Nothing can be more false; for he who has once declared himself among the great ones of the earth, not only holds his position while he lives, but forces an unreasoning admiration upon the future.  Though he declines from the lofty throne, whereon his own vanity and love of praise have set him, he still stands above the modest level which contents the genuinely great.  Why does Euripides still throw a shadow upon the worthier poets of his time?  Because he had the faculty of displacement, because he could compel the world to profess an interest not only in his work but in himself.  Why is Michael Angelo a loftier figure in the history of art than Donatello, the supreme sculptor of his time?  Because Donatello had not the temper which would bully a hundred popes, and extract a magnificent advertisement from each encounter.  Why does Shelley still claim a larger share of the world’s admiration than Keats, his indubitable superior?  Because Shelley was blessed or cursed with the trick of interesting the world by the accidents of his life.

So by a similar faculty Gilderoy and Jack Rann have kept themselves and their achievements in the light of day.  Had they lived in the nineteenth century they might have been the vendors of patent pills, or the chairmen of bubble companies.  Whatever trade they had followed, their names would have been on every hoarding, their wares would have been puffed in every journal.  They understood the art of publicity better than any of their contemporaries, and they are remembered not because they were the best thieves of their time, but because they were determined to interest the people in their misdeeds.  Gilderoy’s brutality, which was always theatrical, ensured a constant remembrance, and the lofty gallows added to his repute; while the brilliant inspiration of the strings, which decorated Rann’s breeches, was sufficient to conquer death.  How should a hero sink to oblivion who had chosen for himself so splendid a name as Sixteen-String Jack?

So far, then, their achievement is parallel.  And parallel also is their taste for melodrama.  Each employed means too great or too violent for the end in view.  Gilderoy burnt houses and ravished women, when his sole object was the acquisition of money.  Sixteen-String Jack terrified Bagnigge Wells with the dreadful announcement that he was a highwayman, when his kindly, stupid heart would have shrunk from the shedding of a drop of blood.  So they both blustered through the world, the one in deed, the other in word; and both played their parts with so little refinement that they frightened the groundlings to a timid admiration.  Here the resemblance is at an end.  In the essentials of their trade Gilderoy was a professional, Rann a mere amateur.  They both bullied; but, while Sixteen-String Jack was content to shout threats, and pick up half-a-crown, Gilderoy breathed murder, and demanded a vast ransom.  Only once in his career did the ‘disgraceful Scotsman’ become gay and debonair.  Only