his son - "The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Volume I"

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Upton Sinclair - "The Machine"

James Parton - "The Humourous Poetry of the English Language"

Such is Life

J >> Joseph Furphy >> Such is Life




"Indeed he did n't, mate."

"Why, you let the cat out of the bag yourself!" exclaimed Dave triumphantly.
Then the conversation took a more general turn.

By this time, I had provisionally accounted for my vaguely-fancied recognition
of the man. With the circumspection of a seasoned speculatist,
I had bracketed two independent hypotheses, either of which would supply
a satisfactory solution. One of these simply attributed the whole matter
to unconscious cerebration. But here a question arose: If one half
of my brain had been more alert than its duplicate when the object
first presented itself--so that the observation of the vigilant half
instantaneously appeared as an intangible memory to the judgment
of the apathetic half--it still remained to be determined which of the halves
might be said to be in a normal condition. Was one half unduly
and wastefully excited?--or was the other half unhealthily dormant?
The thing would have to be seen into, at some fitting time.

But this hypothesis of unconscious cerebration seemed scarcely as satisfactory
as the other-namely, that, having at a former time heard Terrible Tommy
mention the name of Andrew Glover, my educated instinct of Nomenology,
rising to the very acme of efficiency, had accurately, though unconsciously,
snap-shotted a corresponding apparition on the retina of my mind's eye.

Then there were lessons to be gathered from Tom Armstrongs's prompt acceptance
of such alibi evidence, touching myself, as would have merely tended
to unfathomable speculations on metempsychosis in an ether-poised Hamlet-mind.
Tom, though crushing for a couple of ounces, was one of your practical,
decided, cocksure men; guided by unweighed, unanalysed phenomena,
and governed by conviction alone--the latter being based simply,
though solidly, upon itself. These men are deaf to the symphony
of the Silences; blind to the horizonless areas of the Unknown;
unresponsive to the touch of the Impalpable; oblivious to the machinery
of the Moral Universe--in a word, indifferent to the mysterious Motive
of Nature's all-pervading Soul. In such mental organisms, opinion,
once deflected tangentially from the central Truth, acquires an independent
and stubborn orbit of its own. But the Absolute Truth is so large,
and human opinion so small, that the latter cannot get away altogether,
however eccentric its course may be; indeed, the more elongated the orbit
of Error, the greater chance of its being swallowed up by the scorching Truth,
on its return trip. In the present instance, my own ready co-operation
with a marvellously conducive Providential legislation had been sufficient
unto the deflection of Tom's opinion; and I was content to let
the still-impending collision take thought for itself, particularly as
Mrs. Beaudesart's conjunction was just about falling due. Then I rose to go.

"Here, mate," said I, fearlessly removing my clouded glasses, and handing them,
with their case, to Andrew; "you'll find the advantage of these."

There was no trace of recognition in Tom's look of gratitude as his eyes
rested on my face. But I sighed to reflect that he was still looking out
for the tracks of that miserable impostor from the braes o' Yarra.

Now I had to enact the Cynic philosopher to Moriarty and Butler,
and the aristocratic man with a 'past' to Mrs. Beaudesart;
with the satisfaction of knowing that each of these was acting a part to me.
Such is life, my fellow-mummers--just like a poor player, that bluffs
and feints his hour upon the stage, and then cheapens down to mere nonentity.
But let me not hear any small witticism to the further effect that its story
is a tale told by a vulgarian, full of slang and blanky, signifying--nothing.


THE END.

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