AN AUSTRALIAN NOVELIST.*
WE can hardly recommend ordinary readers of fiction to get and peruse the terrible and tragic story of an innocent convict's life, which Mr. Marcus Clarke has here told for us, with a grim fidelity to the natural history of convict ships and penal settlements which is as revolting as it is unquestionably powerful. From the first chapter, in which the ' Malabar' sets sail with her crew of wretched malefactors for Hobart Town, to the last, in which the innocent convict escapes from his torture-prison only to find his fate in the foundering of the ' Lady Franklin,' Mr. Marcus Clarke paints for us with a frightful realism, which makes it impossible not to see vividly the scenes he describes, the incidents of a society in which crime and vice, crowded together in foul de- composing masses, fester and ferment on the one side, and coarse authority, petrified by routine into hardness and indifference, or brutal and insolent courage, proud of its unflinching nerve in the presence of cowering guilt, tyrannises and tramples on the other side. Mr. Clarke's familiarity with all the most humble details of the life of a penal settlement is far too minute, and his power of reproducing them far too graphic, to render this powerful book fit for general perusal. It ought, however, to be read by all who, while they care for literary power, are not afraid of grim detail, and by all who still advocate the establishment of penal settlements at a dis- tance from the wholesome influence of an opinion which has neither grown apathetic through long habit to the horror of crime„nor incredulous of the hope of humanising the outcasts of society. It should be translated into French, for the warning of those French statesmen who are developing the penal settlement in NC* Cale- donia, and read by the Indian statesmen who are creating in Port Blair "a Port Arthur filled with Indian men, instead of Englishmen." It is next to impossible that any penal settlement
• His Natural Ltfe. By Marcus Clarke. 8 vols. London : Bentley andSon. 1875. Another Edition. Melbourne : George Robertson. 1874.
where the authorities are left alone with the criminals they have to control, can be conducted in a noble or hopeful spirit. Of course the horrors of such a settlement might be, when compared with the horrors of Macquarie Harbour and Norfolk Island, as here described, what moonlight is to sunlight, or water is to wine. Let us hope it may be so in Port Blair. But men are not so constituted as to live alone in command of herds of criminals, without becoming something like the wild beasts they have to tame, and it is certain that the system of transportation is not only bad for the criminals themselves, and the lauds into which these masses of criminal decay are carted, but still worse even for the unhappy officials who are thus left alone with the creatures they have to discipline and keep down. We suspect there are very few persons indeed who have the courage to read this book who will not find their previous notions of hell made infinitely more vivid and terrible by the study, and who would not think Milton's devils refined and gentlemanly persons when compared not merely with many of the inhabitants of these barra- coons, but still more with the sinister officers who rule over them. Mr. Clarke's power is greater in painting the moral incidents and physical scenery of the life he deals with, than in painting in- dividual character. His hero is never clear to us, from beginning to end. There are evidences here and there, especially in the delineation of the child Sylvia, and of John Rex's mistress, Sarah Purfoy, as she is at first called, also in the outline of Captain Maurice Frere, the false, bold miscreant who is the evil genius of the story, and in the striking picture of the drinking chaplain's agony of soul when he finds how his own vice paralyses his power to save the prisoners committed to his charge from the wickedest cruelty and oppression, that Mr. Clarke might, if he took pains, draw individual character as vigorously as he draws both physical and moral scenery. But in this story, at all events, he has not done so. He has put in a considerable number of clever superficial sketches, both of crimi- nals and their superiors. One has a distinct superficial image in one's mind of good, conventional Captain Vickers, and vain, silly Mrs. Vickers, with a genuine woman's courage in her none the less ; as well as of their wilful, loving, little daughter Sylvia ; of swindling John Rex, and brazen, unscrupulous Sarah Purfoy ; of the hideous giant, Gabbett, and the cunning, dwarfish Vetch ; of the brutal tyrant, Burgess, and the puling parson, Meekin ; of Frere, with his insolence, falsehood, and presence of mind, and of North, with his shame and his culture, his religious passion and his despair. But the deeper the picture goes,—except, perhaps, in the drinking chaplain's case,—the vaguer it becomes. As Sylvia grows up from the child into the woman, we see her less and less clearly. "Good Mr. Dawes," and violent, bitter, hardened Mr. Dawes, are never made to us quite the same person, and neither of them is really understood by the reader. The value of the book is not in its studies of character, but in its physical and moral scenery. The general effects are wonderfully vivid ; the studies of human nature, often striking at first, become less so as more touches are added. Nothing grimmer, or more likely to dwell on the imagination, than this fearful picture of tyrants and slaves, of devils ruling and devils rebelling, was ever painted. But the characters do not impress us, except only as general illustrations of a system. Take, for instance, Captain Maurice Frere, violent and false, libertine and brute, with his dauntless presence of mind, and his hideous delight in persecuting the man he has wronged ;—one never gets beyond the first outline of him, and leaves him at the close with a sense of knowing rather less of him than when the author first painted him for us. Yet the following, like all the other incidents in which he is concerned, is graphic enough ; we see the scene, though we hardly see the mind which acts in it :—
"One day a man named Kavanagh, a captured absconder, who had openly sworn in the dock the death of the magistrate. walked quickly up to him as he was passing through the yard, and snatched a pistol from his belt. The yard caught its breath, and the attendant warder, hearing the click of the lock, instinctively turned his head away, so that he might not be blinded by the flash. But Kavanagh did not fire. At the instant when his hand was on the pistol, he looked up and met the magnetic glance of Frere's imperious eyes. An effort, and the spell would have been broken. A twitch of the finger, and his enemy would have fallen dead. There was an instant when that twitch of the finger could have been given, but Kavanagh let that instant pass. The dauntless eye fascinated him. He played with the pistol-butt nervously, while all remained stupefied. Frere stood, never withdrawing his hands from the pockets into which they were plunged.—' That's a fine pistol, Jack,' he said at last. Kavanagh, down whose white face the sweat was pouring, burst into a hideous laugh of relieved terror, and thrust the weapon, cocked as it was, back again into the magistrate's belt Frere slowly drew one hand from his pocket, took the cocked pistol and levelled it at his recent assailant. ' That's the best chance you'll ever. get, Jack,' said he.—Kavanagh fell on his knees. 'For God's sake, Captain Frere !'—Frore looked down upon the trembling wretch, and then uncooked the pistol, with a laugh of ferocious contempt. Get up, you dog,' he said. 'It takes a better man than you to Best me. Bring him up in the morning, Hawkins, and we'll give him Five-and. twenty.' As ho want out—so great is the admiration for Power—the poor devils in the yard cheered him."
That is Captain Maurice Frere in his best, his most manly mood. Captain Maurice Frere in his insolence and hatred is equally visible to us, but somehow the reader never seems to get into the heart of the treacherous and contemptible wretch, though he never appears on the scene without our recognising the image of the man as a real one. And it is the same with the other characters. One knows as much of the blind old prisoner Mooney as one knows of Captain Maurice Frere, and far more than one knows of Rufus Dawes, the hero, and this though Mooney is the chief figure in but one episode, a very tragic one,--a suicide, in which he is assisted by his brother prisoners, occupying, however, only a few pages. It is very powerfully told. Rufus Dawes, who had taken a fancy to the helpless, blind man, had heard of the torture inflicted on him merely for talking in his cell, by putting the old man's head into a bridle devised for the purposes of punishment, and tying him with this gag in his mouth to a lamp- , post with his arms behind him, an attitude of torture in which he was kept for three hours. The result of this torture was to ripen the scheme for suicide, the result of which is described in the following very powerfully painted scene :—
" Since the tobacco trick,' Mooney and Dawes had been placed in. the new prison, together with a man named Bland, who bad already twice failed to kill himself. When old Mooney, fresh from the torture of the gag-and-bridle, lamented his hard case, Bland proposed that the three should put in practice a whom° in which two at least must suc- ceed. The scheme was a desperate one, and attempted but in the last extremity. It was the custom of the Ring, however, to swear each of its members to carry out to the best of his ability this last invention of the convict-disciplined mind, should two other members crave his- assistance. The scheme—like all great ideas—was simplicity itself. That evening, when the cell-door was securely locked, and the absence of a visiting gaoler might be counted upon for an hour at least, Bland produced a straw, and held it out to his companions. Dawes took it,. and tearing it into unequal lengths, handed the fragments to Mooney. ' The longest is the one,' said the blind man. Come on, boys, and dip- in the lucky-bag r It was evident that Iota were to be drawn to de- termine to whom fortune would grant freedom. The men drew in silence, and then Bland and Dawes looked at each other. The prize had been left in the bag. Mooney—fortunate old fellow—retained the longest straw. Bland'siiand shook as be compared notes with his com- panion. There was a moment's pause, during which the blank eyeballs of the blind man fiercely searched the gloom, as if in that awful moment they could penetrate it.—'I hold the shortest,' said Dawes to Bland.
"Tie you that must do I'm glad of that,' said Mooney. Bland,. seemingly terrified at the danger which fate had decreed that he should. run, tore the fatal lot into fragments, with an oath, and sat gnawing his knuckles in excess of abject terror, Mooney stretched himself out upon his plank-bed. Come on, mate,' he said. Bland extended a shaking hand and caught Rufus Dawes by the sleeve. You have more nerve than I. You do No, no,' says Dawes, almost as pale as his com- panion. 'I've run my chance fairly. 'Twas your own proposal.'—The coward, who, confident in his own luck, would seem to have fallen into- the pit ho had dug for others, sat rocking himself to and fro, holding his head in his hands. By Heaven, I can't do it,' be whispered, lifting a white, wet face.' What are you waiting for?' said fortunate Mooney. Come on, I'm ready.'—' I—I—thought you might like to—to—pray a bit,' says Bland. Tho notion seemed to sober the senses of the old man, exalted too fiercely by his good-fortune. Ay,' ho said, pray ! A good thought!' and he knelt down, and shutting his blind eyes—'twas as though he was dazzled by some strong light, unseen by his comrades— moved his lips silently. The silence was at last broken by the footstep of the warder in the corridor. Bland hailed it as a reprieve from what- ever act of daring he dreaded. We must wait until he goes,' he whispered eagerly. 'He might look in.' Dawes nodded, and Mooney, whose quick ear apprised him very exactly of the position of the ap- proaching gaoler, rose from his knees, radiant. The sour face of Gimblett appeared at the trap of the cell-door. 'All right?' ho asked, somewhat—so the three thought—less sourly than usual. 'All right,' was the reply, and Mooney added, 'Good-night, Mr. Gimblett.' I wonder what makes the old man so cheerful,' thought Gimblett, as he got into the next corridor. The sound of his echoing footsteps had scarcely died away, when upon the ears of the two less fortunate casters of lots fell the dull sound of rending woollen. The lucky man was tearing a strip from his blanket. think this will do,' said be, pulling it between his hands to test its strength. I am an old man: it was possible that he debated concerning the descent of some abyss into -which the strip of blanket was to lower him. 'Hero, Bland, catch hold. Where are ye ?—don't be faint-hearted, man. It won't take ye long.' It was quite dark now in the cell, but as Bland advanced, his face seemed a white mask floating upon the darkness, it was so ghastly pale. Dawes pressed his lucky comrade's hand and withdrew to the farthest corner. Bland and Mooney seemed fcc a few moments oecupied with the rope, doubtless preparing for escape by means of it. The silence was broken only by the convulsive jangling of Bland's irons, —he was shuddering violently. At last Mooney spoke again, in strangely soft and subdued tones.—' Dawes, lad, do you think there is a heaven? '—I know there is a hell,' said Dawes, without turning his face.—' Ay, and a heaven, lad. I think I shall go there.—You will, old chap, for youv'e been good to me—God bless you, you've been very good to me.'
When Troke came in the morning, he saw what had occurred at a glance, and hastened to remove the corpse of the strangled Mooney. We drew lots,' said Rufus Dawes, pointing to Bland, who crouched in 'the corner farthest from his victim, and it fell upon him to do it. I'm the witness.'—' They'll hang you, for all that,' said Troke.—' I hope so,' said Rufus Dawes. The scheme of escape hit upon by the convict in- tellect was simply this. Three men being together, lots were drawn to determine whom should be murdered. The drawer of the longest straw was the 'lucky' man. He was killed. The drawer of the next longest straw was the murderer. He was hanged. The unlucky one was the witness. He had, of course, an excellent chance of being hung also, hut his doom was not so certain, and he therefore looked upon himself as unfortunate."
Of such materials is this grim book made up. There is very little in it which is less graphic than this, and there is very little in it which is less terrible. Now and then there is a touch of great pathos, as, for instance, in this last passage, in the description of the blind old man's inarticulate ecstacy at the prospect of a heaven which he was, perhaps, so ill earning; and again in the picture of another suicide, the suicide of two little boys who leap into the sea to escape the misery of their lot in the penal settlement. This last incident we will give to show the gentler touches by which this fearful story is relieved; for pathos, however tragic, is indeed the nearest thing to hope and sweetness in this very gruesome tale:— " Just outside this room Sylvia met with a little adventure. Meekin bad stopped behind, and Burgess, being suddenly summoned for some official duty, Frere had gone with him, leaving his wife to rest on a bench that, placed at the summit of the cliff, overlooked the sea. While resting thus, she became aware of another presence, and, turning her head, beheld a small boy, with his cap in one hand and a hammer in the other. The appearance of the little creature, clad in uniform of grey cloth that was too large for him, and holding in his withered little hand a hammer that was too heavy for him, had something pathetic about it. 4 What is it, you mite ?' asked Sylvia.—' We thought you might have seen him, mum, says the little figure, opening its blue eyes with wonder at the kindness of the tone.—' Him ! whom ?'—' Cranky Brown, mum,' returned the child; 'him as did it this morning. Me and Billy knowed him, mum; ho was a mate of ours, and we wanted to know if he looked happy.'—' What do you mean, child?' said she, with a strange terror at her heart ; and then, filled with pity at the aspect of the little being, she drew him to her, with sudden womanly instinct, and kissed him.
He looked up at her with joyful surprise. Oh!' he said. Sylvia kissed him again. 'Does nobody ever kiss you, poor little man ?' said she.—' Mother used to,' was the reply, ' but she's at home. Oh, mum,' with a sudden crimsoning of the little face, ' may I fetch Billy?' And taking courage from the bright young face, he gravely marched to an angle of the rock, and brought out another little creature, with another grey uniform and another hammer. This is Billy, mum,' he said. Billy never had no mother. Kiss Billy.'—The young wife felt the tears rush to her eyes. You two poor babies! ' she cried. And then, forgetting that she was a lady, dressed in silk and lace, she fell on her knees in the dust, and folding the friendless pair in her arms, wept over them. ' What is the matter, Sylvia ? ' said From, when be came up. 'You've been crying.'—' Nothing. Maurice ; at least, I will tell you by-and-bye.' So, when they were alone that evening, she told him of the two boys, and he laughed. ' Artful little humbugs,' he said, and supported his argument by so many illustrations of the precocious wickedness of juvenile felons, that his wife was half convinced against her will.
Unfortunately. when Sylvia went away, Tommy and Billy put into exe- cution a plan which they bad carried in their poor little heads for some
weeks. can do it now,' said Tommy. ' I feel strong.'—' Will it hurt much, Tommy ?' said Billy, who was not so courageous. Not so much as a whipping.'—'I'm afraid ! Oh, Tom, it's so deep! Don't leave me, Tom!' The bigger boy took his little handkerchief from his neck, and with it bound his own left hand to his companion's right. Now I can't leave you.'—' What was it the lady that kissed us said,
Tommy? Lord have pity of them two fatherless children!' repeated ',Pommy.—' Let's say it, Tom.' And so the two babies knelt down on the brink of the cliff, and raising the bound hands together, looked up at the sky, and ungrammatically said, Lord, have pity on we two fatherless children!' And then they kissed each other, and ' did it.'"
If these be, as they are, the lighter streaks in the sky, the reader can imagine the awful gloom of the clouds. Indeed the power of the book is shown by the nightmare of horror it leaves on the spirit of the reader,—a nightmare so oppressive that one feels that to any man who has breathed the atmosphere of such a life as is here described, Atheism must be the natural creed, and that trust in God -could only linger by the directand supernatural intervention of God's own Spirit. It is something to write a book so powerful, especially as all the power is directed to the noblest end. But the next time Mr. Clarke exhibits the boldness of his outlines and the vivid colouring of his lifelike groups, we trust he will fill in his canvas with more that is human, and less that is diabolic, than he has chosen to do in this brilliant but terrible tale. We ought to add that, in our opinion, scenery has hardly ever been described with more striking effect than the scenery of Van Diemen's Land, in the various stories contained here of convict-life, and escapes, and of .desperate wanderings in the wilderness till the prospect of recap- ture becomes far the least terrible of the various alternatives open to the wretched fugitives.
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