Such is Life | Page 4

befallen of itself.
According to one theory of the Universe, the momentum of Original
Impress has been tending toward this far-off, divine event ever since a
scrap of fire-mist flew from the solar centre to form our planet. Not this
event alone, of course; but every occurrence, past and present, from the
fall of captured Troy to the fall of a captured insect. According to
another theory, I hold an independent diploma as one of the architects
of our Social System, with a commission to use my own judgment, and
take my own risks, like any other unit of humanity. This theory, unlike
the first, entails frequent hitches and cross-purposes; and to some
malign operation of these I should owe my present holiday.
Orthodoxly, we are reduced to one assumption: namely, that my
indomitable old Adversary has suddenly called to mind Dr. Watts's
friendly hint respecting the easy enlistment of idle hands.
Good. If either of the two first hypotheses be correct, my enforced
furlough tacitly conveys the responsibility of extending a ray of
information, however narrow and feeble, across the path of such
fellow-pilgrims as have led lives more sedentary than my
own--particularly as I have enough money to frank myself in a frugal
way for some weeks, as well as to purchase the few requisites of
authorship.
If, on the other hand, my supposed safeguard of drudgery has been cut
off at the meter by that amusingly short-sighted old Conspirator, it will
be only fair to notify him that his age and experience, even his
captivating habits and well-known hospitality, will be treated with
scorn, rather than respect, in the paragraphs which he virtually forces
me to write; and he is hereby invited to view his own feather on the
fatal dart.
Whilst a peculiar defect--which I scarcely like to call an oversight in
mental construction--shuts me out from the flowery pathway of the
romancer, a co-ordinate requital endows me, I trust, with the more
sterling, if less ornamental qualities of the chronicler. This fairly
equitable compensation embraces, I have been told, three distinct
attributes: an intuition which reads men like sign-boards; a limpid
veracity; and a memory which habitually stereotypes all impressions
except those relating to personal injuries.
Submitting, then, to the constitutional interdict already glanced at, and

availing myself of the implied license to utilise that homely talent of
which I am the bailee, I purpose taking certain entries from my diary,
and amplifying these to the minutest detail of occurrence or
conversation. This will afford to the observant reader a fair picture of
Life, as that engaging problem has presented itself to me.
Twenty-two consecutive editions of Lett's Pocket Diary, with one week
in each opening, lie on the table before me; all filled up, and in a decent
state of preservation. I think I shall undertake the annotation of a
week's record. A man might, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in
this attempt; but I shut my eyes, and take up one of the little volumes. It
proves to be the edition of 1883. Again I shut my eyes while I open the
book at random. It is the week beginning with Sunday, the 9th of
September.
SUN. SEPT. 9. Thomp. Coop. &c. 10-Mile Pines. Cleo. Duff. Selec.
The fore part of the day was altogether devoid of interest or event.
Overhead, the sun blazing wastefully and thanklessly through a rarefied
atmosphere; underfoot the hot, black clay, thirsting for spring rain, and
bare except for inedible roley-poleys, coarse tussocks, and the woody
stubble of close-eaten salt-bush; between sky and earth, a solitary
wayfarer, wisely lapt in philosophic torpor. Ten yards behind the grey
saddle-horse follows a black pack-horse, lightly loaded; and three yards
behind the pack-horse ambles listlessly a tall, slate-coloured kangaroo
dog, furnished with the usual poison muzzle--a light wire basket, worn
after the manner of a nose-bag.
Mile after mile we go at a good walk, till the dark boundary of the
scrub country disappears northward in the glassy haze, and in front,
southward, the level black-soil plains of Riverina Proper mark a
straight sky-line, broken here and there by a monumental clump or
pine-ridge. And away beyond the horizon, southward still, the geodesic
curve carries that monotony across the zone of salt-bush, myall, and
swamp box; across the Lachlan and Murrumbidgee, and on to the
Victorian border--say, two hundred and fifty miles.
Just about mid-day, the station track I was following intersected and
joined the stock route; and against the background of a pine-ridge, a
mile ahead, I saw some wool-teams. When I overtook them, they had
stopped for dinner among the trees. One of the party was an intimate
friend of mine, and three others were acquaintances; so, without any of

the ceremony which prevails in more refined circles,