Such, then, is the contrast between the heroes.  Sheppard claims our admiration for one masterpiece.  Cartouche has a sheaf of works, which shall carry him triumphantly to the remotest future.

And when you forget a while professional rivalry, and consider the delicacies of leisure, you will find the Frenchman’s greatness still indisputable.  At all points he was the prettier gentleman.  Sheppard, to be sure, had a sense of finery, but he was so unused to grandeur that vulgarity always spoiled his effects.  When he hied him from the pawnshop, laden with booty, he must e’en cram what he could not wear into his pockets; and doubtless his vulgar lack of reticence made detection easier.  Cartouche, on the other hand, had an unfailing sense of proportion, and was never more dressed than became the perfect dandy.  He was elegant, he was polished, he was joyous.  He drank wine, while the other soaked himself in beer; he despised whatever was common, while his rival knew but the coarser flavours of life.

The one was distinguished by a boisterous humour, a swaggering pride in his own prowess; the wit of the other might be edged like a knife, nor would he ever appeal for a spectacle to the curiosity of the mob.  Both were men of many mistresses, but again in his conduct with women Cartouche showed an honester talent.  Sheppard was at once the prey and the whipping-block of his two infamous doxies, who agreed in deformity of feature as in contempt for their lover.  Cartouche, on the other hand, chose his cabaret for the wit of its patronne, and was always happy in the elegance and accomplishment of his companions.  One point of likeness remains.  The two heroes resembled each other not only in their profession, but in their person.  Though their trade demanded physical strength, each was small and slender of build.  ’A little, slight-limbed lad,’ says the historian of Sheppard.  ‘A thin, spare frame,’ sings the poet of Cartouche.  Here, then, neither had the advantage, and if in the shades Cartouche despises the clumsiness and vulgarity of his rival, Sheppard may still remember the glory of Newgate, and twit the Frenchman with the barking of the boxmaker’s dog.  But genius is the talent of the dead, and the wise, who are not partisans, will not deny to the one or to the other the possession of the rarer gift.

VAUX

To Haggart, who babbled on the Castle Rock of Willie Wallace and was only nineteen when he danced without the music; to Simms, alias Gentleman Harry, who showed at Tyburn how a hero could die; to George Barrington, the incomparably witty and adroit—­to these a full meed of honour has been paid.  Even the coarse and dastardly Freney has achieved, with Thackeray’s aid (and Lever’s) something of a reputation.  But James Hardy Vaux, despite his eloquent bid for fame, has not found his rhapsodist.  Yet a more consistent ruffian never pleaded for mercy.  From