aise 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