OUR GUESTS.

Do not accuse me of disregarding the rites of hospitality, if I indulge in a few reflections on the characteristics of some of my guests. I mean those whose comings and goings are regulated by the convenient location of my room, the extent of my library, especially that part relating to translations, and the condition of my tobacco-jar.

I need not specify - all know whom I mean - that friendly young man whose visits are as regular as the flow and ebb of the sea; that congenial soul who, on finding our oak sported, evinces his superior knowledge of college customs by treating us to the soul-soothing sound of the devil's tattoo beaten upon our door in a manner truly vigorous, giving vent at the same time to expressions of mistrust as to our being out, and whose incredulous phiz we finally see peering at us through the ventilator. In what a pleasant frame of mind do we then welcome him with assurances that we bad mistaken him for some one else.

I was the victim of such a fellow once. He would drop in after breakfast, just to take a smoke, and as a matter of course read the morning paper first. Thinking possession as good as ownership, he appropriated my books without asking leave, and if in consequence of this appropriation I "deaded" or "fizzled," he expressed the liveliest sympathy for my mishap, and would offer the consoling advice that I ought to study harder. There was something strange about the fact that the day after I received a check he would invariably want to borrow a little money.

How blandly would he sometimes come into my room, take off his rubbers and overcoat, and pleasantly inform me that he had no more recitations for that day! I knew what this meant, - a straight loaf till tea, and a steady drain on my cherished tobacco. He made fair promises of buying the next, but the next for him never came.

On rising one morning I discovered that a letter had been pushed under my door. I hastened to it, picked it up, and quickly tore it open; the first line commenced "Dear Will." I hesitated, read three or four more lines, and became sensible of some mistake. I looked at the envelope; it bore the name of my friend with the number of my room. Was it possible? It was; after this his letters came regularly to my room.

Being under the necessity of purchasing some coal one day, I chanced to ask him, with a slight tinge of sarcasm in my voice, how much coal he had used this winter. He replied, "I have only about half a ton left." Some time after I happened to see one of those little bills with which we are all more or less acquainted; from this I learned that he was indebted to a coal-merchant for just the above-mentioned amount, purchased at the beginning of the year. I then fully understood the import of his answer. He evinced the most morbid curiosity for all my secrets, and as soon as he had discovered one, it was the common property of the class. From morning till evening it was one continual "Let me see your notebook," "Where's your translation?" How is this problem solved?" "Let me see your theme," and so on without limit.

Having been invited to write something for a college paper, I complied with the request and sat down one day to gather a few scattered thoughts. With his usual inquisitiveness he asked me what I was doing. I answered "Writing." He wished to know "about what." I replied, "Loafers," and asked him if he did n't think they were a nuisance. He assented, and remarked that it was surprising how we agreed in most of our opinions. I said no more. Coming home rather late one evening, I was astonished to find my bed occupied. At first I was uncertain whether or no I might not be deceived by an abnormal condition of some of my senses, but as soon as I struck a light he exclaimed, "Ah, Jack, is that you?" I answered in no very pleasant tone that as near as I could recollect it was. He asked, "Which side of the bed do you prefer?" I told him the outside, and slept on my lounge. My dreams were none of the pleasantest. The next morning I inquired of him whether he was well read up on bores. He answered that he was, and said "They were very dangerous animals when forced to fight." I at once voted him a fool, and determined to get rid of him. In the course of the day I told him I had resolved to stop smoking. A look of sadness overspread his features; he remonstrated with me over such a rash act, and spoke eloquently of the inspiration derived from the burning bowl. I ordered my paper to be stopped. He argued that it was the duty of every young man in our station to be well versed in politics and current matters, and was surprised that a man of my sense should take such a course. I did n't buy any more translations. He thought by this means I would lose a certain elegance and fluency of translation. I thought differently, grew morose and fretful, answered his questions in monosyllables or not at all, and was gratified to notice that his calls were less frequent and finally ceased. Are any of my readers, who have patiently waded through this piece, blessed with his good fellowship now? If there are any, with such I can truly sympathize.