Australian Tales. Marcus Clarke
with this establishment, Mr. Clarke--Good morning," and with a stiff bend of the erect body the President took his departure with just a glimmer of a smile playing round the firmlyclosed lips. Again, not long before Sir Redmond's death, and when the librarian had got himself into "hot water" among the "unco guid" section of the Trustees, through writing his clever though caustic reply to the Anglican Bishop, Dr. Moorhouse's criticism on Clarke's article, "Civilisation without Delusion," the President appeared one evening in the librarian's office with a clouded countenance, and said, "Good evening, Mr. Clarke." The librarian, with an intuitive feeling that something was wrong returned the salutation, when the President remarked: "Mr. Clarke, you would oblige me greatly if you were to leave some things undone. For instance, that unfortunate article of yours--attacking so estimable a man as the bishop. Very indiscreet, Mr. Clarke. I--think--I--should-require-to-have- some-- thousands a year of a private income before I would--venture--upon writing such an--article on --such a subject, and among so punctillious a community as exists here. Good evening, Mr. Clarke:" and the librarian was left dazed and speechless at the solemnity of the rebuke, and the dignified departure of his President. Recurring back to the literary work being done by our author, we find that it was during the next two years--namely, in 1872–73--that his prolific pen was in its busiest mood, for within the space of those twenty-four months he wrote the psychological dialogues styled "Noah's Ark," in the Australasian; these were interspersed with those exquisitely told stories, subsequently published in book form under the names of Holiday Peak and Four Stories High. The former was dedicated to Oliver Wendell Holmes upon whom he looked as one of the brightest gems in the literary firmament, and from whom he had received much literary encouragement; the latter was dedicated to an appreciative friend, the late kind-hearted though explosive William Saurin Lyster, the man to whom Australian lovers of music owe a deep debt of gratitude as the first introducer of high-class opera and oratorio to these shores. Of these stories, Pretty Dick is perhaps the finest piece of work as regards execution done by Australia's greatest literary artist. And in this opinion I am not alone, as the following letter, from one who stands very high in the world's estimate as a master of true pathos und humour will show:--
DEAR MR. CLARKE,--Boston, 23rd December. 1872.
I received your letter and MS., with the newspaper extract, some two or three days ago, and sat down at once and read the story. It interested me deeply, and I felt as much like crying over the fate of "Pretty Dick" as I did when I was a child and read the Babes in The Wood. I did cry then--I will not say whether I cried over "Pretty Dick" or not. But I will say it is a very touching story, very well told. I am, Dear Mr. Clarke,
Most sincerely yours, O. W.
Apart from these tales, there appeared among the "Noah's Ark" papers some excellent original verse, at times approximating to poetry and several metrical translations from Greek, Latin, German and French poets. He also composed in this year,--1872--his most effectively written drama, Plot, which was produced at the Princess' Theatre with success. Following on Plot, he wrote, or rather adapted, the pantomime of Twinkle Little Star, which was played at the Theatre Royal during the Christmas season making quite "a hit." It was about this time that the relations between Marcus Clarke and the journals with which he had from the commencement of his journalistic career been connected became strained, as is said in diplomatic jargon, and shortly afterwards, all connection between them ceased for ever. As a good deal of misconception exists about the breach that took place between the subject of this biography and the representatives out here of the proprietors of the Argus and Australasian, it is advisable in the interest of the author to explain the cause of the breach. It was in this year that Mr. Bagot, the "indefatigable" Secretary of the Victoria Racing Club, declined while under some peculiar influence to issue free tickets to the press, as had been the universal custom from time immemorial. The very natural reply of the press to this uncalled-for and blundering affront was simply not to report the races. This was agreed to by the morning journals then published in Melbourne. But in the Evening Herald which was not, through questionable motives, consulted in the matter, there appeared the night the Cup was run, a remarkably clever report of the event--perhaps the cleverest description of the Cup meeting which has been seen in the pages of any Melbourne journal. Naturally the sparkling report caused no small consternation in the ranks of journalism in the city; more especially among the authoritics of the Argus, who did not fail to recognise it to be the ingenious brainwork of their own contributor--Marcus Clarke. When questioned on the subject the erratic journalist denied having been at the races, but admitted writing the sketch, claiming his right to do so on the ground that, as the Argus did not choose to employ him because of a disagreement with Mr. Bagot he had every moral right to earn an honest penny from the proprietors of another journal who afforded him the opportunity of so doing. This, however, did not satisfy the ruling power of the Argus (Mr. Gowen Evans), who was probably chagrined to read in another journal the work of one whom he looked upon as that paper's property. The result of this attempt at autocratic interference and dictation was the loss to the journals in question of the writer whose work above that of all others had adorned their columns, and increased their popularity. Having parted from the journals which he had so greatly aided by his rare abilities, Clarke became attached as a contributor to the Daily Telegraph and subsequently to the Age and Leader. The next, most important and unfortunate, event which overtook him about this period was his insolvency. Though long expected, and known to be inevitable, the victim of untoward circumstances put off the evil day by every means in his power, thereby sinking deeper and deeper in the mire, till at last his doom had to be met, and his name appeared in the bankruptcy list. What those who had helped to lead him into this position felt when the disagreeable fact became known can only be conjectured, but, at any rate, their foolish dupe felt the position more acutely than any acquaintance of his could possibly imagine, judging by the light-hearted manner in which he discussed the subject with one and all. Only these who knew Marcus Clarke intimately--and they were few--realised how keenly he suffered from the thought that one, like himself, with a name and a fame, who had had every chance of being independent, should become what he, poor, generous, thoughtless fellow, had become. Still, it was unavoidable, and his fate was sealed. Would that the first mistake had acted as a warning, but it was not to be, for no sooner was one difficulty overcome than another commenced, ending only when life was no more--that life which was driven to its death by the merciless snares of the crafty usurer, against whom, at the last, he fought as desperately as man does against the remorseless python, who knows his prey is safe in the fatal embrace. Yet despite all these monetary troubles, the inherently strong sense of humour in him would trifle with the seriousness of the position, for it was about this time that he penned the following remarks as the real excuse for his chronically impecunious condition:--
I have made a scientific discovery. I have found out the reason why I have so long been afflicted with a pecuniary flux. For many years past I have tried to tind out why I am always in debt, and have consulted all sorts of financial physicians, but grew no better, but rather the worse. The temporary relief afforded by a mild loan or an overdraft at the bank soon vanished. I once thought that by the judicious application of a series of bills at three months I could cheek the ravages of disease; but, alas! my complaint was aggravated, while I had not courage for the certain and painful remedy of the actual cautery, as recommended by Dr. Insolvent Commissioner Noel. My friends said I had "Got into bad hands," that I had been deceived by advertising quacks, whose only object was to depress the financial system and keep me an invalid as long as possible. I applied for admission into the Great Polynesian Loan Company's Hospital, and pawned myself there, in fact, at the ridiculously low rate of 350per cent. I was insured in the Shylock Alliance Company (which afterwards, to my great disgust, amalgamated with the Polynesian) and there I sold the reversionary interest in my immortal soul, I believe, to a bland gentleman who calculated the amount of blood in my body and flesh on my bones by the aid of a printed money-table. Yet my financial health did not seem to improve. I grew anxious, and began to reason. I resolved to write a book. I wrote one, and called it A Theory for the Causation, and Suggestions for the Prevention of Impecuniosity; together with Hypotheses on the Causation, and Views as to the Prevention of Composition-with-creditors, Bankruptcy, Fraudulent Insolvency, and other Pecuniary Diseases. In the course of examination of Bills of Sale, Acceptances, Liens on Wool, and other matters, I discovered by accident the cause of my disease. It was the simplest thing in the world. The idiots of doctors had been treating me for extravagance whereas the fact was that