he was a fair fighter, that he always gave fair warning to those on
whom he fired, and that, being a dead shot, the many wide shots which
he fired are to be reckoned proofs of this. Peace maintained to the last
that he had never intended to kill Dyson. This statement ex-detective
Parrock believed, and that the fatal shot was fired over Peace's
shoulder as he was making off. Though habitually sober, Peace was made
intoxicated now and then by the drink, stood him by those whom he used
to amuse with his musical tricks and antics in public-houses. At such
times he would get fuddled and quarrelsome. He was in such a frame
of mind on the evening of Dyson's murder. His visit to the Vicar of
Ecclesall brought him little comfort or consolation. It was in this
unsatisfactory frame of mind that he went to Dyson's house. This much
the ex-detective would urge in his favour. To his neighbours he was an
awe-inspiring but kind and sympathetic man. "If you want my true opinion
of him," says Detective Parrock, "he was a burglar to the backbone but
not a murderer at heart. He deserved the fate that came to him as little
as any who in modern times have met with a like one." Those who are in
the fighting line are always the most generous about their adversaries.
Parrock as a potential target for Peace's revolver, may have erred on
the side of generosity, but there is some truth in what he says.

As Peace himself admitted, his life had been base. He was well aware
that he had misused such gifts as nature had bestowed on him. One
must go back to mediaeval times to find the counterpart of this daring
ruffian who, believing in personal God and devil, refuses until the end
to allow either to interfere with his business in life. In this respect
Charles Peace reminds us irresistibly of our Angevin kings.

There is only one criminal who vies with Charley Peace in that genial
popular regard which makes Charles "Charley" and John "Jack," and that
is Jack Sheppard. What Jack was to the eighteenth century, that Charley
was to the nineteenth. And each one is in a sense typical of his period.
Lecky has said that the eighteenth century is richer than any other
in the romance of crime. I think it may fairly be said that in the
nineteenth century the romance of crime ceased to be. In the eighteenth
century the scenery and dresses, all the stage setting of crime make for
romance; its literature is quaint and picturesque; there is something
gay and debonair a