shadows of a shade.”

Ellen’s adventures are sordid and gloomy, without a hint of the picturesque, her distresses horrible actualities, not the “air-drawn” fancies that torture the sensitive Angelinas of Gothic fiction:

“But not like them has she been laid
In ruined castle sore dismayed,
Where naughty man and ghostly sprite
Fill’d her pure mind with awe and dread,
Stalked round the room, put out the light
And shook the curtains round the bed.
No cruel uncle kept her land,
No tyrant father forced her hand;
She had no vixen virgin aunt
Without whose aid she could not eat
And yet who poisoned all her meat
With gibe and sneer and taunt.”

Though Crabbe showed scant sympathy with the delicate sensibilities of girls who hung enraptured over the high-pitched heroics and miraculous escapes of Clementina and her kindred, he found pleasure in a robuster school of romance the adventures of mighty Hickathrift, Jack the Giant-killer, and Robin Hood, as set forth and embellished in the chapbooks which cottagers treasured “on the deal shelf beside the cuckoo-clock." And in his poem, Sir Eustace Grey, he presents with subtle art a mind tormented by terror.