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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
78
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
such
a
little
sentence
as
this,
evidently
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,
“You
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.”
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