PEACE’S PROVINCIAL TOUR――THE “OLD CARVED LION.”
We now arrive at another phase in the history of the criminal whose
career we are shadowing forth. Peace, after his release, returned to
his native town, and resided for many months with his mother.
To all appearance he was a good citizen, and an industrious man
enough, who managed to earn sufficient for his own requirements.
It was not known in Sheffield that he had “been in trouble.” Those who
were interested in his welfare were in great hopes that he would turn
from dishonest courses and taste the sweets of honest industry.
Certainly for a long time after the “Gothic Cottage” affair he was
more circumspect in his conduct and general behaviour. For the greater
portion of his life he seems to have lived on the border line of
respectability and decent dulness, and at times appeared to settle
down to an honest life.
But he deliberately chose evil for good――the old craving for adventure
and excitement would come over him again, and he would plunge headlong
into the realms of desperate lawlessness to re-emerge shortly in the
daylight as a quiet and steady young member of society.
His single-handed self-reliant way of going to work is perhaps the
most notable of his characteristics.
He trusted to himself and no one else.
Whilst this saved him from the danger of weak and treacherous
accomplices, it made much larger demands upon his audacity and
self-possession.
Thus it came to pass that thousands for whom a vulgar career of crime
and violence has no attractions are compelled to feel some interest in
a man who is almost unique in the annals of crime.
It is not so much, however, for his commanding superiority in any one
department of criminal activity as for the rare combination of his
various talents that Charles Peace commands attention.
He was a veritable genius, who reached a high level of excellence in
many branches of his profession.
There have been more daring highway robberies and more extensive
burglaries than any which he is known to have committed.
But few men have caused more widespread terror, or created more
profound attention by the suddenness and the brilliant success of
their exploits.
It would be a great misfortune if the boldness and fearlessness of
this bad man were to blind even the most thoughtless to the utter
worthlessness of his character.
In shadowing forth his lawless career we are under the impression that
it will act as a warning to those who peruse these pages.
It will prove beyond all question the truth of the axiom, “That a life
of crime is always a life of care.”
In nothing does his baseness more transparently appear than in his
miserable apologies and self-justifications with which his religious
experiences are interlarded.
Assuming, as we are anxious to do, that these pious utterances of his
later days are not wilfully insincere, they nevertheless betray an
utter moral blindness.
He was very willing to call his past life wicked in general terms, but
for his worst transgressions he had some extenuating plea, which
destroyed the validity of his assumed penitence.
If he could have been turned loose upon society again, one can hardly
venture to hope that his future life would have corresponded with his
edifying conduct in gaol.
The curiosity of the public to know all about Peace and his life need
not be regarded with too despondent an eye.
If any adventurous and high-spirited youth sees anything to admire in
our hero’s career he will do well to remember that the grandest
successes of a criminal course are at the best but wretched failures.
Peace had probably a far smoother life than most offenders of equal
activity.
Yet he spent some considerable part of his time in prison, and in the
full noontide of his prosperity hardly reaped as much fruit from his
misapplied talents as those talents would have yielded in any honest
walk of life.
Peace’s strongly marked preference for the revolver was fatal to the
picturesque development of his talents.
The truth is, that the particular offender had no special affection
for blood-shedding.
Strong as were the fascinations of a criminal life, he chiefly had an
eye to business.
In the heat of passion, or with a view to save himself, he was
thoroughly unscrupulous about taking life, but he was not anxious to
compromise himself by any needless slaughter.
Yet for coolness, promptitude, and self-reliance he has seldom been
surpassed.
He never suffered himself to be betrayed into any acts of overwhelming
fatuity and oversight such as those which have often led the most
skilful to their ruin.
In him there was an assemblage of qualities such as one man rarely
possesses.
Peace took great interest in carving, architecture, and works of art
of every conceivable description. While at Sheffield, during the few
months he remained a decent member of society, he paid frequent visits
to the museums and other institutions, and he promised to compete for
the prize in wood-carving in the forthcoming exhibition.
But the old feeling for change and adventure came over him, and he
determined upon leaving his native town for a while. Business was not
very brisk with him at this time――so he thought it advisable to shift
his quarters.
He had purchased a number of cheap, showy, attractive-looking prints,
together with a large collection of photographs, many of which were
copyright, being reproductions from well-known pictures.
In addition to these he had a number of other photographs, which it
would not have been advisable for anyone to sell, seeing that they
rendered the vendor liable to imprisonment under Lord Campbell’s Act.
But this Peace did not much care about.
He felt assured that he was well able to evade the law.
Having renewed his hawker’s licence and packed up his goods in as
small a compass as possible he bade adieu to his mother and friends at
Sheffield and set out on his pilgrimage.
A wandering life was consonant to his general disposition and
temperament.
Shouldering his pack with his stout oaken stick and his dog, “Gip,” he
commenced his journey.
It was only spring time, and he had the best part of the year before
him. He paid a visit to Worksop, Huddersfield, Marborough, and
Barnsley, calling at several hamlets and villages of lesser note.
He made a long stay in the last-named place; he met there a young man
who was a “nigger delineator,” as they term themselves in the
advertisements in a certain theatrical paper. Peace found in this
person a congenial spirit, and they took a commodious room in the town
and gave “nigger” entertainments three nights in the week――namely,
Saturdays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. The two first were the most
profitable, the working class being usually more flush of money.
Peace and his brother artist were tolerably successful, playing on
most occasions to a small profit. They would in all probability have
continued these performances had they not been brought to a close by
Peace’s companion signing articles of engagement with a troupe who
visited the town on a provincial tour.
Peace, therefore, left and proceeded to the next town with his wares.
In some of the places he visited he was tolerably successful. He sold
many prints and photos, and realised a fair profit.
Sometimes he put up at a roadside inn, while at others he took
lodgings in a quiet, respectable cottage for a few days.
At this time his life could not be considered in any way
disreputable――he was sober and industrious.
It is true that during his peregrinations he was in no way particular
about disposing of prints and photos of a contraband nature, but he
used a great amount of discretion in his dealing in goods of this
description.
It was towards the close of a bright autumnal day that he arrived
wearied and footsore in sight of a roadside inn, which stood half-way
between two villages in Yorkshire. The sign of this wayside inn was
the “Old Carved Lion.”
Over the facia of the establishment was a wooden effigy of the king of
beasts. Who carved this hideous animal it is not possible to say――it
was about on a par with others one sees in houses of public
entertainment in the metropolis and elsewhere.
About thirty yards off the “Old Carved Lion” stood a handpost, with
its four white arms pointing down the four cross roads.
Some few years before there had been only one handpost within four
miles of this spot, and that so defaced and overgrown with moss that
it was impossible to decipher a letter.
But fortunately, a nobleman who lived in the neighbourhood happened to
lose his way among the dark woods which encircled it, and did not
arrive home till his soup was ice, his fish rags, and his sirloin of
beef a cinder.
An order was consequently passed by the bench that handposts should be
erected in all the parishes under their surveillance at every cross
road and turning――the expenses to be defrayed by the funds of the
respective parishes.
In rural districts, before any improvements are permitted to be made
or nuisances removed, a human being must die or a person of note be
inconvenienced.
In the days of the defaced handpost, before railways were in vogue,
the “Old Carved Lion” had been a large coaching hotel, furnished with
an unbounded amount of accommodation for man and beast.
At the time we make its acquaintance the landlord had turned small
farmer, and had aggrandised his stables into barns, and degraded his
spare bedrooms into lumber garrets.
However, the good, dry skittle ground still remained, and the hum of
voices and incessant rumbling from within proved that this scientific
game did not lack supporters.
It was a low cattle-shed kind of place, with benches down the walls
and at either end.
On the opposite corners were two small tables, fitted with mugs and
pipes.
A portly individual in a white apron filled up the doorway as Peace
arrived in front of the old village inn, in the front of which was a
horse-trough, a large chestnut tree, and a post bearing at its top the
sign of the house.
“Good day, friend,” said Peace to the host of the “Carved Lion.” “I’m
wearied and footsore, and crave a little rest and refreshment.”
“Both are at your service, neighbour,” returned the landlord, making
way for the new comer by withdrawing into the bar.
Peace entered the parlour, and in a few minutes a mug of ale, together
with some cold meat and pickles, were served him, which he devoured
with evident relish.
Meanwhile those in the skittle ground were busily occupied.
“Come on, lads, another ge-ame!” cried a lusty, young fellow, with his
sleeves rolled up to his shoulder. “Come on, mates, one more. Ye doant
mean to say ye ha don yet.”
“I doant know ’xactly what to say about it,” replied a middle-aged
man, who was also in his shirt sleeves. “I tell ye what it be, ye a
deal too good for me, a doubt.”
“Noa――noa, come on,” returned the other, with the mellifluity of a
Whitechapel skittle sharper. “Never fear, guv’nor, luck will be sure
to change. Doant be so quavery mavery over it. Let’s have one more
pint for I’m jolly dry.”
“You start first, then.”
“Get out of my way some of you chaps, and make yourselves look less,”
said the young man, in a voice prophetic of victory.
Taking from the ground a wooden missile in the shape of a cheese, he
poised it between his fingers as if it had been a pebble, and, casting
the whole weight of his body, pitched the ball towards the upright
pins.
It struck the front pin on the left shoulder, and, pirouetting round
the ring, knocked all down.
“Brayvo――brayvo!” cried the rustics, knocking their great mugs against
the table. “A floorer.”
“That was a squiver,” said one of them. “Nothing like a flat ball to
tiddle ’em over.”
“Fust hoss to Bill,” cried another, chalking down one on the table.
“You’ve got your Sunday play on to-day,” said the other, as he took
the ball in his hands.
His throw was less fortunate.
Only one pin fell, which, after rolling among the others and creating
a false interest for awhile, calmly subsided in the dust.
“There, I give ’ee the game and the pot. There’s no tackling ye at
skittles to-night, that’s sartin; and I can’t make no how of it
either.”
“Who’s next――next?” cried the victor. “Will e’er a one of ye have a
shy for a pot, or wont ye? I’ll tak two to one I gets the three
fronts, and I’ll take it even I floors ’em.”
“I’ll back Billy agen ’ee for a gallon, if ye like,” cried a man.
“Nay, nay,” cried a loud but not inharmonious voice; “if old Nick were
here――――”
“Hoosh! hoosh!” shouted out half a dozen of the throng.
“Who cares about your hooshing? I beant afeared of no mortal thing; no
immortal, for the matter of that; neither man, beast, or sperrit.”
The voice came from a young woman, who was finely, though perhaps
almost too lustily, formed.
“Ye’ere all a pack of fools!” said she, giving her head an indignant
shake. “A frightenen yourselves about Mother Brickett’s ghost. Who is
there as has seen it, I should like to know?”
“I ha’,” said a man. “I wer a walking across the common here, when I
found a somethink white and ghastly walking by my side.”
“How big was it?”
“About my height, as nigh as can be. An’ it never sed a word. An’ just
as I was ready to drop, it fanished away.”
“And then we all knows,” said another, “as only t’other night her
voice was heard in the passage by the tap-room where she called
Brickett three times by name, and many bein’ by. An’ it was only
yesternight as she came and patted the white cow while Clara wer a
milkin’ on it.”
“This be very sartin,” said a tall, pale woman, with a child in her
arms: “if she could come back arter she’d gone she ’ould. Her mind was
all here when she died. When she was in her last hour her little
darter came up to see how she was agoin’ on. ‘Mind the bisness,’ said
she, quite sharp; and when Brickett came up, she sent him down pretty
quickish. ‘Don’t mind me, mind the customers’――them were her last
words. And she were an audacious woman after money, sure alive.”
There is hardly any country place in the United Kingdom but owns some
superstitution, which many of the inhabitants have full belief in.
At all ages, and in every place, there have been found many who have
entertained the belief that at certain periods the dead are permitted
to revisit the earth for a brief period; and it was said in the
neighbourhood that the deceased landlady of the “Carved Lion” could
not rest in her grave without, in disembodied spirit, occasionally
hovering about the old hostelry.
She had been a hard-fisted, money-loving woman in her time, and the
frequenters of the inn were wont to talk about her ghost being seen on
the common, in one of the dark lanes or elsewhere, in the “witching
time of night.”
“She must have growed a good bit since she died,” said the woman, who
had been called Nelly, “for she was a good deal shorter than that gawk
there when she wur here. It’s all nonsense, I tell ’ee. If people goes
to a better world they don’t want to come back to a place like this,
and if they go to another place――――”
“Hoosh――hoosh!” exclaimed several voices.
“Get along with ’ee with yeer hooshing. It’s only the truth that I am
speaking,” exclaimed the young woman.
Doubtless an altercation would have ensued, but the subject was
dropped upon the appearance of a stranger.
This was Peace, who had finished his repast in the parlour, and
strolled into the skittle-ground.
“Your sarvant, sir,” said one of the rustics to Peace.
“Give you good evening, friend,” said our hero. “Good evening to one
and all.”
The villagers made room for him on one of the forms which ran by the
side of the building, and Peace sat himself down.
“Ha’ the first drink of the new pot,” said a broad-shouldered man to a
companion by his side, “an’ don’t ’ee cuss and swear. I hate to hear a
man swear for nothing.”
“I’m not going to drink your froth for ’ee,” returned the other. “I’ll
ha’ some. An’ you’ll find it as thick as molasses, I’ll warrant.
Bricket poured a lot of beer into a barrel without clearing out the
dregs, and a prutty mess he’s made of it. The way business is done
here now would make his dead wife walk if anythin’ could.”
“What, yer grumbling agen as usual?” said another of the company.
“Don’t be a runnin’ down Bricket, for he’s a good sort.”
“Who says he aint?” cried Nelly; “but some people are never
satisfied.”
“Right you are, lass!” exclaimed several, for it was evident enough
that the young woman was a general favourite.
“Aint nobody seen nothin’ of never a hat nowhere?” inquired a thin old
man in a querulous voice, twisting in and out of the crowd like a
ferret in a rabbit burrow.
“One ’ud think your silly old head were inside on it a wanderin’ about
like that there,” said Nelly.
“Don’t ’ee say much to him,” whispered the woman with a child in her
arms. “Poor Nat Peplow has aged wonderful these last three years. He
don’t seem like the same man.”
“Ho, ho!” guffawed a rustic. “There aint much left of Nat now――
Poor old hoss! poor old hoss!
Once I eat the best of hay,
And lived in a foine stall;
But now I eats the short grass
As grows agen the wall.
Poor old hoss! poor old hoss!
Thee must die.”
“Ah! ye may laugh and sing,” said Nat, shaking his head and his voice
quavering. “I mind the time when I used to troll that same ditty to
grey hairs. It’s right it should fall back on me now.”
“Poor old hoss!” chanted Nelly.
“But when I wur young I was as lissom as ever a young man here. I
baint so strong now as I should be, though when my feyther wur eighty
years old he could carry a sack of wheat up a ladder into a granary;
and my mother’s hair when she wur an old ’ooman was as black and shiny
as jet, and growed over her shoulders like a wild colt’s mane.
“I don’t know rightly what mak’s me weaker than they. My arm be a’
withered up like a burnt piece of pig’s flesh, an’ my poor chest do
hurt me when I breathes. I think the beer can’t be so wholesome and
nourishing as it yoosed to be.”
And Nat, taking his half-pint mug from the table, peered into it and
found it empty.
“Why it’s run out!” he cried.
A hoarse giggle from a sun-burnt country lad pointed out the culprit.
“All run out a’ the top, I s’pose,” he added, resignedly. “Now,
Bricket, let’s have another half-pint o’ twopenny, and draw it
thickish, ’cos I aint had my supper.”
Nat always liked his beer by instalments of half-pints, because he
thought that he got more that way.
Sometimes he drank as many as eight half-pints, on which occasions he
would chuckle gravely in his sleeve, and persuade himself that he had
cheated the landlord of a noggin.
[Sidenote: No. 11.]
[Illustration: “GOOD DAY, FRIEND,” SAID PEACE, TO THE HOST OF THE
“CARVED LION.”]
Peace had by this time become familiar and on friendly terms with many
of those who were assembled in the skittle-ground. The young fellow
who had been playing when we first made the acquaintance of this
establishment, asked Peace to have a game.
“Don’t ’ee play wi’ him, master,” said Nelly; “he be’s too much for
any on ’em here, and ye won’t ha’ much chance wi’ him unless you are a
good hand at the game.”
“I’m not much of a player,” returned Peace, “but what matters that? We
are only going to play for amusement or for a mug of beer. It don’t
much matter who wins or loses.”
“Please yourself, then――it aint any business of mine.”
“Let ’em alone, Nell――there arnt no skittle sharpers here,” said a man
at one of the tables. “Let ’em be, lass.”
Nell shrugged her shoulders, and sat herself down on one of the forms.
The players went to work in good earnest. Peace succeeded in knocking
all the pins down at one go.
This exploit was greeted with loud bravos.
His antagonist, however, was equally successful, and the game resulted
in a draw. Another game was played; this Peace lost.
“I’ve done better than I expected,” said he, “and I think I had better
leave off now. I am evidently no match for you.”
“Come,” said Nell, “if ye’re done skittlin’ let us be going in doors,
and ye can finish yer ale there.”
Many of them now left, those that remained repaired to the parlour.