over the arm of her chair, shrilly cheering an imaginary Lafayette.
The girls clapped their hands, and Tom hurrahed with all his
might, saying, when he got his breath, “Lafayette was a regular old
trump; I always liked him.”
“My dear! what a disrespectful way to speak of that great man,”
said grandma, shocked at Young America’s irreverence.
“Well, he was a trump, anyway, so why not call him one?” asked
Tom, feeling that the objectionable word was all that could be
desired.
“What queer gloves you wore then,” interrupted Fanny, who had
been trying on the much-honored glove, and finding it a tight fit.
“Much better and cheaper than we have now,” returned grandma,
ready to defend “the good old times” against every insinuation.
“You are an extravagant set now-a-days, and I really don’t know
what you are coming to. By the way, I ‘ve got somewhere two
letters written by two young ladies, one in 1517, and the other in
1868. The contrast between the two will amuse you, I think.”
After a little search, grandma produced an old portfolio, and
selecting the papers, read the following letter, written by Anne
Boleyn before her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the
possession of a celebrated antiquarian:
DEAR MARY, I have been in town almost a month, yet I cannot
say I have found anything in London extremely agreeable. We rise
so late in the morning, seldom before six o’clock, and sit up so late
at night, being scarcely in bed before ten, that I am quite sick of it;
and was it not for the abundance of fine things I am every day
getting I should be impatient of returning into the country.
My indulgent mother bought me, yesterday, at a merchant’s in
Cheapside, three new shifts, that cost fourteen pence an ell, and I
am to have a pair of new stuff shoes, for my Lord of Norfolk’s ball,
which will be three shillings.
The irregular life I have led since my coming to this place has
quite destroyed my appetite. You know I could manage a pound of
bacon and a tankard of good ale for my breakfast, in the country,
but in London I find it difficult to get through half the quantity,
though I must own I am generally eager enough for the dinner
hour, which is here delayed till twelve, in your polite society.
I played at hot cockles, last night, at my Lord of Leicester’s. The
Lord of Surrey was there, a very elegant young man, who sung a
song of his own composition, on the “Lord of Kildare’s Daughter.”
It was much approved, and my brother whispered me that the fair
Geraldine, for so my Lord of Surrey calls his sweetheart, is the
finest woman of the age. I should be glad to see her, for I hear she
is good as she is beautiful.
Pray take care of the poultry during my absence. Poor things! I
always fed them myself; and if Margery has knitted me the
crimson worsted mittens, I should be glad if they were sent up the
first opportunity.
Adieu, dear Mary. I am just going to mass, and you shall speedily
have the prayers, as you have now the kindest love of your own
ANNE BOLEYN.
“Up before six, and think it late to go to bed at ten! What a
countrified thing Anne must have been. Bacon and ale for
breakfast, and dinner at twelve; how very queer to live so!” cried
Fanny. “Lord Surrey and Lord Leicester sound fine, but hot
cockles, and red mittens, and shoes for three shillings, are horrid.”
“I like it,” said Polly, thoughtfully, “and I ‘m glad poor Anne had a
little fun before her troubles began. May I copy that letter some
time, grandma?”
“Yes, dear, and welcome. Now, here ‘s the other, by a modern girl
on her first visit to London. This will suit you better, Fan,” and
grandma read what a friend had sent her as a pendant to Anne’s
little picture of London life long ago:
MY DEAREST CONSTANCE, After three months of intense
excitement I snatch a leisure moment to tell you how much I enjoy