lately. The present authorities are striving
to infuse into it a little vitality of usefulness. With these simple
facts before me, it was amusing to read, in an American gazetteer of the
day, that the college "is at present in a flourishing condition."

In front of the college there is an enclosed green, and in the centre a
statue, erected in honour of one of the old royal governors, Berkeley,
Lord Bowtetort. Whether from a desire to exhibit their anti-aristocratic
sentiments, or from innate Vandalism, or from a childish wish to exhibit
independence by doing mischief, the said statue is the pistol-mark for
the students, who have exhibited their skill as marksmen by its total
mutilation, in spite of all remonstrances from the authorities. The
college was formerly surrounded by magnificent elms, but a few years
since a blight came which destroyed every one of them, leaving the
building in a desert-like nakedness. The inn at Williamsburg is a
miserable building, but it is kept by as kind-hearted, jolly old
John-Bull-looking landlord as ever was seen, and who rejoices in the
name of Uncle Ben. Meat is difficult to get at, as there are no
butchers; the cream and butter are, however, both plentiful and
excellent. The house is almost entirely overshadowed by one magnificent
elm, which has fortunately escaped the blight that annihilated nearly
all its fellows.

After the hustle of most American cities, there was to me an unspeakable
charm in the quiet of this place. Sitting at the inn-door, before you
lies the open green, with its daisies and buttercups; horses and cattle
are peaceably grazing; in the background are the remaining wings of the
old palace; to your left stands the old village church, built with
bricks brought from England, and long since mellowed by the hand of
time, around which the clinging ivy throws the venerable mantle of its
dark and massive foliage. Now, the summoning church-bell tolls its
solemn note; school children, with merry laugh and light step, cross the
common; the village is astir, and a human tide is setting towards its
sacred portals: all, all speaks to the heart and to the imagination of
happy days and happy scenes in a far-off land. You close your eyes, the
better to realize the dream which fancy is painting. When they open upon
the reality again, the illusion is dispelled by the sight of a brawny
negro, with a grin on his face which threatens to split his ears,
jogging merrily along the stre