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
his early youth until in 1819 he sent forth his Memoirs to the world, he
lived industriously upon the cross. There was no racket but he worked it
with energy and address. Though he practised the more glorious crafts of
pickpocket and shoplifter, he did not despise the begging-letter, and
he suffered his last punishment for receiving what another's courage had
conveyed.
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