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 street with a huge piece of sturgeon for his Sunday feast.  My friends, however, left me little time to indulge in a contemplative mood, for good old Madeira, a hearty welcome, and a stroll about and around the place, filled up the day; while the fragrant weed and the social circle occupied no small portion of the evening.  Having spent a few but very pleasant days here, I took leave of my hospitable friends—­not forgetting that jovial soul, Uncle Ben; then embarking in a steamer, and armed with a solitary letter of introduction, I started off to visit a plantation on the banks of James River.

A planter’s home, like the good Highland laird’s, seems made of India rubber.  Without writing to inquire whether the house is full, or your company agreeable, you consider the former improbable and the latter certain.  When you approach your victim, a signal is thrown out; the answer is a boat; in you get, bag and baggage; you land at the foot of his lawn or of some little adjoining pier, and thus apparently force yourself upon his hospitality.  Reader, if it is ever your good fortune to be dropped with a letter of introduction at Shirley, one glance from the eye of the amiable host and hostess, accompanied by a real shake of the hand, satisfy you beyond doubt you are truly and heartily welcome.  A planter’s