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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
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote:
Round purple peaks
Here Ischia smiles
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;--
Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls
Where swells and falls
The Bay's deep breast at intervals
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day, so mild,
Is Heaven's own child,
With earth and ocean reconciled ;—
The airs I feel
Around me steal
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.
I did not mean it should be so,
1 think about it when I work,
And never more than when your head
Is pillowed on my breast;
For then I see the camp-fires blaze,
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
But, ah! how long, how long they stay!
One sleeps beside the Tennessee,
Ah, Marty! Marty! only think
O, do not cling to me and cry,
You think that some should stay at home
But still I'm helpless to decide
For, Marty, all the soldiers.love,
And I am loved, and love perhaps,
J cannot tell-I do not know
Which way my duty lies,
Or where the Lord would have me build
THE CLOSING YEAR.-By George D. Prentice.
TIs midnight's holy hour, and silence now