I am not aware that any dramatic illustration of a single proverb has with that view been given to the English public. It was, however, from these dramas that I first caught the idea of noting down what I saw passing in society, in order to judge, by the events of real life, the truth or fallacy of those axioms which have been handed down to us with a character for “usefulness and dignity; as conducive to the understanding of philosophy, of which they are the very remains and which they are adapted to persuade.”
To regulate a life by the observation of proverbs would be to do an extremely silly thing, I take exactly the converse of such a proposition: I have watched the world, and have set down all that I have seen; and out of this collection of materials have thrown together a few historical illustrations of quaint sayings, the force of which, the characters introduced by me have unconsciously exemplified in their lives and conduct.
In short, I have thought it a curious matter of speculation to compare the “DOINGS” of the moderns with the “SAYINGS” of the ancients…
Before we start looking at the works of Theodore Edward Hook, it is important that we understand his background and social standing, and the various events that influenced both his writing and the critics’ opinion of it.
Hook was born in 1788 into a respectable middle-class London family and at an early age displayed musical gifts inherited from his father, a composer. The two began working together when Hook was only sixteen, and found some success with comic operas. Hook also had a gift for improvising songs, which proved a critical factor in future events: it got him a foot in the door with the social set of the then-Prince of Wales, though at the price of literally performing on command (“singing for his supper”, as it were).
In 1813, through the patronage of his royal friend, Hook was appointed accountant-general and treasurer of Mauritius. He gave more of his attention to social life on the island than to his duties, however, which probably explains what happened next.
An 1817 audit discovered that some £12,000 were missing from the government’s accounts: Hook was arrested and brought back to England to face criminal charges. The embezzlement was finally traced to a subordinate, but Hook was held accountable—and expected, going forward, to make good the debt.
That was the end of Hook’s civil-service career. Looking for other ways to support himself – and perhaps bring himself back into royal favour – in 1820 he founded John Bull, a weekly newspaper that expressed extreme conservative views and was fiercely pro-royal: its founding coinciding with the death of George III and the ascension of the former Prince Regent to the throne.
In particular, John Bull backed the new monarch in his latest attempt to rid himself of his queen. George had failed at this before, with a formal inquiry finding “no foundation” to rumours of Caroline’s infidelity, and had made himself obnoxious to much of the English public in the very attempt. He did succeed in driving his wife out of the country, though: Caroline lived in Italy from 1814 to 1820, returning upon the death of the former king and demanding her position as Queen Consort.
George IV responded by bringing an action for divorce against his wife—and in this had the enthusiastic support of John Bull, which launched a series of scurrilous attacks upon her. Hook had backed a loser, however: the government of Lord Liverpool, though a Tory ministry, quashed the divorce bill; and the sympathy of the English public was strongly with Caroline and furiously against her husband, who became king in the face of a rising tide of anti-monarchical feeling. Caroline was not divorced, but neither would she ever be queen: George barred her from his coronation in July of 1821, and she died three weeks later.
Nevertheless, the staunch Toryism of John Bull and its virulent attacks upon anything perceived as “Whig” or “liberal” or “foreign” (or, God forbid, “radical”) made the newspaper enough of a success to put Theodore Hook back on his feet. There was just one problem: despite his increasing income, he made no attempt at all to repay his debt to the government. In 1823, Hook was arrested again—and spent the next two years in a debtors’ prison.
It was during this time that Theodore Hook began to write to support himself. He started with articles for the newspapers and magazines, but soon moved to fiction—compiling a series of stories that he managed to sell to the publisher Henry Colburn. Collecting together the first four of these, in 1824 Colburn published them in a three-volume set under the title Sayings And Doings. A Series Of Sketches From Life.
The book was a success, and Theodore Hook was launched on his new career—publishing nearly 40 works of fiction and biography across the rest of his life. He became enough of literary celebrity to attract the attention of other writers, several of whom included satirical sketches of him in their own works—most notably Benjamin Disraeli, who wrote him into Coningsby as Lucien Gay, and William Makepeace Thackeray, who turned him into Mr Wagg in Vanity Fair.
He never did get around to repaying that debt, though; and when he died in 1841, his estate was seized by the government.
There is much more I could say, but the point of this outline is to highlight the fact that at least some of the criticism directed at Theodore Hook was about personal enmity and politics as much as his writing. As for the rest of it, well, we can decide that for ourselves.
Sayings And Doings consists of four stories of varying lengths. Only the first one, Danvers, is anything like what we’re really here for and, that being the case, I don’t want to dwell on them. Instead, I will merely give an outline of each story and the maxim it is supposed to be illustrating—although how serious Hook was about that, or whether those proverbs were merely (pardon me) a hook on which to hang his tales, is debatable, since in some cases the relationship between his story and his moral is tenuous to say the least.
Danvers offers as its punchline: Too much of a good thing is good for nothing. It is the story of Mr Thomas Burton, a young gentleman of some talents but more ego whose life follows a smooth and rewarding path: he has a reliable income through a government position, a wife who adores him, and a pleasant country home. The only fly in his ointment is the attitude of the Duke of Alverstoke and his family, the Burtons’ nearest neighbours, who treat him and his wife with a distant civility that suggests they consider the couple beneath their social notice. That the ducal family treats everyone that way does not excuse them to Burton, who is used to being made much of and whose amour propre is wounded by not being singled out. He allows his resentment to escalate into rivalry, seeking ways to, Astonish, confound or pique the Duke; though his opportunities for doing so are restricted by his circumstances—until, that is, he inherits through his wife the immense property and fortune of her uncle, upon condition that he change his name to “Danvers”…
In the working out of its plot, Danvers does show itself a forerunner of the silver-fork novel: such works often liked to have it both ways, dazzling their (presumed) middle-class readers with breathless accounts of the wealth and luxury to be found in the upper reaches of English society, and functioning, in effect, as a kind of aspirational conduct book; but at the same time warning against any actual attempt at social climbing—by illustrating how miserable the aristocracy really was behind all that money and display, and/or that the members of the aristocracy were so scandalously immoral, no respectable middle-class person would want anything to do with them; while at the same time (and without any apparent sense of contradiction) assuring those same middle-class persons that, lacking the proper “breeding”, they couldn’t possibly function in such a rarefied atmosphere.
Danvers is an example of the latter. The inheritance of Danvers née Burton elevates him and his wife into the heights of London society and places at their – or more correctly, his – disposal wealth beyond even his most extravagant dreams. Sure enough, Hook provides for us word-pictures of the society parties that follow, and an itemised account of Danvers’ reckless expenditure. At first the couple achieve some social success—including, nota bene, Mrs Danvers’ presentation at Court to Britain’s new-ish monarch—
…Mary returned from the fluttering ceremony enraptured with the reception she had met, and delighted with that noble grace and winning warmth of manner for which the illustrious object of her dutiful admiration has ever been celebrated all over the world…
—but the real aristocracy soon finds them out for the pretenders they are. Meanwhile, Danvers’ obsession with outdoing the duke leads him to a series of increasingly risky actions that result in one failure and/or humiliation after the other, while he also racks up an extraordinary amount of debt trying to keep up with the Fitz-Joneses—which predictably enough ends with him back where he started, a (much) poorer but wiser man, finally able to appreciate his quiet middle-class life.
The other plot-thread of Danvers gives us the flip-side of this coin: Mr Frumpton Danvers, squillionaire, is presented as a crass, selfish, overbearing bully, and Burton’s courting of this mean and underbred individual for his money is at least tacitly criticised. (Mrs Burton’s position as blood-relative and woman lets her somewhat off the hook.) We can tell that this section of the story is meant to be satirical, though its “humour” is cruel and rather unpleasant; but its moral is the same: be grateful that you’re middle-class.
The knockings, the rattlings, the ringings, the drivings, the thunderings which occupied the five or six consecutive mornings after Mrs Danvers had “played out her diamonds” at Pimlico, were unparalleled in Park Lane; packs of cards, bearing names, any one of which would have set Sandown Cottage in an uproar, were piled upon the tables in the hall; other packs were issued to an incalculable extent. Danvers’s dinners made Ude himself jealous, and Mrs Danvers’s parties filled the fashionable world with consternation. The dinners Mrs Danvers voted a bore; for when the political tufts—political connexion was Danvers’s aim—came to dine, and occasionally persons of higher rank than they, the poor little unsophisticated woman felt it necessary to put on certain airs, which she saw her present equals, as she thought them, play off; and having a turn for imitation, she caught their manner (and assumed it as her own) of coldly bowing and receiving visitors distantly like a little queen, seeming as if she thought herself the honouring party, while her high-born guests looked at her, and her surrounding gold and silver, and her sparkling jewels, and her bedizened lacqueys, merely as so many proofs of successful trade, not always unattended by a sigh of regret that such excellent things should be so grievously thrown away upon persons who did not know how to use them…
(“Ude” was Louis-Eustache Ude, who as chef to the Earl of Sefton became a celebrity in his own right. In 1813 he published The French Cook, a highly influential work that helped popularise haunte cuisine in London.)
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The second story, The Friend Of The Family, is less concerned with its moral and the better for it; though Hook also uses it to express his own (or his view of England’s) staunch Protestantism, and to take pot-shots at the Dissenters (also the Catholics when the opportunity arises). The maxim it is supposed to illustrate is, All is not gold that glitters, with Hook stretching his interpretation of this old saw as far as possible in his story of an overtly pious, secretly dishonest (Methodist) lawyer whose schemes finally blow up in his face.
Lord Belmost is a cold, unfeeling man filled with ambition centred in his only son, Edward—though he has little to do with the actual raising of that son, who spends his time away from home – and from first school and then Oxford – staying and studying with a clergyman who knows which side his bread is buttered: a domestic arrangement that remains unaltered when the first clergyman dies and his living is assumed by another of very different character, devout and mild and hardworking. He also has a daughter…
Rose Dalling is the usual bundle of perfections, and she and Edward naturally fall in love; though the two are naive enough not understand what’s happening until it’s too late, while the Reverend Mr Dalling is likewise oblivious to what’s going on under his nose. When they do realise, Edward – having a fair idea of what his father will think – persuades Rose to keep silent for a time, knowing that, should he know, Mr Dalling will certainly ask Edward to leave his house. And for this mild transgression against perfect frankness and proper female delicacy, the two will suffer all sorts of punishments.
The focus of the story shifts, however, when Edward is compelled to confide in his father’s attorney and man of business, Amos Ford.
Ford is a Methodist and very loud about it; and Hook offers a heavy-handed though not unamusing sketch of the gap between his sanctimonious public persona and his private, unscrupulous plans for self-aggrandisement. Ford also has a daughter, Rachel, who is the female version of her father: her particular (public) bugbears are cards, music and, in particular, the theatre, against which she tirelessly campaigns; privately, she joins her father’s schemes to make her Mrs Edward Bramley and so later on Lady Belmont. The advent of the Dallings scuppers the Fords’ first attempts upon Edward, but they’re not about to give him up to Rose without a fight…
Though it goes in all sorts of directions and to unnecessary length, The Friend Of The Family holds the reader’s interest via the complicated manoeuvring of Amos Ford as he uses the pride and ambition of Lord Belmont as a weapon, making himself invaluable to his noble patron in all sorts of ways including ruthlessly separating Edward and Rose—all the while trying to bring about an even less suitable marriage between Edward and Rachel. Meanwhile, as is belatedly revealed, Ford has been taking advantage of his position to embezzle funds and speculate with them—and when he loses the lot, his schemes to save himself become ever more desperate and extravagant…
“How have I been deceived in these people!” said his Lordship, “how have they led me to sin against virtue and innocence. I would have staked my existence upon the honour and honesty of the father, on the morality and purity of the daughter: this is indeed a horrible disclosure—it is a melancholy lesson; for, while it paints in all their glowing colours the dreadful punishments which await a vicious life, it sets one trembling for one’s own security;—when Ford, the mild, the pious, unassuming Ford, the FRIEND OF THE FAMILY, thus confesses himself a flagrant sinner, and consummates a life of crime by suicide,—in whom is one to trust? where is man to look for friendship or sincerity while appearances are so deceptive ?”
“It is marvellous,” said Dalling.
“‘Tis the way of the world,” said Humbug, “where there is the most pretension there is the least merit: I have always seen it, and have learned to suspect those, who are righteous over much…”
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Merton is by far the longest of the four stories, and a slog for more reasons than its length. However, it’s the only one of the four that comes near properly illustrating its maxim, which is: There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip. It is another story of thwarted young love, though this time without a happy ending and so many obstacles placed in the young couple’s way – or, more correctly, created by the actions of the male half of the pair – that it becomes exasperating.
Her heart set on Henry Merton, the lovely young Fanny Meadows rejects a proposal from the wealthy and fashionable Mr Felton, much to her mother’s dismay and anger. Mrs Meadows materialism is partly put down to her family being in [*shudder*] trade; though more realistically, it also stems from her own love-match with an impecunious young officer and the struggles with poverty that followed. Mrs Meadows intends a different fate for her daughter, and sees Fanny’s fortune in her face—only for the foolish girl to fall in love with a young man of good birth but the slenderest means.
Merton proposes via a perfectly proper letter to Mrs Meadows—who rejects him without telling her daughter anything about it, and then resorts to various rather underhanded methods to keep the two of them apart. She fails at this—and when Fanny finds out, she can only put one interpretation upon her mother’s actions:
When the placid, mild, unoffending, but determined Fanny found herself the dupe of her mother, her pride was wounded, and her astonishment at such conduct was only equalled by her sorrow for such an exposure.
“Merciful powers!” said she, “has my mother, then, deluded me? If she have descended to this artifice—if she have degraded herself by such a suppression of truth—she must, indeed, be desperate, and fixed upon my marriage with this hateful Mr Felton… I am distracted by this conduct of my mother’s! I thought she would have sacrificed much for my happiness; but I dread, I tremble at my own situation! She is dining with Lady Castleton, who is Felton’s cousin. She has proposed to me to make a tour immediately. I know—I see it all. I shall be forced into a marriage with him;—but can I endure it?—ought I to suffer tyranny which must destroy my happiness for ever? How, how is it to be avoided ?”
Naturally enough, this leads to a plan of elopement…
From this point the narrative of Merton becomes a recitation of the young lovers’ abortive attempts to be together: attempts which crash upon the combined rocks of failed elopements, lost messages, missed appointments, the treachery of trusted confidantes, shifting personal and financial circumstances, false reports of life and death, and even marriage to someone else (and a convenient widowing).
All of this plays out over no less than 569 of Sayings And Doings’ 944 pages – really, we might as well call Merton a novel – and becomes more and more like a form of torture, as disaster follows disaster. Hook chalks it all up to Merton’s “bad luck”, and some of it is; but the parallel reality is that every time he is confronted by the need to make a decision, Merton chooses the stupidest possible course of action, the one most fraught with ways in which something could go wrong—and yet is always astonished when it does go wrong. And in the long run, it’s Fanny, not him, who pays the price.
With a handsome fortune, perfectly unencumbered, freed from the trammels in which he had been so long and so unhappily entangled, conscious that he had done his duty by his former wife, whose subsequent conduct had pretty strongly declared her real character and disposition; without one care but for Fanny, and she—the identical she—within an hundred yards of him…
To describe his feelings would be a vain attempt, or to enumerate the endless visions of joy which flitted before his eyes; as he flew along Bruton-street: his adored, devoted, faithful fair one would fly to his arms, and her mother bestow her benediction upon them; the Wilsons, no doubt, would be there—such events! such an evening! and then he should return and introduce Sir Henry to them: and then, and then—and so he went on, till he reached the door of the hotel.
Arrived there, he waited for nothing—every body knew him. “Mrs Meadows here?” The waiter endeavoured to speak—but in vain: “Which room?” was all that Henry offered by way of explanation; and bounding up the stairs, outstripping the breathless servant, to whose attempt at something like a speech, he did not pay the smallest attention, my hero burst open the door of the apartment which Mrs Meadows always occupied when in the house, and beheld—that lady, Mrs Wilson and her husband, and a fourth person, to him unknown.
A shriek of horror from Mrs Meadows was all his welcome…
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Martha, The Gypsy is the last and shortest of Hook’s stories, and probably the best; certainly the most powerful, in its very brevity. Seeing is believing is its maxim, and in its content it functions as a fascinating forerunner to the supernatural tales that became more and more popular with the British public from the middle of the 19th century, but were still uncommon in its earlier decades. In fact, Hook starts out by almost apologising for seeming to believe in the supernatural, but ends up contending that such “visitations” may be just one more manifestation of God’s power. So far, so good; only then he makes the mistake of sneering, Sure, I can’t explain ghosts, but you can’t explain—several natural phenomena that have long since been explained.
Anyway. Hook also prefigures some of the tropes of later such stories by writing himself into it as a friend of the main character, who is therefore in a position to attest to its truth. When we begin, the Harding family is the very picture of middle-class happiness and contentment. Their only trouble is the uncertain health of the daughter, Maria. She is engaged to a young man called Langdale whose parents, though agreeing to the match, insist upon the marriage being put off until their son is of age, though without being explicit about why.
Nevertheless, things could hardly be better for the family—until one day when Mr Harding chooses to brush aside a beggar-woman. She continues to pursue him until, in a moment of exasperation, he addresses her in terms that Hook declines to reproduce:
At length, irritated by the perseverance of the woman—for even subordinates in Government hate to be solicited importunately—Mr Harding, contrary to his usual custom, and contrary to the customary usages of modern society, turned hastily round and fulminated an oath against the supplicating vagrant.
“Curse!” said Martha: “have I lived to this? Hark ye, man—poor, weak, haughty man! Mark me—look at me!”
He did look at her; and beheld a countenance on fire with rage. A pair of eyes blacker than jet, and brighter than diamonds, glared like stars upon him; her black hair dishevelled, hung over her olive cheeks; and a row of teeth whiter than the driven snow displayed themselves from between a pair of coral lips, in a dreadful smile, a ghastly sneer of contempt which mingled in her passion. Harding was riveted to the spot; and, what between the powerful fascination of her superhuman countenance, and the dread of a disturbance, he paused to listen to her.
“Mark me, Sir,” said Martha; “you and I shall meet again. Thrice shall you see me before you die. My visitings will be dreadful; but the third will be the last!”
And from here, we follow the Hardings from their near-perfect happiness through a series – a trifecta – of tragedies. The narrative is terse, and inexorable—and true: Mr Harding’s friend is an onlooker at these events and, well, seeing is believing.
What’s interesting here is what Hook doesn’t do—somewhat contrary to his established character, we might think: the punishment is excessive to the crime, yes; but he doesn’t turn this back upon gypsies generally, or even beggars generally. In fact there’s a moment when the narrator observes wryly, Mr Harding was a subscriber to the Mendicity Society, an institution which proposes to check beggary by the novel mode of giving nothing to the poor. (We should perhaps keep in mind that Hook wrote this in a debtors’ prison.) Mr Harding simply picked the wrong moment to lose his temper and the wrong beggar to insult: an avoidable tragedy of the kind that we still see every day, albeit without supernatural overtones. Martha, meanwhile, is allowed to be an individual—and an unnerving presence.
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Published in 1824 – and with its authorship carefully concealed – Sayings And Doings was a success for Henry Colburn, who commissioned another such work—and then another.
Sigh.
Sayings And Doings (Second Series) appeared in 1825, the same year as Robert Plumer Ward’s Tremaine; or, A Man Of Refinement, which is considered the first true proto-silver-fork novel, if not the first silver-fork novel proper: that remains to be seen—
—by which I mean, I think I’m going to take a look at that, before I come back to this…
A Course Of Steady Reading 
Alfred Dudley; or, The Australian Settlers
The society of the Dudleys soon rapidly extended beyond their own hitherto narrow, though happy circle; all that friendship could suggest was exerted to make those previously known to them, not only reconciled, but delighted with the resolution they had adopted of seeking a home in this distant region. While those who did not possess the advantage of a previous acquaintance with this amiable family were not neglected, but immediately experienced the benefits of the kindest attention and most cordial assistance. Thus emigration was robbed of all its bitterness; for could any grieve at an exile from their own country, where they had so long been the victims of difficulties and anxieties, when their arrival at their new home was greeted with such warm-hearted benevolence and hospitality, and where they at once found themselves in society, which while it was graced with every charm of refinement and elegance, possessed also the more solid qualities of high intellect and sterling worth, and over which good-humour, sincerity, and a warm feeling, ever presided?
First things first: Alfred Dudley; or, The Australian Settlers is a frequently misattributed book—one often credited to the historian and sociologist, William Howitt, who in the 1850s spent two years travelling through Australia, chiefly Victoria, and wrote a number of observational books about it upon his return to England. My best guess is that there was confusion between this work and Howitt’s A Boy’s Adventures In The Wilds Of Australia, which was published in 1854 (and which I may or may not take a look at, anon).
So while you can still find an annoying number of references to this book as by William Howitt, its author was actually Sarah Ricardo Porter—and this is not the only way in which history has shafted her.
I am very indebted to Sergio Cremaschi’s conference paper, “Sarah Ricardo’s Tale of Wealth and Virtue”, later published in the History of Economics Review, for not only providing an outline of the author’s life, but for explaining some of the stranger touches in her only novel.
Briefly, Sarah Ricardo was the sister of the political economist, David Ricardo, and married George Richardson Porter, a government statistician who made important contributions to British economic, sociological and educational writings from the 1840s through the 1860s. Consequently, Sarah has too often been treated just as a footnote to either her brother’s career or her husband’s (she is often referenced as “Mrs G. R. Porter”), without due notice being given to her own achievements in the area of children’s education. She was an active member of the Central Society for Education, a radical organisation – so it was considered in the 1830s – which advocated not only the establishment of primary schools for the working-classes, but the removal of religious teaching from the curricula: it was on this point that previous school planning had generally foundered, since by definition any given religion would exclude a large section of the target population.
Meanwhile, Sarah Porter wrote essays on educational theory, including her belief in the importance of engaging the imagination of children when teaching them (she was, as Cremaschi puts it, an anti-Gradgrind), and a mathematical textbook, in addition to her one novel.
This background, as I say, explains some of peculiarities of Alfred Dudley; or, The Australian Settlers, which – alas! – is not really a novel about Australia, but rather one about English social problems in that nebulous period between the Regency and the Victorian era (and, significantly, before the passing of the First Reform Bill), and how some of them might be solved: Australia is merely the chosen forum for the working out of Porter’s theories.
This is also very much a “novel of sensibility”, with the characters making emotional speeches at one another while they contemplate their circumstances, and a great deal of it devoted to Porter’s ideas about the existing structures of English society and the more desirable social arrangements that might be possible elsewhere; her aspirations for human interaction; and the responsibilities of people to one another—particularly the responsibility of the rich to the poor.
As Sarah Porter acknowledges in her preface, her knowledge of Australia was likewise all theoretical: her background information was drawn from The Present State Of Australia; a description of the country, its advantages and prospects, with reference to emigration by Robert Dawson, chief agent to the Australian Agricultural Company, a business founded by the Macarthur family which had negotiated a grant of one million acres of land to be used for experimental projects in emigration and farming. (There’s a much bigger story here, but it is beside our present point.)
Though her novel is aimed at a younger audience, Porter’s preface is addressed to their “judicious parents”, who—
…are always desirous of ascertaining how far truth is blended with fiction, and what accurate ideas their children may obtain from the perusal of any work which may fall into their hands.
The following short tale is founded on the circumstance of a gentleman, with his highly-educated son, settling in Australia, and there for a long period cheerfully submitting to all the hardships and privations attendant on such a situation. Although the events leading to and arising out of this fact, as here narrated, are purely fictitious, yet the Author has been careful to make the latter in strict accordance with a settler’s life and habits; while implicit reliance may be placed on whatever is found in these pages relating to the natural history of Australia, and to the manners and character of its native inhabitants…
We will return a bit later to the implications of that last phrase.
Alfred Dudley; or, The Australian Settlers opens in England, where Mr Dudley is the squire of a small country estate and lives quietly and (another of Porter’s favourite words) “usefully” with his wife and four children. The eldest and only boy, Alfred (thirteen when the narrative opens, just of age when it closes), is the apple of his parents’ eye; he is also, in spite of an estrangement between his mother and her brother, heir presumptive to the estate and property of his uncle, Sir Alfred Melcombe:
He had accumulated immense wealth by his parsimonious habits, and always declared that his property should devolve on the person who should bear his title. Such an education was therefore sought to be given to Alfred, as should best fit him for the high station in society which he appeared destined to fill. Under the judicious guidance of his parents, ably assisted by an intelligent tutor, his character gradually developed itself, giving promise of future excellence; and many a dream of parental ambition saw in him the future luminary of his age and country.
Storm clouds are on the horizon, however. Mr Dudley is approached by a relative of his own about a business partnership—his contribution to which is described in terms guaranteed to make anyone familiar with 19th century English literature shudder in horrified anticipation:
[He] sought to induce his kind friend to enter with him into a banking concern in the neighbouring town. He professed to require nothing from Mr Dudley but the use of his name, which would at once give character and stability to the establishment. Mr Dudley, unfortunately, was not a man of business, and did not exactly understand the responsibility he should incur by such an arrangement; being also of a confiding, unsuspicious temper, he in a fatal moment consented to become the partner of one whom he had always believed to be a man of strict integrity, as well as of good abilities and practical knowledge.
The inevitable happens: the man of strict integrity embezzles the funds and does a bunk, and Mr Dudley is left to face the defrauded bank customers. It never occurs to him to do anything other than meet the full responsibility and he is able to do so, but only by selling Dudley Manor and emptying out the family coffers. On the remnants of their property, the Dudleys then retire to an obscure corner of France (where they find a small colony of English people in similar straits), where they work at picking up the pieces and learn to support themselves:
Alfred proved himself a valuable and persevering coadjutor to his father; while the little girls were delighted at the wonderful effects produced by their own industry. When the parterres had, by the united exertions of the whole family, been tolerably cleared from rubbish, healthy fruit-trees and valuable plants were discovered, which had been choked up by the noxious weeds.
In a surprisingly short time, that which had been unsightly and unproductive, exhibited a pleasing and flourishing appearance. While Mr and Mrs Dudley contemplated, with no small complacency, the improved condition of their present abode, they were astonished how soon their minds had accommodated themselves to circumstances, and how much of content and cheerfulness already surrounded them. They were still a happy family, and were pleased to find that this happiness did not depend on adventitious circumstances.
Sir Alfred Melcombe, in spite of his “immense wealth”, does nothing to assist his relatives; on the other hand, their new “poor but happy” arrangements offend his pride: he demands that, his heir shall not be contaminated by plebeian modes of subsistence, or by coming in contact with penury and privation; in short, that Alfred be sent to public school in England. Mr and Mrs Dudley’s ambitions for their son’s future lead them to acquiesce; and though Alfred begs to be allowed to stay with his family and share their difficulties, he reluctantly obeys when they insist.
While he is away, his parents’ thoughts turn to their future. They long to return to England, but recognise that the country in its present condition offers little hope for them beyond mere subsistence; and Mr Dudley begins to consider emigration. He is still trying to resign himself to this course of action when he receives a letter from a friend, who has settled in Australia—
This gave a brilliant account of prosperity in that far distant land; enlarged so enthusiastically on the benefits almost certain to accrue from obtaining a grant of land there; and dwelt so warmly on the beauty of the climate, that Mr Dudley’s fancy was caught by the alluring picture…
But there are many practical objections to the scheme, including the frail health of the youngest daughter, Mary; and finally Mr Dudley proposes that he go on ahead, alone, to prepare a home for his family in the new land; and that they join him when he has built a secure future for him. Mrs Dudley doesn’t like this idea one bit, and nor, when he returns home during his holidays and hears of it, does Alfred—though his suggestion is not that his father give up the scheme, but that he accompany him to the new land and be his partner in re-establishing the family.
Alfred and Mr Dudley, as is their wont, then makes speeches at one another:
“I cannot consent, my son,” his father would say: “you are destined to fill a higher station than that of an Australian settler: your uncle is willing, nay, anxious to continue to you the benefits of what is considered the best education, and to confer on you all the advantages arising from wealth. Amid our misfortunes it is an inexpressible consolation that you at least are spared the vicissitudes of our lot. We have not to mourn over the extinction of those ambitious parental aspirings with which we have been wont to illume your future path. You will not, my child, disappoint our hopes: you will yet fulfil all our fondest wishes: you will shine among the first stars of your country—the eloquent orator, the incorruptible legislator, the enlightened statesman, and perhaps the benefactor of your species.”
“And will this,” exclaimed Alfred, “will this be fulfilling all your fondest wishes? Would you have me become the undutiful, cold-hearted son—the neglectful, selfish brother—who could see his parents and sisters, they who had always showered upon him all the tenderness and affection which give value to life, could calmly see them become exiles from their country, to seek a refuge where his protecting arm might shield them from danger—a home which his unwearied exertions might deprive of its desolation, while he should bask in all the luxuries bestowed by a capricious relative, and unfeelingly withheld from those nearest and dearest to him? Should I fulfil all your wishes by becoming such a wretch? Oh, my father!”—he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed aloud…
Well. His father’s desire that Alfred become an “eloquent orator” comes back to bite him, as after much more similar back-and-forth, Alfred’s arguments finally win out. The two begin to make their preparations for departure (including, as is mentioned in passing, investing some of their small resources in a starter flock of Merino sheep); while the womenfolk give up their ramshackle property and move in with some friends to save expenses.
The journey is slow and frustrating, five months in duration; and it is eleven months before the first letters from the emigrants reach France. (From this point, the narrative toggles between straight description and excerpts from Alfred’s letters.) Alfred, we find, has mixed feelings about his new surroundings:
“We had several fellow-passengers who, like ourselves, were voluntary exiles, seeking an asylum in that country to which the criminal is banished. There is certainly something unpleasant associated with Botany Bay—it always brings with it ideas of disgrace and coercion; and I should, for my own part, have been much better pleased if my father had decided on some other place of destination; but after all, this is nothing but prejudice, and I can be as virtuous and free in Australia, as if it were not contaminated by vice and misery…”
That attitude doesn’t stop Mr Dudley from acquiring a couple of convict labourers, we should note; and later descriptions of the immigrants’ living arrangements include assurances of strictly separate living-quarters—tents at a distance to start, and later a designated cottage, with the convicts banned from ever setting foot in the main house.
(The use of the c-word is mine, however: on the whole Porter prefers “servants”.)
The Dudleys do not linger in Sydney. On board they found new friends in Mr and Mrs Pelham, who likewise has been brought to emigration by their circumstances and by positive reports from friends; and the two pairs of newcomers acquire adjoining land grants, so that they may be company for each other and share their resources as they work to build their new homes, which are to the north of the main settlement (near Newcastle, in the region now known generally as the Hunter Valley or just “the Hunter”), which is accessible by boat up a river.
One of the most interesting things about this book is its attitude to manual labour—at a time when no man who wanted to be considered a gentleman would dream of soiling his hands with work of any kind (recall Sir Alfred’s horrified reaction to “plebeian modes of subsistence”). Porter, conversely, finds not only dignity in labour, but in self-sufficiency; and though they need the assistance of their, ahem, servants, both Mr Dudley and Alfred not only throw themselves into the hard physical exertions needed to get themselves established, they end up finding pleasure in the work itself, and take pride in their accomplishments:
The first dawn of day saw them at their work, which they did not quit until night. Their industrious example and liberal remuneration induced their servants to extra diligence; and in a very short time some acres were cleared, enclosed, and planted. They had then time to think of their present wants, and of providing themselves with a more substantial habitation. For this purpose the father and son turned carpenters: assisted by their servants, they cut down trees, stripped the bark, and sawed the trunks into logs and planks. While thus so unremittingly employed, they were far from being unhappy. This may best appear from a letter Alfred, about this time, addressed to his sisters:
“How often, my dear sisters, I wish you could take a peep at us; you would scarcely recognise your sunburnt father and brother in their linen jackets, busily engaged in their multifarious occupations… For the first month we were nothing but labourers in the field: we could then afford no time to the conveniences of life, and were forced to be content with the provisions with which we had plentifully supplied ourselves from Sydney. The flour and the Indian corn-meal were prepared à la hâte, merely as we required it; and we were right glad at night to stretch our weary limbs under the shelter of a tent…
Once the clearing and the planting are under control, however, Mr Dudley and Alfred turn their attention to the building of a real house, to accommodate their womenfolk. Their long-term plans envisage a new Dudley Manor, as far as it can be replicated; but sensibly they attack the work piecemeal, getting their absolute necessities in place first.
The Dudleys are assisted in all facets of their work not only by advice from the Pelhams, who have the property next door (and are also getting a house built; deliberately, front door to front door is about a mile), but the fleet of boat-borne pedlars who ply their trade on the river, bringing goods of all sorts upriver for sale, and for a commission carrying produce to Sydney, to the farmers’ agents. The Dudleys’ first crop of “maize” goes that way and sells for a good price, giving them a measure of financial security and enabling them to move to the next phase of land development and house-building.
We hear a great deal more about all this, and the Dudleys’ adjustment to their new life, but most of it we’ll take as read. A far more important plot-thread is now introduced, as Alfred – having gained more spare time after his father hires more servants, and more “servants”, to do the heavier physical work – begins to explore the terrain surrounding the property. Out riding, he comes across an aboriginal woman who has injured her ankle, and her toddler; he helps them onto his horse and leads them to their encampment—which we now hear is some “two miles away”. We also learn that Alfred had seen some natives before this, though previously “they avoided him”.
Alfred’s rescue of the woman and child breaks down the barriers, however, and he is welcomed, thanked and invited to stay for dinner (at this stage, mostly through sign language, we gather). It is getting late, so Alfred declines; he also, against the tacit advice of the natives, insists that he will be fine on his own. Fortunately for him, a young native boy is sufficiently doubtful of his bush navigation skills as to follow him—and just as Alfred is contemplating his dilemma, the boy – called “Mickie”, whatever his name actually is – emerges from the falling darkness to lead him home.
The natives, Mickie in particular, become a constant presence in Alfred Dudley from this point on. Unsurprisingly, this aspect of the novel sometimes makes us clench our teeth: the natives fall all too easily into “serving” the white settlers; their speech, a mixture of real terms presumably culled from Robert Dawson and a form of pidgin English, contains the word “massa” far too frequently; and Alfred himself evinces a rather patronising attitude when recounting tales of the Dudleys’ black neighbours, Mickie in particular, in his letters.
However – and this is a very big HOWEVER – Porter’s subsequent depiction of the peaceful co-habitation of the black natives and white settlers, and the habits of friendly give-and-take that develop, is striking—and all the more so because, I gather, here she rejects the views of Dawson (who, like the majority of those in charge of settlement, considered the natives as just one more obstacle to be cleared off the land).
Mr Dudley even encourages the natives to live on his property, a touch unprecedented (and possibly even unique) in this sort of literature: Alfred finds the natives – with their “their inoffensive manners and kind-hearted dispositions” – an extremely pleasant change of company from the convicts. While Mickie’s attachment to Alfred has more of the “good and faithful servant” about it than we might like, the boys share adventures in which Mickie is able to show off-his bush-lore; and when various disasters afflict the settlers, it is usually the young native who saves the day with his quick thinking and local knowledge. Furthermore, Alfred later explicitly interdicts the use of the word “savage” by another young settler; and when this boy makes Mickie the butt of a practical joke, Mickie promptly pranks him back—and there is no suggestion that he is out of line in doing so. Towards the end of the novel there is mention of a new school, in which the white and black children were, without any distinction, admitted.
Along the way we get scenes like this:
Mickie was now quite in his element, and was on the alert to do the honours of his native woods to me. Our first care was directed to the horses, which we tethered to a tree, and abundantly supplied with long grass. He next, using his knife with great dexterity, stripped some large pieces of bark from the trees, cut some forked sticks, and made a very comfortable bark covering, resembling the hood of a chaise, under which I could creep and lie as snug as under a curtained canopy; while daylight allowed us, we collected together a heap of dried leaves and branches, and soon made a glowing fire.
Mickie supplied my little hut with plenty of long grass and soft bark from the tea-tree, and every arrangement seemed to be made, necessary for passing the night most comfortably. My companion, who knew every inch of the ground, now went in search of a narrow streamlet, which he recollected ran near this spot; he succeeded in bringing a small supply of water for the horses… He next produced a bag, which was suspended to his belt, and which had been filled with biscuit and bread by his friends at Newcastle; he poured the contents into my lap, and with an air as if he considered me his guest in the bush, apologised that he had nothing better to offer me…
Of course—there’s both idealism and naivety in all this from Porter; but the generosity of her vision, another face of the “human connection” that she emphasises so much in this book, is admirable.
Now— This may or may not be the best time to mention that Kate Grenville’s prize-winning historical novel, The Secret River, is curiously enough set at the same time and in exactly the same geographical area as Alfred Dudley, and includes a number of similar details including the river pedlars—though alas, its depiction of race relations is rather more realistic.
And Porter, too, allows a more realistic touch to intrude, when Alfred comes across Mickie being literally treed by an angry, gun-wielding white man:
“‘What is the matter?’ I exclaimed to the man; ‘why do you seek to hurt the boy?’ ‘He is a little black rascal,’ he gruffly replied, ‘and if he do not come down I will shoot him.’ ‘Don’t let him tchoot me, massa—don’t let him tchoot me,’ vociferated Mickie, still continuing his oscillations. ‘What has he done,’ said I, again addressing the man, ‘that you should seek a fellow-creature’s life?’ ‘Fellow-creature!’ he scoffingly answered; ‘that little twisting black thing my fellow-creature! If such vermin not only refuse to be useful but are mischievous likewise, they must be put out of the way.’ I know not whether it were indignation or prudence which restrained my tongue, and prevented me from telling him, how much superior in the scale of being was the kind-hearted Mickie to the brutal wretch before me…”
When the white man is reinforced by two others, Alfred decides that discretion is the better part of valour, and he and Mickie escape the scene om horseback (the others fire at them as they go). Alfred is not quite satisfied with himself for what he can’t help feeling is just running away, however—
“As to my father, he has nothing of the old Spartan in him, and would rather rejoice over my flight than weep over my grave…”
Another interesting touch then emerges. We’ve seen hints before of a changing societal attitude towards the treatment of animals, in books like Milistina and Family Pictures; here Sarah Porter takes it a step further, having Alfred reject animal killing as a measure of manliness, particularly killing for pleasure:
“Our dear mother, from my earliest childhood, so constantly and so forcibly impressed on my mind and heart the inhumanity of being cruel in sport, and of finding pleasure in the exercise of any pursuit which would cause pain to even the meanest creature that has life, that both my taste and my principles revolt from scenes of blood. I could never understand what amusement a man of any refinement could feel in witnessing the writhing agonies of his feathered victims, or in following the chase in the unequal contest of one poor terrified creature against a concourse of biped and quadruped assailants…”
This is another way in which Alfred Dudley separates itself from the vast majority of colonial fiction, which almost always included a hunting scene in which the (inevitably male) protagonist would prove himself by killing an elephant, a tiger or a bear, according to which colony we happened to be dealing with.
(Australia of course was always rather awkward in that respect, not having any large predators: no-one looks tough bagging a Tasmanian devil.)
Mind you, you could accuse Porter of having her cake and eating it, as in spite of a number of critical comments from Alfred, she does include a hunting scene that ends with him killing something—but only for the best of reasons (and note Porter’s choice of language). Mickie’s move to manhood requires that he hunt and kill a kangaroo on his own, and Alfred tags along purely as a spectator:
At length a herd of kangaroos did actually appear in sight, and we were off in various directions in pursuit, seeking to surround some of our prey and prevent their escape. Mickie and I kept together, and we had a long chase after one. Mickie begged me not to use my gun, as he wished to prove that he was a man to-day, and ‘to catch kangaroo all by himself.’ He was fired with ambition, and had set his heart on signalising himself in this important expedition. I promised to be an idle though admiring beholder of his prowess; and after much creeping, dodging, and watching, the poor terrified creature, hemmed in at all sides, took to the water. Mickie, first darting at it his spear, plunged in after it…
This is almost the last thing that Mickie ever does, and Alfred finally intervenes to save his friend’s life:
Now the fearful contest commenced: it seemed a trial of strength and dexterity. The creature caught hold of his assailant, hugged him close, and held him down with his head under water… Mickie’s strength appeared gradually lessening; and at length the kangaroo kept his head under water for so long a time, that I could no longer remain an inactive spectator: I levelled my gun, and shot it through the body. It was evidently mortally wounded; but yet little Mickie did not take advantage of this rescue, and floated, still fast locked in the embrace of his dying foe. I was alarmed, and instantly plunging into the water, with some difficulty disengaged him from the convulsive grasp of the kangaroo…
Mickie is more angry than grateful for the rescue, but is mollified when Alfred subsequently lets him use his gun (which I would have thought against the rules, but anyhoo).
Things continue to progress well for the Dudleys (unrealistically well: applying English farming methods to Australian conditions was exactly why many settlers crashed and burned, but once again, anyhoo), until Mr Dudley begins to make plans to bring his wife and daughters out. Initially he intends to travel back to Europe to escort them, though he frets over leaving Alfred alone for so many months; but he is forestalled when the female Dudleys seize an opportunity and set out on their own behalf, and the family is unexpectedly reunited.
A few months later the little society is expanded again by the arrival of Frederick and Emilia Egerton, the orphaned niece and nephew of Mrs Pelham. Frederick is a rackety young man, whose thoughtlessness causes trouble for his new companions on several occasions; but he learns a few stern lessons about responsibility, and has besides Alfred as a model:
“That Alfred, about whom my uncle and aunt used to fill their letters, whom you know I had predetermined to dislike, and moreover to quiz unmercifully, is indeed ‘a pattern fellow’ but not that pedantic prig which we understand by that term. Dislike him! Had I made a thousand vows to that effect, they would all have dissolved in thin air when I first saw his bright smile, and when, as he cordially shook my hand, he welcomed me home, and hoped we should be brothers. Quiz him! Not I, nor all the choicest fellows of our school could do that; he has a greater talent for quizzing than any one I ever knew. In this he has ‘a giant’s strength,’ though he rarely ‘uses it as a giant.’ He is the very prince of fun; but he seems to have an innate feeling where fun ends and mischief begins—there he makes a dead halt.”
Over the final stretch of Alfred Dudley, Sarah Porter turns her attention back to her social and economic theories. The Dudleys and the Pelhams thrive in their new environment, and the former almost forget their English connections—Sir Alfred having fallen silent since his heir made his choice to throw in his lot with his parents, after sending one last sneering letter to assure Alfred that though he might inherit the title, he will never get the property. But years later, a letter from a lawyer announces that, on his death-bed, Sir Alfred could not bring himself to separate title and fortune, and Alfred inherits the lot.
This event throws a pall over the happy little Australian community, as these events seem to demand Alfred’s return to England. Mr and Mrs Dudley are caught in a bind, dismayed at parting with their beloved son, but still nursing those early ambitions for him, as “the eloquent orator, the incorruptible legislator, the enlightened statesman” of his country.
I am reminded here of the amusing passage in Anna Karenina in which the hero of the novel that Anna is reading is described as, “Almost reaching his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate.” This was thought at the time to be a wink at Anthony Trollope, but it serves as a summation of rather too much 19th century English fiction.
And of course—“a baronetcy and an estate” are exactly what Alfred is offered here. He has ideas of his own on the subject, however—one of which is that England isn’t his country any more.
We may or may not consider Sarah Porter’s ideas on education for the working classes or on race relations “radical”, but she does something in the final section of her novel that, writing in 1830, definitely raises eyebrows: she chooses wealth over birth; not in a grasping way – on the contrary – rather, she argues that birth only helps you; but if you have wealth, you are in a position to help others.
What’s interesting in all this is Porter’s gloomy contemporary view of England—and she was not wrong: at the time it was a country beset by social ills and, although it never succumbed to revolution as many other nations did around this time, it was closer to it than history tends to acknowledge; and indeed, the passing of the First Reform Bill is itself an acknowledgement of just how scared those in power were of what might happen.
How bad things were getting is suggested in the sense here of Porter washing her hands: she sees no immediate solution for the masses, only an escape for the few via emigration. Alfred’s final decision is to turn his back on his inheritance—rent out his property, put trustworthy agents in charge, and stay in Australia to work with his parents and the Pelhams on building a model community filled with the right sort of people:
…his benevolent mind delighted in planning vast schemes for removing a portion of human misery. Living already in comparative affluence and comfort, his wealth could but little increase the enjoyments of his family and himself, except by being expended in the blessed office of doing good to others. It is always a source of the most gloomy reflection to every feeling heart, that so many fellow-beings should appear to be inevitably consigned to irremediable poverty and wretchedness, and Alfred rejoiced in the idea that he should now perhaps be enabled to rescue a small portion of these from their cheerless and apparently hopeless lot; to effect this, he was desirous of obtaining as large a grant of land as he could, in the neighbourhood of his father’s location, with which he hoped to be the instrument for doing extensive good in proportion to the means employed…
(Note the emergence of that critical signifier of the novel of sensibility, benevolence; though later, note also Porter’s own qualifier, judicious. There speaks the economist.)
The plan agreed upon involves seeking out those of the middle classes and the landed gentry who, like Mr Dudley, have come a cropper through no fault of their own; but also those of the working- and farming-classes who have proven themselves to be “honest and industrious”. The Dudleys’ goal here is not only to give those who deserve it a second chance, but to raise the general moral tone of Australia.
For which I’m sure we thank them.
Alfred does have to travel to England to settle his inheritance. While there, he also sets this picking-and-choosing process in motion, inviting those who meet the criteria to emigrate, and arranging for local agents to take over the work. He then returns to Australia—and his parents have an epiphany:
As Mr Dudley contemplated this scene with gratified delight; as he reflected on the judicious benevolence which had converted so large a mass of misery and privation into so vast a sum of human happiness now collected around him, (happiness which but for Alfred would never have been called into existence, and the extension of which appeared to have no other boundary than the immense sea-girt tract of land which they inhabited,) he said, “Yes, my son, you have indeed more than fulfilled my most ambitious, fondest wishes; if you have renounced worldly honours, you possess far more valued distinctions. If you have not the admiration of the world, you have the love of a grateful multitude; while your dominion is more exalted than the most extravagant dreams of parental ambition could have desired—your sway is higher and purer than that of terrestrial sovereigns, for you reign in the hearts of the many whom you have rendered happy. Blessed reflection! Yes, you are indeed fulfilling the end of your being, and my cherished child is the benefactor of his species.”
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