please your honour.” By this time they were arrived, and the laird’s usual companions being engaged at the harvest, they had the parlour to themselves. The first bowl of punch passed in spiritual discourse, and O’Rourke had assured the laird, that if he would join the methodists in their prayers and spiritual devotions, his pleasures at other times should not be an inch abridged. By the end of the second bowl, this new disciple had come to a kind of compromise, that he should attend to all the prayers and devotions which did not interfere with the club-hours. This point of conscience being satisfactorily settled, they proceeded in their jovial career. The acquired gravity of the saint gave way to the natural vivacity of the Irishman. O’Rourke sang several songs, and told several comical stories, and was actually engaged in the first stanza of “Sweet Molly Mog is as soft as a bog! As wild as a kitten, &c.” when the evening bell rang for prayers, which ever since O’Rourke’s residence in this mansion had been regularly performed, at stated periods, by the whole family, besides their private devotions. O’Rourke was somewhat startled at this sound, as the punch was excellent and the bowl nearly full; but being a ready-witted fellow, he immediately dispatched a note to the lady, informing her that he had met his honour; that the finger of God was evident in the meeting; and that he was in a blessed condition of conversion. He had got the effectual calling, and wanted only a little fillip more of the spirit of the gospel, to make his election sure; that in a short time he would prevail on him to come home, and join in the evening exercise. Having sent off this epistle, our apostle gave up Molly Mog; and, to put the laird in a right frame, expatiated on the joys of heaven and the terrors of hell. At this last subject he declared, that sinners who did not repent, that is to say, betake themselves to faith and grace, would be burned by the devil until they were as black as the skin of a roasted potatoe. “And come, here’s a bumper to your honour’s salvation, and I shall be glad at time and place _convanient_ to lend you a lift. You’re in a blessed disposition, and if you keep to it you’re sure of getting to heaven among the saints and the pretty little angels; and heaven, let me tell you, is as fine a place as the Curragh of Kildare, or the lake of Killarney itself.” “Yes,” answered the laird, with true Caledonian gravity, “it is a blessed mansion, where God grant we may arrive with due speed.” “Oh,” replied Roger, “there’s no hurry.” The laird now whistling, the landlady made her appearance. The laird inquired what was to pay, and being informed, ordered another bowl, observing that it was an established rule of the house never to pay the reckoning over an empty bowl. “And a very good rule it is,” said the saint: “but as we are in haste, I think we had better have larger glasses.” Mrs. Wood having joined the company, Roger inquired into the