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,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,

The mountains swim;

While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands

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-
The evening chores are done;
And you are weary with the house,
And with the little one.

But he is sleeping sweetly now,
With all our pretty brood;
o come and sit upon my knee,
And it will do me good.

O Marty! I must tell you all
The trouble in my heart,
And you must do the best you can
To take and bear your part.
You've seen the shadow on my face,
You've felt it day and night;

For it has filled our little home,
And banished all its light.

I did not mean it should be so,

And yet I might have known
That hearts that live as close as ours
Can never keep their own.
But we are fallen on evil times,
And, do whate'er I may,

My heart grows sad about the war,
And sadder every day.

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,
And dream upon the ground.

I think about the dear, brave boys,
My mates in other years,

Who pine for home and those they love,
Till I am choked with tears,

With shouts and cheers they marched away

On glory's shining track,

But, ah! how long, how long they stay!
How few of them come back!

One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
And one beside the James,
And one fought on a gallant ship,
And perished in its flames.

And some, struck down by fell disease,
Are breathing out their life;

And others, maimed by cruel wounds,
Have left the deadly strife.

Ah, Marty! Marty! only think
Of all the boys have done
And suffered in this weary war!
Brave heroes, every one!
O, often, often in the night,
I hear their voices call:

"Come on and help us! Is it right
That we should bear it all?”`

And when I kneel and try to pray,
My thoughts are never free,

But cling to those who toil and fight
And die for you and me.
And when I pray for victory,

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
Than not to bear my part.

You think that some should stay at home
To care for those away;

But still I'm helpless to decide

If I should go or stay.

For, Marty, all the soldiers love,
And all are loved again;
And I am loved, and love perhaps,

No more than other men.

I cannot tell-I do not know-
Which way my duty lies,

Or where the Lord would have me build
My fire of sacrifice.

I feel I know-I am not mean;
And though I seem to boast,
I'm sure that I would give my life
To those who need it most.

Perhaps the Spirit will reveal

That which is fair and right;
So, Marty, let us humbly kneel
And pray to Heaven for light.

Peace in the clover-scented air,
And stars within the dome;
And, underneath, in dim repose,
A plain New England home.
Within, a widow in her weeds,
From whom all joy is flown,
Who kneels among her sleeping babes,
And weeps and prays alone!

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
The bell's deep tones are swelling,-'tis the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train

Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud