gathering chime of its happy bells upon the frosty air. It is a time
when even strangers may hold commune; let us take advantage of it, and
learn to know something of each other. But are we indeed strangers? It
is true that we stand as abstract impersonalities, as disembodied
spirits, unknown even by name to one another. Yet have we held relations
which we cannot shake off even if we would. 'The most obscure of
literary men' we may be, yet has your kind smile often cheered us as we
labored to place before you the wants, wishes, tastes, views, hopes, and
aims of our common country. Caterer as we are for you, through us and
the handywork of our skilful printer have our able writers spun their
golden threads through heart, mind, and soul. Contributors, readers, and
editor are alike linked in these glittering spiritual meshes, and can
never be quite the same as if the web had never held them for its
passing moment in its light zone of thought. For ideas generate duties,
knowledge stimulates action, and to act in a world of doubt may well be
onerous. We frankly confess to you that a dread responsibility has cast
a deep shadow upon all our moments since the commencement of our
intercourse with you. Our butterfly hours were then past: we grew into
work-a-day bees--if only we have stored some honey in your hives to pay
us for the lost idlesse of our dreamy summers! If it 'is greatly wise to
talk with our past hours, and ask them what report they bear to Heaven'
when spent only for ourselves, it is a solemn thing to call them back,
and ask them what report they bear to Heaven for the thousands to whom
they have ministered. We spread the table lovingly before you: what if
there should be something in yourselves to turn our healthful food to
poison? On marches THE CONTINENTAL with its light and heavy freight of
winged words and thoughts, striding from _monthly_ stepping-stone to
stepping-stone on the long route of Time. Stepping-stones in Time are
they now truly, but as we gaze they seem to grow into Eternity, and the
buds which twine their glow around them ripen slowly into ever-living
fruit in the strange clime of the Everlasting Now to which we are all
hastening.

How clear that Christmas chime upon the frosty air!

Reader, is it too much to hope that in spite of all our short-comings,
we have yet been loyal to your better hours, and faithful in the field
given us to sow for the heavenly Reapers? We have labored to interest,