better, and lives
a great deal more easily and comfortably in peace than in war. But,
then, what is to become of history, and the drubbing of the French? Who
may, however, possibly die of "envy and admiration of our glorious
constitution."

The old squire loves the laws of England; that is, all the laws that
ever were passed by kings, lords, and commons, especially if they have
been passed some twenty years, and he has had to administer them. The
poor-law and the game-law, the impressment act, the law of
primogeniture, the law of capital punishments; all kind of private acts
for the inclosure of commons; turnpike acts, stamp acts, and acts of all
sorts; he loves and venerates them all, for they are part and parcel of
the statute law of England. As a matter of course, he hates most
religiously all offenders against such acts. The poor are a very good
sort of people; nay, he has a thorough and hereditary liking for the
poor, and they have sundry doles and messes of soup from the Hall, as
they had in his father's time, so long as they go to church, and don't
happen to be asleep there when he is awake himself; and don't come upon
the parish, or send bastards there; so long as they take off their hats
with all due reverence, and open gates when they see him coming. But if
they presume to go to the Methodists' meeting, or to a Radical club, or
complain of the price of bread, which is a grievous sin against the
agricultural interest; or to poach, which is all crimes in one--if they
fall into any of these sins, oh, then, they are poor devils indeed! Then
does the worthy old squire hate all the brood of them most righteously;
for what are they but Atheists, Jacobins, Revolutionists, Chartists,
rogues and vagabonds? With what a frown he scowls on them as he meets
them in one of the narrow old lanes, returning from some camp meeting or
other; how he expects every dark night to hear of ricks being burnt, or
pheasants shot. How does he tremble for the safety of the country while
they are at large; and with what satisfaction does he grant a warrant to
bring them before him; and, as a matter of course, how joyfully, spite
of all pleas and protestations of innocence, does he commit them to the
treadmill, or the county jail, for trial at the quarter sessions.

He has a particular affection for the quarter sessions, for there he,
and his brethren all put together, make, he thinks, a tolerable
representation of majesty; and thence he ha