presentation of Virtue reproving Folly. One of those ancient, sensible, sharp, spiritual, dramatic moralities, which strike at the sins of men in office, and censure the vices of riches and rank,-such as the reformers of old loved and encouraged. It will show by example the excellence of virtue, and the hideousness of vice. So, peace be with you all,—I drink a fair good-night." CHAPTER III. Are we gods? Allied to no infirmities? Are our natures Is there no medicine called sweet mercy? THE sound ran over the country with the morning light, that a grand dramatic spectacle for the instruction of the people was prepared by Lord Dalveen, and that he wished to whip his own sins and follies for the especial good of mankind. What all this might mean many wondered. One thought that he meant something sly, satirical, and knavish; another, that his hour of repentance was come, and that, as his beginning had been dark, his latter end would be bright and shining. Various and strange were the people's imaginings; and vulgar wonder, and a burning desire to have the riddle solved, filled the castle-hall at the twilight with a throng of old and young. They saw something like preparation made for their entertainment. A large curtain formed of old banners torn from their staffs for the purpose, extended from side to side, shutting up one-third of the place; while, on each side, large torches made of bog-pine, threw up a thick and dusky light among the inky beams of the massy roof. Wine went round in no stinted measure; and among the clinking of the silver-cups, as they were hastily filled and rapidly emptied, men indulged in many a vain conjecture concerning their coming entertainment. "This youth now," said Amos Macrabbin, "is peradventure a soul's well-wisher, and may have used his gifts for the good of sinful human nature. When that curtain arises you shall not behold one of those mixed histories of folly and sin called comedies, nor one of those anent guilt and grace, and merriment and murder, called tragedies; but you shall see peradventure a divine mystery,-a spiritual drama, in which no painted madam kilted to the knees shall wag herself wantonly at you.""Ye have spoken truly, Amos," said John Cargill, in a tone which hovered between jest and earnest. "There shall come the Seven Deadly Sins as black as Barcaple's angels, and against them shall march the Seven Shining Nirtues, beaming and pure like the morning light. Great shall be the strife and strong the fight between them. The Pride of Life will hasten to the aid of the wicked, while Purity of Heart shall stand in the way, and sore shall be the temptation, and strong the resistance. 0, Amos Macrabbin, this will be a profitable and an edifying sight!" When the curtain was withdrawn these conjectures seemed to be just. The stage portion of the hall was formed into the resemblance of a little wild valley, and as nature supplied materials for such scenes more readily than art could create them, the green earth had yielded some of her covering, and a sward of short velvet grass atoned for the absence of the scene painter. In the centre of this imaginary valley a small pulpit of cut turf was built, while around it were placed seven seats; on the seats sat seven grave immovable personages with enormous bonnets, and bearing all the external tokens of elders of the kirk. Nor was the pulpit long without an occupant,-a tall handsome figure, attired in a suit of black, of an antique Scottish cut, and bearing an enormous book bound with brazen clasps, ascended the steps, and, with a gravity worthy of a better object, looked round upon the elders. On each side of the little valley boughs of trees, with their summer covering of leaves, were stuck, and the whole was a tolerable representation of a Cameronian preaching among the wild hills, where a seat on the grass and a pulpit of turf or stone accommodate the people and the preacher. Most of the audience, however, conjecturing from the character of their entertainer, expected nothing very serious, they looked for matter worthy rather of mirth than of tears. A titter and a whis per ran among them as this scene presented itself. "It's to be a sermon after all," said one, "that's Tribulation, the terrible preacher from the west,he'll waken all our sleeping infirmities, I'll caution him. He delivers up Nithsdale annually to the fiends, and casts the green hills of Galloway as waste ground into Tophet to eke out the bottomless pit. He'll no leave as meikle lea-land as would graze a goose."-"Tribulation!" whispered another, "it's as soon auld Alexander Peden himself, risen after his sleep of a century,-the carle's expected to come about this time by the wild mountaineers. It's young Haud-the-ladle, the son of auld Haud-the-ladle the professor from the Crauford hills,-a braw preacher,-my certie, he'll give the scripture a tearing,—he'll knock the dust out of a difficult chapter. The way he gat that name was this, there was ance a long drouth and a sore famine, and the professor behoved to preach what he called an ee-water sermon,-but deil an ee was the moister, neither plack nor penny drapt into the poor's plate the mair on't. Up banged the priest, and just as the six daughters of the laird of Touphorn, a' shining like morning suns, glittering in gauds like waterfalls in the morn, wi' their mother at their head, and as mony braws on her as wad hae biggit the kirk steeple,-just as they turned an empty loof and a cauld back o' the hand on the poor's-box,-up, as I said, |