for murder, Cain was only branded on the forehead; but over the whole person of the debauchee or the inebriate, the signatures of infamy are written. How nature brands him with stigma and opprobrium! How she hangs labels all over him, to testify her disgust at his existence, and to admonish others to beware of his example! How she loosens all his joints, sends tremors along his muscles, and bends forward his frame, as if to bring him upon all-fours with kindred brutes, or to degrade him to the reptile's crawling! How she disfigures his countenance, as if intent upon obliterating all traces of her own image, so that she may swear she never made him! How she pours rheum over his eyes, sends foul spirits to inhabit his breath, and shrieks, as with a trumpet, from every pore of his body, "BEHOLD A BEAST!" Such a man may be seen in the streets of our cities every day; if rich enough, he may be found in the saloons, and at the tables of the "Upper Ten;" but surely, to every man of purity and honor, to every man whose wisdom as well as whose heart is unblemished, the wretch who comes cropped and bleeding from the pillory, and redolent with its appropriate perfumes, would be a guest or a companion far less offensive and disgusting. Now let the young man, rejoicing in his manly proportions, and in his comeliness, look on this picture, and on this, and then say, after the likeness of which model he intends his own erect stature and sublime countenance shall be configured. DRIFTING.-By T. Buchanan Read. My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote: Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Where summer sings and never dies,O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. I've closed a hard day's work, Marty- But he is sleeping sweetly now, O Marty! I must tell you all For it has filled our little home, I did not mean it should be so, And yet I might have known My heart grows sad about the war, I think about it when I work, And when I try to rest, And never more than when your Is pillowed on my breast; head For then I see the camp-fires blaze, And sleeping men around, Who turn their faces towards their homes, I think about the dear, brave boys, Who pine for home and those they love, With shouts and cheers they marched away On glory's shining track, But, ah! how long, how long they stay! One sleeps beside the Tennessee, And some, struck down by fell disease, And others, maimed by cruel wounds, Ah, Marty! Marty! only think "Come on and help us! Is it right And when I kneel and try to pray, But cling to those who toil and fight It seems almost a sin To fold my hands and ask for what I will not help to win. O, do not cling to me and cry, For it will break my heart; I'm sure you'd rather have me die You think that some should stay at home But still I'm helpless to decide If I should go or stay. For, Marty, all the soldiers love, No more than other men. I cannot tell-I do not know- Or where the Lord would have me build I feel I know-I am not mean; Perhaps the Spirit will reveal That which is fair and right; Peace in the clover-scented air, THE CLOSING YEAR.-By George D. Prentice. 'TIS midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, |