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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge), 1825-1900

"Springhaven : a Tale of the Great War"


If any unusual cloud of dust, any moving shade, appeared afar, if the
tramp of horses in the lane were heard, or neigh of a colt from the
four-cross roads, people at dinner would start up and cry, "The French,
the French have landed!" while the men in the fields would get nearer
the hedge to peep through it, and then run away down the ditch.
But the nation at large, and the governing powers, certainly were not
in any great fright. Nay, rather they erred, if at all, on the side
of tranquillity and self-confidence; as one who has been fired at with
blank-cartridge forgets that the click of the trigger will not tell him
when the bullet has been dropped in. The bullet was there this time; and
it missed the heart of Britannia, only through the failure of the powder
to explode all at once.
It was some years before all this was known; even Nelson had no
perception of it; and although much alarm was indulged in on the sly,
the few who gave voice to it were condemned as faint-hearted fellows
and "alarmists." How then could Springhaven, which never had feared
any enemies, or even neighbours, depart from its habits, while still
an eye-witness of what had befallen the Frenchman? And in this state of
mind, having plenty to talk of, it did not (as otherwise must have been
done) attach any deep importance to the strange vagaries of the London
Trader.
That great Institution, and Royal Exchange, as well as central embassy
of Fashion, had lately become most uncertain in its dates, which for
years had announced to loose-reckoning housewives the day of the week
and the hour to buy candles.


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