In Emma, as U. C. Knoepflmacher has pointed out, the writing of letters is an index of character. Writing letters is itself less manly and direct that face-to-face speech, and the kinds of letters one writes reveal the person. Frank is said to write long, “pretty” letters; Robert Martin writes a short, sensible, plain, but strong and unaffected letter to Harriet, and that letter reveals who he is; Knightly is more on the Robert Martin side of things, preferring manly directness to the indirections and finesse of a Frank Churchill.

Even handwriting reveals character, and Knightley finds Frank’s handwriting “too small” and lacking “strength. It is like a woman’s writing.” Frank’s character is like his letters. He is pleasant, easy, lively, but obsequious (he calls Highbury “home” repeatedly, much to the delight of the residents). He gives information, but not full information; he embeds his words in the “cynical insincerities” associated with “the ‘amiable’ Chesterfieldian code of the eighteenth century.” Frank’s indirections and secrecies nearly cost him his engagement, and Emma learns that the manners that Frank exhibits are similar to those of his father, whose manners eventually begin to disgust her. After Emma insults Miss Bates at the Box Hill picnic, Mr. Weston attempts to cover things up with a charade: He says that the two letters of the alphabet that spell “perfection” are “M. and A. – Em-ma.” It is the least appropriate moment to say such a thing, and associates Mr. Weston uncomfortably with Elton and his earlier charade.

Knightley doesn’t attempt to cover anything up, but rebukes Emma severely after the picnic for abusing someone in such a low position. Knightley is the ideal, and his superiority to Frank is revealed even in his name. “Frank” reminds us constantly of what the young rake is not, and his double surname (Weston, Churchill) signifies “his conflicting allegiances.” As Knoepflmacher says, Knightley is a medieval figure in the midst of Highbury, as befits his name. In contrast to Frank, “the first name of the young man’s truly ‘frank’ counterpart is mentioned only twice in the course of the book. Simply called ‘Mr. Knightley’ by all, or even ‘Knightley’ by the rude Mrs. Elton, the master of the symbolically named abbey of ‘Donwell’ is a literary descendant of Spenser’s Red Cross Knight, who, like himself, bore the name of England’s patron saint, St. George, as an emblem both of his nationality and of his station, that of georgos the farmer. Unlike the mobile Frank, shifting from one locality to the other in pursuit of the wealth that will set him free, Mr. Knightley is bound to his fields and orchards. His personal supervision of his lands, his patient dealings with stewards and tenant farmers, his patriarchal concern for the welfare of Highbury’s villagers, convert him into a figure out of a feudal past.”

Though, as we’ve remarked before, Austen appears to be dealing with microscopic local concerns, the contrast of Knightley and Churchill raises cultural and even political concerns. The political first: Knoepflmacher notes that the contrast of Churchill and Knightley is partly a contrast of France and England, of French finesse and English directness. Knightley is rooted in “English verdure, English culture, English comfort” (Austen’s description), Frank is “sick of England” and ready to depart. Knightley judges Frank to be “amiable only in French, not in English.” And in making this contrast, Austen is reflecting on the dangers of infiltration of French manners and habits into solid English society. Like Dickens, she reveals herself to be an English patriot, hopeful that Englishness will survive the expansion of French mores.

Among the challenges to English rootedness, directness, knightliness is the cult of politeness associated with Philip Stanhope, the fourth Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773), whose “Machiavellian” letters to his son were published in 1774. The reaction to Chesterfield turned England away from the kind of polished and manipulative manners associated with French court life. Austen is part of this reaction, and includes Chesterfieldian characters in various novels (Wickham, Churchill, Henry Crawford). In one essay, Chesterfield attempts to discover an English equivalent to the French phrase, “les moeurs.” The word “manners,” he says are “too little, morals too much. I should define it thus; a general exterior decency, fitness, and propriety of conduct in the common intercourse of life.” His chosen word is “decorum,” which he comments to “the most sensible an informed part of mankind, I mean people of fashion.” Decorum is commendable because it “does not extend to religious or moral duties, does not prohibit the solid enjoyments of vice, but only throws a veil of decency between it and the vulgar, conceals part of its native deformity, and prevents scandal, and bad example.” This “exterior purity and dignity of character” is effective because it “commands respect, procures credit, and invites confidence.” Courtiers, patriots, masters of households should cultivate this kind of decorum.