Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

A Silence, The Brief Sabbath Of An Hour, Reigns O'er The Fields; The Laborer Sits Within His Dwelling; He Has Left His Steers Awhile, Unyoked, To Bite The Herbage, And His Dog Sleeps Stretched Beside The Door-stone In The Shade. Now The Gray Marmot, With Uplifted Paws, No More Sits Listening By His Den, But Steals Abroad, In Safety, To The Clover-field, And Crops Its Juicy-blossoms.

And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine Peeps In.

Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase Is Fruits Of Innocence And Blessedness.

The Journalist Should Be On His Guard Against Publishing What Is False In Taste Or Exceptionable In Morals.