Peace, the professional thief, despised his brothers, and was never heard to patter a word of flash.  Brodie, the amateur, courted the society of all cross coves, and would rather express himself in Pedlar’s French than in his choicest Scots.  While the Englishman scraped Tate and Brady from a one-stringed fiddle, the Scot limped a chaunt from The Beggar’s Opera, and thought himself a devil of a fellow.  The one was a man about town masquerading as a thief; the other the most serious among housebreakers, singing psalms in all good faith.

But if Peace was incomparably the better craftsman, Brodie was the prettier gentleman.  Peace would not have permitted Brodie to drive his pony-trap the length of Evelina Road.  But Brodie, in revenge, would have cut Peace had he met him in the Corn-market.  The one was a sombre savage, the other a jovial comrade, and it was a witty freak of fortune that impelled both to follow the same trade.  And thus you arrive at another point of difference.  The Englishman had no intelligence of life’s amenity.  He knew naught of costume:  clothes were the limit of his ambition.  Dressed always for work, he was like the caterpillar which assumes the green of the leaf, wherein it hides:  he wore only such duds as should attract the smallest notice, and separate him as far as might be from his business.  But the Scot was as fine a dandy as ever took (haphazard) to the cracking of kens.  If his refinement permitted no excess of splendour, he went ever gloriously and appropriately apparelled.  He was well-mannered, cultured, with scarce a touch of provincialism to mar his gay demeanour:  whereas Peace knew little enough outside the practice of burglary, and the proper handling of the revolver.

Our Charles, for example, could neither spell nor write; he dissembled his low origin with the utmost difficulty, and at the best was plastered over (when not at work) with the parochialism of the suburbs.  So far the contrast is complete; and even in their similarities there is an evident difference.  Each led a double life; but while Brodie was most himself among his own kind, the real Peace was to be found not fiddle-scraping in Evelina Road but marking down policemen in the dusky byways of Blackheath.  Brodie’s grandeur was natural to him; Peace’s respectability, so far as it transcended the man’s origin, was a cloak of villainy.

Each, again, was an inventor, and while the more innocent Brodie designed a gallows, the more hardened Peace would have gained notoriety by the raising of wrecks and the patronage of Mr. Plimsoll.  And since both preserved a certain courage to the end, since both died on the scaffold as becomes a man, the contrast is once more characteristic.  Brodie’s cynicism is a fine foil to the piety of Peace; and while each end was natural after its own fashion, there is none who will deny to the Scot the finer sense of fitness.  Nor did any step in their career explain more clearly the difference in their temperament than their definitions of the gallows.  For Peace it is ‘a short cut to Heaven’; for Brodie it is ‘a leap in the dark.’  Again the Scot has the advantage.  Again you reflect that, if Peace is the most accomplished Classic among the housebreakers, the Deacon is the merriest companion who ever climbed the gallows by the shoulders of the incomparable Macheath.