As a general rule, where we possess continued delight, there is no ‘danger nigh.’  Where an enjoyment comes between us and our God, it casts on us a shadow.  When we have plucked a beautiful flower, if poisonous, it has such a sickening odor that we fling it from us.  We do not ’pay too dear for our whistle,’ unless it costs us a sin; then it soon becomes a loathed and useless toy.  Otherwise, the dearer we pay, the sweeter its music.

And even if there is ’danger nigh’—­because we are pleased with the beautiful foam, need we steer straight for the breakers?  Not every tempting morsel is the enemy’s bait, though we should be careful how we nibble;—­he is no blunderer (a proof positive that he is not Irish), never leaves his trap sprung—­and we may get caught.

This is a synopsis of the arguments, or rather assertions, with which I opposed those of the blues; but, finding they were getting the better of me, I started out for a walk.  It was a chilly afternoon; the whole sky, except a clear place just above the western horizon, was covered with those heavy, diluted India-ink clouds; the setting sun throwing a dreary red light on the northern and eastern mountains, adding sullenness to the gloom, instead of dispelling it.  But why describe this gloomy sunset, there are so many beautiful ones?—­when, as the grand, old, dying Humboldt said, the ‘glorious rays seem to beckon earth to heaven?’

Well, I walked so fast that I left my blue tormentors far in the rear.  On the way I met a friend, who invited me to go to the astronomical lecture.  Here you have it, after many digressions.  My thoughts never strike a plane surface, but always a spherical, and fly off in a tangent.

Sydney Smith says, ‘Remember the flood and be brief.’  You know I belong to a very old family; and from an ancestor, who lived before the flood, has been transmitted through a long line of O’Mollys a disposition to spin out.  Unfortunately an antediluvian length of time was not an heir-loom to

Your humble servant,

MOLLY O’MOLLY.

* * * * *

SKETCHES OF EDINBURGH LITERATI.

BY A FORMER MEMBER OF ITS PRESS.

There was a time when the little hamlet of Cockpaine, ten miles from Edinburgh, in addition to the charms of its scenery, was also socially attractive from the high literary talent of several of its residents.  It was situated on the banks of the Esk, whose rapid flow affords a valuable water-power.  This had been improved under the enterprise of Mr. Craig, an extensive manufacturer, who became at last proprietor not only of the mills, but of the entire village.  Mr. Craig was successful for several years; but the revulsions of trade during the Crimean war swept away his previous profits, and in 1854 he sank in utter bankruptcy.

The extensive domain of the Earl of Dalhousie lay next to Cockpaine, and the village site seemed all that was necessary to its completeness.  As soon as the latter was offered for sale, the earl made the long-desired purchase, and then began the immediate eviction of its population.  I saw four hundred operatives, of all ages, driven off on one sad occasion—­a scene which reminded me most painfully of Goldsmith’s lines in the ’Deserted Village:’—­