tural vanity
lifts each of them out of the pit of commonplace on to the tableland of
the heroic. They set forth their depredation, as a victorious general
might record his triumphs, and they excel the nimblest Ordinary that
ever penned a dying speech in all the gifts of the historian.

But when you leave the study for the field, the Switcher instantly
declares his superiority. He had the happiness to practise his craft
in its heyday, while Simms knew but the fag-end of a noble tradition.
Haggart, moreover, was an expert, pursuing a difficult art, while Simms
was a bully, plundering his betters by bluff. Simms boasted no quality
which might be set off against the accurate delicacy of Haggart's hand.
The Englishman grew rich upon a rolling eye and a rusty pistol. He put
on his 'fiercest manner,' and believed that the world would deny him
nothing. The Scot, rejoicing in his exquisite skill, went to work
without fuss or bluster, and added the joy of artistic pride to his
delight in plunder. Though Simm's manner seems the more chivalrous, it
required not one tithe of the courage which was Haggart's necessity. On
horseback, with the semblance of a fire-arm, a man may easily challenge
a coachful of women. It needs a cool brain and a sound courage to
empty a pocket in the watchful presence of spies and policemen. While
Gentleman Harry chose a lonely road, or the cover of night for his
exploits, the Switcher always worked by day, hustled by a crowd of
witnesses.

Their hours of leisure furnish a yet more striking contrast. Simms was a
polished dandy delighting in his clothes, unhappy if he were deprived
of his bottle and his game. Haggart, on the other hand, was before
all things sealed to his profession. He would have deserted the gayest
masquerade, had he ever strayed into so light a frivolity, for the
chance of lightening a pocket. He tasted but few amusements without the
limits of his craft, and he preserved unto the end a touch of that dour
character which is the heritage of his race. But, withal, he was an
amiable decent body, who would have recoiled in horror from the drunken
brutality of Gentleman Harry. Though he bragged to George Combe of his
pitiless undoing of wenches, he never thrust a crab-stick into a
woman's eye, and he was incapable of rewarding a kindness by robbery and
neglect. Once--at Newcastle--he arrayed himself in a smart white coat
and tops, but the splendour ill became his red-headed awkwardness, and