I can’t quite remember the date, but I think it was in 1805 that Miss Jenkyns wrote the longest series of letters—­on occasion of her absence on a visit to some friends near Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  These friends were intimate with the commandant of the garrison there, and heard from him of all the preparations that were being made to repel the invasion of Buonaparte, 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 particular 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 alarm; and then, taking breath, she added, “How trivial, my dear father, do all our apprehensions of the last evening appear, at the present moment, to calm and enquiring 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 many 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 them 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 called show letters.  They were of a highly mental description, giving an account of his studies, and his intellectual hopes of various kinds, with an occasional quotation from the classics; but, now and then, the animal nature broke out in