"
"Jemima, I have used the right word. The parson will back me up in every
letter of it, having said the same thing of him, last Sunday week. But
I beg Mrs. Twemlow's pardon, if I said it loud enough to disturb her.
Well, then, this blessed Boney, if you prefer it, is a deal too full of
his own dirty tricks for mounting the throne of the King they murdered,
to get into a flat-bottomed boat at Boulogne, and a long sight too
jealous a villain he is, to let any one command instead of him. Why,
the man who set foot upon our shore, and beat us--if such a thing can be
supposed--would be ten times bigger than Boney in a month, and would sit
upon his crown, if he gets one."
"Well, I don't believe they will ever come at all," the solid Mrs.
Stubbard pronounced, with decision. "I believe it is all a sham, and
what they want is to keep us from attacking them in France. However, it
is a good thing on the whole, and enables poor Officers, who have
fought well for their country, to keep out of the Workhouse with their
families."
"Hearken, hearken to Mrs. Stubbard!" the veteran cried, as he patted his
waistcoat--a better one than he could have worn, and a larger one than
he could have wanted, except for the promised invasion. "I will back my
wife against any lady in the land for common-sense, and for putting it
plainly. I am not ashamed to say thank God for the existence of
that blessed Boney. All I hope is that he will only try to land at
Springhaven--I mean, of course, when I've got my powder.
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