leness 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. His materials were simplicity itself:
his forks, which were always with him, and another's well-filled pocket,
since, sensible of danger, he cared not to risk his neck for a purse
that did not contain so much as would 'sweeten a grawler.' At its
best, his method was always witty--that is the single word which will
characterise it--witty as a piece of Heine's prose, and as dangerous. He
would run over a man's pockets while he spoke with him, returning what
he chose to discard without the lightest breath of suspicion. 'A good
workman,' his contemporaries called him; and they thought it a shame
for him to be idle. Moreover, he did not blunder unconsciously upon his
triumph; he tackled the trade in so fine a spirit of analysis that he
might have been the very Aristotle of his science. 'The keek-cloy,' he
wrote, in his hints to young sportsmen, 'is easily picked. If the notes
are in the long fold just tip them the forks; but if there is a purse
or open money in the case, you must link it.' The breast-pocket, on the
other hand, is a severer test. 'Picking the suck is sometimes a kittle
job,' again th