[Each undertaking, great or small, of our lives has one controlling alternative, and no more. To ill.u.s.trate this from the play of Hamlet: You will notice that, up to a certain point of time, the Prince governs his own destiny--at least, as far as the Ghost"s commission is concerned, and this covers the whole drama. He is master and umpire of his circ.u.mstances, so that when two or more lines of action, or a line of action and a line of inaction, appear equally efficacious, he can select the one which appears to be of least resistance. But subsequent to that point of time, he is no longer the arbiter of his own situation, but rather the puppet of circ.u.mstances. There are no more divergent roads; if he desires to leave the one he has chosen, he must break blindly through a hedge of moral antagonisms. His alternatives have become so lopsided that practically there is only one course open. The initial exercise of judgment was not merely an antecedent to later developments of the plot; it was a Rubicon-crossing, which has committed the hero to a system of interlaced contingencies; and the tendency of this system bears him away, half-conscious of his own impotence, to where the rest is silence.
The turning-point is where Hamlet engages the Players to enact the Murder of Gonzago.
A major-alternative may create and enclose all the secondary alternatives of after life. A minor-alternative may exhaust itself in one minute, or less, leaving its indelible, though imperceptible, scar on the experimenter, and, through him, on the world in which he lives. The major-alternative is the Shakespearian "tide in the affairs of men," often recognised, though not formulated. In any case, each alternative brings into immediate play a flash of Free-will, pure and simple, which instantly gives place-- as far as that particular section of life is concerned--to the dominion of what we call Destiny. The two should never be confounded. "Who can control his fate?" asks the ruined Oth.e.l.lo. No one, indeed. But every one controls his option, chooses his alternative. Oth.e.l.lo himself had independently evolved the decision which fixed his fate, recognising it as such an alternative. Thus:--
Put out the light, and then--Put out the light?
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me;--but once put out thy light, Thou cunning"st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is the Promethean heat That can thy light relume. When I have plucked thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again; It needs must wither.
Also he perceives that it is a major-alternative which confronts him; and he contrasts this with the supposit.i.tious minor-alternative of extinguishing the lamp. But how often do we accept a major-alternative, whilst innocently oblivious to its gravity!
In Macbeth, the alternatives are very obvious. The interest of the play centres on the poise of incentive between action and non-action, and the absolute free-will of election. But that election once made, we see--and the hero himself acknowledges--a practical inevitableness in all succeeding atrocities which mark his career as king.
Such momentous alternatives are simply the voluntary rough-hewing of our own ends. Whether there"s a Divinity that afterwards shapes them, is a question which each inquirer may decide for himself. Say, however, that this postulated Divinity consists of the Universal Mind, and that the Universal Mind comprises the aggregate Human Intelligence, co-operating with some Moral Centre beyond. And that the spontaneous sway of this Influence is toward harmony--toward the smoothing of obstacles, the healing of wounds. In the axiom that "Nature reverts to the norm,"
there is a recognition of this restorative tendency; and the religious aspect of the same truth is expressed in the proverb that "G.o.d is Love."
For the gra.s.s will grow where Attila"s horse has trod, while that objectionable Hun himself is represented by a barrow-load of useful fertiliser.
But say that this always comes about by law of Cause (which is Human Free-will) and Effect (which is Destiny)--never by sporadic intervention.
Yet a certain scar, tracing its origin to an antecedent alternative, will remain as the signet of that limitation under which the Divinity works-- the limitation, namely, of Destiny, or the fixed issue of present effect from foregone cause; such cause having been perpetually directed and re-directed by recurring operation of individual Free-will, exercised, independently, by those emanations from the Moral Centre which, by courtesy, we call reasonable beings.
Vague? Yes. Well, put it in parable form. A young man has reached an absolute poise of incentive. He tosses a shekel. "Head--I go and see life; tail--I stay at home. Head it is." The alternative is accepted; whereupon Destiny puts in her spoke, bringing such vicissitudes as are inevitable on the initial option. In due time, another alternative presents itself, and the poise of incentive recurs. The Prodigal spits on a chip, and tosses it. "Wet--I crawl back home; dry--I see it out. Wet it is."
So he goes, to meet the ring, and the robe, and the fatted calf. His latter alternative has taken him home; and a felicitous option on the old man"s part has given him a welcome. But the earlier alternative is following him up, for the farm is gone! The old man himself cannot undo the effect of the foregone choice.
Or put it in allegorical form. The misty expanse of Futurity is radiated with divergent lines of rigid steel; and along one of these lines, with diminishing carbon and sighing exhaust, you travel at schedule speed.
At each junction, you switch right or left, and on you go still, up or down the way of your own choosing. But there is no stopping or turning back; and until you have pa.s.sed the current section there is no divergence, except by voluntary catastrophe. Another junction flashes into sight, and again your choice is made; negligently enough, perhaps, but still with a view to what you consider the greatest good, present or prospective.
One line may lead through the Slough of Despond, and the other across the Delectable Mountains, but you don"t know whether the section will prove rough or smooth, or whether it ends in a junction or a terminus, till the cloven mists of the Future melt into a manifest Present.
We know what we are, but we know not what we shall be.
Often the shunting seems a mere trifle; but, in reality, the switch is that wizard-wand which brings into evidence such corollaries of life as felicity or misery, peace or tribulation, honour or ignominy, found on the permanent way. For others, remember, as well as for ourselves. No one except the anchorite lives to himself; and he is merely a person who evades his responsibilities.
Here and there you find a curious complication of lines. From a junction in front, there stretches out into the mist a single line and a double line; and meantime, along a track converging toward your own, there spins a bright little loco., in holiday trim, dazzling you with her radiant head-lights, and commanding your admiration by her "tractive power.
Quick! Choose! Single line to the next junction, or double line to the terminus? A major-alternative, my boy! "Double line!" you say.
I thought so. Now you"ll soon have a long train of empty I"s to pull up the gradients; and while you snort and bark under a heavy draught, your disgusted consort will occasionally stimulate you with a "flying-kick"; and when this comes to pa.s.s, say Pompey told you so. To change the metaphor: Instead of remaining a self-sufficient lord of creation, whose house is thatched when his hat is on, you have become one of a Committee of Ways and Means--a committee of two, with power to add to your number.
Dan O"Connell, for instance, had negotiated this alternative, and, in the opinion of the barracks, had made his election in a remiss and casual way.
And as with the individual, so with the community. Men, thinking and acting in ma.s.s, do not (according to the accepted meaning of the phrase) follow the line of least resistance. The myriad-headed monster adopts the alternative which appears to promise such a line, but Its previsions are more often wrong than right; and, in such cases, the irresistible momentum of the Destiny called into being by Its short-sighted choice drives It helplessly along a line of the greatest conceivable resistance. Is n"t history a mere record of blundering option, followed by iron servitude to the irremediable suffering thereby entailed? Applied to the flying alternative, the "least resistance"
theory is gratuitously sound; beyond that, it is misleading. However, all this must be taken as referring back to my own apparently insignificant decision not to disturb the masterly inactivity of that sundowner under the wilga. Mere afterthoughts, introduced here by reason of their bearing on this simple chronicle.]
As a matter of fact, I approached Rory"s neat, two-roomed hut speculating as to why he had purposely left me to feel my own way. I soon formed a good rough guess. A neatly-dressed child, in a vast, white sun-bonnet, ran toward me as I came in sight, but presently paused, and returned at the same pace. On reaching the door I was met by a stern-looking woman of thirty-odd, to whom I introduced myself as an old friend of Mr. O"Halloran"s.
"Deed he hes plenty o" frien"s," replied the woman drily. "Are ye gunta stap the night?"
"Well, Mr. O"Halloran was kind enough to proffer his hospitality,"
I replied, pulling the pack-saddle off Bunyip. "By the way, I"m to tell you that he"ll be home presently."
"Nat a fear but he"ll be home at mail-time. An" a purty house he"s got fur till ax a sthranger intil."
"Now, Mrs. O"Halloran, it"s the loveliest situation I"ve seen within a hundred miles," I replied, as I set Cleopatra at liberty. "And the way that the place is kept reflects the very highest credit upon yourself."
Moreover, both compliments were as true as they were frank.
"Dacent enough for them that"s niver been used till betther. There"s a dale in how a body"s rairt."
"True, Mrs. O"Halloran," I sighed. "I"m sure you must feel it. But, my word! you can grow the right sort of children here! How old is the little girl?" My custom is to ask a mother the age of her child, and then express incredulity.
"Oul"er nor she"s good. She was five on the thurteenth iv last month."
"No, but seriously, Mrs. O"Halloran?"
"A"m always sayrious about telling the thruth." And with this retort courteous the impervious woman retired into her house, while I seated myself on the bucket stool against the wall, and proceeded to fill my pipe.
"We got six goats--pure Angoras," remarked the little girl, approaching me with instinctive courtesy. "We keep them for milkin"; an" Daddy shears them ivery year."
"I noticed them coming along," I replied. "They"re beautiful goats.
And I see you"ve got some horses too."
"Yis; three. We bought wan o" them chape, because he hed a sore back, fram a shearer, an" it"s nat hailed up yit. Daddy rides the other wans.
E-e-e! can"t my Daddy ride! An" he ken grow melons, an" he ken put up shelves, an" he knows iverything!"
"Yes; your Daddy"s a good man. I knew him long, long ago, when there was no you. What"s your name, dear?"
"Mary."
"She"s got no name," remarked the grim voice from the interior of the house.
And the mild, apologetic glance of the child in my face completed a mental apprais.e.m.e.nt of Rory"s family relations.
Half an hour pa.s.sed pleasantly enough in this kind of conversation; then Rory came in sight at the wicket gate where I had entered. Mary forgot my existence in a moment, and raced toward him, opening a conversation at the top of her voice while he was still a quarter of a mile distant.
When they met, he dismounted, and, placing her astride on the saddle, continued his way with the expression of a man whose cup of happiness is wastefully running over.
I had leisure to observe the child critically as she sat bareheaded beside Rory at the tea-table, glancing from time to time at me for the tribute of admiration due to each remark made by that nonpareil of men.
She was not only a strikingly beautiful child, but the stamp of child that expands into a beautiful woman. In spite of her half-Anglican lineage and Antipodean birth, there was something almost amusing in the strong racial index of her pure Irish face. The black hair and eye-brows were there, with eyes of indescribable blue; the full, shapely lips, and that delicate contour of chin which specially marks the highest type of a race which is not only non-Celtic but non-Aryan.
It is not the Celtic element that makes the Irish people a bundle of inconsistencies--clannish, yet disjunctive; ardent, yet unstable; faithful, yet perfidious; exceeding loveable for its own impulsive love, yet a broken reed to lean upon. It is not the Celt who has made Irish history an unexampled record of patience and insubordination, of devotion and treachery. The Celt, though fiery, is shrewd, sensible, and practical.
It has been truly said that Western Britain is more Celtic than Eastern Ireland. But the whole Anglo-Celtic mixture is a thing of yesterday.
Before the eagle of the Tenth Legion was planted on the sh.o.r.e of Cantium-- before the first Phoenician ship stowed tin at the Ca.s.siterides--the Celt had inhabited the British Islands long enough to branch into distinct sub-races, and to rise from paloeolithic savagery to the use of metals, the domestication of animals, and the observance of elaborate religious rites.
Yet, relatively, this antique race is of last week only. For, away beyond the Celt, paloeontology finds an earlier Brito-Irish people, of different origin and physical characteristics. And there is little doubt that, forced westward by Celtic invaders, of more virile type, and more capable of organisation, that immemorial race is represented by the true Irish of to-day. The black hair, a.s.sociated with deep-blue eyes and a skin of extreme whiteness, found abundantly in Ireland, and amongst the offspring of Irish emigrants, are, in all probability, tokens of descent from this appallingly ancient people. The type appears occasionally in the Basque provinces, and on the Atlantic coast of Morocco, but nowhere else.
Few civilised races inhabit the land where the fossil relics of their own lineal ancestors mark the furthest point of human occupancy; yet it would seem to be so with the true Irish. In what other way can this anomalous variety of the human race be accounted for? Ay, and beyond the earliest era noted by ethnography, this original Brito-Irish race must have differentiated itself from the unknown archetype, and, by mere genealogical succession, must have fixed its characteristics so tenaciously as to persist through the random admixture of conquests and colonisations during countless generations. "G.o.d is eternal," says a fine French apothegm, "but man is very old."
And very new. Mary O"Halloran was perfect Young-Australian. To describe her from after-knowledge--she was a very creature of the phenomena which had environed her own dawning intelligence. She was a child of the wilderness, a dryad among her kindred trees. The long-descended poetry of her nature made the bush vocal with pure gladness of life; endowed each tree with sympathy, respondent to her own fellowship. She had noticed the dusky aspect of the ironwood; the volumed c.u.muli of rich olive-green, crowning the lordly currajong; the darker shade of the wilga"s ma.s.sy foliage-cataract; the clearer tint of the tapering pine; the clean-spotted column of the leopard tree, creamy white on slate, from base to topmost twig. She pitied the unlovely belar, when the wind sighed through its coa.r.s.e, scanty, grey-green tresses; and she loved to contemplate the silvery plumage of the two drooping myalls which, because of their rarity here, had been allowed to remain in the horse-paddock. For the last two or three springs of her vivacious existence, she had watched the deepening crimson of the quondong, amidst its thick contexture of Nile-green leaves; she had marked the unfolding bloom of the scrub, in its many-hued beauty; she had revelled in the audacious black-and-scarlet glory of the desert pea.
She knew the dwelling-place of every loved companion; and, by necessity, she had her own names for them all--since her explorations were carried out on Rory"s shoulders, or on his saddle, and technicalities never troubled him.
To her it was a new world, and she saw that it was good. All those impressions which endear the memory of early scenes to the careworn heart were hers in their vivid present, intensified by the strong ideality of her nature, and undisturbed by other companionship, save that of her father.
This brings us to the other mark of a personality so freshly minted as to have taken no more than two impressions. Rory was her guide, philosopher, and crony. He was her overwhelming ideal of power, wisdom, and goodness; he was her help in ages past, her hope for years to come (no irreverence intended here; quite the reverse, for if true family life existed, we should better apprehend the meaning of "Our Father, who art in heaven"); he was her Ancient of Days; her shield, and her exceeding great reward.
A new position for Rory; and he grasped it with all the avidity of a love-hungered soul. The whole current of his affections, thwarted and repulsed by the world"s indifference, found lavish outlet here.
After tea, Rory took a billy and went out into the horse-paddock to milk the goats--Mary, of course, clinging to his side. I remained in the house, confiding to Mrs. O"Halloran the high respect which Rory"s principles and abilities had always commanded. But she was past all that; and I had to give it up. When a woman can listen with genuine contempt to the spontaneous echo of her husband"s popularity, it is a sure sign that she has explored the profound depths of masculine worthlessness; and there is no known antidote to this fatal enlightenment.
Rory"s next duty was to chop up a bit of firewood, and stack it beside the door. Dusk was gathering by this time; and Mrs. O"Halloran called Mary to prepare her for the night, while Rory and I seated ourselves on the bucket-stool outside. Presently a lighted lamp was placed on the table, when we removed indoors. Then Mary, in a long, white garment, with her innocent face shining from the combined effects of perfect happiness and unmerciful washing, climbed on Rory"s knees--not to bid him goodnight, but to compose herself to sleep.