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
