EXPERT CLIMBERS--THE CRAGS--SOMETHING RED--THE HORRIBLE EDGE--DAVID
HAGGART--FINE MATERIALS--VICTORY--EXTRAORDINARY ROBBER--RULING PASSION
Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English
lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are
neither crags nor mountains. Of these, however, as is well known, there
is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in
harmony with the country in which they dwell. The Scotch are expert
climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language.
The Castle in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one,
which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those
of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable
mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible.
Indeed, what is there above man's exertions? Unwearied determination
will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and
assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and
sureness of foot. To scale the rock was merely child's play for the
Edinbro' callants. It was my own favourite diversion. I soon found that
the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses,
where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and
there were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and various
kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch
himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for
capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation.
The boldest features of the rock are descried on the northern side,
where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some distance, it
terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three
hundred feet at least, as if the axe of nature had been here employed
cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur--a
dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the
flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance
to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the Neutral
Ground.
It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to
occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon
the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a
sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch-tower, I found
myself on the northern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was
proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should
embrace half the circuit of the Castle, when suddenly my eye was
attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped
short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being
in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice
which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it
could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as
immovable as the rock on which it sat. 'I should never have thought of
going near that edge,' said I to myself; 'however, as you have done it,
why should not I? And I should like to know who you are.' So I
commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet
never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the
palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat
dizzy--and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had
recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle
in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now
rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He
turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly,
he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge;
not close, however, for fear was on me.
'What are you thinking of, David?' said I, as I sat behind him and
trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid.
_David Haggart_. I was thinking of Willie Wallace.
_Myself_. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place
this to come to and think of William Wallace.
_David Haggart_. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet?
_Myself_. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor' Loch--the ugly
stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke where
the watercresses grow?
_David Haggart_. Just sae, Geordie.
_Myself_. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long
since, as I have heard say.
_David Haggart_. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him.
_Myself_. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged?
_David Haggart_. I wadna flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a
great man first.
_Myself_. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without
hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld
drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general,
or drum-major.
_David Haggart_. I hae nae wish to be drum-major; it were nae great
things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they call him;
and, troth, he has nae his name for naething. But I should have nae
objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win
myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as
I have been reading about in his story book.
_Myself_. Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies.
Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel! I have heard my father say that the
Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace.
_David Haggart_. Ye had better sae naething agin Willie Wallace,
Geordie, for, if ye do, De'il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the
craig.
* * * * *
Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say. Yes, indeed, for a
hero, or for what he afterwards became. In other times, and under other
circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a
patriot, or a conqueror. As it was, the very qualities which might then
have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin. The
war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious
spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry.
'Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?' cries the fatalist.
Nonsense! A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being,
and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct. The greatest
victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those
unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place. David
did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing
it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood--under peculiar
circumstances, it is true, and without _malice prepense_--and for that
blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a
prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his
stalwart arm.
Tamerlane and Haggart! Haggart and Tamerlane! Both these men were
robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on an ignoble scaffold, and
the other died emperor of the world. Is this justice? The ends of the
two men were widely dissimilar--yet what is the intrinsic difference
between them? Very great indeed; the one acted according to his lights
and his country, not so the other. Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted
according to his lights; he was a robber where all around were robbers,
but he became the avenger of God--God's scourge on unjust kings, on the
cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers' eyes; he became to a
certain extent the purifier of the East, its regenerator; his equal never
was before, nor has it since been seen. Here the wild heart was
profitably employed, the wild strength, the teeming brain. Onward, Lame
one! Onward, Tamur!--lank! Haggart. . . .
But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in
judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and
perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not
be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed,
and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but
forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be
forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived
within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England,
too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when,
fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy
wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and racecourse, and also
in the solitary place. Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her
brogue better than thyself?--she felt proud of thee, and said, 'Sure,
O'Hanlon is come again.' What might not have been thy fate in the far
west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, 'I will go
there, and become an honest man!' But thou wast not to go there,
David--the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of
thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood. Seized, manacled,
brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy
narrow cell, and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short: and
there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the
crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself,
penned by thine own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest have been
better employed, David!--but the ruling passion was strong with thee,
even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have been better employed!--but
peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty's grace and pardon.