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 golden rods, and bright blue gorse are on every field. Have we not, in very truth, a country for which a patriot should gladly die, and the devout heart never cease to quiver in prayer that God may vouchsafe to bless? One of our patriot poets has sent us the stirring hymn of the Cumberland. Let him chant it here, while we grave in our hearts the grateful memory of the brave crew who perished with her, martyrs in a holy cause: THE CUMBERLAND. Fast poured the traitors' shot and shell, Where at their posts our gunners fell: Our starboard portholes make reply-- Each takes his comrade's place to die; All time shall yield no battle field Grand as thy deck, our Cumberland! Oh, crashing shock! our beams divide, And death flows inward with the tide. O'er gory decks,'mid sulphur smoke, The climbing waters madly broke; Our banner spread, still waved o'er head, Above the sinking Cumberland. The wounded cheer,--the dying wave, While sinking to their watery grave, With straining sight and grateful prayer, Exultant that the Flag is there;-- Nor thought of life to glory's strife, But of their ship, the Cumberland.