journal is fast becoming an Abolition organ,' says the eighth.

'Do you mean to oppose the Administration and distress the Government?'
says the ninth.

'You give us no history,' sighs the tenth.

'What do you mean by your long historical disquisitions?' vociferates
the eleventh. 'Nobody cares for the past now. Our hands are full of the
present. We are ourselves living the most important history which this
globe has yet seen.'

Courteous reader, so it goes on forever, through all the unceasing
changes of thought, heart, mind, soul, taste, which characterize the
great, acting, struggling, thinking, conservative, progressive,
believing, doubting, Young American people.

Meanwhile we will earnestly strive to hold up the glass of the
constantly shifting times before you, that you may be enabled to see the
flitting shadows of the hour as they pass across it, grave or gay,
portentous or hopeful, draped in solid political vesture, the toga of
the statesman, or robed in the blue gossamer of metaphysics, in the
drapery of sorrow or light hues of joy, in the tried armor of the
Divine, or the dubious motley of the progressive, in the soft, floating,
lustrous, aerial texture of the woman, or the monotonous Shanghai of the
man--while we will forever strive to point you to the Cross of Peace,
the Heavenly City, and the starry diadem of Eternal Truth. You may read
in our pages of 'immutable laws,' for such is the term now in vogue, but
you will remember that these words are but a veil used by the scientist
to hide the Eternal and Unchangeable Will, the Personal God, the Hearer
of Prayer, the Father of Creation. The kaleidoscope of nature, however
rudely shaken, through all its multiplicity of fragments, forever falls
back into the holy figure of God:

'Mirrors God maketh all atoms in space,
And fronteth each one with His perfect Face.'

How long, lovely, and glowing has our autumn been, with its dreamy days
and soft shadowy mists. In its surpassing beauty it is peculiar to our
own loved land, and thus doubly dear to the hearts of Americans. Our
mountains borrowed the rainbow, dressing themselves in its changing
hues, holding up the great forests, like clustered bouquets, in their
giant palms, as if offering their dying children to God in the very
hour of their mature beauty. Crimsons and purples, oranges, golds,
yellows, browns, greens, and scarlet dye the trees; gathered sheaves and
golden pumpkins, marguerites, feathery