rapis, and at ten the Poor Richard went to the bottom. I have
always wondered that your Naval Commissioners never named another
frigate for her.

"And so, my dear boy, I will stop. I hope in God, it will never be
your fate to see such a fight, or any fight, between an English
and an American frigate.

"We drifted into Holland. Our wounded men were sent into hospital
in the fort of the Texel. At last we were all transferred to the
French Government as prisoners, and that winter we were exchanged.
The Serapis went into the French navy, and the only important
result of the affair in history was that King George had to make
war with Holland. For, as soon as we were taken into the Texel,
the English minister claimed us of the Dutch. But the Dutch
gentlemen said they were neutrals, and could not interfere in the
Rebel quarrel. "Interfere or fight," 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 seas