it was provoking for as they would not accept sympathy, of course they could not give it, though my reeking condition would have touched any other heart than theirs. On we went, till at last coming to the top of a hill, we suddenly cropped out into the sunshine -the shower still scudding along the valley beneath us. We continued our ride, getting once more soaked on our way, and again drying in the sun. At last we reached home, having made a circuit of fifteen miles. Scarcely a word was said of the rain. I saw my mermaid friends to their residences, and was thankful when I got back to the hotel. What with the shower, and a slight cold which ensued-I did not get the trot of Jeffrey's mare out of my bones for a fortnight. Indeed, long after, during rough weather, when the gust and rain dashed against my window, the beast sometimes visited me in sleep, coming in the shape of a nightmare, carrying me at a furious rate, with two charming witches before, beckoning me on to a race. As a just moral of this adventure-I suggest to all Americans, who ride with Scotch ladies around Edinburgh, not to go forth in their best dresscoat, and pantaloons having no straps beneath the boot.

LETTER XLI.

William Blackwood-The Magazine-A Dinner at Blackwood's-James Ballantyne Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb-The General Assembly of Scotland-Dr. Chalmers.

MY DEAR C******

One or two more selections from my journal, and we will leave Edinburgh. I had delivered my letter of introduction to Blackwood, and he had treated me very kindly. He was, professionally, a mere bookseller and publisher—a plain, short, stocky person, with a large head, bald and flat on the top. He spoke broad Scotch, or rather sang it, for although all spoken language, in every country, has its cadences, in Scotland it is a veritable song. This is more noticeable among the illiterate, and especially the old women. I sometimes thought they were mocking me, so emphatic were their inflexions and modulations. I have since observed similar intonations in other countries. especially in Italy, where the rising and falling of the voice is so marked as to appear like an affectation of musical cadenzas, even in conversation.

Nevertheless, Mr. Blackwood was an exceedingly intelligent and agreeable gentleman. The Magazine* which bears his name, was then in its glory,

* Blackwood's Magazine was founded in April, 1817, the office of publication being the proprietor's bookstore, 17 Prince-street. The founder, William Blackwood, died some years since, and the Magazine is

and of course a part of its radiance shone on him. He was a man of excellent judgment, even in literary matters, and his taste, no doubt, contributed largely to the success of the Magazine. He was in familiar intercourse with the celebrities of the day-and a bright constellation they were. He spoke as familiarly of great names-Scott, Lockhart, Hogg, Wilson --sacred to me, as Appleton and Putnam and the Harpers do of Irving, Halleck, and Bryant, or Ticknor &

continued by his sons. In general, its tone has not been friendly to America, and while I was there an article in the May number, 1824, upon our country, then just issued, excited some attention, and I was frequently interrogated respecting it. It was entitled the "Five Presi dents of the United States," and though it was written as by an Englishman, perhaps in order to secure its insertion, Blackwood told me it was from the pen of a distinguished American, then in London. It was a somewhat slashing review of the administrations of the presidents, from Washington to Monroe, the latter being then in office. It embraced sketches of Adams, Clay, Crawford, and Jackson-the promi nent candidates for the presidency. The following is part of the notice of Adams.

Supposing a European ambassador to visit Washington, and is introduced into the President's house, "He sees a little man writing at a table, nearly bald, with a face quite formal and destitute of expression; his eyes running with water-his slippers down at the heel-his fingers stained with ink-in summer wearing a striped sea-sucker coat, and white trowsers, and dirty waistcoat, spotted with ink-his whole dress altogether not worth a couple of pounds; or in a colder season, habited in a plain blue coat, much the worse for wear, and other garments in proportion-not so respectable as we may find in the old-clothes bag of almost any Jew in the street. This person, whom the ambassador mistakes for a clerk in a department, and only wonders, in looking at him, that the President should permit a man to appear before him in such dress, proves to be the President of the United States himself!"

The article was written with vigor and discrimination, and excited a good deal of attention. Though free, and by no means dainty in its criticisms, it was, on the whole, just, and produced a favorable impression in our behalf. The author, whoever he was, evidently possessed eminent qualifications for magazine writing.

Fields of Prescott and Longfellow. Was not that a time to be remembered?

Of course I was gratified at receiving from him a note, inviting me to dine with him the next day. His house was on the south of the old town-nearly two miles distant. The persons present were such as I should myself have selected: among them Lockhart and James Ballantyne. I sat next the latter, and found him exceedingly agreeable and gentlemanlike. He was a rather large man, handsome, smooth in person and manner, and very well dressed. You will remember that at this time, it was not acknowledged by Scott or his friends that he was the author of the Waverley novels. Perhaps the mystery was even promoted by them, for, no doubt, it added adventitious interest to his works. However, the vail was not closely preserved in the circle of intimacy. Ballantyne said to me, in the course of a conversation which turned upon the popularity of authors, as indicated by the sale of their works-" We have now in course of preparation forty thousand volumes of Scott's poems and the works of the author of Waverley"-evidently intimating the identity of their authorship.

There was nothing remarkable about our meal : it was like an English dinner, generally-ample, substantial, administered with hospitality, and discussed with relish. There was a certain seriousness and preparation about it, common in Europe, but un

common in our country. We rush to the table as if eating was an affair to be dispatched in the shortest possible time to linger over it would seem to be an indecency. The Englishman, on the contrary, arranges his business for his dinner; he prepares his mind for it; he sets himself to the table, and adjusts his legs beneath, for it; he unfolds his napkin and lays it in his lap, or tucks a corner within his waistcoat, for it; he finally qualifies himself the better to enjoy it, by taking a loving survey of the good things before him and the good friends around him. He begins leisurely, as if feeling that Providence smiles upon him, and he would acknowledge its bounties by prolonging the enjoyment of them. As he proceeds, he spices his gratification by sips of wine, exchanges of compliments with the ladies and convivial chat, right and left, with his neighbors. The host is attentive, the hostess lends a smiling countenance, the servants are ubiquitous, and put your wishes into deeds, without the trouble of your speaking to them.

The first half hour has a certain earnestness about it, apparently occupied in reducing the Malakoffs of beef, Mamelons of mutton, and Redans of poultry— that come one after another. The victory is, at last, substantially won: all that remains is to capture the pies, cakes, tarts, ices, creams, fruits, &c., which is usually done with a running artillery of light wit. Conversation ensues; now and then all listen to some good talker; perhaps a story-teller catches,