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from him of all the preparations that were being made to repel the invasion of Bouaparte, which some people imagined might take place at the mouth of the Tyne. Miss Jenkyns was evidently very much alarmed; and the first part of her letters was often written in pretty intelligible English, conveying particulars of the preparations which were made in the family with whom she was residing against the dreaded event; the bundles of clothes that were packed up ready for a flight to Alston Moor (a wild hilly piece of ground between Northumberland and Cumberland); the signal that was to be given for this flight, and for the simultaneous turning out of the volunteers under arms; which said signal was to consist (if I remember rightly) in ringing the church bells in a partioular and ominous manner. One day, when Miss Jenkyns and her hosts were at a dinner. party in Newcastle, this warning-summons was actually given (not a very wise proceeding, if there be any truth in the moral attached to the fable of the Boy and the Wolf; but so it was), and Miss Jenkyns, hardly recovered from her fright, wrote the next day to describe the sound, the breathless shock, the hurry and aların; and then, taking breath, she added, “ How trivial, my dear father, do all our apprehensions of the tast evening appear, at the present moment, to calm and inquiring minds !” And here Miss Matty broke in with—“But, indeed, my dear, they were not at all trivial or trifling at the time. i know I used to wake up in the night inany a time, and think I heard the tramp of the French entering Cranford. Many people talked of hiding themselves in the salt-mines; and meat would have kept capitally down there, only perhaps we should have been thirsty. And my father preached a whole set of sermons on the occasion; one set in the mornings, all about David and Goliath, to spirit up the people to fighting with spades or bricks, if need were ; and the other set in the afternoons, proving that Napoleon (that was another name for Bony, as we used to call him) was all the same as an Apollyon and Abaddon. I remember, my father rather thought he should be asked to print this last set; but the parish had, perhaps, had enough of thern with hearing."
Peter Marmaduke Arley Jenkyns (“poor Peter !" as Miss Matty began to call him) was at school at Shrewsbury by this time. The rector took up his pen, and rubbed up his Latin, once more to correspond with his boy. It was very clear that the lad's were what are nalled show letters. They were of a highly snental description, giving ar. account of his studies, and his intellectual hopes of various kinds, with an occasional quotation from the olassics ; but, now and then, the animal nature broke out in such a little sentence as this, evi. dently written in a trembling hurry, after the letter had been inspected : “ Mother, dear, do send me a cake, and put plenty of citron in." The “mother, dear,” probably answered her boy in the form of cakes and “goody," for there were none of her letters among this set; but a whole collection of the rector's, to whom the Latin in his boy's letters was like a trumpet to the old war-horse. I do not know much about Latin, certainly, and it is, perhaps, an ornamental language; but not very useful, I think —at least to judge from the bits I remember out of the rector's letters. One was : have not got that town in your map of Ireland; but Bonus Bernardus non videt omnia, as the Proverbia say.” Presently it became very evident that “poor Peter” got himself into many scrapes. There were letters of stilted penitence to his father, for some wrong-doing; and, among them all, was a badly written, badly-sealed, badly-directed, blotted note—“ My dear, dear, dear, dearest mother, I will be a better boy I will, indeed; but don't, please, be ill for me ; I am not worth it; but I will be good, darling mother.”
Miss Matty could not speak for crying, after she had read this note. She gave it to me in silence, and then got up and took it to her sacred recesses in her own room, for fear, by any chance, it might get burned. “Poor Peter!” she said, "he was always in scrapes; he was too easy. They led him wrong, and then left him in the lurch. But he was too fond of mischief. Ho could never resist a joke. Poor Peter !"
Poor Peter's career lay before him rather pleasantly mapped out by kind friends, but Bonus Bernardus non videt omnia, in this map too. He was to win honors at Shrewsbury School, and carry them thick to Cambridge, and after that, a living awaited him, the gift of his godfather, Sir Peter Arley. Poor Peter! his lot in life was very different to what his friends had hoped and planned. Miss Matty told me all about it, and I think it was a relief to her when she had done so.
He was the darling of his mother, who seemed to dote on all her children, though she was, perhaps, a little afraid of Deborah's superior acquirements. Deborah was the favorite of her father, and when Peter disappointed him, sho became his pride. The sole honor Peter brought away from Shrewsbury, was the reputation of being the best good fellow that ever was, and of being the captain of the school in the art of practical joking. His father was disappointod