Yours, JOHN E. WARREN.

* * * * *

THE SUMMER NIGHT.

We are in the midst of July—­in the midst of summer—­of the most genial and pure-aired summer that we have had for years.  How beautifully RICHTER, translated by our Longfellow, of kindred genius, describes the holy time!  “The summer alone might elevate us.  God what a season!  In sooth, I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the fields, so alike is it everywhere and beautiful.  If we go outside the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no longer cold; and the post-boys who can pass the whole night on horseback, and the shepherds asleep in the open air.  We need no gloomy house.  We make a chamber out of every bush, and therefore have my good industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies.  In the gardens on the hills sit schoolboys, and in the open air look out words in the dictionary.  On account of the game-laws there is no shooting now, and every thing in bush and furrow, and on green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely.  In all directions come travelers along the roads; they have their carriages for the most part thrown back—­the horses have branches stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths.  The shadows of the clouds go trailing along,—­the birds fly between them up and down, and journeymen mechanics wander cheerily on with their bundles, and want no work.  Even when it rains we love to stand out of doors, and breathe in the quickening influence, and the wet does the herdsman harm no more.  And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we plainly discern the daylight on the northern horizon and on the sweet warm stars of heaven.  Wheresoever I look, there do I find my beloved blue on the flax in blossoms, on the corn-flowers, and the godlike endless heaven into which I would fain spring as into a stream.  And now, if we turn homeward again, we find indeed but fresh delight.  The street is a true nursery, for in the evening after supper, the little ones, though they have but a few clothes upon them, are again let out into the open air, and not driven under the bed-quilt as in winter.  We sup by daylight, and hardly know where the candlesticks are.  In the bed-chamber the windows are open day and night, and likewise most of the doors, without danger.  The oldest women stand by the window without a chill, and sew.  Flowers lie about everywhere—­by the ink-stand—­on the lawyer’s papers—­on the justice’s table, and the tradesman’s counter.  The children make a great noise, and one hears bowling of ninepin alleys half the night through our walks up and down the street; and talks aloud, and sees the stars shoot in the high heaven.  The foreign musicians, who wend their way homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street to their quarters, and the whole neighborhood runs to the window.  The extra posts arrive later, and the horses neigh.  One lies by the noise in the window and droops asleep.  The post-horns awake him and the whole starry heaven hath spread itself open.  O God! what a joyous life on this little earth.”