Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn–that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness–that season which has drawn from every poet worthy of being read some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling.

Jane Austen, Persuasion

The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be stupid.

 Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey