rs a follower of the
philosopher of Abdera. He very much preferred laughter to tears;
regarded public affairs with a lofty disdain, so long as his roast,
boiled, or hashed was ready at the right time; lived in a Utopia of
his own, and was more likely to die of seeing an ass eating figs than
of any ordinary calamity. He could not understand why an individual
should fret himself concerning parliamentary corruption, tyranny of
government, abuse of patronage, or any other stalking-horse of
sedition. No one had attempted to bribe him; he felt indifferently
free; he was a candidate for no place; he had no vote for anything,
and rejoiced that he had not. His even cheerfulness was wont to make
his friends declare, that their Peach was all sunny side; there were
no signs of shade about him.

His lodger was of a less contented mood: the symptoms of effervescence
had assumed a somewhat menacing aspect around his home. For some time
much disquiet had prevailed among the miners of Somersetshire, and the
same was now rapidly spreading among their Cornish brethren, from
Redruth to St. Ives. Minor outrages were of no uncommon occurrence.
The dread which Miss Peach seemed to entertain of seeing a modern Jack
Straw encamped on Hampstead Heath, was felt on better grounds in the
far-west, and caused trepidation among the tea-sipping gossips of
Kerrier and Penwith. So the orphans learnt from the letters of
Polydore Riches. And they were made rather anxious by perceiving, that
the good chaplain seemed in writing, to disguise the real amount of
his apprehensions. Often in reading his missives, did Randolph and
Helen turn their thoughts fondly towards Trevethlan, and wish they had
never left the towers by the sea.

And in the brother such yearnings were quickened by an ever-increasing
discontent with his position. This feeling had soon driven him from
Winter's chambers, and he was now reading with Mr. Travers, an eminent
special pleader. But dissatisfaction was again creeping over him. It
was true he did not neglect his studies, and he had duly eaten his
dinners to keep Michaelmas Term. Surely there is no fear that any of
our old institutions to which a dinner is attached will wholly die.
There is a strength in the British appetite, against which
utilitarianism may struggle in vain, till hunger and thirst are no
more. So at the Inns of Court. The exercises, and moots, and even the
revels have vanished, but the dinners remain. Attendance on t