The ‘soft sawder’ of the Clockmaker had operated effectually on the beauty of Amherst, our lovely hostess of Pugwash’s Inn:  indeed, I am inclined to think, with Mr. Slick, that ‘the road to a woman’s heart lies through her child,’ from the effect produced upon her by the praises bestowed on her infant boy.  I was musing on this feminine susceptibility to flattery, when the door opened, and Mrs. Pugwash entered, dressed in her sweetest smiles and her best cap, an auxiliary by no means required by her charms, which, like an Italian sky, when unclouded, are unrivalled in splendor.  Approaching me, she said, with an irresistible smile, would you like Mr. —–­, (here there was a pause, a hiatus, evidently intended for me to fill up with my name; but that no person knows, nor do I intend they shall; at Medley’s Hotel, in Halifax, I was known as the stranger in No. 1.  The attention that incognito procured for me, the importance it gave me in the eyes of the master of the house, its lodgers and servants, is indescribable.  It is only great people who travel incog.  State travelling is inconvenient and slow; the constant weight of form and etiquette oppresses at once the strength and the spirits.  It is pleasant to travel unobserved, to stand at ease, or exchange the full suit for the undress coat and fatigue jacket.  Wherever too there is mystery there is importance; there is no knowing for whom I may be mistaken—­but let me once give my humble cognomen and occupation, and I sink immediately to my own level, to a plebeian station and a vulgar name:  not even my beautiful hostess, nor my inquisitive friend, the Clockmaker, who calls me ‘Squire,’ shall extract that secret!) Would you like, Mr. —–.  Indeed, I would, said I, Mrs. Pugwash; pray be seated, and tell me what it is.  Would you like a dish of superior Shittyacks for supper?  Indeed I would, said I, again laughing; but pray tell me what it is?  Laws me! said she with a stare, where have you been all your days, that you never heerd of our Shittyack Oysters?  I thought every body had heerd of them.  I beg pardon, said I, but I understood at Halifax, that the only Oysters in this part of the world were found on the shores of Prince Edward Island.  Oh! dear no, said our hostess, they are found all along the coast from Shittyack, through Bay of Vartes, away up to Ramshag.  The latter we seldom get, though the best; there is no regular conveyance, and when they do come, they are generally shelled and in kegs, and never in good order.  I have not had a real good Ramshag in my house these two years, since Governor Maitland was here; he was amazin fond of them, and Lawyer Talkemdeaf sent his carriage there on purpose to procure them fresh for him.  Now we can’t get them, but we have the Shittyacks in perfection; say the word, and they shall be served up immediately.  A good dish and an unexpected dish is most acceptable, and certainly my American friend and myself did ample justice to the Oysters, which, if they have not so classical a name, have quite as good a flavor as their far famed brethren of Milton.  Mr. Slick eat so heartily, that when he resumed his conversation, he indulged in the most melancholy forebodings.