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. He was practical to austerity, and never made a move that was not calculated and carried out to answer a severe business purpose. No doubt, as we have before observed, his artfulness, his daring, and other qualities made him a remarkable man. Unhappily for himself and his endowments, which would have enabled him to win a respectable position in an honest career, appear to have been singularly fitted for the life he chose to follow. Although he has been charged with many offences he never committed, it may be safely believed that during the thirty years or so he was preying upon the public he has done an enormous amount of mischief. A poet is said to be one in ten thousand. A man of the special capacity of Peace is far more rare. He seems like the conquerors, and produces on his fellow-men the same sort of hope that he may be the last of his class. Probably there is not another man in England who could have run the race of this criminal――by night a thief and a murderer; by day a citizen of credit, who went abroad without fear in the busy haunts of men. The miserable failure he had made in attempting to rob the house of which Gatliffe was the custodian did not abash him. He was to be seen in places of public resort at Sheffield on the following day. Indeed, he mixed more freely with the townspeople than he had done heretofore. It is our purpose in this work to throw a light on the actions and deeds of its lawless hero; not for the purpose of holding him up as an example, but rather as a warning. His career furnishes us with a proof that a life of crime is always a life of care. Disgrace, obloquy, and punishment are the sure attendants on the footsteps of a criminal. Some few days after his last unsuccessful escapade, Peace was standing outside the principal post-office in Sheffield. He had been to inquire if there were any letters for him. He expected to receive one from Bessie Dalton, who, in accordance with his instructions, directed her epistles to the post-office to be kept till called for. Peace had received several, but for some little time past none had arrived. He was debating with himself as to the cause, when, much to his surprise, he descried Tom Gatliffe hastening on in the direction of the spot where he was stationed. It was not possible for him to avoid being recognised, and, to say the truth, he had no desire to do so. He waited till Gatliffe came up to him. His countenance denoted that he was a little concerned at the rencontre. Gatliffe posted some letters, and then turned towards Peace with a look of deep sorrow. “You remember the promise given to me on that terrible night?” said Gatliffe, in a whisper. Peace nodded.