other hand to do it. "But now about our young friend here. Surely, with

all that we know by this time of the character of that Bony, we can see

that this peace is a mere trick of his to bamboozle us while he gets

ready. In six months we shall be at war again, hammer and tongs, as sure

as my name is Twemlow."

"So be it!" cried the Admiral, with a stamp on his oak floor, while

Scudamore's gentle eyes flashed and fell; "if it is the will of God, so

be it. But if it once begins again, God alone knows where France will be

before you and I are in our graves. They have drained all our patience,

and our pockets very nearly; but they have scarcely put a tap into our

energy and endurance. But what are they? A gang of slaves, rammed into

the cannon by a Despot."

"They seem to like it, and the question is for them. But the struggle

will be desperate, mountains of carnage, oceans of blood, universal

mourning, lamentation, and woe. And I have had enough trouble with my

tithes already."

"Tithes are dependent on the will of the Almighty," said the Admiral,

who paid more than he altogether liked; "but a war goes by reason and

good management. It encourages the best men of the day, and it brings

out the difference between right and wrong, which are quite smothered up

in peace time. It keeps out a quantity of foreign rubbish and stuff only

made to be looked at, and it makes people trust one another, and know

what country they belong to, and feel how much they have left to be

thankful for. And what is the use of a noble fleet, unless it can get

some fighting? Blyth, what say you? You know something about that."

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