said England,—­and the first clause of the manifesto which makes war with Holland states this grievance, that the Dutch would not surrender us when asked for.  That is the way England treats neutrals who offer hospitality to rebels.”

So ends the letter.  I suppose the old gentleman got tired of writing.  I have observed that the end of all letters is more condensed than the beginning.  Mr. Weller, indeed, pronounces the “sudden pull-up” to be the especial charm of letter-writing.  I had a mind to tell what the old gentleman saw of Kempenfelt and the Royal George, but this is enough.  As Denis Duval scrambles across to Paul Jones’s quarter-deck, at eleven o’clock of that strange moonlight night, he vanishes from history.

* * * * *

THE FUTURE SUMMER.

    Summer in all! deep summer in the pines,
    And summer in the music on the sands,
    And summer where the sea-flowers rise and fall
    About the gloomy foreheads of stern rocks
    And the green wonders of our circling sphere.

    Can mockery be hidden in such guise,
    To peep, like sunlight, behind shifting leaves,
    And dye the purple berries of the field,
    Or gleam like moonlight upon juniper,
    Or wear the gems outshining jewelled pride? 
    Can mockery do this, and we endure
    In Nature’s rounded palace of the world?

    Where, then, has fled the summer’s wonted peace? 
    Sweeter than breath borne on the scented seas,
    Over fresh fields, and brought to weary shores,
    It should await the season’s worshipper;
    But as a star shines on the daisy’s eye,
    So shines great Conscience on the face of Peace,
    And lends it calmer lustre with the dew: 
    When that star dims, the paling floweret fades!

    Yet there be those who watch a serpent crawl
    And, blackening, sleep within a blossom’s heart,
    Who will not slay, but call their gazing “Peace.” 
    Even thus within the bosom of our land
    Creeps, serpent-like, Sedition, and hath gnawed
    In silence, while a timid crowd stood still.

    O suffering land!  O dear long-suffering land,
    Slay thou the serpent ere he slime the core! 
    Take thou our houses and amenities,
    Take thou the hand that parting clings to ours,
    And going bears our heart into the fight;
    Take thou, but slay the serpent ere he kill!

    Now, as a lonely watcher on the strand,
    Hemmed by the mist and the quick coming waves,
    Hears but one voice, the voice of warning bell,
    That solemn speaks, “Beware the jaws of death!”
    Death on the sea, and warning on the strand! 
    Such is our life, while Summer, mocking, broods.