The blame lies, not with the newspapers, but with the system of turning upon the murderer’s cell a light as fierce as that which the poet tells us beats upon a throne.
The journalist is the servant of the public, and the appetite for news about the murderer’s daily habits being strong, he has no choice but to provide all he can obtain.
He may condemn the publication of a rogue’s correspondence with his wife, his mistress, and his pals; but he cannot prevent it.
It has often been our duty to comment with severity upon such a parade of crime as the career of the man who was hanged in Armley gaol-yard on that Tuesday afforded to the British public. In Peace’s instance, however, the abuse was carried to the wildest excess. The public were with the Bannercross murderer night and day, from the hour when he was condemned, to the gallows.
The comings and goings of the unfortunate people connected with him were chronicled as methodically as the “Court Newsman” imparts to the public the airings and the dinners of the Royal family.
That on the fatal morning bacon and eggs were provided for him before his long journey; and that, albeit livid white, he ate with some relish before he sat down to write a parting letter to his wife—are facts in the biography of Charles Peace which the world that dotes on Newgate records would not willingly let die. We have chronicled them accordingly.
The culprit was even allowed to address a homily to the reporters, in the character of a man who had done with the wickedness of this world, and would be, in a few moments, among the angels.
He gave friends and foes his blessing, and wished they might follow him to Heaven. There are still people who, as the author of “The Fable for Critics” remarks—
“—think it looks odd
To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God.”