You will think me too earnest. The O'Mollys were ever an earnest race and an orthodox race. With what earnestness did they, in the good old times, from those peculiarly Irish goblets, that wouldn't stand, drink Irish whisky, till they partook of the nature of the goblets and came to the floor with them--the goblets with a crash, but the O'Mollys got up as sound as a bell, and next morning were ready to attend mass, into which they entered with as much earnestness as into their revelry. No people equal the Irish in earnestness in _spiritual_ matters. It is perhaps not for a female O'Molly to record these roysterings; but I am the last of my race, I only am left to chronicle the glorious doings of my ancestors. Then, too, on our escutcheon is one of these same goblets. The origin of this escutcheon it has been a family task to trace, with but little success, however, till the present generation, I had a cousin who inherited all the family pride. He became a martyr to his devotion to the 'time-honored custom;' for alas! good old Irish whisky is as certainly among the 'things that were,' as are the Irish kings. Some have shrewdly thought that it was the only real Irish king. Well, then, it is owing to this cousin's loyalty to the usurper, or rather pretender, that I am the family chronicler. He was wonderfully ingenious; could from the slightest hint guess at the whole story; he was equal to those naturalists who from one bone can make out the animal. With the remains of an old family tradition for his clue, he traced the origin of the escutcheon. It was on this wise. One of the Irish kings, traveling incog., stopped at the castle of an O'Molly, who, though he knew not the rank of his guest, entertained him with the utmost hospitality. Freely the goblet circulated, and as they two only drank from it, it was soon broken. The king, next morning, revealed his rank to his host, and dubbed him _Knight of the Goblet_; hence the goblet on the shield, an emblem of hospitality. And never has there been a stain on the escutcheon of the O'Mollys. I said they were an orthodox race. Perhaps they were too bigoted in their adherence to the old customs and the old faith. But there is too much latitudinarianism in this nineteenth century. Too many think it matters but little what a man's belief is, if he is only sincere in it; as if the consequences of any thing could be averted by not believing in it. The hands of your clock may be so turned around that they will point to the wrong figures; does that change the time? Or, what amounts to the same thing, it may be so ill-regulated, the machinery may be so out of gear, that you are deceived. But morning, noon, and night do not regulate their face by your clock. There is a dial that unerringly marks 'the stately stoppings' of the sun of suns--let us regulate our belief by it.