“And you have not seen him from that period till now?” I asked.
“No, not once,” she said.
“And how very extraordinary it is that they should at last have met, and quite accidentally, too,” observed Mrs Grove.
“It is indeed most remarkable,” said I; “and one cannot help believing that important results to them both will be the consequence of it.”
“I sometimes suspect that it will only end in our complete and final separation,” said Miss Vaughan.
“It will be your own fault if it should do so, I am persuaded,” I replied.
“As far as I am concerned,” she answered, “events must take their course, there must be no endeavour on my part to renew a tie which was broken by himself.”
Some {*cough*} time ago, Random Reading plucked from my lists an obscure novel from 1858, The Gilberts And Their Guests. Though billing itself as “A Story Of Homely English Life”, this novel is striking for its undertones of rebellion, touching upon such topics as—well, allow me to quote myself:
…the humiliation of dependence; a woman’s right to support herself through her own labour; the iniquity of the double standard; a plea for the revision of the divorce laws; and a smattering of religious scepticism.
The author of this unexpected piece of writing was Julia Day, and it was, as it turned out, her second and final novel: you have to wonder whether critical disapproval might not have dissuaded her from continuing in this new form of expression. Day was primarily a poet, whose verses may be found online for those interested. Of information about the lady herself, I can offer nothing more.
Day’s first novel, The Old Engagement: A Spinster’s Story, was published in 1851—and frankly I found it something of a disappointment. It is an altogether more conventional work, despite its tacit support for a woman’s right to singledom; and it lacks the sharp note of protest that marks its successor. There isn’t much plot to speak of here: the novel is set in a country area, with a background of visits, teas, dinners and dances involving more or less the same people. In between times the characters, in particular the three mature women at its heart, exchange views on marriage, the relations between the sexes and women’s lives in general, among other topics.
Yet despite this novel’s subtitle, and for all this airing of opinions, we never really seem to get inside the heads of, in particular, Miss Brooke and Miss Vaughan, the novel’s two spinsters, to see what motivated their choices. A sense of distance is maintained that progressively becomes frustrating.
This is not to say that The Old Engagement is not an enjoyable read: it still has Day’s rather acerbic wit to recommend it; but it is in all respects a lesser work than The Gilberts And Their Guests.
On the other hand, this should add up to a single short(-ish) post—which is good news for all of us.
The Old Engagement is narrated by Miss Brooke, a settled spinster in her forties (or perhaps a bit more). She does not begin by introducing herself, but rather her friend, Miss Anne Vaughan: a decade or so younger than she and also a spinster, though in her case less from choice than from circumstance:
She was not handsome, she was not young, she was not rich, she was not accomplished; she was simply Miss Vaughan, whom you could not look at without being sure that it was by her own choice she was Miss Vaughan, whom you could not converse with without feeling interested to know how it chanced that she continued to be Miss Vaughan, whom you could not think of without hoping that she would not always remain Miss Vaughan. There was an indescribable charm in her companionship that spontaneously gave rise to these thoughts; and yet, perhaps, her solitude was made cheerful by the very spirit that gave grace and animation to her manner in society, and which I am inclined to believe sprang from a contented mind, and if so there was no lack of wisdom in her perseverance in a life of singleness…
And having introduced her, Miss Brooke then makes the following revelation with a casualness both shocking and funny:
Admirers she had had in abundance, and twice she had been on the point of marriage; on one of these occasions the projected event had been broken off by the almost sudden death of the gentleman to whom she was engaged, on the other by her accidental discovery that the individual with whose fate she was about to unite her own, had been only a few months before the inmate of a lunatic asylum…
Miss Vaughan also has two current suitors, though neither is a particularly viable prospect: one is “a contemporary of her late father”, the other, conversely, a student “whose years certainly numbered not half her own”. Neither puts in an appearance.
Miss Brooke goes to stay with her friends, Dr and Mrs Grove, and discovers to her pleasure that Miss Vaughan will be there at the same time.
The Groves are the novel’s positive face of marriage. Mrs Grove is a devoted and happy wife and mother, who enjoys and takes pride in her housekeeping, and whose own happiness makes her inclined to push when it comes to her single friends.
Just the same, when she learns that Dr Grove has not merely invited an old friend, a Colonel Lawrence Estcourt, to dinner, but to stay with them for a week or two, her reaction is dismay:
“Oh!” almost shrieked Mrs Grove, “what can be done! Edward, how could you be so injudicious?… I am thinking of Miss Vaughan.”
“Well, my love, I can discern nothing alarming in that; you have a very pleasant subject for your thoughts; I think of Miss Vaughan a good deal myself too, sometimes.”
“You could not have thought of her when you invited Colonel Estcourt.”
“And why not? ” asked Doctor Grove, looking fairly puzzled.
“Have you forgotten that there was an engagement between them, which was broken off?”
Miss Vaughan gets around.
Dr Grove admits he has no idea whether his old friend is now married or single; and he reacts with scepticism to his wife’s flustered insistence that Miss Vaughan has never gotten over this early affair—going so far as to cite all the evidence to the contrary. We then hear briefly about “poor Lacy”, who was “so long and so deeply attached to her” (presumably he’s the one who died); but for Anne’s “acceptance of Mr Conway, after a short acquaintance” (in between periods of confinement!), Mrs Grove has no explanation.
There is then a brief dispute on the subject of the broken engagement, each of the Groves taking the side of their own friend: Mrs Grove accuses Estcourt of “drawing in” Anne, then breaking with her when his family objected; Dr Grove counters that they were both too young, and the gentleman younger than the lady; and that whatever was done, he is sure it was for good reason and in an honourable way:
“Depend on it, the marriage, if it had taken place, would not have proved a happy one. Miss Vaughan has escaped a host of troubles; she is a fortunate woman, Maria.”
“Fortunate! Edward, in having that sweet nature of hers, that would have warmed and expanded so freely in domestic life, left to chill and run waste in solitude. Fortunate! in seeing me and so many of her early friends surrounded with living objects of love and interest, while her early affections, thrown back, as it were, upon herself, can have caused only heart-bitterness and regret. Do you call this fortunate?”
“My dear little wife, rely on it Miss Vaughan herself does not view her position in the light in which you have placed it; there is a cheerfulness about her that is genuine; I will answer for it that she is not a discontented woman.”
“Discontented!” repeated Mrs Grove; “no, she is too wise and too good for that.”
“Then, if she be not discontented, she cannot be unhappy; and if she is not unhappy, I repeat that she is fortunate.”
“Ah! you men never can be made to understand a woman’s feelings—you do not do justice to Anne’s…”
There is some discussion about whether the two unsuspecting parties ought to be warned about their upcoming reunion, and it is finally agreed that this would only make them self-conscious and the meeting even more awkward (a decision I profoundly disagree with, but anyhoo). There is also some debate about whether the reunion was “fated”. Mrs Grove brightens at this thought, though the question of Colonel Estcourt’s marital status continues to intrude. Mrs Grove also regrets that another of their dinner guests will be Mrs Pemberton—a widow, but young, beautiful, and the worst flirt in the neighbourhood: a practice in which she uses her lookalike young daughter as a sort of fashion accessory, dressing her up like a mini-me and posing as a devoted mother.
The meeting between Miss Vaughan and Colonel Estcourt takes place, not without emotion, but without anything to capture the attention of unknowing parties. However, Mrs Pemberton proceeds to fulfill Mrs Grove’s worst fears. The widow’s sights are currently set upon Mr Johnstone, the rector of the parish, whose somewhat advanced years are offset by his devotion to her and his large personal fortune; but no sooner has the widow laid eyes on Colonel Estcourt – younger, more distinguished-looking, and richer – than she changes course like an Exocet missile. Mrs Grove’s exasperation with her is tempered only by the fact that her impertinent questioning does establish that the colonel is indeed still single.
Also exasperating to Mrs Grove is Miss Vaughan’s own determination to avoid the tête-à-têtes that she tries to arrange between her and Colonel Estcourt. Thwarted in one direction, the would-be match-maker tries another:
“Ah, Anne,” said Mrs Grove, as we adjourned to our dressing-rooms, “we must not be one minute too late to-day; but there will be quite time for you to put on that sweetly pretty brocaded dress, which I admire so much. I will send Priscilla to you directly: I dare say Miss Brooke will excuse her attendance for a few minutes.”
“Pray do not send her to me at all,” I replied, “I am my own tire-woman on all occasions.”
“And, my dear Anne,” cried Mrs Grove, stopping for a moment longer at the door of Miss Vaughan’s room, “that little cap with the wreath of winter berries, it is so excessively becoming; do wear it to-day, to oblige me.”
“My dear friend,” replied Miss Vaughan, laughing, “I will wear anything you please.”
“Can I oblige you,” said I to Mrs Grove, “by adorning myself in any particular manner? I have a turban which was in fashion some fifty years ago, in which I flatter myself I should look quite captivating…”
In spite of his hostess’s efforts, Colonel Estcourt shows no reluctance to accept Mrs Pemberton’s invitations, nor any disinclination for her company; something resembling a rivalry even seems to develop between himself and Mr Johnstone. Dr Grove sees the three of them out walking together one afternoon, when he is dashing by in his carriage on his way to see a patient:
“I hope you ladies have been enjoying this fine day,” said our host, in an interval of carving a noble turkey that was before him; ” I hope you have been enjoying it, no less than a certain fair friend of ours, whom I met, over the hills and far away, under a very imposing escort, having the benefit of clergy and a guard of honour besides.”
Neither of the gentlemen at whom this remark was levelled could refrain from smiling.
“How was it. Doctor,” inquired Mr Johnstone, “that you did not pull up for a chat when you met us, instead of driving on in double quick time? Mrs Pemberton’s sensibilities were so much excited by the apprehension that your extraordinary speed was an indication of one of your patients being in the extremity of danger, that the Colonel and I had enough to do to pacify the dear creature, and to subdue a strong fit of hysterics.”
“Then the Colonel and you must have been infinitely obliged to me, I am sure,” replied Doctor Grove, “since it gave you the opportunity of affording consolation to beauty in distress. But how did you manage the hysterics? As the pond was frozen over, I fear there was no water at hand to throw over the lovely patient in order to abate their violence.”
“That was fortunate for the fine feathers, at all events,” said I.
“And especially fortunate, as fine feathers make fine birds,” added Mrs Grove.
“My little wife is growing quite severe, I declare,” exclaimed Doctor Grove; “I appeal to Miss Brooke. Did you ever before hear her utter anything so nearly approaching to satire?”
“I never did; but I suspect she has never yet had so fair a subject for it,” I replied.
(Those of us with an interest in the evolution of the English novel might care to note here the derogatory usage of those great 18th signifiers, sensibilities and hysterics.)
Mrs Grove is, however, a less subtle observer than Miss Brooke: as she frets over Colonel Estcourt’s apparent willingness to fall into the unsubtle traps of Mrs Pemberton, she does not notice what Miss Brooke sees clearly enough, how intently the colonel watches Miss Vaughan when she isn’t looking at him, how closely he pays attention when she speaks. Though even she has her doubts, expressed during an evening party at the widow’s:
This little scene was almost too much for the patience of Mrs Grove. “I wish,” said she to me, almost in a whisper, “that my advice had been acted upon, and that we had remained at home this evening; Anne’s quiet elegance is quite lost here. Colonel Estcourt, you see, has neither eyes nor ears for any one but the little widow, who I was sure from the first moment of their meeting, had determined to make a conquest of him.”
“And if she should succeed,” I replied in the same low tone, “he will be a prize not much worth contending for; but in my opinion she is shooting above the mark.”
“You think, then,” said Mrs Grove, her countenance brightening as she spoke, “that he will not be tempted to give up the thought of Anne.”
“I think,” answered I, “that any sentiment which Colonel Estcourt may entertain for Miss Vaughan must be of a character so totally different to the feeling which may be awakened by the sort of attractions possessed by the lady who is at the present moment engaging his attention, that the interest of your friend can in no way be affected by the admiration which he appears to bestow on her supposed rival; and yet,” I added, again glancing at the party whom we had criticised, “one must not be too secure: it is an every-day occurrence to see the silliest of women turning the heads of the most sensible men, and leading them to commit acts of egregious folly…”
The further we read into The Old Engagement, the harder it is to believe that Julia Day wasn’t deliberately invoking Persuasion. (Note, for one thing, her heroine’s first name.) Certainly the exasperation expressed by Mrs Grove and Miss Brooke as they watch Colonel Estcourt with Mrs Pemberton echoes that of Lady Russell in the earlier work: …her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed by a Louisa Musgrove.
Though of course what we have here is a gender-flipping of Persuasion’s central premise, with the man ending the engagement for what he believes to be the good of the woman, in doing so inflicting a wound that doesn’t heal—and only later being given the chance to realise the consequences of his actions.
It is presumably as Miss Vaughan’s determination not to let her wound dictate her life that we are to read her surprisingly numerous contemplations of other marital ventures; from which, however, she always manages to extricate herself, or is extricated by her author (albeit at the cost of death and lunacy). Perhaps Mr Conway was her version of Louisa Musgrove. More likely, however, is that Miss Vaughan was – at least to an extent – buying into the 19th century contention that only through marriage could a woman live a “worthwhile” life, if not be happy as such; and goodness knows that alternatives were thin on the ground until late in that century. We should not, however, underestimate the significance of Miss Vaughan’s creator (was Julia Day married? – was she not?) offering opposition to this dogma in the form of the contented, self-determining Miss Brooke.
But marriage and related topics continue to occupy the thoughts of the three ladies. One day, while the men are pursuing outdoor activities, they stay in to sew and read…a new novel that had fortunately just come to hand, would furnish us with ample occupation and entertainment till we should all re-assemble at dinner. The work in question happens to deal with, the difficulties attending a long engagement of marriage—
(—and you better bet I stopped to try and work out if a real mid-1850s novel was being referenced; though nothing sprang to mind—)
—which prompts some serious and rather sad conversation:
“I can imagine few states so perplexing,” said Miss Vaughan, “few so precarious. Love—I mean that love which is combined both of sentiment and passion—must of necessity decline in intensity as years ripen the judgement and moderate the feelings. Attractions, on the woman’s side, at least, are certain to fail; and the result of all this is, as a matter of course, to produce, in one party, at all events, a disinclination to ratify, in mature life, an engagement formed in early youth. It is sometimes done, we know; but I doubt if it ever be with a full feeling of satisfaction.”
“I am very much of your opinion,” I replied, “although within my own circumscribed range of observation I have met with more than one happy exception. As to marriages in general that are entered upon somewhat late in life, and that have not been preceded by engagements of unusual length, I am disposed to view them favourably. They are for the most part judiciously formed; and where there exists no striking disparity of station—no startling dissimilarity of habits and tastes—I am inclined to believe that as fair a share of happiness may be looked for in unions of this description as in the love matches of the young.”
“I cannot agree with you there,” said Miss Vaughan. ” No, my dear Miss Brooke, it is the young only, I feel persuaded, who can find true happiness in marriage. Solace, protection, companionship, it may afford in after-life; but felicity in union can, I imagine, only be found in the sweet spring-time of youth.”
“You mean, I imagine, that the romance of affection can only exist at that early period?”
“Yes, something of that,” replied Miss Vaughan, “all that gives to love the inexpressible grace and charm with which it invests the object of its choice; this dies with our youth, certainly. In after-life, a rational attachment may spring up—a calm affection, founded on the high or endearing qualities which we perceive in another—but this has little affinity with the love that springs straight from the heart, and holds no consultation with the head; this last, I suspect, can exist only in youth—in early youth.”
“Ah! my dear Miss Vaughan,” I exclaimed, “pardon me if I warn you against the encouragement of too tender a recollection of that transitory season, lest it lead you to value too lightly the sober happiness that in mature life may be both given and received.”
Miss Vaughan’s championing of “the love that springs straight from the heart” is thus set against Miss Brooke’s “sober happiness”; and we likewise recall Dr Grove’s contention that at the time of their engagement, Miss Vaughan and the future Colonel Estcourt were both “too young”. However, though by now we have learned to heed our narrator’s pearls of wisdom, there is no question that Miss Vaughan is speaking directly to her own experience of young love, young passion—which was taken away from her by the object of that passion.
And this, ultimately, is why I find The Old Engagement a disappointment: we never really get to the bottom of why the engagement was broken off. We are given only Dr Grove’s comment about the age of the couple, and this early exchange between the Groves:
“I don’t see that, Maria,” replied her husband; “you seem to view this affair in a false and exaggerated light. The engagement was broken off, if I remember rightly, by mutual consent.”
“To be sure it was. Anne had too proud a heart to enter a family who were unwilling to receive her.”
“Well, then, I don’t see that any blame could attach to Estcourt himself.”
“Indeed! How was he justified in winning her affections, in drawing her into a positive engagement, and then coolly writing to say that his family objected to a connection with hers, and leaving it to herself to determine whether, under such circumstances, their engagement ought to continue?”
“My dear, the right or the wrong of this depended entirely, in my opinion, on the manner in which it was done; and I have no doubt that Estcourt expressed himself with as much consideration for Miss Vaughan’s feelings as, under the circumstances, was possible. There is no question that it was a most imprudent engagement…”
—and that is all we get: from the parties themselves we get nothing, beyond Anne’s assertion (quoted in the header) that the engagement was “broken by himself”.
As the novel progresses, Mrs Grove gets the tête-à-têtes she wanted; but what this means in practice is that she and Miss Brooke – and the reader – are not privy to the conversations of Anne Vaughan and Lawrence Estcourt as they work through their past and come to a new understanding; they, and we, see only the reactions of each until they are ready to make an announcement:
…we returned to the other room, where Miss Vaughan was still standing at the window. She did not immediately turn her face towards us, and when she did so there were traces of emotion visible on it. Colonel Estcourt now left us, to give orders for the carriage to be in readiness, and during the few minutes of his absence, Mrs Grove and I had recourse to the telescope and the distant prospect in order to give Miss Vaughan the opportunity of recovering her equanimity unnoticed by us. She was looking quite calm and happy when I next glanced at her countenance, as Colonel Estcourt was assisting her into the carriage and sedulously folding a cloak round her…
In context, I can’t help comparing this to Jane Austen’s fine forensic analysis of Anne Elliot’s motives in breaking her engagement, being persuaded that it was for Frederick Wentworth’s own good; of her immediate, and ongoing, regret; and of her realisation that she has wrecked her own life, if not his. Nor, as I say, do we get to listen in as the couple re-negotiates their relationship. And least of all do we get anything remotely resembling Anne Elliot’s indelible declaration of hopeless love.
And no, of course I’m not suggesting that Julia Day should be able to rival Jane Austen; but she could do better than this, and thankfully we saw that in The Gilberts And Their Guests.
Anyway—
There are two points further I want to consider in The Old Engagement—
—well, three, if you count this from the sulky Mrs Pemberton: even a broken clock is right twice a day:
“…it is a serious thing to be engaged, is it not, Mrs Pemberton?”
“Indeed it is,” she answered, with a slight toss of the head, “and for my part, I think all people who are engaged to be married ought to wear an engaged ring, that everybody should know it.”
“What! gentlemen as well as ladies?” said the Doctor.
“Yes, gentlemen particularly,” she answered, “that the ladies may not be deceived by them.”
Meanwhile, there’s a subplot in this novel, and it is only a subplot, though it too leads to discussion of good and bad marriages, that involves another neighbouring family, the Willises. Emma Willis is young and pretty, but not very bright, and rather weak; it becomes evident early to the reader, if not her parents, that she is carrying on a secret romance with a young man who himself hasn’t the best of reputations: though he regarded as unsteady rather than “bad”. All this culminates in an elopement; and though there is reason at first to fear the worst, when the couple are found they have been married out of a relative’s house.
In a way this makes things worse: obviously the elopement was anything but spontaneous, but rather the result of a lot of planning and secret arrangements over quite a period of time; and it is the deceit of it that horrifies everyone.
Julia Day, via her characters, agrees with this line of argument; but then things take a more unexpected turn: she blames Emma Willis’ weakness of character upon bad parenting.
Parents per se, parenting generally, obedience to parents in particular, are subjects so sacrosanct in so much of 18th and 19th century English fiction that it is genuinely startling when you find someone willing to take that particular bull by the horns.
Longstanding visitors might recall my examination of Marion’s Path Through Shadow To Sunshine by someone called “Miss Meeke” (because if there’s one thing I need at this blog, it’s another author called “Meeke”). This short, didactic work intended for young readers ties itself into knots on this point, expressing utter horror at the very thought of childish disobedience, while at the same time cursing its titular anti-protagonist with an awful mother who clearly should not be obeyed. And it never even attempts to deal with this contradiction: Marion stays with her aunt for a while and from her learns to be a better person, but is then packed off again without any advice offered on how to reconcile her ghastly mother’s terrible parenting with demands for unquestioning filial obedience.
The Old Engagement, however, concludes that while Emma Willis is certainly at fault, her parents are too: they have made her this way. Emma, we learn, is inflicted by, on one side, an overly-indulgent father, but one who pays insufficient attention; and on the other, by a cold and nasty mother who seems to enjoy making her daughter’s life miserable (possibly out of jealousy over Mr Willis’ fondness for her): and in negotiating between the two, Emma has learned to tell fibs and be secretive and go her own way—something that Julia Day, although by no means uncritical, treats as only to be expected:
“It is a very sad business, I fear,” said Colonel Estcourt.
“These runaway matches usually prove most disastrous, and are soon bitterly repented of,” I remarked.
“In this case,” said Miss Vaughan, “I think the young man must be exceedingly culpable; for Miss Willis appeared simple as a child.”
“He practised a good deal of artifice to-night, in his apparent devotion to Mrs Pemberton, and thereby most completely succeeded in lulling to rest the suspicions which Mrs Willis had begun to entertain of his being an admirer of her daughter, and thus rendering her less vigilant than she otherwise might have been,” said I.
“Mr Willis so doted on his daughter, that I pity him exceedingly: Mrs Willis, whatever her affection might have been, had not a happy manner of showing it in her behavior to the poor girl,” observed Miss Vaughan.
“She had not,” I acquiesced, “but perhaps the young lady needed a little more severity than we were aware of. I have noticed on more than one occasion some indications of self-will and stubbornness on her part, that were anything but pleasing; and worse than this, she did not scruple to have recourse to subterfuge when she thought it might screen her from her mother’s displeasure; but these faults were likely enough the fruits of the injudicious mode in which she has been brought up…”
(It is inferred, by the way, that in making this runaway match Frank Edwards is calculating on Mr Willis being indulgent enough to capitulate quickly and settle a tidy income on his daughter…and he’s right.)
Julia Day’s cool assessment of all points of this situation, and her willingness to ignore the prevailing social dogma in her various criticisms of the Willises, is far more like what we get from her in The Gilberts And Their Guests.
One final point:
We do eventually get some conversation about Miss Vaughan’s other engagements. Speaking of capitulation, that with Mr Lacy was out of “pure compassion” (in other words, he wore down her resistance); but it is, of course, the other engagement that we want explained:
“With that unfortunate Mr Conway,” cried Mrs Grove; “I confess, my dear Anne, I never could comprehend how that came to pass.”
“Through my own weakness,” she replied: “I was fairly captivated by his brilliancy of conversation; and I looked on his eccentricity as the result of extraordinary talent, never for a moment suspecting that it was the offspring of a diseased mind…”
Dear me.
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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