The Newgate chronicle we have quoted tells us in a word how this comes to be.
If any man makes himself distinguished by crime a hundred stories are set in circulation, putting down things to him which he knew nothing about. Peace is no exception to this rule.
A leading London paper reported that he had paid a visit to Chislehurst as a private gentleman, who desired to build a habitation of a similar character—the real object of his visit, however, being to gain a knowledge of its interior for the purpose of carrying out a burglary on a large scale.
There is not a shadow of truth in this report. Peace was never at Chislehurst; neither did he ever contemplate breaking into the place.
It is a long time happily since this sort of scandal engaged the tongues and thoughts of the British public.
The days are gone by for ever when each county in England had its outlaw, whose achievements filled the “lying trump of fame,” and agitated society with a pleasing fear unfelt among our modern sensations.
When, however, at rare intervals, some superior villain appears above the lawless crowd, we find the old tendency to make the most or worst of him lingers not dead but sleeping.
Our hero is an instance in point.
We doubt, indeed, if any individual named in the long black bead-roll of the criminal calendar has inspired more invention, or figured in so much fancy, as Charles Peace.
His midnight adventures have not that strong flavour of exciting romance we find in the histories of bygone marauders.