The human spirit is essentially2 galvanic. It jumps like a grasshopper3, bounds like a kangaroo. The greatest of men can only restrain it in a slight degree. The small men either have exasperating4 trouble with it, or make no attempt to curb5 it at all. It is a rebellious6 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 conquerors7 of the world. Think of the “Great” Alexander, whose might was so tremendous that he subjugated8 kingdoms and spent his life in doing little else. Think of Napoleon “the Great,” whose armies ravaged9 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 glorification10! 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 abject11 terror from the face of man! He could not conceal12 that from himself, despite the excuse suggested by pride—that he had half believed Zeppa to be an apparition13. What even if that were true? Had he not boastfully said more than once that he would defy the foul14 fiend himself if he should attempt to thwart15 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 twilight16 on the gnarled root, with one of his feet dangling17 in the slimy water, his hands clasped so tight that the knuckles18 stood out white, and his eyes gazing upwards19 with an expression that seemed the very embodiment of woe20.
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 rambled21 on the sunny hills of old England; played and did mischief22 with comrades; formed friendships and fought battles, and knew what it was to experience good impulses; understood the joy of giving way to these, as well as the depression consequent on resisting them; and recalled the time when he regarded his mother as the supreme23 judge in every case of difficulty—the only comforter in every time of sorrow.
At this point his spirit grovelled24 like a crushed worm in the stagnant25 pool of his despair, for he had no hope. He had sinned every opportunity away. He had defied God and man, and nothing was left to him, apparently26, save “a fearful looking-for of judgment27.”
As he bent28 over the pool he saw his own distorted visage dimly reflected therein, and the thought occurred,—“Why not end it all at once? Five minutes at the utmost and all will be over!” The pirate was a physically29 brave man beyond his fellows. He had courage to carry the idea into effect but—“after death the judgment!” Where had he heard these words? They were strange to him, but they were not new. Those who are trained in the knowledge of God’s Word are not as a general rule, moved in an extraordinary degree by quotations30 from it. It is often otherwise with those who have had little of it instilled31 into them in youth and none in later years. That which may seem to a Christian32 but a familiar part of the “old, old story,” sometimes becomes to hundreds and thousands of human beings a startling revelation. It was so to the pirate on this occasion. The idea of judgment took such a hold of him that he shrank from death with far more fear than he ever had, with courage, faced it in days gone by. Trembling, terrified, abject he sat there, incapable33 of consecutive34 thought or intelligent action.
At last the gloom which had been slowly deepening over the swamp sank into absolute blackness, and the chills of night, which were particularly sharp in such places, began to tell upon him. But he did not dare to move, lest he should fall into the swamp. Slowly he extended himself on the root; wound his arms and fingers convulsively among leaves and branches, and held on like a drowning man. An ague-fit seemed to have seized him, for he trembled violently in every limb; and as his exhausted35 spirit was about to lose itself in sleep, or, as it seemed to him, in death, he gave vent36 to a subdued37 cry, “God be merciful to me a sinner!”
Rest, such as it was, refreshed the pirate, and when the grey dawn, struggling through the dense38 foliage39, awoke him, he rose up with a feeling of submissiveness which seemed, somehow, to restore his energy.
He was without purpose, however, for he knew nothing of his surroundings, and, of course, could form no idea of what was best to be done. In these circumstances he rose with a strange sensation of helplessness, and wandered straight before him.
And oh! how beautiful were the scenes presented to his vision! Everything in this world is relative. That which is hideous40 at one time is lovely at another. In the night the evening, or at the grey dawn, the swamp was indeed dismal in the extreme; but when the morning advanced towards noon all that was changed, as if magically, by the action of the sun. Black, repulsive41 waters reflected patches of the bright blue sky, and every leaf, and spray, and parasite42, and tendril, that grew in the world above was faithfully mirrored in the world below. Vistas43 of gnarled roots and graceful44 stems and drooping45 boughs46 were seen on right and left, before and behind, extending as if into infinite space, while innumerable insects, engaged in the business of their brief existence, were filling the region with miniature melodies.
But Richard Rosco saw it not. At least it made no sensible impression on him. His mental retina was capable of receiving only two pictures: the concentrated accumulation of past sin—the terrible anticipation47 of future retribution. Between these two, present danger and suffering were well-nigh forgotten.
Towards noon, however, the sense of hunger began to oppress him. He allayed48 it with a few wild berries. Then fatigue49 began to tell, for walking from root to root sometimes on short stretches of solid land, sometimes over soft mud, often knee-deep in water, was very exhausting. At last he came to what appeared to be the end of the swamp, and here he discovered a small patch of cultivated ground.
The discovery awoke him to the necessity of caution, but he was awakened50 too late, for already had one of the Raturan natives observed him advancing out of the swamp. Instantly he gave the alarm that a “white face” was approaching. Of course the appearance of one suggested a scout51, and the speedy approach of a host. Horrified52 to see a supposed enemy come from a region which they had hitherto deemed their sure refuge, the few natives who dwelt there flew to arms, and ran to meet the advancing foe53.
The pirate was not just then in a mood to resist. He had no weapon, and no spirit left. He therefore suffered himself to be taken prisoner without a struggle, satisfied apparently to know that the madman was not one of those into whose hands he had fallen.
Great was the rejoicing among the Raturans when the prisoner was brought in, for they were still smarting under the humiliation54 of their defeat, and knew well that their discomfiture55 had been largely owing to the influence of “white faces.” True, they did not fall into the mistake of supposing that Rosco was the awful giant who had chased and belaboured them so unmercifully with a long stake, but they at once concluded that he was a comrade of Zeppa—perhaps one of a band who had joined their foes56. Besides, whether he were a comrade or not was a matter of small moment. Sufficient for them that his face was white, that he belonged to a race which, in the person of Zeppa, had wrought57 them evil, and that he was now in their power.
Of course, the Raturans had not during all these years, remained in ignorance of the existence of Zeppa. They had heard of his dwelling58 in the mountain soon after he had visited the village of their enemies, and had also become aware of the fact that the white man was a madman and a giant, but more than this they did not know, because of their feud59 preventing interchange of visits or of news between the tribes. Their imaginations, therefore, having full swing, had clothed Zeppa in some of the supposed attributes of a demigod. These attributes, however, the same imaginations quickly exchanged for those of a demi-devil, when at last they saw Zeppa in the flesh, and were put to flight by him. His size, indeed, had rather fallen short of their expectation, for sixty feet had been the average estimate, but his fury and aspect had come quite up to the mark, and the fact that not a man of the tribe had dared to stand before him, was sufficient to convince a set of
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