“May God avert from old England so great a Calamity as the presence of an Enemy on her Soil.
“Adieu. Your affectionate Grandmother,
“C. Fairbank.”
Mrs. Bryce listened attentively, and pronounced the writer’s mode of expression to be “vastly old-fashioned.”
“But when you write, you may thank her all the same, Polly. Mrs. Fairbank means kindly, and if I thought old Nap would come in truth—but ’tis all bluster and empty boasting. For my part, I put no sort of belief in no invasion of our shores. But you may tell her that I am most sincerely grateful, and that, should occasion arise, I will not fail to avail myself of her generous hospitality.”
With which Mrs. Bryce settled herself comfortably in an apology for an easy-chair—real easy-chairs had not yet been evolved—and read her own letter.
“From my cousin in Norfolk. And if you’ll believe it, Polly, they’re all in a bustle and fright there too, lest Nap should land first on the eastern coast. He’ll have enough on hand, if he’s to go everywhere that’s expected of him! And if he goes there, they’ll get them away into the fen country, where ’tis thought the French Army won’t be able to follow.”
Presently the letter was put aside, and Mrs. Bryce betook herself to the Gentleman’s Magazine, not without another passing allusion, contemptuously worded, on the state of alarm into which folks in general seem to have fallen.
“Listen now to this, Polly. ’Tis vastly entertaining. ‘Human nature is too fond of novelty.... Never did it seem to be running so much from its proper course as in the present age, when we observe night turned into morning, and the mornings change into night.... Where are the good days of old Queen Bess? The sun-rise breakfast, the noon-tide repast, and the twilight pillow of repose?’”
Mrs. Bryce stopped, to indulge in a laugh. “But for my part I have no especial wish to go back to the manners of Queen Bess. Nor to change luncheon into dinner once more.” Then she went on reading:—