VIRGINIAN HOSPITALITY.

THE happy days of our boyhood are looked upon with delight, and every thing which then occurs, however trivial it may seem, becomes hallowed by time. Our little adventures, limited travels, and holyday excursions, we regard with increased pleasure, as we behold them through a wider interval of time. Thus hallowed are those days which I passed while yet young in Virginia, and I shall never forget the hospitality which I there received. It was no conventional formality, but came freely and naturally from the heart. The dignified politeness of the English gentleman commands respect and gratitude, and maintains it by continually keeping before you the extent of your obligation: but the frank and cordial hospitality of the genuine Virginian inspires familiarity and affection, by endeavouring to convince you that in receiving, you reciprocate the kindness. The guest of the former is thought entitled to marked civility and respect; but when under the roof of the latter, you experience not the politeness due to a stranger, but the regard and affection bestowed on a friend. After this prosing, in which enthusiastic admiration of my host has led me to indulge, and which I hope on that account will be pardoned, I will describe some circumstances of my visit, which may serve to develope his peculiar character.

He was a precious relic of a past age, one of those respected veterans, who retain their primitive character uninfluenced and uncorrupted by modern innovations. Preferring retirement and happiness to notoriety and care, his taste inclined him to live on his family estate in a beautiful tract near the Blue Ridge, rather than mingle in the gayeties of the capital.

How well I remember my first visit. As I approached between long rows of noble oaks, I examined with eager curiosity all surrounding objects, to obtain from them, if possible, a prototype of the character of my future host, or at least a foretaste of my coming enjoyment. With no little satisfaction I contemplated on one side the wide extended park, filled with deer, which, startled at the noise of our carriage, gazed intently for a moment, and then bounded away to the more retired part of the wood-on the other, the distant

lake, with its neat fishing-house and painted boats. But before I could fully digest the pleasing train of thought to which these objects gave rise, the voices, to my young ears always musical, of the canine race, saluted me in every cadence, from the long drawn and whining howl of the hound, to the deep bay of the mastiff, and informed me that I was near the dwelling. One of those favorite old family servants, whom you not unfrequently encounter at the South, received me and conducted me to his master.

He was seated in an apartment, such as I had often read of, but never expected to see,-its dark oaken wainscot covered with family portraits, Indian battle-pieces, and sketches of native scenery; here and there interspersed with huge antlers, and tarnished trophies of by-gone exploits in the chase. At his feet lay extended a glossy grey-hound. I hardly had time to make this survey of the apartment before the dog raised himself to his full height, displayed his beautiful proportions, and uttered a short growl, which drew the attention of my host from the book he was perusing. He immediately rose, gave me a most hearty shake of the hand, and such a look as assured me at once of a most cordial welcome.

He was a little above the middle height, and remarkably well proportioned. His countenance was the seat of good humor; in his eye the light of gayety was never dimmed, and his manners were of that winning kind that immediately make you at home. Endless were the amusements which were daily within my reach, but nothing pleased me so much as to listen to the entertaining conversation of my host, and mark how his character displayed itself in all his actions and even in every thought. I soon discovered from his remarks and conduct, that he admired no character so much as Irving's" Squire Bracebridge," and after him he tried to model himself. Therefore he adhered most strictly to all old observances, and never failed to celebrate, with all the attention they formerly received, the festivities and holyday sports of Old England, from the light and sunshiny gayeties of May-day to the more staid, but no less cheerful merry-makings of Christmas. He was unable, however, to school his cordiality into dignity; nay, it was sometimes even diverting to see how entirely his heart and feelings were the guide of his actions; nothing he so much disliked as to have his conduct

ruled by the opinions, or examples of those about him, and therefore, his character not having the same spring of action as most men's conduct, was strongly marked with originality and independence. But his noblest trait was his hospitality, and in this he could manifest his good nature and kindness to their fullest extent.

No stranger passed his mansion uninvited, none entered it unwelcomed. The intelligent tourist, the unsettled schoolmaster, the itinerant preacher, all found there a kind asylum. Such was the estimable character of my host. May he receive this as a grateful acknowledgment and humble record of Virginian Hospitality.

THE LAST LATIN RECITATION,

THE last reciter sits: along the bench
Resounds the echo of quick-closing tomes;
In professorial eye, methinks there glimmers
A something moist; a few kind parting words
Precede the wonted bow: down from their pegs,
Beavers and caps, with no exhilarate swing,
Descend; and Sadness starts to find herself
Half seated upon most ungenial brows,

As silently we quit the Latin hall.

A few, (but they, I ween, were graceless wights,
And in their wayward eyes the chequered board
Dice-dented had more favor ever found

Than lettered page) a few ran boisterous down,
And at the stairway's foot, their tattered torment
Hurling aloft, cried—“ One more bore is over!"

I am not of them. Though full oft I 've hailed,
With inward curse, th' inexorable bell
Which summoned me from sweet protracted chat,
Or shadowed walk, or post-meridian slumber,
Or Fiction's fairy-land,—and though too well
Acquaint with agonizing screw and eke
With desperate dead; still leave I not, in noise
And joyousness, the scene where we have bidden
Adieu to Latin: but with fitful step,

Eyes "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,"

And a heart lost 'mid winning recollections
Of my old schoolboy days.-

Yes, from the Roman page my young mind drew
Its sweetest nurture, and my boyish tongue
Uttering with toil and awe the lordly speech

Of earth's old victors, learned to wield, with freedom
And a familiar, half-contemptuous ease,

Its native accents. There, in that old school,
Whose every cobweb now my mind's eye traces-
Thy tome, laborious Ainsworth, on my right,
And, by it, thine, Lempriere-in skirtless coat,
My boyhood sat. Tasked, yet not undelighted,
I wandered back to that primeval age,

Whose history is romance, and its fable

A heavenly spell. Those strong and lofty spirits
I humbly communed with, who in far worlds
Have now outlived the memory of this.
The Patriot's self-devotion; buried deep
In sombre shades, where reason's feeble lamp
May glimmer brightest, the philosopher,
Toiling to solve great Nature's mysteries
Unto his pallid train; Earth's giant sons,

The rebel mountain-heapers; Nymphs, sweet Nymphs
Of fount or grove, the bright embodiments
Of all that is divine in form and hue

And motion, here below; on all and each
My Fancy hung in love, or hate, or awe.
Thus musing 'mid the thronging images
Of th' elder world,-the poet's rich and wild
Creations, and those noblest sons of men,
History's recorded darlings,-my young thoughts
Expanded, ranged for food beyond the present,
And their fresh sympathies ran not waste amid
The petty mischiefs and the unripe sins,
With which the schoolless vagrant of the streets,
Spending and spent, oft sears his little soul.
Can I then joy to quit the classic guide,

Who, through six years, has led me by the hand,
And held a pure draught to my thirsting lips?

Ah, no! Deserted recitation-room,
Respectful, sad, and slow, I close thy door-
No more within thy yellow walls to work

In weal or woe-no more to see, ranged round
Thy sides, our youthful crew-each fixing fast
Upon th' anticipated paragraph

His anxious eye, and laboring to extract

From the strong grasp of some long, complex sentence

The sense reluctant, and to set it forth

In a new suit of our loose, island words.

Ah, 't is a glorious sight-the young brow bent
In studious meditation, and the cheek

Whitening, its buoyant blood subdued beneath
The short-lived reign of thought, while from the fresh,
Dilated eye, where whim and mirth and passion
Are wont to make their home, glows Intellect!

Farewell then, my old Roman friends, my dear
Still-voiced companions-thy bright, graphic page,
Sweet LIVY-thine too, rigid ANNALIST

OF DESPOTISM, still, clear, and cold as ice
Hiding a rich, deep stream: farewell, great TULLY,
With thy Greek fire, thy broad and lambent flame
Of eloquence-thou too, DELICIOUS LYRIST-
And thou, FIERCE SATYRIST, who dost almost
Persuade us to forgive, for giving birth
To thy indignant strains, the thousand vices
Of a degenerate age-All, all, farewell!

There-mount my upmost shelf; in that dark nook,
Repose secure! And if, while still I dwell
In academic shades, less genial studies
Succeeding (as yon crabbed Mathematics
Infernal and eternal), or the mere
Frivolity of college and seventeen,

Should keep you in your resting-place,—and if
Th' ambitious contests of the noisy world,

Whose threshold I am on, should leave no place,

In riper years, for thoughts of you, within

The all-absorbed soul;-O, then at least

When youth's wild freaks and manhood's cares are o'er, And my fires slacken 'neath age or baffled hopes,

Then, then at least, be ye my comforters

Once more, old text-books! Then, in still retreat,

May th' old man reap the fruit of the boy's labors;
And, o'er the yet familiar antique page,
Forgetting petty cares, and shaking off
The dust of his ambition's race or downfall,
Serenely contemplate Antiquity-

Its littlenesses hid, and each grand trait

Seen magnified, behind the classic veil,

Which Time lets fall o'er all the things that were.