“You say well, young man,” said Dr. Lundin; “for mine own part, I know no such pests to the commonwealth as these old incarnate devils, who haunt the chambers of the brain-sick patients, that are mad enough to suffer them to interfere with, disturb, and let, the regular process of a learned and artificial cure, with their sirups, and their julaps, and diascordium, and mithridate, and my Lady What-shall-call'um's powder, and worthy Dame Trashem's pill; and thus make widows and orphans, and cheat the regular and well-studied physician, in order to get the name of wise women and skeely neighbours, and so forth. But no more on't--Mother Nicneven [Footnote: This was the name given to the grand Mother Witch, the very Hecate of Scottish popular superstition. Her name was bestowed, in one or two instances, upon sorceresses, who were held to resemble her by their superior skill in “Hell's black grammar.”] and I will meet one day, and she shall know there is danger in dealing with the Doctor.” “It is a true word, and many have found it,” said the page; “but under your favour, I would fain walk abroad for a little, and see these sports.” “It is well moved,” said the Doctor, “and I too should be showing myself abroad. Moreover the play waits us, young man-to-day, _totus mundus agit histrionem_.”--And they sallied forth accordingly into the mirthful scene. Chapter the Twenty-Seventh. See on yon verdant lawn, the gathering crowd Thickens amain; the buxom nymphs advance, Usher'd by jolly clowns; distinctions cease, Lost in the common joy, and the bold slave Leans on his wealthy master unreproved. _Rural Games_.--SOMERVILLLE.