When folks change their names--unless by the gracious permission of the _Gazette_--they rarely do so to avoid the fame of brilliant deeds. It is not the act of an over-sensitive modesty that induces _Peter Wiggins_ to dub himself _John Smith_. Be certain of it, _Peter_ has not saved half a boarding-school from the tremendous fire that entirely destroyed "Ringworm House"--_Peter_ has not dived into the Thames, and rescued some respectable attorney from a death hitherto deemed by his friends impossible to him. It is from no such heroism that _Peter Wiggins_ is compelled to take refuge in _John Smith_ from the oppressive admiration of the world about him. Certainly not. Depend upon it, _Peter_ has been signalised in the _Hue and Cry_, as one endowed with a love for the silver spoons of other men--as an individual who, abusing the hospitality of his lodgings, has conveyed away and sold the best goose feathers of his landlady. What then, with his name ripe enough to drop from the tree of life, remains to _Wiggins_, but to subside into _Smith_? What hope was there for the well-known swindler, the posted pickpocket, the callous-hearted, slug-brained _Tory_? None: he was hooted, pelted at; all men stopped the nose at his approach. He was voted a nuisance, and turned forth into the world, with all his vices, like ulcers, upon him. Well, _Tory_ adopts the inevitable policy of _Wiggins_; he changes his name! He comes forth, curled and sweetened, and with a smile upon his mealy face, and placing his felon hand above the _vacuum_ on the left side of his bosom--declares, whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile blush--that he is by no means the _Tory_ his wicked, heartless enemies would call him. Certainly not. His name is--_Conservative!_ There was, once, to be sure, a _Tory_--in existence; "But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!" He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare collections in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as soon find a phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as a _Tory_ kissing hands in Windsor Castle! The lie is but gulped as a truth, and _Conservative_ is taken into service. Once more, he is the _factotum_ to JOHN BULL. But when the knave shall have worn out his second name--when he shall again be turned away--look to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous, leathern-eared Mr. BULL--be sure and count your spoons!