The Madman and the Pirate by Robert Michael Ballantyne

Author:Robert Michael Ballantyne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ManyBooks.net

Chapter IX.

Who shall tell, or who shall understand, the thoughts of Richard Rosco, the ex-pirate, as he wandered, lost yet regardless, in that dismal swamp?

The human spirit is essentially galvanic. It jumps like a grasshopper, bounds like a kangaroo. The greatest of men can only restrain it in a slight degree. The small men either have exasperating trouble with it, or make no attempt to curb it at all. It is a rebellious spirit. The best of books tells us that, "Greater is he that ruleth it, than he that taketh a city."

Think of that, youngster, whoever you are, who readeth this. Think of the conquerors of the world. Think of the "Great" Alexander, whose might was so tremendous that he subjugated kingdoms and spent his life in doing little else. Think of Napoleon "the Great," whose armies ravaged Europe from the Atlantic to Asia: who even began--though he failed to finish--the conquest of Africa; who made kings as you might make pasteboard men, and filled the civilised world with fear, as well as with blood and graves--all for his own glorification! Think of these and other "great" men, and reflect that it is written, "He who rules his own spirit" is greater than they.

Yes, the human spirit is difficult to deal with, and uncomfortably explosive. At least so Richard Rosco found it when, towards the close of the day on which his enemy chased him into the dismal swamp, he sat down on a gnarled root and began to reflect.

His spirit jumped almost out of him with contempt, when he thought that for the first time in his life, he had fled in abject terror from the face of man! He could not conceal that from himself, despite the excuse suggested by pride--that he had half believed Zeppa to be an apparition. What even if that were true? Had he not boastfully said more than once that he would defy the foul fiend himself if he should attempt to thwart him? Then his spirit bounded into a region of disappointed rage when he thought of the lost opportunity of stabbing his enemy to the heart. After that, unbidden, and in spite of him, it dropped into an abyss of something like fierce despair when he recalled the past surveyed the present, and forecast the future. Truly, if hell ever does begin to men on earth, it began that day to the pirate, as he sat in the twilight on the gnarled root, with one of his feet dangling in the slimy water, his hands clasped so tight that the knuckles stood out white, and his eyes gazing upwards with an expression that seemed the very embodiment of woe.

Then his spirit lost its spring, and he began to crawl, in memory, on the shores of "other days." He thought of the days when, comparatively innocent he rambled on the sunny hills of old England; played and did mischief with comrades; formed friendships and fought battles, and knew what it was

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