sed to any extent in any age preceding. There is no question that the other way of doing must have its own agrémens, when one happens to practise it with great success-but even so, I think the mask is better on the whole, and I think it looks as if the whole world were likely to be ere long of my opinion. I don't suppose the author of Waverley will ever think of confessing himself-were I in his place, I am sure I never should. What fine persuasive words are those which Venus makes use of in the Eneid, when she proposes to the Trojan hero to wrap his approach to the city with a copious garniture of cloud-multo nebulæ amictu.

"Cernere ne quis te, neu quis contingere posset,
Molirive moram, aut veniendi poscere causas."

There could be no resisting of such arguments, even without the additional persuasiveness of a

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rosea cervix," and "ambrosia come divinum vertice odorem spirantes."

Mr W came into the sanctum sanctorum before the bookseller and his new author had quite made an end of their confabulation. He forthwith asked Mr Blackwood for his gem, upon which a silver snuff-box was produced, and I immediately recollected the inimitable description in the Chaldee MS., which had given rise

to the expression used by my friend. Nothing, I think, can be more exquisite.-" And he took from under his girdle a gem of curious workmanship, of silver, made by the hand of a cunning artificer, and overlaid within with pure gold; and he took from thence something in colour like unto the dust of the earth, or the ashes that remain of a furnace, and he snuffed it up like the east wind, and returned the gem again into its place." But I must reserve the famous Chaldee MS., and the character of this far-famed Magazine for another letter.

On coming away, W reminded me that I had said I would dine with him at any tavern he pleased, and proposed that we should honour with our company a house in the immediate neighbourhood of Mr Blackwood's shop, and frequently alluded to in his Magazine, as the great haunt of its wits. Indeed, it is one of the localities taken notice of by the archaic jeud'esprit I have just quoted,-" as thou lookest to the road of Gabriel and the land of Ambrose," which last proper name is that of the keeper of this tavern. W—— had often supped, but never dined here before, so that it was somewhat of an experiment; but our reception was such as to make us by no means repent of it. We had an excellent dinner, and port so superb, that my

friend called it quite a discovery. I took particular notice of the salmon, which mine host assured us came from the Tay, but which I could scarcely have believed to be the real product of that river, unless W had confirmed the statement, and added, by way of explanation, that the Tay salmon one sees in London loses at least half of its flavour, in consequence of its being transported thither in ice. Here, it is cer tainly the finest salmon one meets with. The fish from the Tweed are quite poor in comparison: The fact is, I suppose, that before any river can nourish salmon into their full perfection, it must flow through a long tract of rich country. The finest salmon in the whole world are those of the Thames and the Severn-those of the Rhine and the Loire come next; but, in spite of more exquisite cookery, their inferiority is still quite apparent. We made ourselves very happy in this snug little tavern till nine o'clock, when we adjourned to Oman's, and concluded the evening with a little Al Echam, and a cup of coffee.

The street, or lane, in which Ambrose's tavern is situated, derives its name of Gabriel's Road, from a horrible murder which was committed there a great number of years ago. Any

occurrence of that sort seems to make a prodigiously lasting impression on the minds of the Scotch people. You remember Muschat's Cairn in the Heart of Mid-Lothian-I think Gabriel's Road is a more shocking name. Cairn is too fine a word to be coupled with the idea of a vulgar murder. But they both sound horribly enough. The story of Gabriel, however, is one that ought to be remembered, for it is one of the most striking illustrations I have ever met with, of the effects of puritanical superstition in destroying the moral feelings, when carried to the extreme in former days not uncommon in Scotland. Gabriel was a Preacher or Licentiate of the Kirk, employed as domestic tutor in a gentleman's family in Edinburgh, where he had for pupils two fine boys of eight or ten years of age. The tutor entertained, it seems, some partiality for the Abigail of the children's mother, and it so happened, that one of his pupils observed him kiss the girl one day in passing through an anti-room, where she was sitting. The little fellow carried this interesting piece of intelligence to his brother, and both of them mentioned it by way of a good joke to their mother the same evening. Whether the lady had dropped some hint of what she had heard to her maid, or whether she had done so to the Preacher himself,

I have not learned; but so it was, that he found he had been discovered, and by what means also. The idea of having been detected in such a trivial trespass, was enough to poison forever the spirit of this juvenile presbyterian—his whole soul became filled with the blackest demons of rage, and he resolved to sacrifice to his indignation the instruments of what he conceived to be so deadly a disgrace. It was Sunday, and after going to church as usual with his pupils, he led them out to walk in the country-for the ground on which the New Town of Edinburgh now stands, was then considered as the country by the people of Edinburgh. After passing calmly, to all appearance, through several of the green fields, which have now become streets and squares, he came to a place more lonely than the rest, and there drawing a large clasp-knife from his pocket, he at once stabbed the elder of his pupils to the heart. The younger boy gazed on him for a moment, and then fled with shrieks of terror; but the murderer pursued with the bloody knife in his hand, and slew him also as soon as he was overtaken. The whole of this shocking scene was observed distinctly from the Old Town, by innumerable crowds of people, who were near enough to see every motion of