He was a
Tamerlane, robbed of his opportunity; a valiant warrior, who looked in
vain for a battlefield; a marauder who climbed the scaffold not for the
magnitude, but for the littleness of his sins. Thus Borrow, in complete
misunderstanding of the rascal's qualities.
Now, Haggart's ambition was as circumscribed as his ability. He died, as
he was born, an expert cly-faker, whose achievements in sleight of hand
are as yet unparalleled. Had the world been one vast breast pocket his
fish-hook fingers would have turned it inside out. But it was not his
to mount a throne, or overthrow a dynasty. 'My forks,' he boasted, 'are
equally long, and they never fail me.' That is at once the reason
and the justification of his triumph. Born with a consummate artistry
tingling at his finger-tips, how should he escape the compulsion of a
glorious destiny? Without fumbling or failure he discovered the single
craft for which fortune had framed him, and he pursued it with a courage
and an industry which gave him not a kingdom, but fame and booty,
exceeding even his greedy aspiration. No Tamerlane he, questing for a
continent, but David Haggart, the man with the long forks, happy if he
snatched his neighbour's purse.
Before all things he respected the profession which his left hand made
inevitable, and which he pursued with unconquerable pride. Nor in his
inspired youth was plunder his sole ambition: he cultivated the garden
of his style with the natural zeal of the artist; he frowned upon the
bungler with a lofty contempt.
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