A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Australian Tales (1896)
Author:     Marcus Clarke
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Language:   English
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Title:      Australian Tales (1896)
Author:     Marcus Clarke







TO THE AUSTRALIAN PUBLIC
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR'S WIDOW.




Contents

    I. "Mark Twain" On Marcus Clarke
   II. Preface by Hamilton Mackinnon
  III. Biography - by Hamilton Mackinnon
   IV. Australian Scenery
    V. Learning "Colonial Experience"
   VI. Pretty Dick
  VII. Poor Joe
 VIII. Gentleman George's Bride
           Chapter I
           Chapter II
           Chapter III
   IX. Bullocktown (Glenorchy)
    X. Grumbler's Gully
   XI. Romance of Bullocktown
  XII. How the Circus Came to Bullocktown
 XIII. The Romance of Lively Creek
           Chapter I - "Green Bushes"
           Chapter II - The Mystery
           Chapter III - The Sumpitan
  XIV. King Billy's Troubles: or Governmental Red-Tapeism
   XV. Holiday Peak
  XVI. "Horace" in the Bush
 XVII. Squatters Past and Present
XVIII. The Future Australian Race
           Our Ancestors
           Ourselves
           Our Children




I. "Mark Twain" on Marcus Clarke

Mark Twain Lecture, Melbourne, Oct., 1895

I not only regret, but feel surprised that the 'Selected Works' of
Australia's only literary genius--a genius such as you will not see again
for many a long year--should be out of print. Through the courtesy of his
widow I obtained a copy of the work after failing to buy one anywhere.
And such a work, such reading, such power. It was just the sort of
reading to banish from one's thoughts such pain as I have been suffering.
The subjects so interesting, and their treatment so brilliant and
fascinating. No works of such a man should be left unpublished. It is the
duty of Australians to assist the widow of so great a writer in
publishing his works. I may tell you that we think a deal more of Marcus
Clarke in our country than I am sorry to think you do here. (Applause).




II. Preface

Hamilton Mackinnon

In placing this, the first volume of a cheap series of the miscellaneous
works of the late MARCUS CLARKE before the Public of Australia, I venture
to think that I am not only fulfilling my duty as his Literary Executor,
but am removing a reproach which attaches to that Public in the eyes of
such literary lights as Lord Rosebery, Sir Charles Dilke, "Mark Twain,"
the late Oliver Wendell Holmes and others who have spoken and written in
no stinted phrases as to Marcus Clarke's position in the intellectual
world, and expressed surprise at his works not being more popularly known
among those on whom his genius has shed world-wide renown. To enable
these works to come within the buying power of all classes, this series
is being brought out at a price which no one should cavil about. It is
therefore to be hoped that the people of these "new lands 'cross the
seas" will give an emphatic denial to the old world saying--"a prophet
hath no honour in his own country." In conclusion, grateful thanks are
due to those who have rendered the publication of this book possible by
assisting the author's widow in the very practical manner of advertising
in it; and of these let it be said:

"Cast thy bread upon the waters, for
Thou shalt find it after many days."

Hamilton Mackinnon




III. Biography

Hamilton Mackinnon

Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke was born at Kensington--the Old Court suburb
of London--on the 24th April, 1846. His father, William Hislop Clarke, a
barrister-at-law, was recognised as a man of ability, both professionally
and as a littérateur, albeit eccentric to a degree. Of his mother little
is known beyond that she was a beautiful woman, of whom her husband was
so devotedly fond that when her death occurred some months after the
birth of the subject of this biography, he isolated himself from the
world, living afterwards the life of a recluse, holding of the world an
opinion of cynical contempt. Besides his father, there were among other
brothers of his two whose names belong to the history of the Australian
colonies; the one is that of James Langton Clarke, once a County Court
Judge in Victoria, and the other, Andrew Clarke, Governor of Western
Australia, who died and was buried at Perth in 1849. The latter was the
father of General Sir Andrew Clarke, K.C.M.G., formerly Minister of
Public Works in India, and Governor of the Straits Settlements. To the
colonists of Victoria he will be better known as Captain Clarke, the
first Surveyor-General of the colony, the author of the Existing
Municipal Act, and one of the few lucky drawers of a questionable pension
from this colony. The late Marcus Clarke claimed a distinguished
genealogy for his family, which, though hailing as regards his immediate
ancestors from the Green Isle, were English, having only betaken
themselves to Ireland in the Cromwellian period. And among his papers
were found the following notes referring to this matter:--

In 1612 William Clarke was made a burgess of Mountjoie, Co. Tyrone, and
in 1658 Thurloe wrote to Henry Cromwell, desiring him to give Colonel
Clarke land in Ireland for pay.

With an inherited delicate constitution, and without the love-watching
care of a mother, or the attention of sisters, he passed his childhood.
And that the absence of this supervision and guidance was felt by him in
after years, we have but to read this pathetic passage from a sketch of
his:--

To most men the golden time comes when the cares of a mother or the
attention of sister aid to shield the young and eager soul from tile
blighting influences of wordly debaucheries. Truly fortunate is he among
us who can look back on a youth spent in the innocent enjoyments of the
country, or who possesses a mind moulded in its adolescence by the gentle
fingers of well-mannered and pious women.

When considered old enough to leave home the boy was sent to the private
school of Dr. Dyne in Highgate, another suburb of London, hallowed by
having been at one time associated with such illustrious names in
literature as Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Keats, and De Quincey. There he
obtained whatever scholastic lore he possessed, and was, according to the
opinion of a schoolfellow, known as a humorously ecentric boy, with a
most tenacious memory and an insatiable desire to read everything he
could lay hands on. Owing to his physical inability to indulge in the
usual boyish sports, he was in the habit of wandering about in search of
knowledge wherever it was to be gleaned, and not infrequently this
restless curiosity, which remained with him to the last, led him into
quarters which it had been better for his yet unformed mind he had never
entered. Here especially was felt the absence of a mother's guidance,
which was unfortunately replaced by the carelessness of an indulgent
father. Of his schooldays little is known, save what can be gathered from
a note-book kept by him at that period; and even in this the information
is but fragmentary. According to this book he seems to have had only two
friends with whom he was upon terms of great intimacy. They were
brothers, Cyril and Gerald Hopkins, who appear, judging from jottings and
sketches of theirs in his scrap album, to have been talented beyond the
average schoolboy. Among the jottings to be found in this school record
is one bearing the initials G.H., and referring to one "Marcus Scrivener"
as a "Kaleidoscopic, Parti-colored, Harlequinesque Thaumatropic" being.
Another item which may not be uninteresting to read, as indicating the
turn for humorous satire, which, even at so early a period of his life
the author had begun to develop, is an epitaph written on himself, and
runs thus:--

Hic jacet
MARCUS CLERICUS,
Qui non malus, 'Coonius
Consideretus fuit
Sed amor bibendi
Combinalus cum pecuniae deficione
Mentem ejus oppugnabat--
Mortuus est
Et nihil ad vitam;--restorare
Posset.

To his schoolmaster, the Reverend Doctor Dyne, the following dedication
to a novel (Chateris) commenced by his former pupil shortly after his
arrival in Australia was written. From this it is apparent that the
master had not failed to recognise the talents of his gifted pupil, nor
yet be blind to his weaknesses. It reads--

To T.B. DYNE., D.D.,

Head Master of Chomley School, Highgate.
This Work
is respectfully dedicated in memory of the advice so tenderly
given, the good wishes so often expressed, and the
success so confidently predicted for the author.

But whatever good influences might have been at work during his residence
at Dr. Dyne's school, they were, unfortunately for their subject, more
than counter-balanced by others of a very dissimilar character met with
by him at his father's house. It seems scarcely credible that so young a
boy was allowed to grow up without any restraining influence, except
those of a foolishly-indulgent father, as we are led to believe was the
case from the following extract, which the writer knows was intended by
the subject of the biography as a reference to his boyish days when away
from school. Doubtless the picture is somewhat over-coloured, but
substantially it is true:--

My first intimation into the business of "living" took place under these
auspices. The only son of a rich widower, who lived, under sorrow, but
for the gratification of a literary and political ambition, I was thrown
when still a boy into the society of men twice my age, and was tolerated
as a clever impertinent in all those witty and wicked circles in which
virtuous women are conspicuous by their absence. I was suffered at
sixteen to ape the vices of sixty. You can guess the result of such a
training. The admirer of men whose successes in love and play were the
theme of common talk for six months; the worshipper of artists, whose
genius was to revolutionise Europe, only they died of late hours and
tobacco; the pet of women whose daring beauty made their names famous for
three years. I discovered at twenty years of age that the pleasurable
path I had trodden so gaily led to a hospital or a debtors' prison, that
love meant money, friendship an endorsement on a bill, and that the rigid
exercise of a profound and calculating selfishness alone rendered
tolerable a life at once deceitful and barren. In this view of the world
I was supported by those middle-aged Mephistopheles (survivors of the
storms which had wrecked so many Argosies), those cynical, well-bred
worshippers of self, who realise in the nineteenth century that notion of
the Devil which was invented by early Christians. With these good
gentlemen I lived, emulating their cynicism, rivalling their sarcasm, and
neutralisng the superiority which their existence gave them by the
exercise of that potentiality for present enjoyment, which is the
privilege of youth.

Again, in another sketch he wrote, referring to this period of his life:--

Let me take an instant to explain how it came about that a pupil of the
Rev. Gammons, up in town for his holidays, should have owned such an
acquaintance. My holidays, passed in my father's widowed house, were
enlivened by the coming and going of my cousin Tom from Woolwich, of
cousin Dick from Sandhurst, of cousin Harry from Aldershot. With Tom,
Dick, and Harry came a host of friends--for as long as he was not
disturbed, the head of the house rather liked to see his rooms occupied
by the relatives of people with whom he was intimate, and a succession of
young men of the Cingbars, Ringwood, and Algernon Deuceacre sort made my
home a temporary roosting-place. I cannot explain how such a curious
Ménage came to be instituted, for, indeed, I do not know myself, but such
was the fact, and "little Master," instead of being trained in the way he
should morally go, became the impertinent companion of some very wild
bloods indeed. "I took Horace to the opera last night, sir," or "I am
going to show Horatius Cocles the wonders of Cremorne this evening,"
would be all that Tom, or Dick, or Harry, would deign to observe, and my
father would but lift his eyebrows in indifferent deprecation. So, a
wild-eyed and eager schoolboy, I strayed into Bohemia, and acquired in
that strange land an assurance and experience ill suited to my age and
temperament. Remembering the wicked, good-hearted inhabitants of that
curious country, I have often wondered since "what they thought of it,"
and have interpreted, perhaps not unjustly, many of the homely tenderness
which seemed to me then so strangely out of place and time.

In the midst of this peculiar and doubtful state of existence for a youth
his father died suddenly, leaving his affairs in an unsatisfactory state.
This unexpected change brought matters to a climax, and at seventeen
years of age Marcus Clarke found that instead of inheriting, as expected,
a considerable sum of money, he was successor to only a few hundred
pounds, the net result of the realisation of his late father's estate.
With this it was arranged by his guardian relatives that he should seek a
fresh field for his future career, and accordingly in 1864 he was shipped
off to Melbourne by Green's well-known old liner, "The Wellesley,"
consigned to his uncle, Judge Clarke, above mentioned. Referring to this
episode of his life, he has written in the following sarcastic and
injured strain:--

My father died suddenly in London, and to the astonishment of the world
left me nothing. His expenditure had been large, but as he left no debts,
his income must have been proportionate to his expenditure. The source of
this income, however, it was impossible to discover. An examination of
his bankers' book showed only that large sums (always in notes or gold)
had been lodged and drawn out, but no record of speculations or
investments could be found among his papers. My relatives stared, shook
their heads, and insulted me with their pity. The sale of furniture,
books, plate, and horses, brought enough to pay the necessary funeral
expenses and leave me heir to some £800. My friends of the smoking-room
and of the supper-table philosophised on Monday, cashed my IOU's on
Tuesday, were satirical on Wednesday, and cut me on Thursday. My
relatives said "Something must be done," and invited me to stop at their
houses until that vague substantiality should be realised, and offers of
employment were generously made; but to all proposals I replied with
sudden disdain, and, desirous only of avoiding those who had known me in
my prosperity, I avowed my resolution of going to Australia.

After one of those lengthy voyages for which the good old ship "The
Wellesley" was renowned, the youth of bright fancies and disappointed
fortune set foot in Melbourne; and, after the manner of most "new chums"
with some cash at command and no direct restraining power at hand, he set
himself readily to work, fathoming the social and other depths of his new
home. The natural consequence of this was that one who had prematurely
seen so much "life" in London, soon made his way into quarters not highly
calculated to improve his morals or check his extravagantly-formed
habits. In other words, he began his Bohemian career in Australia with a
zest not altogether surprising in one who had been negligently allowed to
drift into London Bohemianism. And naturally, a youth with such
exceptional powers of quaint humour, playful satire, and bonhomie became
a universal favourite wherever he went, much, unfortunately, to his own
future detriment. But, in due course, a change came of necessity o'er
this Bohemian dream, when the ready cash was no longer procurable without
work. It was then, through the influence of his uncle the Judge, that the
impecunious youth was relegated to a high stool in the Bank of
Australasia. As might have been expected of one who spent most of his
time in drawing caricatures and writing satirical verses and sketches he
was a lusus naturæ to the authorities of the bank, and this is not to be
wondered at when one learns that his mode of adding up long columns of
figures was by guesswork, to wit, he would run his eye over the pence
column, making a guess at the aggregate amount, and so on with the
shillings and pounds columns. After a patient trial of some months it was
considered, in the interests of all concerned, that he should seek his
livelihood at a more congenial avocation, and thereupon he left the bank.
But here must be mentioned the manner in which the severance took place,
as being characteristic of him. Clarke applied for a short leave of
absence. The letter containing this request not having been immediately
answered he sought the presence of the manager for an explanation, when
the following scene took place:--Clarke: "I have come to ask, sir, whether
you received my application for a few weeks' leave of absence." The
Manager: "I have." Clarke: "Will you grant it to me, sir?" The Manager:
"Certainly, and a longer leave, if you desire it." Clarke: "I feel very
much obliged. How long may I extend it to, sir?" The Manager:
"Indefinitely, if you do not object!" Clarke: "Oh! I perceive, sir; you
consider it best for us to part; and perhaps it is best so, sir?" And Mr.
Clarke ceased to be a banker. Here it will not be inopportune to quote
from an article on "Business Men," written by him subsequently, referring
to this banking experience:--

It has always been my misfortune through life not to be a Business Man.
When I went into a bank--The Polynesian, Antarctic and Torrid Zone--I
suffered. I was correspondence clerk, and got through my work with
immense rapidity. The other clerks used to stare when they saw me
strolling homewards punctually at four. I felt quite proud of my
accomplishments. But in less than no time, a change took place. Letters
came down from up-country branches. "I have received cheques to the
amount of £1 15s. 6d., of two of which no mention is made in your letter
of advice." "Sir! how is it that my note of hand for £97 4s. 1 3/4d., to
meet which I forwarded Messrs. Blowhard and Co.'s acceptance, has been
dishonoured by your branch at Warrnambool?" "Private--Dear Cashup: Is your
correspondent a hopeless idiot? I can't make head or tail of his letter
of advice. As far as I can make out, he seems to have sent out the
remittances to the wrong places.--Yours, T. TOTTLE." I am afraid that it
was all true. The manager sent for me, said that he loved me as his own
brother, and that I wore the neatest waistcoats he had ever seen, but
that my genius was evidently fettered in a bank. Here was a quarter's
salary in advance, he had, no fault, quite the reverse; but, but, well--in
short--I was not a Business Man.

In addition to this the following remark, bearing on the same subject,
written in one of the "Noah's Ark" papers in the Australasian, may also
here be quoted:--

A Man of Business, said Marston, oracularly, is one who becomes possessed
of other people's money without bringing himself under the power of the
law.

Finding commercial pursuits were not his forte, the youthful ex-banker
bethought him of turning his attention to the free and out-door existence
of a bushman. Accordingly he, shortly after leaving the bank in 1865,
obtained, through his uncle, Judge Clarke, a "billet" on Swinton Station,
near Glenorchy, belonging to Mr. John Holt, and in which the Judge had a
pecuniary interest. Here he remained for some two years mastering the
mysteries of bushmanship in the manner described in the sketch in this
volume, styled "Learning Colonial Experience." It was during his sojourn
in this wild and mountainous region that our author imbibed that love for
the weird, lonely Australian Bush, which he so graphically and
pathetically describes in so many of his tales--notably in "Pretty Dick,"
a perfect bush idyll to those who know the full meaning of the words
Australian Bush. Although sent up to learn the ways and means of working
a station, it is to be feared that the results of the lessons were not
over fruitful. Indeed, beyond roving about the unfrequented portions of
the run in meditation wrapped, pipe in mouth and book in pocket, in case
of thoughts becoming wearisome, the sucking squatter did little else till
night set in, and then the change of programme simply meant his retiring
after the evening meal to his own room and spending the time well into
midnight writing or reading. From one who was a companion of his on the
station at the time, viz. the popular sports-man--genial, generous--Donald
Wallace, I have learned that though Clarke wrote almost every night he
kept the product of his labour to himself. But we now know that the work
of his pen appeared in several sketches in the Australian Magazine then
published by Mr. W. H. Williams. These were written under the nom de
plume of Marcus Scrivener. It was while residing in this district that he
took stock of the characters which he subsequently utilised in all his
tales relating to bush life. For instance, "Bullocktown," is well known
to be Glenorchy, the post-town of the Swinton Station, and all the
characters in it are recognisable as life portraits presented with that
peculiar glamor which his genius cast over all his literary work. And to
one of the characters in it--Rapersole--the then local postmaster, Mr. J.
Wallace, I am under an obligation for supplying me with some incidents in
our author's bush career. According to Mr. Wallace young Clarke was a
great favourite with everybody and was the life and soul of local
entertainments such as concerts, balls, &c., in which he took part with
great zest. He was also at that time a regular attendant at church, and a
frequent visitor to the local State-school, in which he evinced a lively
interest, giving prizes to the boys. He was, moreover, an omnivorous
reader, getting all the best English magazines and endless French novels
from Melbourne regularly. But whatever progress he may have been making
in his literary pursuits, it was found by Mr. Holt that as a "hand" on
the station he was not of countless price. Indeed, it was discovered
after he had been there some months, that not only did the gifted youth
pay little heed to his unintellectual work, but that he had to a great
extent imbued the station with such a love for reading--more particularly
the novels of Honoré Balzac--that the routine duty of their daily
existence became so irksome that they sought consolation by taking
shelter from the noonday sun under some umbrageous gum-tree, listening to
their instructor as he translated some of the delicate passages from the
works of the Prince of French novelists. Accordingly it was mutually
agreed by the employer and employé that the best course to pursue under
the circumstances was to part company. But, fortunately for the literary
bushman, it was just at this time when he had tried two modes of making a
living and had hopelessly failed in both, that a person appeared on the
scene who was destined to direct his brilliant talents to their proper
groove. There came as a visitor to Mr. Holt, in the beginning of 1867,
Dr. Robert Lewins. As Dr. Lewins had no small share in shaping the after
career of Marcus Clarke, it behoves me to briefly refer here to him and
his theories. Dr. Lewins, who had been staffsurgeon- major to General
Chute during the New Zealand war, had shortly before this arrived in
Melbourne with the British troops, en route to England; and, being a
friend of Mr. Holt's, went on a visit to him to Ledcourt, on which
station Clarke was then employed. Learning while there of the peculiar
youth whom Mr. Holt had as assistant, Dr. Lewins, who was like most
thinking men of his class, always on the look-out for discoveries,
whether human or otherwise, sought an introduction to the boy, whom
practical Mr. Holt considered, a "ne'er do weel." And no sooner was the
introduction brought about than the learned medico discovered that,
buried within view of the Victorian Grampians, lay hidden an intellectual
gem of great worth. Rapidly a mutual feeling of admiration and regard
sprang up between the young literary enthusiast of twenty and the learned
medico of sixty--an attachment which lasted through life. The savant
admired the rare talents of his protegé with the love of a father; while
the fanciful boy looked up to the learned man who had discerned his
abilities, and placed him on the road to that goal for which he was
destined. But the influence of the elder on the younger man did not cease
here, as without doubt the former converted the latter to his views
regarding existence. What these views were the Doctor explained in more
than one pamphlet addressed to eminent men in England and Europe. As
regards his pet theory, which he affirmed he had proved beyond doubt by
experiments, extending over forty years, in all parts of the world, it
may be, for the curious, briefly explained in his own words, as follows:--

"I. That there is no distinct vital principle apart from ordinary
inorganic matter or force,

"II. That oxygen is capable of assuming an imponderable form, and that it
is identical with the Cosmic 'primum mobile', the basis of light, heat,
chemical affinity, attraction, and electric force."

"III. That the theory of materialism is, in fact, the only tenable
theory."

The result of this tuition as regards Clarke was a remarkably able
article on "Positivism," which he wrote some months afterwards, and
which, I believe, saw light in one of the Liberal English reviews. But I
am forestalling the order of the biography. Having satisfied himself upon
the merits of the newlyfound intellect, the doctor, on his return to
Melbourne, told the proprietor of the Argus, with whom he was acquainted,
of his discovery, advising him to secure the unknown genius for his
journal, and so, in the course of a few weeks after meeting Dr. Lewins,
Marcus Clarke appeared in Melbourne, and in February, 1867, became a
member of the literary staff of the Argus. After an initiation into the
mysteries of a newspaper office the young journalist was allotted the
task of theatrical reporter, which routine drudgery he performed
satisfactorily till one night he took upon himself to criticise an
entertainment, which, unfortunately, through the indisposition of the
chief performer, did not come off. This carelessness on the part of the
imaginative critic led to his withdrawal from the Argus reporting staff,
but his relations with that paper and the Australasian were, however,
continued as a contributor. It was during this period that Marcus Clarke
contributed to the Australasian the two masterly reviews on Doré and
Balzac, published in these pages, besides writing weekly for the same
journal those sparkling and humorous papers, "The Peripatetic
Philosopher," which brought his name prominently before the public and
placed him at once in the front rank of Australian journalists--and here
it may be mentioned that the letter "Q.," under which he wrote the weekly
contributions, was the stock brand of the station on which he had
attempted to learn "colonial experience." Apart, however, from his
contributions to the Australasian, he supplied special articles to the
Argus, and acted as the theatrical critic of that paper for some time,
during which he wrote some admirable critiques on the late Walter
Montgomery's performances--critiques which gained for him the admiration
and regard of that talented actor, though unhappily they fell out
afterwards for some foolish reason or another. But the active brain of
the sparkling littérateur was not satisfied with journalistic work
merely. With the pecuniary assistance of a friend and admirer, the late
Mr. Drummond, police-magistrate--whose death shortly afterwards by poison
received from one of the snakes kept by the snake-exhibitor Shires, whom
he held to be an impostor as regarded his antidote, caused so much
excitement--he purchased from Mr. Williams the Australian Magazine, the
journal in which had appeared his earliest literary attempts. The name of
this he altered to the Colonial Monthly; and with praiseworthy enthusiasm
set about encouraging Australian literary talent by gathering around him
as contributors all the best local literary ability available. But,
despite his laudable efforts to create an Australian literature, racy of
the soil, he was doomed to disappointment and loss. The primary cause of
this unfortunate result may be ascribed to the sneers which any attempt
made by an Australian received at the hands of a few selfsufficient,
narrow--minded individuals, who, sad to say, had the ear of the then
reading public, because they unfortunately happened to be in a position
to dictate on literary matters. It was in the Colonial Monthly that
Clarke's first novel, Long Odds, appeared in serial form. Of this,
however, he only wrote a few of the first chapters, as shortly after its
commencement he met with a serious accident through his horse throwing
him and fracturing his skull--an accident from the effects of which he
never totally recovered. Some months prior to this mishap--about May,
1868--Clarke, in conjunction with some dozen literary friends, started a
modest club for men known in the fields of Literature, Art, and Science
--THE YORICK. This has developed in the course of the past fifteen years
into one in which the three elements predominating originally are lost in
the multifarious folds of "Professionalism." The Yorick Club was the
outcome of the literary and Bohemian--analogous terms in those
days--spirits who used then to assemble nightly at the Café of the Theatre
Royal to discuss coffee and intellectual subjects. These gatherings grew
so large in the course of time that it was found necessary, in order to
keep the communion up, to secure accommodation where the flow of genius,
if nothing else, might have full play without interruption and intrusion
from those deemed outside the particular and shining pale. Accordingly a
room was rented and furnished in Bohemian fashion, with some cane chairs,
a deal table, a cocoa-nut matting and spittoons. In this the first
meeting was held in order to baptise the club. The meeting in question
debated, with the assistance of sundry pewters and pipes--not empty,
gentle reader--the subject warmly from the first proposition made by
Clarke, that the club should be called "Golgotha," or the place of
skulls, to the last, "alas, poor Yorick!" This brief name was accepted as
appropriate, and the somewhat excited company adjourned to a Saturday
night's supper at a jovial Eating-House, too well known to fame. The
first office-bearers of the club were:--Secretary, Marcus Clarke;
Treasurer, B. F. Kane; Librarian, J. E. Neild; Committee, J. Blackburn,
G. C. Levey, A. Semple, A. Telo, J. Towers. The first published list of
members gives a total of sixty-four, but Time has made many changes in
that list, and Death has been busy too. Of the sixty-four original
members there have passed away the following well-known intellectuals:--B.
C. Aspinall, Marcus Clarke, Lindsay Gordon, Henry Kendall, T. Drummond,
J. C. Patterson, Jardine Smith, A. Telo, Father Bleardale, etc. It was at
the "Yorick" that Marcus Clarke first met one of whose abilities he
entertained a very high opinion, and towards whose eccentric and mournful
genius he was drawn by a feeling of sympathetic affection, namely, Adam
Lindsay Gordon, poet, and the once king of gentleman Jocks. Nothing could
have shown more assuredly the deep feeling and regard felt by Marcus
Clarke for Lindsay Gordon than pathetic preface he wrote for the
posthumous edition of the poet's works (an extract from which preface is
given in this volume under the title of "The Australian Bush") when the
poet himself put an end to his life, to the horror of the community,
which did not learn till after the heartbroken poet's death that it was
only the want of the wherewith to live upon which drove one of the
brightest geniuses Australia has seen into a suicide's grave. To those
who knew Gordon and Clarke intimately, the keen sympathy of genius
existing between them was easily understood, for there was, despite many
outward differences of manner, a wonderful similarity in their natures.
Both were morbidly sensitive; both broodingly pathetic; both
sarcastically humorous; both socially reckless; both literary Bohemians
of the purest water--sons of genius and children of impulse. That the deep
feeling for the dead poet and friend lasted till death with Marcus Clarke
was evidenced by his frequently repeating when in dejected spirits those
pathetically regretful lines of the "Sick Stockrider"--

I have had my share of pastime and I've done my share of toil.
And life is short--the longest life a span;
I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil,
Or for the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.
For goods undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain
'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know--
I should live the same life over if I had to live again;
And the chances are I go where most men go.

And to see him seated at the piano humming these lines to his own
accompaniment, while the tears kept rolling down his cheeks, was proof
enough that the tender chords of a beloved memory were being struck, and
that the living son of genius mourned for his dead brother as only genius
can mourn. Turning to a more lively memento of Lindsay Gordon,
characteristic of him when the spirit of fun possessed him, the following
note, written to Clarke and kept by him sacredly, will interest his many
admirers:--

Yorick Club.

Dear Clarke,--Scott's Hotel, not later than 9.30 sharp. Moore will be
there. Riddock and Lyon, Baker and the Powers, beside us; so if 'the Old
One' were to cast a net--eh?--

        Yours,

                A. LINDSAY GORDON.

It was shortly after Gordon's untimely and sad death that Clarke became
acquainted with another erratic though differently constituted son of
genius--Henry Kendall, the foremost of Australian-born poets. Kendall met
with warm sympathy from the friend of Gordon, and, moreover, with a
helping hand in the hard life-struggle--which the poet feelingly referred
to in the following memorial verses written on the death of his friend
and benefactor:--

The night wind sobs on cliffs austere,
    Where gleams by fits the wintry star;
And in the wild dumb woods I hear
    A moaning harbour bar.

The branch and leaf are very still;
    But now the great grave dark has grown,
The torrent in the harsh sea-hill
    Sends forth a deeper tone.

Here sitting by a dying flame
    I cannot choose but think in grief
Of Harpur, whose unhappy name
    Is as an autumn leaf.

And domed by purer breadths of blue,
    Afar from folds of forest dark,
I see the eyes that once I knew--
    The eyes of Marcus Clarke.

Their clear, bright beauty shines apace
    But sunny dreams in shadow end.
The sods have hid the faded face
    Of my heroic friend.

He sleeps where winds of evening pass--
    Where water songs are soft and low,
Upon his grave the tender grass
    Has not had time to grow.

Few knew the cross he had to bear
    And moan beneath from day to day,
His were the bitter hours that wear
    The human heart away--

The laurels in the pit were won;
    He had to take the lot austere
That ever seemed to wait upon
    The mail of letters here,

He toiled for love, unwatched, unseen,
    And fought, his troubles band by band;
Till, like a friend of gentle mien,
    Death took him by the hand.

He rests in peace. No grasping thief
    Of hope and health can steal away
The beauty of the flower and leaf
    Upon his tomb to-day.

So let him sleep, whose life was hard!
    And may they place beyond the wave
The tender rose of my regard
    Upon his tranquil grave.

The idiosyncrasies of the two men were in many respects widely
dissimilar--Clarke's belonging to the polished school of the Old World
while Kendall's were akin to those of his own native land, in the New
World, but the acquaintanceship ripened into mutual admiration and
friendship; and together they worked on Humbug, the brilliant weekly
comic journal, started about this time by Clarson, Massina & Co., under
the editorship of Clarke. Probably one factor which exercised an
influence over Clarke in the interests of Kendall was the poem, written
to Lindsay Gordon's memory by Kendall, of which the following few lines
may here be given:--

The bard, the scholar, and the man who lived
That frank, that open-hearted life which keeps
The splendid fire of English chivalry
From dying out; the one who never wronged
Fellowman; the faithful friend who judged
The many, anxious to be loved of him,
By what he saw, and not by what he heard,
As lesser spirits do; the brave, great soul
That never told a lie, or turned aside
To fly from danger; he, I say, was one
Of that bright company this sin-staned world
Can ill afford to loose.

During this period, 1868-69, Clarke was a regular contributor to the
Argus and Australasian, writing leaders for the former journal, and,
besides the "Peripatetic Philosopher" papers for the latter, a series of
remarkably able sketches on "Lower Bohemia." These articles, as their
name implies, were descriptive of the life then existing in the lowest
social grades of Melbourne, composed to a great extent of broken-down men
of a once higher position in life, drawn hither by the gold discovery.
They made a great impression upon the public, being full of brilliantly
realistic writing, reminding one greatly of Balzac's ruthless style of
exposing without squeamishness the social cancers to be found among the
vagrant section of a community. Apart from his connection with the two
journals named, the prolific and sparkling journalist contributed at this
time to Punch some of the best trifles in verse and prose that ever
adorned its pages. This connection, however, he severed about the middle
of 1869, on undertaking the editorship of Humbug, a remarkably clever
publication. In Humbug appeared, perhaps, the best fugitive work Marcus
Clarke ever threw off. Besides his own racy pen, those of such well-known
writers as Dr. Neild, Mr. Charles Bright, Mr. A. L. Windsor and Henry
Kendall were busy on the pages of the new spirited, satirical organ,
which was ably illustrated by Mr. Cousins. Notwithstanding, however, all
this aray of talent the venture was not financially a success, as at that
time, the taste for journalistic literature was very much more limited
than now, and a writer, however gifted, had then a poor chance of earning
a livelihood by the efforts of his pen. While thus rapidly rising in the
rank of Australia's littérateurs, Clarke was unfortunately induced, by
the foolish advice of friends, who felt flattered by his company, to live
at a rate far exceeding his income, naturally becoming involved in debt.
From this there was no recourse but to borrow, and so the presence of the
usurer was sought. Thus commenced that course of life which, after a few
years of ceaseless worry, brought, long ere his time, the brilliant man
of genius, with the brightest of prospects before him, to the grave
brokenhearted. Surely those who led him into the extravagances, men his
seniors in years and experience, must bear their share of responsibility
for the dark end to so bright a beginning. And yet some of these were his
bitterest enemies afterwards. Undeterred, however, by the pecuniary
difficulties in which he found himself, he, with characteristic
thoughtlessness, plunged into matrimony by espousing Miss Marian Dunn,
the actress-daughter of genial John Dunn, Prince of Comedians. This young
lady was at the time of her engagement to Clarke playing with great
success a series of characters with the late Walter Montgomery, who
entertained so high an opinion of her histrionic abilities, as to urge
her to visit England and America with him. But the little lady preferred
to remain in Australia as the wife of the rising littéateur, and so they
were married on the 22nd of July, 1869, the only, witnesses of the
marriage being the bride's parents and the best man, the late Mr. B. F.
Kane, Secretary of the Education Department. And the strangest--but
characteristic of him--part of the ceremony was that the bridegroom, after
the connubial knot was tied, left his bride in charge of her parents,
while he went in search of lodgings wherein to take his "better half."
Having settled down as a Benedict, so far as it was possible for him to
do so, our author, doubtless inspired by the society he had married into,
set himself to work for the first time as a playwright, the result being
the production of a drama styled Foul Play, a dramatisation of Charles
Reade's and Dion Boucicault's novel of that name. It met with but partial
success. But not discouraged by this comparative failure, the
newly-fledged dramatist wrote, or rather adapted from other sources, for
the Christmas season of 1870 at the Theatre Royal, a clever burlesque on
the old nursery story of Goody Two Shoes, which met with considerable
success both from the Press and the public. But even in this, his almost
initial piece, he betrayed that weakness, theatrically speaking, which,
more or less, mared all his dramatic efforts, namely, writing above the
intelligence of the average audience. Soon after this overwork had told
its tale upon the restless brain, and the doctors ordered change of air
to the more salubrious climate of Tasmania. But as funds were, as usual
with him, decidedly low, how was the change to be effected? Eureka! He
would ask the Publishers of the now defunct Humbug to bring out a tale of
his in their Australian Journal. The tale should be full of thrilling
incidents relating to the old convict days in Tasmania. Brimming over
with the idea he sought the presence of the publishers in
question--Clarson, Massini & Co.--and made his suggestions. The offer was
at once accepted, and the needy writer received the necessary aid to take
him over to Van Diemen's Land, in order to improve his health and enable
him to pore over prison records. Thus was the now deservedly celebrated
novel, His Natural Life, initiated. But as to how it was completed is
another matter. Let the unfortunate publisher testify his experience. And
in such manner was produced His Natural Life. But the reader must
remember that the work, as now published by Messrs. Bentley in London, is
very different, as regards the construction and ending, to that which
appeared in serial form in the Australian Journal. As without doubt this
is the best and most sustained effort of Marcus Clarke's genius, and the
one upon which will chiefly rest his fame in literature, it is only right
to publish here some extracts from the various reviews written of the
novel in English, American and German papers.

The Daily Telegraph, London:--"And who," some thousands of readers may
ask, "is Mr. Marcus Clarke? Until a recent period we should have
confessed the very haziest knowledge of Mr. Marcus Clarke's existence,
save that in the columns of Melbourne newspapers his name has appeared.
Mr. Marcus Clarke has hardly entered into the ken of perhaps more than a
hundred persons in England; but, having read the forcible and impressive
novel entitled His Natural Life, we have not only come to an acquaintance
as admiring as it is sudden with the author's name, but esteem it by no
means a venturesome or hazardous act to predict for it a fame as great as
that achieved by any living novelist. Indeed this wonderful narrative,
which, despite the thrilling incident, bears on every page the honest
impress of unexaggerated truth, has the material of a whole circulating
library of tragic romance within itself. The only fault is the
over-abundance which necessitates hurry in its disposal. But if Mr.
Clarke's future has been embarrassed in some measure by its own riches,
the author may well be satisfied with the result, for he has furnished
readers in the old and new countries with matter for grave and earnest
reflection; he has re-opened a discussion that has too soon been
abandoned to torpor, and he has, in short, rendered better service than
the State of Letters is wont to receive at the hands of a mere novel
writer. . . . We have by no means over-praised this novel. The temptation
to run into superlatives is great, and it has been resisted here for the
one reason, if for no other, that, highly meritorious as Mr. Marcus
Clarke's first English publication stems in our eyes, we are yet of
belief, after its perusal, that he is destined to give the world yet
greater and more effective because more concentrated work."

Boston Gazette, America:--"One of the most powerfully written and most
absorbingly interesting novels that has lately attracted our notice is
His Natural Life, by Marcus Clarke. It is a story dealing with convict
life in Australia, and has been written 'for a purpose.' The plot is
constructed with remarkable skill, and in the depicting of character the
author manifests a talent we have rarely seen surpassed in any modern
writer of fiction. A similar high degree of praise may be awarded him for
his description of scenery. The book is intensely dramatic both in
subject and treatment, but it is quite free from 'sensationalism' in the
objectionable sense of the word. The style is healthy, manly and
vigorous, and shows a surprising facility in word painting. Mr. Clarke
professes to have drawn his characters, localities and incidents directly
from nature, and his work bears internal evidence that he has. It is the
most stirring story of its class that has appeared since Victor Hugo's
Les Misèrables, of which it has all the fire and artistic feeling, minus
the affectation. This novel cannot fail to make its mark."

The Stectator, London:--"It is something to write a book so powerful,
especially as all the power is directed to the noblest end."

Saturday Review, London:--"There is undeniable strength in what Mr. Clarke
has written."

Morning Post, London:--"This novel appals while it fascinates, by reason
of the terrible reality which marks the individual characters living and
breathing in it. The tragic power of its situations, the knowledge of the
sombre life which the author shows so vividly in the able handling of its
subject, the pathos which here and there crops up like an oasis in a
sandy desert, lead the reader from the beaten track of fiction."

The Graphic, London:--"It is, of course, possible that Mr. Marcus Clarke
may turn out to be a man of one book, and out of his element in any
atmosphere but that of convict and penal settlements. He shows, however,
too much knowledge of human nature generally to make us think this at all
likely, and if so, he must be hailed as a valuable recruit to the ranks
of novelists of the day."

Vanity Fair, London:--"There is an immensity of power in this most
extraordinary book."

The World, London:--"Few persons will read his remarkable descriptions of
convict life and antipodean scenery without recognising an author of
commanding originality and strength."

The Reform, Hamburg (translated irom the German.):--"This novel treats of
a terrible subject. The life of the prisoners in Van Diemen's land is set
before us in a panorama painted by a master hand. Ladies of a sentimental
turn had better abstain from reading this story, unless they choose to
risk a nervous fever. The romance is full of power. The writer
illuminates the lowest depths of human nature in a manner which holds us
spell-bound, despite ourselves. Marcus Clarke is a master of psychology,
and his descriptions of nature are as effective as his style is pure."

And from no less a giant in literature than Oliver Wendell Holmes, of
Boston, America, the following complimentary letter was received by
Clarke in acknowledgment of a copy of the novel sent to the author of the
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table:--"The pictures of life under the dreadful
conditions to which the convicts were submitted are very painful, no
doubt, but we cannot question the fact that they were only copied from
realities as bad as their darkest shadows. The only experiences at all
resembling these horrors which our people have had were the cruelties to
which our prisoners were subjected in some of the southern pens for human
creatures during the late war. I do not think they were driven to
cannibalism, but the most shocking stories were told of the condition to
which they were reduced by want of food and crowding together. There are
some Robinson Crusoe touches in your story, which add greatly to its
interest, and I should think that the colonists, and thousands at home in
the mother country, would find it full of attraction in spite of its
painful revelations. This work cannot fail to draw attention, and make
your name widely known and appreciated as an author throughout the
world."

Besides contributing this historical romance to the columns of the
Australian Journal Clarke was busy writing in the Australasian those
sketches of the early days of Australia, which were afterwards published
in book form under the title of Old Tales of a Young Country. These
sketches, like his great novel, though highly interesting as historical
records of the colonies, were for the most part worked up from
governmental pamphlets and old journals. But in the casting they were
stamped by the genius of the master-hand, which could appropriate and
improve upon the appropriation as only men of original calibre are able
to do. In the meantime the "Peripatetic Philosopher" ceased to adorn the
pages of the Australasian with his caustic and eccentric dissertations,
because, through the influence of one of the noblest patrons of letters
in Victoria--the late Sir Redmond Barry--the Philosopher had been found a
congenial post as Secretary to the Trustees of the Public Library, of
whom Sir Redmond himself was the respected President. This appointment
was made in June, 1870, and from that time Clarke ceased to be connected
with the staff of any journal, though remaining a brilliant and valued
contributor all his life to newspapers, magazines, reviews, &c., instead
of, unfortunately, concentrating his exceptional powers on the production
of works of a class with His Natural Life. Among other articles
contributed by him about this time were the "Buncle Letters," which
appeared in the Argus and attracted much attention, being running
comments of a satirically humorous character, on the social and political
events of the day, supposed to be written by one brother resident in town
to his less sophisticated brother in the country. In the same journal,
Clarke wrote a descriptive sketch of the mining mania which had seized
upon Sandhurst at the time; and for piquancy the sketch was among his
best in descriptive journalism. At this period, also, he once more tried
his hand at the drama, and adapted for John Dunn, his father-in-law,
Moliére's celebrated comedy, Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, into English,
under the title of Peacock's Feathers, which was produced with great
success at the Theatre Royal. Mention has been made of the interest Sir
Rednond Barry evinced in the rising littérateur whom he took under his
parental wing when obtaining for him the post in the Public Library. And
this interest and regard the respected Judge retained for his protégé,
despite his oft-repeated thoughtless acts, to the end of his life, which
end arrived, strange to say, only some few months before that of the much
younger man, who, on hearing of Sir Redmond's death, expressed himself as
having lost his best and truest friend. But with all the warm regard
existing between the vererable judge and the youthful author, there was
always a certain characteristic hauteur on the one hand, and a
reverential respect on the other, in their official and social
relationships. In proof of this a couple of examples may be related. It
was a hot summer's day, and, as was his style in such weather, the
librarian was dressed dandily in unspotted white flannel, a cabbage-tree
hat shadowing his face. So clothed he was leisurely wending his way up
the steps of the library when he met the President, looling more
starched, if possible, than ever, and wearing the well-known,
flat-rimmed, tapering, belltopper, which shone sleekily in the glare of
the noonday sun. The following brief dialogue then ensued:--President:
"Good morning, Mr. Clarke." Librarian: "Good morning, sir." President: "I
scarcely think your hat is exactly suited to the position you occupy in
connection 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 I was cursed with so powerful and innate a passion for economy
that I never could bring myself to the expenditure of ready money.

But turning to a pleasanter and more interesting subject, the Cave of
Adullam has to be mentioned. The Cave of Adullam! "What is that?" may ask
the uninitiated reader. Well, the particular cave alluded to was a club
house, once situated in Flinders Lane, behind the Argus office, where
stands now some softgoods palatial structure. To this only a very select
body of members was admitted, the selectness in this case necessitating
that a member should be happily impecunious, and, if possible, be hunted
by the myrmidons of the law. From this brief description it will be seen
that the Adullamites were a family sui generis. The entrance to the
modest building was not easy of access, being only reached by a tortuous
lane of ominous appearance, guarded by an animal who boasted the bluest
of blue bulldog blood. The pass-words were--"Honor! No Frills!" The
members were mostly composed of literary Bohemians, whose wordly paths
were not strewn with roses, and between whom and the trader there existed
a mutual disrespect. Chief among the members of this exclusive
brotherhood was the subject of this biography, who, having discarded the
more conventional surroundings of the Yorick Club, became a shining light
within the shades of the Cave of Adullam. And to commemorate the genius
of the members of the Cave was written a Christmas tale, yclept 'Twixt
Shadow and Shine, which contains fanciful portraitures of the leading
Adullamites. But, alas! the destroyer of all things, Time, has one by one
scattered its members, till now the place that knew the members of that
eccentric Bohemian band knows them no more. Sic transit gloria, &c. And
with Hamlet we may say, addressing that once coruscating group--"Where be
your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that
were wont to set the table in a roar? Not one now to mock your own
jeering? Quite chap-fallen!" Notwithstanding, however, all the merry
goings on at the Cave, Clarke was, perhaps, harder at work in those years
than at any other time, although certainly the work was thrown off
without much effort, and with as little care for a future reputation. It
was at this time he first became a contributor to the Age and Leader,
with which his connection lasted up to his death, having gone through the
trying ordeal incident upon the Age cum Berry Reform Agitation of 1877,
'78, '79, into which he threw himself with all the zest of a thorough
hater of Shoddocracy, writing some of the most telling articles which
illumined the pages of these journals at that time. And he fought the
more zealously in the fray, because he wrote under the editorial guidance
of one upon whom he looked as, at once, the best read and the ablest
journalist on the Australian press--Mr. A. L. Windsor. It was during this
period he enjoyed the friendship and confidence of the then Governor of
Victoria, Sir George Bowen, and was offered by Mr. Graham Berry (now Sir)
the Librarianship of the Parliament Library, which he declined, relying
upon securing that of the Public Library, in which, however, he was
doomed to disappointment a year or two later. Clarke, apart from
Melbourne journals, contributed largely to the Queenslander as also to
the Sydney Mail through the introduction of the late Mr. Hugh George, the
gentleman who as general manager of the Argus raised that paper to a high
position, and who subsequently was the valued general manager of the
Messrs. Fairfax's newspapers in Sydney. Of all those connected
prominently uith the Argus when Marcus Clarke was its brightest ornament,
Mr. Hugh George alone remained to the end the generous advocate of his
exceptional abilities, of which he never lost an opportunity to avail
himself in the Sydney journals, over which he exercised a control. And
about the last negotiations Clarke entered into only a few weeks before
his unexpected death, were with that gentlernan, in connection with a
proposal that he should start on a tour through the colonies and South
Sea Islands as the accredited "Special" of the Messrs. Fairfax's
newspapers, and of the London Daily Telegraph, for which brilliantly
written journal he had been acting for some years as "Australian
Correspondent;" and that he was held in high estimation by the
authorities of that remarkable paper the following letter, written by its
proprietor and editor, speaks for itself. Wrote Mr. Lawson Levy:--

"Without having the pleasure of your personal acquaintance, I am sure you
will pardon me if I venture to address you on a subject which may not be
without interest. I have read your books with very great pleasure, and it
has occurred to me that you possess most of the qualifications for
journalism of the highest order. Has the idea ever occurred to you of
adopting this branch of literature, and would it suit your views to come
to England? I am, of course, ignorant of what your position may be, and
ignorant of any feeling that you may have upon the subject. It is quite
possible that ties may bind you to Australia--ties that you cannot break.
If, however, the idea should have entered into your mind, tell me in a
letter what your position is, what income you would require to entice you
to come to London, whether you feel yourself competent for journalistic,
work, whether you have ever done any, and if you have, you would perhaps
think it advisable to send me by the next mail, samples of such work. If,
moreover, for the moment, the notion should seem acceptable to you, sit
down and write me three or four leading articles on any subject that may
seem best to you--articles that will make about a column of our newspaper
matter; and put into them as much of your force and vigor as you can
command. Under any circumstances, whether my ideas waken any sympathy in
your mind or not, I am sure you will permit me to congratulate you on the
success your works have met with here."

Why Marcus Clarke did not avail himself of the chance of going to London
under such auspices it is difficult to imagine, the more particularly
that he was well aware that such talent as his had no possible scope in
this, a new country, whereas in London literary circles it would have
been appreciated at its proper value. Surely, in the face of such
encouragement, a genius, well nigh suffocated by the denseness of the
quasi-intellectual atmosphere surrounding it, should have seized the
opportunity to move from scenes clouded over with trouble, and from a
community which gave but a feeble response to its bright efforts? But,
somehow, it did not, or could not. Returning to the year 1876, an event
happened which deeply affected Marcus Clarke. In August of that year his
father-in-law, genial, witty John Dunn, for whom he had a sincere
affection, fell down dead in the street. The bitterness of this loss was
greatly aggravated by his inability to publish the autobiography of the
deceased actor, which he had together with Dr. Neild revised at the
author's request, with a view to its publication after his death. But the
wish of the deceased was not carried out, owing, it is said, to an
objection taken by a daughter of the actor, who had married into
so-called Society circles, to have the ups and downs of a poor player's
family career submitted to public view. Accordingly, the autobiography of
Australia's clever comedian was not brought out, and the early history of
the Australian stage has been lost to the public. For the next three
years, besides the journalistic work alluded to, Clarke was busy at
dramatic composition, producing, in conjunction with Mr. Keely, Alfred
the Great, a burlesque, which achieved a success at the Bijou Theatre,
during the Christmas season of 1877. This was followed by the adaptation
for the Theatre Royal of Wilkie Collins' sensational novel Moonstone.
This play was not the success anticipated, but it must be said in justice
to the author that it was considerably spoiled by the pruning-knife of
the management, which did its slashing with little judgment. Another
piece, a comedietta, styled, Baby's Luck, was subsequently written for
Mr. J. L. Hall, in which that popular actor appeared to great advantage.
Fernande, a clever adaptation of Sardou's emotional drama of that name,
was also written about this time, but never produced owing to a
disagreement over the matter. Of this adaptation Miss Genevieve Ward
expressed to the writer a high opinion of its merits, which, coming from
so great an artist and one who had read the play in the original, is no
small compliment to the author. It may also be surmised that it was
during this period that the fanciful extravaganza of The King of the
Genii was composed. This piece is written in a Gilbertean manner, and is
not unlike that author's Palace of Truth. Yet Clarke's ability as a
playright was thrown away, as theatrical managers in the colonies had
not, unfortunately, either the capacity to know a good thing, or the
enterprise to encourage local talent. But not only was Clarke's pen busy
at dramas--it was tempted into an entirely new field--that of history. At
the suggestion of the then Minister of Education, the late Mr. Justice
Wilberforce Stephen, he was engaged to write a history of Australia for
the State-schools, which had just come under the new secular, compulsory,
and free Education Act. This work entailed upon the writer more routine
labour than was to his taste, and consequently, instead of devoting
himself to the somewhat tedious task, he, after commencing the book,
handed it over, in his usual good-hearted way to some impecunious
friends, who did not possess any literary qualification for such work,
the consequence being that the book turned out to be a miserable fiasco,
and was never used in the schools for which it was intended. Some notion
of its value may be gleaned from the following critical notice of it in a
leading journal:--"In short, the book before us is calculated to impress
the reader with the idea that it has been compiled by some literary
charlatan rather than by an author of Mr. Marcus Clarke's ability and
reputation." But because little or no attention was given by the supposed
author of the history to the work, it must not be imagined that the
fertile mind was inactive. That clever, though eccentric, brochure, The
Future Australian Race, was written at this period. Of it an English
paper wrote:--"It deals with a subject of considerable ethnological and
social interest in language more forcible than philosophical. Mr. Clarke
considers that vegetarians are Conservatives, and 'Red Radicals,' for the
most part meat-eaters, while 'fish-eaters are invariably moderate Whigs.'
He thinks that 'the Australasians will be content with nothing short of a
turbulent democracy,' and that in five hundred years the Australasian
race will have 'changed the face of nature, and swallowed up all our
contemporary civilisation,' but it is fortunately 'impossible that we
should live to see this stupendous climax. Après nous, le déluge.'"
Besides this his restless mind was weekly giving out articles, reviews,
and sketches, bearing his own mint mark, in the Age, the Leader, the
Sydney Mail and Morning Herald, and London Daily Telegraph. It was also
at work on the Melbourne and Victorian Reviews, in a somewhat
significant, albeit imprudent manner, for it was in the Victorian that
his "disturbing" article on "Civilisation Without Delusion" appeared, and
in the Melbourne his clever rejoinder, to Dr. Moorhouse's reply to the
original article, saw light. The last efforts of Clarke in the direction
of dramatic work, were the two comedies written for his wife on her
re-appearance, after an absence of some years, at the Bijou in the winter
of 1880. Of the two, the one, A Daughter of Eve, was original; the other,
Forbidden Fruit, being an adaptation from the French. The former is
undoubtedly clever, being on the lines of Sheridan's comedies; and in the
leading character of "Dorothy Dove," Mrs. Clarke did every justice to her
histrionic abilities. Besides these comedies, the author left unfinished
the libretto of Queen Venus an Opera Bouffe on which he was engaged with
M. Kowalski, the eminent pianist, at the time of his death; also the
plots and a portion of the matter of the following;--Reverses, an
Australian Comedy; Paul and Virginia, a burlesque; Fridoline, an opera
comique, and Salome, a comedy. And now reference has to be made to that
which more than any other single cause led to the unfortunate pecuniary
and other complications in which the subject of this memoir became
involved during the last year or two of his short life--namely his
appointment as agent with power-of-attorney to act as he deemed desirable
for his cousin, Sir Andrew Clarke, in connection with some landed
property owned by that gentleman in this colony. Paradoxical as this
statement may appear it is nevertheless too true that the confidence
placed by Sir Andrew Clarke in his cousin's ability to act as his sole
and unchecked agent in business matters was one of the most fatal errors
ever committed both for the principal and the agent. For the former it
meant pecuniary loss, for the latter neglect of all literary work. That
Marcus Clarke was altogether to blame for the "mixed" condition into
which the business affairs of his cousin got is simply absurd. All that
can be urged against him in the matter is that he was negligent and
thoughtless in connection with them as he had always been with his own.
However, the less said the better in connection with this episode of the
brilliant littérateur's life for after all it was not his fault but
misfortune, as he has said himself, that he was not a Business Man.
Indeed, no reference would have been made to this matter were it not that
it was the greatest misfortune that ever happened to Clarke that he had
anything to do with this business, as it not only led him to abandon his
proper duties, but led him, also, deeper into the clutches of usurers,
who eventually wrought him to death before his time. And it is probably
owing to this "bungle" that Sir Andrew Clarke has not seen his way to
help (although receiving a handsome pension from this colony) the widow
and children of him of whose abilities he could think so highly as to
induce the Prince of Wales, when on his visit to India where Sir Andrew
was Minister of Public Works, to read His Natural Life. The Prince did
read the book, and was so struck by its powers that he expressed a desire
to meet the author, who, he suggested, ought to go to that intellectual
centre of the world--London. It may be assumed that it was owing to this
unfortunate business craze which had seized hold of our author, that
there had been left behind in an unfinished state a novel which began so
brilliantly as Felix and Felicitas. Commenced years before, it was
allowed to lie by during his "landlord" days, and until a few months
previous to his demise, when it was re-commenced; but too late, for the
hand of Death was already upon him, as he himself too well knew and
frequently remarked during the last few weeks of his life--notably on the
Queen's Birthday, preceding his decease--when, walking with a friend in
the vicinity of the Yarra Bend Asylum he mournfully remarked, "Which
shall it be--the Mad Asylum or the Pauper Grave? Let a toss of the coin
decide--head, grave; tail, asylum." And forthwith a florin was tossed, and
fell tail uppermost. "Not if I know it, my festive coin. No gibbering
idiot shall I e'er be; rather the gleeful, gallows-tree." That English
literature has lost through the incompletion of Felix and Felicitas, no
judge who has perused the opening chapters can deny; and that the promise
of artistic merit held out by these chapters was fully realised by
authorities on the subject is proved by the anxiety of Messrs. Bentley
and Sons to urge on the writer to complete the work for publication in
London; and so capable a critic as Mrs. Cashel Hoey, writing from London
to the Australasian of the story, remarked:--

The literary world here has received with great regret the intelligence
of Mr. Marcus Clarke's death. His tales of the early days of the
colonies, and his very striking novel, His Natural Life, made a deep
impression here. We were always expecting another powerful fiction from
his pen. I fear he has not left any finished work, and I regret the fact
all the more deeply that I have been allowed the privilege of reading a
few chapters of a novel begun by Mr. Marcus Clarke, under the title of
Felix and Felicitas. The promise of those chapters is quite exceptional;
they equal in brilliancy and vivacity the best writing, of Edward Whitty,
and they surpass that vivid writer in construction. It is difficult to
believe, while reading the opening chapters of this, I fear, unfinished
work, that the author lived at the other side of the world from the
scenes and the society which he depicts with such accuracy, lightness,
grace, and humour.

In order to enable the reader to have some idea of the interesting nature
of the plot of the story ideally drawn, it is said, from the author's own
experiences, the following sketch of it written by him for the publishers
will doubtless be welcome:--

The following is a synopsis of my novel now in MS. The title is FELIX AND
FELICITAS. Those who were in the Academy Exhibition of 18--remember the
picture "Martha and Mary." The artist was a Mr. Felix Germaine, the son
of a country parson having a rectory near Deal. I know the place well.
The brother of this clergyman is travelling tutor and friend to Lord
Godwin (one like Lord Pembroke), who has just returned from a cruise in
the South Seas in his yacht. Ampersand, the idler (everybody knows him),
meets Godwin on his return, and tells him of the success of his old
schoolfellow--Felix. He brings both to a concert at Raphael Delevyra's,
the famous pianoforte maker; and there they hear some good musical and
witty talk. Stivelyn, Carbeth, Storton,--not unlike Swinburne, Buchanin,
and Albert Grant--are there amongst others. Felix, who is married to a
charmingly domesticated wife, falls in love with Mrs. Delevyra, who, as
all the world knows, was Felicitas Carmel--the niece of Carmel, the
violinist, who retired from public life, having paralysis of the left
hand. (N.B.--The great Beethoven was deaf; but his torments were nothing
to Carmel's.) Mr. Delevyra is a rich, thriving man--some say that his name
is really Levi--but Felicitis doesn't care for him. She and Felix you
see--want to live that Higher Life of which we have heard so much lately;
and consequently they resolve to break the Seventh Commandment. They get
away in Godwin's yacht; and now begins my effort at mental analysis. In a
little time they grow weary; then blame each other; then they are poor:
and finally they hate each other--each blaming each for causing the
terrible fall from the high standards of Ideality settled by them in
their early interviews. In the midst of this Delevyra arrives. The Jew
has made up his mind. He loves his wife; but she has betrayed him. He
will not forgive her; or rather he cannot forgive himself. He explains
the commonsense view of the matter. He shows her that she has spent
two-thirds of his income--that her desertion was not only treacherous, but
foolish, inasmuch as she loses respect, position, and money. In fine,
with some sarcasm and power, he strips adultery of its poetic veil, and
shows it to be worse than a crime--a blunder. Felix expects a duel--not at
all. Delevyra discourses him sweetly upon the "Higher Life," and says to
his wife-- "If this is the congenial soul you pine for I will allow him
£300 a year to live with you and make you happy." Felicitas
travels--divorced and allowanced (Teresa Perugino did the same.) She
writes books, poems, and travels--very recondite stuff they say. Felix,
utterly shamed, goes home in Godwin's yacht. He is wrecked at Deal, near
his own house, and his body is brought to his wife. He, however,
recovers, and lives happily. Ampersand says in the last chapter--"You ask
what the Modern Devil is." It is an Anti-Climax. We haven't the strength
to carry, any thing to the end. These people ought to have taken poison
or murdered somebody. I saw Felix the other day. He is quite fat and
rubicund. His wife henpecks him. He makes lots of money by pictures--but
they are not as good as "Martha and Mary".

The romance is musical, aesthetic, and sensational. It is not written
virginibus puerisque, but the effect is a moral one. Some of the
characters may be recognised, but I have avoided direct personality.

And now comes the last scene of all, and it is with a sorrowful heart I
pen these lines, for Memory flies back to the bright days of our early
friendship, when, boys together, we never found "the longest day too
long," and whispers, in mournful tones, "Ah! what might have been." But
it was not to be, and I bow in silent submission to the Omnipotent Will.
Some months before the end came the never strong constitution of my
friend began to give forth ominous signs of an early break-up. The
once-active brain became by degrees more lethargic, and the work which at
one time could be executed with rapidity and force became a task not to
be undertaken without effort. The vivid, humorous imagination of the
Peripatetic Philosopher assumed a more sombre hue, yielding itself up to
the unravelling of psychological puzzles. The keen vein of playful satire
which was so marked a feature of his mental calibre turned into a
bitterness that but reflected the disappointed mind of this son of
genius; and hence, for upwards of six months, from the opening of the
year 1881 to the day of his death in the August of that year no literary
work of consequence was done with the exception of the Mystery of Major
Molineux, which opened in his usual finished style, but which through
force of untoward pecuniary circumstances was wound up suddenly, leaving
the mystery as mysterious as ever. But above all other matters that
occupied his thoughts during the few weeks preceding his death--and the
one which may be set down as the chief cause of that death, was the
compulsory sequestration of his estate by Aaron Waxman, usurer (since
gone to render his account before the Almighty Tribunal), which meant the
loss of his position in the Public Library. All these mental troubles
came upon the broken-down body in a cluster, and the burden was too heavy
to bear. Struggling against his bitter fate--the more bitter that he knew
he was himself greatly to blame--he fell by the way, crushed in mind and
body, and the bright spirit passed away from the weakly tenement of clay
which held it, to, let us hope, more congenial realms, leaving behind it
a blank in the social and literary circles it was wont to frequent, which
cannot be filled up, for that spirit was sui generis. The illness which
immediately caused his decease commenced with an attack of pleurisy, and
this developing into congestion of the liver, and finally into
erysipelas, carried him off in the space of one short week. Indeed he
had, during the last year of his life, suffered so frequently from
attacks brought on by a disordered liver, that little heed was given to
the final attack till a day or two previous to his death, when the wife,
who had so unwearyingly attended him night and day, found that matters
were more serious than anticipated and sent for an old companion and
friend of her husband's, Dr. Patrick Moloney. From the beginning he held
out little hopes, as the constitution was sadly worn out, and the mental
worry of the latter weeks had completed the task of dissolution. But the
dying man himself did not evidently realise his position even up to the
time of the insensibility which preceded death setting in, for only a few
hours before his decease he remarked jocularly to his watchful wife,
"When I get up I will be a different man with a new liver," and then
asked for and put on his coat. But the end came upon him rapidly. Losing
his speech he beckoned for pencil and paper, and seizing hold of the
sheets moved his hand over them as if writing. Shortly afterwards the
mind began to wander, but still the hand continued moving with increasing
velocity, and every now and then a futile attempt to speak was made. But
the tongue could not utter what the fevered brain wished apparently to
explain; and then, by degrees, the arms grew weary, the body fell back on
the pillows, the large, beautiful eyes, with a far off gaze in them,
opened widely for a second--then closed--and all was over on this earth
with Marcus Clarke. At 4 o'clock on the afternoon of Tuesday, 2nd August,
1881, he died, aged 35. Reader, let us draw the veil over this sad scene.
The sorrow caused by the passing away of so bright a spirit is too
mournful to dwell upon.




IV. Australian Scenery


What is the dominant note of Australian Scenery? That which, is the
dominant note of Edgar Allan Poe's poetry--Weird Melancholy. A poem like
"L'Allegro" could never be written by an Australian. It is too airy, too
sweet, too freshly happy. The Australian mountain forests are funereal,
secret, stern. Their solitude is desolation. They seem to stifle in their
black gorges a story of sullen despair. No tender sentiment is nourished
in their shade. In other lands the dying year is mourned, the falling
leaves drop lightly on his bier. In the Australian forests no leaves
fall. The savage winds' shout among the rock clefts, from the melancholy
gums strips of white bark hang and rustle. The very animal life of these
frowning hills is either grotesque or ghostly. Great gray kangaroos hop
noiselessly over the coarse grass. Flights of white cockatoos stream out
shrieking like evil souls. The sun suddenly sinks, and the mopokes burst
out into horrible peals of semi-human laughter. The natives aver that
when night comes, from out the bottomless depths of some lagoon the
Bunyip rises, and in form like a monstrous sea-calf, drags his loathsome
length from out the ooze. From a corner of the silent forest rises a
dismal chant, and around a fire, dance natives painted like skeletons.
All is fear-inspiring and gloomy. No bright fancies are linked with the
memories of the mountains. Hopeless explorers have named them out of
their sufferings--Mount Misery, Mount Dreadful, Mount Despair. As when
among sylvan scenes in places

"Made green with the running of rivers,
    And gracious with temperate air,"

the soul is soothed and satisfied, so, placed before the frightful
grandeur of these barren hills, it drinks in their sentiment of defiant
ferocity, and is steeped in bitterness.

Australia has rightly been named the Land of the Dawning. Wrapped in the
midst of early morning her history looms vague and gigantic. The lonely
horseman, riding between the moonlight and the day, sees vast shadows
creeping across the shelterless and silent plains, hears strange noises
in the primeval forests, where flourishes a vegetation long dead in other
lands, and feels, despite his fortune, that the trim utilitarian
civilisation which bred him shrinks into insignificance beside the
contemptuous grandeur of forest and ranges coeval with an age in which
European scientists have cradled his own race.

There is a poem in every form of tree or flower, but the poetry which
lives in the trees and flowers of Australia, differs from those of other
countries. Europe is the home of knightly song, of bright deeds--and clear
morning thought. Asia sinks beneath the weighty recollections of her past
magnificence, as the Suttee sinks jewel-burdened upon the corpse of dread
grandeur, destructive even in its death. America swiftly hurries on her
way, rapid, glittering, insatiable even as one of her own giant
waterfalls. From the jungles of Africa, and the creeper-tangled groves of
the Islands of the South, arise, from the glowing hearts of a thousand
flowers, heavy and intoxicating odours, the Upas-poison, which dwells in
barbaric sensuality. In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque, the
Weird, the strange scribblings of Nature learning how to write. Some see
no beauty in our trees without shade, our flowers without perfume, our
birds who cannot fly, and our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on
all fours. But the dweller in the wilderness acknowledges the subtle
charm of this fantastic land of monstrosities. He becomes familiar with
the beauty of loneliness. Whispered to by the myriad tongues of the
wilderness, he learns the language of the barren and the uncouth, and can
read the hieroglyphs of haggard gum-trees, blown into odd shapes
distorted with fierce hot winds, or cramped with cold nights, when the
Southern Cross freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue. The phantasmagoria
of that wild dreamland termed the Bush interprets itself, and the Poet of
our desolation begins to comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of
desert sand, better than all the bountiful richness of Egypt.




V. Learning "Colonial Experience"


There were three of us, Dougald McAlister, Jack Thwaites, and myself. The
place was called in the grandiloquent language of the bush, "The
Dinkledoodledum Station" (I like these old native names), because it was
situated in the Dinkledoodledum Creek. Dinkledoodledum--as any philologist
can guess by the sound of it--means the Valley of the Rippling Streamlets;
but alas! never a rippling streamlet did our eyes behold during our stay
in the inhospitable valley.

The station had just been purchased by Thwaites' brothers--is not his name
now synonymous with gold, from the Great Glimmera to the Adelaide
Desert?--and had been overstocked by its former proprietor. Along the
Glimmera banks, where jovial but family-burdened Boschman kept his
boundaryriding habitation, the ground was as bare as a billiard-table,
and the travelling sheep that called the Great Glimmera their "feeding
track," were only too glad to escape beyond the Dinkledoodledum boundary
into the pleasant paths of Whistlebinkie. Let it not, however, be
imagined that our station was always in this condition. On the contrary,
it had been renowned as a place flowing with milk and honey. It was
reported that Clibborn had made his fortune out of it; that Wallum had
retired to independence and hot grog after twelve months of it; and that
Thwaites was in a fair way to do exceedingly well if he could but "hold
on" to it.

Unluckily, what with the former proprietor's mania for feeding two sheep
to every three acres (one sheep to every five acres was about the
Dinkledoodledum standard) and a succession of bad seasons, the "holding
on" was hard work. Economy was absolutely needful, and McAlister, Jack
and I practised it healthily. Mutton and damper all the week, and damper
and mutton on Sundays, was the order of the day, and we carried it out to
the letter. No epicurean feasts of beef or of pork disgraced the
frugality of our board. Never to our table came the feeble fowl or the
enervating kitchen-garden vegetable. We had no milk, for our dairy cattle
were starving; no eggs, for our poultry refused to lay; no pumpkin pie,
for our soil was too poor to grow even that harmless esculent. Yet on
Spartan fare we led Spartan lives, and were happy.

Oh, that bark hut! Never shall I forget the first day when I, a slim and
somewhat effeminate youth, with London smoke not yet cleared from my
throat, beheld its dilapidated walls. "You will sleep here," said Jack,
pointing to a skillion which seemed to have been used as a sheep-pen, so
marked was the "spoor" of those beasts. "With all my heart," said I, as
that organ sank within me--down, down, down, until I could feel it
palpitating in the very tips of my riding-boots. But I did not regret my
acquiescence. How many nights in that humble shelter have I listened to
the skirr of the wild cats, and watched the one bright star that
pertinaciously peeped through the chinks of the bark sheets. How many
nights have I lighted my lonely pipe, and wrestled alone with my own
particular angel, even as Jacob wrestled at Pennel. Happy Jacob! would I
owned thy cunning of wrist and elbow. How many nights have I trimmed the
reed in the pannikin of tallow, and read the half-dozen books I possessed
until I could read no more. How many nights have I slept the unutterably
sweet slumber of virtuous weariness, until my Jack, bursting in with
clanking spurs, would rouse me with his "All aboard!" Aye, old skillion,
I have had some happy hours in thee; so peace to thy ashes, for, sooth to
say, thou art now but fit for burning.

It is proper to boast of the Australian summer. Those who have lived in
tents, camped by rocky waterholes, kept dew-sprinkled watch beneath the
yellow moon, and ridden through fiery noons hard upon the tails of the
head-long herd, can with justice boast of the wild intoxication of that
burning ether. I have known it, I! Not the draught which the great spirit
gave to eager Faust maddens so gloriously. Australian summer, dost thou
say? I am with thee. With open shirt ballooned behind thee, with
streaming hair and bloody spurs, urge, urge the straining steed across
the level plain! No tree mars the prospect of immensity. In front, the
flying emu, and behind--naught but the whistling air! The grey grass
spins, the grey plain reels, the cloudless sky glows molten brass above.
It comes--the hot wind of the desert! Bitter--fierce from the sand--hills of
the scorching north, it sweeps upon thee! Ride! Ride!

There are fifty miles of grass before thee, and the blood of an Emperor's
battle steed beats beneath thy saddle-flaps. What are fears, griefs,
loves? Throned upon the rocking saddles of our stretching barbs, we laugh
at fate. Stand in thy stirrups now, and shout! Ha! ha! Tell me what
draught of love or wine compares with this--the champagne nectar of a
hot-wind gallop!

But the time to enjoy our hut was in the winter--the wild, wet winter that
lashed the groaning gums, and scoured to white rage the risen river. All
the hot summer wooed us to the air. Through parching noons and dewy
nights we rode and revelled. Then camped the cattle by the shrinking
swamp, and the wild horses came down to drink at the famished springs.
Then we went expeditions in the balmy moonlight, and roused the drowsy
township with the clattering echoes of our hurrying hoofs. Then came
Harry of the Gap, Tom of the Scano, and Dare-devil Dick, of Mostyn's
Folly, to "foregather" with us. Then were Homeric days, musical with
chanted melody, and fierce with the recklessness of horsetaming youth.
Then were our hearts great within us, and in that glowing atmosphere,
beneath that burning sun, our bright blood bounded, and we lived!

But in gray, chill winter the bark hut, so long deserted, repaid our
ingratitude by generous kindness. Creeping, all wet, and weary with
travel, splashed with mire, and torn by prickly scrub, to its friendly
shelter, it glowed warm welcome, its rough but honest sides laughing in
the beams of the roaring logs till they were nigh to crack again. How
cheery were those evenings. How we ate the ewe mutton, and laughed at the
mishaps of the day; how we smoked, and toasted our toes and "yarned;"
three sworn comrades, singing the songs of our native Britain to the
accompaniment of the whistling Austral wind.

The hut was not commodious. When duly camped within it, indeed, we had
but scant room. When McAlister had flung his lazy length upon the
lounging chair (a wool bale stretched upon the racktoothed iron skeleton
of some long-forgotten patent) and I had usurped the cane-bottomed
American importation, there was but one place for Thwaites, and that the
table top. Thwaites would roost there, like some intelligent bird, and
chant the lays of his native country. We called him the "Little Warbler."
Thwaites was a young man of military tendencies. He had belonged in the
old country to the Diggleshire Yeomanry Cavalry (who received the thanks
of their Lord-Lieutenant and county, you may remember, for their conduct
in the great insurrection of the cider-sellers against the patent
bottling process), and in our excursions into the bush he was perpetually
waving a brass-headed whip which he affected, and with wild cries of "St.
George and Diggleshire!" charging the brush fences. Paddy, his big-boned
horse, put him down badly one afternoon, and he gave up this method of
exhilaration. McAlister, who owned that sense of dry humour which is a
fungoid growth peculiar to Scotland, would artfully excite Thwaites to
wrath by the assumption of anti-Hanoverian tendencies, and induce in him
a violent outburst of loyalty, and frequent reference to a lady of whom
he habitually spoke as "My gracious sovereign, whom God preserve."
McAlister himself was not without his prejudices, for on one occasion I
distinctly remember that we removed the table, and fought over the merits
of poor Mary Queen of Scots. I had ventured to hint that her conduct in
the matter of Bothwell was not quite incapable of impeachment, and
McAlister challenged me to trial by battle. In justice to the soundness
of a reasoning which has sent so many honest men to Hades, I will presume
that my cause was a bad one, for I received a very sound and cornplete
drubbing.

One of poor Thwaites's duties was to "keep the books," and once a week he
would labour painfully, but religiously at his task. The, "books" could
not have been very difficult to "keep," I think, but somehow or other we
never could keep them. I am now inclined to think that our system was too
comprehensive, for, as we put everything down in a volume called a
day-book, (lucus a non lucendo, I suppose, for we never wrote anything in
it until night), and transferred it bodily to a ledger, our accounts were
pretty mixed. After I had been there a month, Thwaites mounted his horse
solemnly and mysteriously one morning, and rode off one hundred and
twenty miles to his brother. Two days afterwards he returned, dusty but
calm, and big with intelligence of importance. After supper, he said to
me gravely, "you have been in a bank, haven't you?" I replied that I had
for a month or so, until my ravages among the well kept books were
presumed to have permanently affected the brain of Napoleon Smith, the
manager. "Then," said Jack, "since you've been used to banking, my boy,
my brother thinks that you can keep the books." I was ready for any
hazardous experiment in those days, and I consented. I think on the whole
I did pretty well, though three rams (half-bred Leicesters, and as strong
as bullocks), got into Derwent Joe's account, and could not be got out
again by any financial operation I could devise, while I was always
dropping boots and things in "carrying over." Jack would endeavour
sometimes to see how I was getting on, but he told me one day that he
couldn't understand why I should keep four plugs of Barrett's twist in
the Long Swamp Paddock, and put our married couple's wages to the debit
of Weathers and Weaners. I really don't think he understood much about
it.

In the Long Swamp Paddock, by the way, lived one Long Tom, who was an
oddity. He was nearly seven feet high and thin as a harpoon. He had been
a sailor, digger, explorer, stockman, everything but a quiet
stop-at-home. For the last ten years, however, he had rested in the hut
by the Long Swamp, and the place was known as Long Tom's Waterhole;
indeed, Long Tom and his dog were better known at the stations round
about, than the name of the Chief Secretary of the Colony. His dog was
one of the biggest impostors--for a dog--that I have ever met. He was
called Old Moke, and was supposed to be of marvellous sagacity; he was a
stumpy-tailed, long-bodied, shambling beast, who worked just when he
chose, and as he chose. Long Tom, when riding to muster, would remark
that if we didn't get the sheep soon, he would have to put "Old Moke on
'em," as though the act was equivalent to working a miracle, or
dissolving Parliament. By-and-by Old Moke was "put on." "Moke!" Tom would
remark in tones of conscious superiority, "get away forward!" We would
hear a howl, and see a streak of white lightning slip out from under the
belly of Tom's horse. Moke had obeyed the summons. By-and-by, in the
depths of the forest, faint barks would be heard, and Tom would grow
uneasy. He would whistle. Still the barking would continue, and
presently, with a rushing sound, a flock of ewes would fly past us
bewilderedly. Tom would shift in his saddle, and we would grin.

Presently McAlister gallops up, raging. "Call off your cursed dog, Tom!"
he shouts. "Hi, Moke!" roars Tom. "Moke! Moke! Sink, and burn,
and-and-and----the dog. Moke! Hi! Moke!" Then would Long Tom, vomiting
fury, gallop madly into the bush, some agonised howls would be heard, and
old Moke would be seen no more until supper, when he would meet us at the
hut wagging his delusive stump defiantly. Yet everybody around believed
in the beast. Old Moke was a sort of religion at the Dinkledoodledum, and
to express doubt of his immense value would be heresy of the deepest dye.
One would meet stockmen going home with puppies, squeaking at their
heels. "Any good?" one would ask, nodding at the black and white mass.
"Good! I believe you. That's one of old Moke's," would be the proud
reply. Alas! old Moke--honest impostor, thou and thy crack-brained master
are both gone! Gone, let us hope, old dog, to a place where the faults of
both of ye will be as lightly dealt with as in the pleasant days of old.

When Thwaites had gone to bed in the corner--he was a most determined
sleeper--McAlister and I would pitch another log on the fire and prepare
for enjoyment. Carefully filling our pipes, we placed the grease-pannikin
on a mark made exactly in the centre of the table, and "yarned." By
"yarning," dear reader, I don't mean mere trivial conversation, but hard,
solid talk. McAlister was a man of more than ordinary natural talents,
and had he been placed in other circumstances, would have cut a figure.
It was not easy to argue with him, and some of our discussions lasted
until cock-crow. The arguments not unfrequently merged into
story-telling, and in that department my memory served me in good stead.
I had been a sickly brat in my infancy, and having unfettered access to
the library of a man who owned few prejudices for moral fig-leaves, had,
with the avidity for recondite knowledge which sickly brats always
evince, read many strange books. I boiled down my recollections for
McAlister, and constituted myself a sort of Scherezade for his peculiar
benefit. He would smoke and I would fix my eyes on a long strip of bark
which hung serpentwise from the ridge pole, and relate. I think if that
strip of bark had been removed, my power of narration would have been
removed with it. In this fashion we got through a good deal of Brantome,
several of the plays--or rather plots of the plays--of Wycherley,
Massinger, and Farquahar, and most of Byron. We rambled over the
Continent with Gil Blas, discussed the Alchemists, strolled up and down
Rome with Horace, and investigated the miracles of the early Saxon
churchmen in company of a lot of queer fellows who lived somewhere about
the time of the Venerable Bede. We talked Candide and Dr. Lardner's
Encyclopædia; we saw Hogarth with Ireland's descriptions; we quarrelled
bitterly over Tom Paine's Age of Reason, and made friends again over the
pathetic adventures of one Moll Flanders, a friend of Daniel Defoe.

Oh, cheery bark hut, despite all miseries of rough ways and rougher
weather, despite all hideousness of lamb-cutting and sheep-slaughtering,
despite the figs of tobacco that would get mixed up with my record of
maiden-ewes and two-toothed wethers, despite rain, storm, and tough
mutton, I recall thy memory with unfeigned regret. Thither "never came
the trader, never waved a European flag;" no smiling bill-discounters
ever invaded thy sacred precincts; no severe duns, rightly claiming that
which is, alas! their own, and that which I am unable to pay them, ever
darkened thy hospitable doorway; no folio documents, demanding instant
official attention, were ever brought by the merry black-boy to thy rude
letter-box; no monstrous civilisation with its luxurious necessities
overshadowed, Upas-like, thy imperfect roof. A glorious barbarism was
thine, a jovial freedom born the cares of the morrow was the charter of
thy liberties. I disliked thee once, and grumblingly did abuse thy
hospitable shelter, but I have since found other roofs less pleasant than
thine, have since--pent within stucco and inurned in marble mockery of
grandeur--yearned for the careless fortune of thy uncultured surroundings,
cried often in vain amid the uncomfortable comfort of the city.

"Give me again my hollow tree,
My crust of bread and liberty."




VI. Pretty Dick


A hot day. A very hot day on the plains. A very hot day up in the ranges,
too. The Australian sun had got up suddenly with a savage swoop, as
though he was angry at the still coolness of early morning, and was
determined to drive the cattle, who were munching complacently in the
long rich grass of the swamp, back up under the hill among the thick
she-oaks. It seemed to be a settled thing on the part of the sun to get
up hotter and hotter every morning. He even went down at night with a red
face, as much as to say, "Take care, I shall be hotter than ever
to-morrow!"

The men on the station did not get into smoking humour until he had been
gone down at least an hour, and as they sat on a bench and a barrel or
two, outside the "men's hut" on the hill, they looked away across the
swamp to that jagged gap in the ranges where he had sunk, and seeing the
red flush in the sky, nodded at one another, and said, "We shall have a
hot day to--morrow." And they were right. For, when they had forgotten the
mosquitoes and the heat, and the many pleasant things that live in the
crevices between the slabs of the hut, and gone to sleep, up he came
again, hotter than ever, without the least warning, and sent them away to
work again.

On this particular morning he was very hot. Even King Peter, who was
slowly driving up the working bullocks from the swamp, felt his old enemy
so fierce on his back, that he got up in his stirrups and cracked his
whip, until the hills rang again, and Strawberry, and Punch, and
Doughboy, and Damper, and all (except that cynical, wicked Spot, who
hated the world, and always lived away by himself in a private clump of
she-oak) straightened their tails and shook their heads, and galloped
away up to the stockyard in mortal terror. The horses felt the heat, and
King Peter's brother, who was looking for them on the side of the Stony
Mount, had a long ride up and down all sorts of gullies before he found
them out, and then they were unusually difficult to get together. The
cockatoos knew it was hot, and screamed themselves away into the bush.
The kangaroos, who had come down like gigantic shadows out of the still
night, had all hopped away back into the scrub under the mountains, while
the mist yet hung about the trees around the creek-bed. The parrots were
uneasy, and the very station dogs got under the shadow-lee of the huts,
in case of a hot wind coming up. As for the sheep--when Pretty Dick's
father let them out in the dawn, he said to his dog, "We shan't have much
to do to-day, old woman, shall we?" At which Lassie wagged her tail and
grinned, as intelligent dogs do.

But who was Pretty Dick?

Pretty Dick was the seven-years-old son of Richard Fielding, the
shepherd. Pretty Dick was a slender little man, with eyes like pools of
still water when the sky is violet at sunset, and a skin as white as
milk--that is, under his little blue and white shirt, for where the sun
had touched it, it was a golden brown, and his hands were the colour of
the ripe chestnuts his father used to gather in England years ago. Pretty
Dick had hair like a patch of sunlight, and a laugh like rippling water.
He was the merriest little fellow possible, and manly, too! He understood
all about milking, did Pretty Dick: and could drive up a refractory cow
with anybody. He could chop wood, too--that is, a little, you know,
because he was not very strong, and the axe was heavy. He could ride, not
a buck-jumper--that was his ambition--but he would take Molly (the
wall-eyed mare) into the home station for his father's rations, and come
out again quite safely.

He liked going into the station because he saw Ah Yung, the Chinaman
cook, who was kind to him, and gave him sugar. He had all the news to
bear too. How another mob of travelling sheep were coming through the
run; how the grey mare had slipped her foal; how the bay filly had bucked
off Black Harry and hurt his wrist; how Old Tom had "got the sack" for
being impudent to the overseer, and had vowed to fire the run. Besides,
there was the paper to borrow for his father, Mr. Trelawney's horses to
look at, the chat with the carpenter, and perhaps a peep at the new buggy
with its silver-mounted harness (worth, "oh, thousands of pounds!")
Pretty Dick thought perhaps, too, he might go down to the house, with its
garden and cool verandah, and bunches of grapes; might get a little cake
from Mary, the cook or even might be smiled upon by Mrs Trelawney, the
owner's young wife, who seemed to Dick to be something more a lady--to be
a sweet voice that spoke kindly to him and made him feel as he would feel
sometimes when his mother would get the Big Bible, that came all the way
from England, and tell him the story about the Good Man who so loved
little children.

He liked to go into the station, because everyone was so kind to him.
Everyone loved Pretty Dick: even old Tom, who had been a "lag," and was a
very wicked man, hushed the foul jest and savage oath when the curly head
of Pretty Dick came within hearing, and the men always felt as if they
had their Sunday clothes on in his presence. But he was not to go into
the station to-day. It was not ration-day; so he sat on the step of his
father's hut door, looking out through a break in the timber-belt at the
white dots on the plain, that he knew to be his father's sheep.

Pretty Dick's father lived in the Log Hut, on the edge of the plains, and
had five thousand sheep to look after. He was away all day. Sometimes,
when the sheep would camp near home, Pretty Dick would go down with some
fresh tea in a "billy," for his father, and would have a very merry
afternoon watching his father cut curious notches in his stick, and would
play with Lassie, and look about for 'possums in the trees, or, with
craning neck, cautiously inspect an ant-hill. And then when evening came,
and Lassie had got the sheep together--quietly without any barking you
know--when father and son jogged homewards through the warm, still air,
and the trampling hoofs of the sheep sent up a fragrance from the crushed
herbage round the folding ground, Pretty Dick would repeat long stories
that his mother had told him, about "Valentine and Orsen," and "Beauty
and the Beast," and "Jack the Giant Killer;" for Pretty Dick's mother had
been maid in the rector's family, in the Kentish village at home, and was
a little above Pretty Dick's father, who was only a better sort of
farm-labourer. But they were all three very, happy now in their adopted
country. They were all alone there, these three--Pretty Dick, and mother
and father--and no other children came to divide the love that both father
and mother had for Pretty Dick. So that when Pretty Dick knelt down by
his little bed at night, and put his little brown hands together, and
said, "God bless my dear father and mother, and God bless me and make me
a good boy," he prayed for the whole family, you see. So, they all three
loved each other very much--though they were poor people--and Pretty Dick's
mother often said that she would not have any harm happen to Pretty Dick
for Queen Victoria's golden crown. They had called him Pretty Dick when
he was yet a baby, on board the "Star of Peace" emigrant ship, and the
name had remained with him ever since. His father called him Pretty Dick,
and his mother called him Pretty Dick, and the people at the home station
called him Pretty Dick; and even the cockatoo who lived on the perch over
Lassie's bark-kennel, would call out "Pretty Dick! Pretty Dick! Pretty
Dick!" over and over again.

Now, on this particular morning, Pretty Dick sat gazing between the
trunks of the gum-trees into the blue distance. It was very hot. The blue
sky was cloudless, and the sun seemed to be everywhere at once. There was
a little shade, to be sure, among the gum-tree trunks, but that would
soon pass, and there would be no shade anywhere. The little fenced-in
waterhole in the front of the hut glittered in the sunlight like a piece
of burnished metal, and the tin milk-pail that was turned topsy-turvy on
the polepaling, was quite dazzling to look at. Daisy, the cow, stood
stupidly under the shade of a round, punchy little she-oak close by, and
seemed too lazy even to lie down, it was so hot. Of course the blow-flies
had begun, and their ceaseless buzz resounded above and around, making it
seem hotter than ever, Pretty Dick thought.

How hot father must be! Pretty Dick knew those terrible plains well. He
had been across them two or three times. Once in the early spring when it
was pleasant enough with a cool breeze blowing, and white clouds resting
on the tops of the distant mountains, and the broad rolling levels of
short, crisp, grass-land sweeping up from their feet to the horizon
unceasingly. But he had been across there once in the summer, when the
ground was dry and cracked, when the mountains seemed so close that he
almost thought that he could touch them with his hand, when the heavens
were like burning brass, and the air (crepitant with the ceaseless
chirping of the grasshopper) like the flame of a heated furnace. Pretty
Dick felt quite a fresh accession of heat as he thought of it, and turned
his face away to the right to cool himself by thinking of the ranges.
They were deep in the bush, past the creek that ran away the other side
of the Sandy Rises; deep in the bush on the right hand, and many a weary
stretch of sandy slope, and rough-grassed swamp, and solemn wood, and
dismal, deserted scrub, was between him and them. He could see the lofty
purple peak of Mount Clear, the highest in the range, grandly rising
above the dense level tops of the gum-tree forests, and he thought how
cool it must be in its mighty shadow. He had never been under the
mountain. That there were some strange reaches of scrub, and sand, and
dense thickets, and tumbled creeper-entwined rock in that swamp-guarded
land, that lay all unseen under the shadow of the hills. He knew, for he
had heard the men say so. Had he not heard how men had been lost in that
awesome scrub, silent and impenetrable, which swallowed up its victims
noiselessly? Had he not heard how shepherds had strayed or slept, and
how, at night, the sheep had returned alone, and that search had been in
vain, until perhaps some wandering horseman, all by chance, had lighted
upon a rusty rag or two, a white skull, and perhaps a tin pannikin with
hopeless scratchings of name and date? Had he not been told fearful
things about those ranges? How the bushrangers had made their lair in the
Gap, and how the cave was yet visible where their leader had been shot
dead by the troopers; how large sums of stolen money were buried there,
hidden away behind slags and slabs of rock, flung into fathomless
gullies, or crammed into fissures in the mountain side, hidden so well
that all the searching hands and prying eyes of the district had not yet
discovered them? Did not Wallaby Dick tell him one night about the Murder
that had been done down in the flat under the large Australian moon--when
the two swagmen, after eating and drinking, had got up in the bright,
still night, and beaten out the brains of the travelling hawker, who gave
them hospitality, and how, the old man being found beside his rifled
cart, with his gray hairs matted with blood, search was made for the
murderers, and they were taken in a tap-room in distant Hamilton,
bargaining with the landlord for the purchase of their plunder?

What stories had he not heard of wild cattle, of savage bulls, red-eyed,
pawing, and unapproachable? What hideous tales of snakes, black, cold,
and deadly, had not been associated in his mind with that Mountain Land?
What a strange, dangerous, fascinating, horrible, wonderful place that
Mountain Land must be, and how much he would like to explore it! But he
had been forbidden to go, and he dismissed, with a childish sigh, all
idea of going.

He looked up at his clock-the sun. He was just over the top of the big
gum-tree--that meant ten o'clock. How late! The morning was slipping away.
He heard his mother inside singing. She was making the bread. It would be
very hot in the hut when the loaf was put in the camp-oven to bake. He
had nothing to do either. He would go down to the creek; it was cool
there. So he went into the hut and got a big piece of sweet cake, and put
it in the pocket of his little jumper.

"Mother," said Pretty Dick, "I am going down to the creek."

"Take care you don't get lost!" said she, half in jest, half in earnest.

"Lost! No fear!" said Pretty Dick.

--And when he went out, his mother began to sing again.

It was beautifully cool down by the creek. Pretty Dick knew that it would
be. The creek had come a long way, and was tired, and ran very slowly
between its deep banks, luscious with foliage, and rich with grass. It
had a long way to go, too, Pretty Dick knew where it went. It ran right
away down to the river. It ran on into the open, desolate, barren piece
of ground where the road to the station crossed it, and where its bright
waters were all red and discoloured with the trampling of horses and
cattle. It ran by the old stockyard, and then turned away with a sudden
jerk, and lost itself in the Five Mile Swamp, from whence it re-appeared
again, broader and bigger, and wound along until it met the river.

But it did not run beyond the swamp now, Dick knew, because the weather
had been so hot, and the creeks were all dried up for miles around--his
father said--all but this one. It took its rise in the mountains, and when
the rainfall was less than usual, grew thinner and thinner, until it
became, what it was now, a slender stream of water, trickling heavily
between high banks--quite unlike the dashing, brawling, black, bubbling
torrent that had rushed down the gully in flood-time.

Pretty Dick took off his little boots, and paddled about in the water,
and found out all kinds of curious, gnarled roots of old trees, and funny
holes under the banks. It was so cool and delicious under the stems and
thick leaves of the water frondage that Pretty Dick felt quite restored
again, and sang remembered scraps of his mother's songs, as he dodged
round intervening trees, and slipped merrily between friendly trunks and
branches. At last he came out into the open. Here his friend, the creek,
divided itself into all sorts of queer shapes, and ran here, and doubled
back again there, and twisted and tortured itself in an extraordinary
manner, just out of pure fun and frolic.

There was a herd of cattle camped at this place, for the trees were tall,
and big, and spreading. The cattle did not mind Pretty Dick at all,
strange to say. Perhaps that was because he was on foot. If he had been
on horseback now, you would have seen how they would have stared and
wheeled about, and splashed off into the scrub. But when Pretty Dick,
swinging a stick that he had cut, and singing one of his mother's songs,
came by, they merely moved a little farther away, and looked at his
little figure with long, sleepy eyes, slowly grinding their teeth from
side to side the while. Now the way began to go up-hill, and there were
big dead trees to get over, and fallen spreading branches to go round;
for the men had been felling timber here, and the wasted wood lay thick
upon the ground. At last Pretty Dick came to the Crossing Place. The
Crossing Place was by the edge of the big swamp, and was a notable place
for miles round. There was no need for a crossing place now though, for
the limpid water was not a foot deep.

Pretty Dick had come out just on the top of a little sandy rise, and he
saw the big swamp right before him, speckled with feeding cattle, whose
backs were just level with the tall rushes. And beyond the big swamp the
ranges rose up, with the sunlight gleaming here and there upon jutting
crags of granite, and with deep cool shadows in other places, where the
noble waving line of hills sank in, and made dark recesses full of shade
and coolness. The sky was bluer than ever, and the air was heavy with
heat; and Pretty Dick wondered how the eagle-hawk that was poised--a
floating speck above the mountain top--could bear to swoop and swing all
day long in that fierce glare.

He turned down again, and crossing the creek, plunged into the bush.
There was a subtle perfume about him now; not a sweet, rich perfume like
the flowers in the home station garden, but a strange intoxicating smell,
evolved from the beat and the water, and the many coloured heath
blossoms. The way was more difficult now, and Pretty Dick left the bank
of the creek, and made for the open space--sandy, and bunched with coarse
clumps of grass. He went on for a long time, still upwards, and at last
his little feet began to tire; and, after chasing a dragon-fly or two,
and running a long way after a kangaroo rat, that started out from a
patch of broom and ran in sharp diagonal lines away to hide itself in
among the roots of a she-oak, he began to think of the piece of sweet
cake in his pocket. So when, after some little time, emerging from out a
dense mass of scrub, that scratched and tore at him as though it would
hold him back, he found himself far up the hills, with a great gully
between him and the towering ranges, he sat down and came to the
conclusion that he was hungry. But when he had eaten his sweet cake, he
found that he was thirsty too, and that there was no water near him. But
Pretty Dick knew that there was water in the ranges so he got up again, a
little wearily, and went down the gully to look for it. But it was not so
easy to find, and he wandered about for a long time among big granite
boulders, and all kinds of blind creeks, choked up with thick grass and
creeping plants, and began to feel very tired indeed, and a little
inclined to wish that he had not left the water-course so early. But he
found it at last--a little pool, half concealed by stiff, spiky, rush
grass, and lay down, and drank eagerly. How nice the first draught was!
But at the second, the water felt warm, and at the third, tasted quite
thick and slimy. There had been some ducks paddling about when he came
up, and they flew away with a great quacking and splashing, that almost
startled him. As soon as they had disappeared though, the place was quite
still again, and the air grew heavier than ever. He felt quite drowsy and
tired, and laid himself down on a soft patch of mossy grass, under a
tree; and so, after listening a little while to the humming of the
insects, and the distant crackling of mysterious branches in the forest,
he put his little head on his little arm, and went fast to sleep.

How long he slept Pretty Dick did not know, but he woke up, suddenly with
a start, and a dim consciousness that the sun had shifted, and had been
pouring its heat upon him for some time. The moment he woke he heard a
great crashing and plunging, and started up just in time to see a herd of
wild cattle scouring off down the side of the range. They had come up to
drink while he was asleep, and his sudden waking had frightened them. How
late it must be! The place seemed quite changed. There was sunlight where
no sunlight had been before, and shadow where had been sunlight. Pretty
Dick was quite startled at finding how late it was. He must go home, or
mother would be frightened. So he began to go back again. He knew his way
quite well. No fear of his losing himself. He felt a little tired though,
but that would soon wear off. So he left the little pool and turned
homewards. He got back again into the gully, and clambered up to the top,
and went on sturdily. But the trees did not seem familiar to him, and the
succession of dips in the hills seemed interminable. He would soon reach
the Big Swamp again, and then he could follow up the creek. But he could
not find the Swamp. He toiled alone, very slowly now, and at last found
the open plot of ground where he had stopped in the morning But when he
looked at it a little, it was not the same plot at all, but another
something like it, and the grim ranges, heavy wit