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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
Is far away,

Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;

My winged boat,

A bird afloat,

Swims round the purple peaks remote:

Round purple peaks

Here Ischia smiles
O'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,
Her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if
My rippling skiff

Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;--
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies

Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls

The Bay's deep breast at intervals
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by,

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.

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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.

1 think about it when I work,
And when I try to rest,

And never more than when your head

Is pillowed on my breast;

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,

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,
And all are loved again;

And I am loved, and love perhaps,
No more than other men.

J cannot tell-I do not know

Which way my duty lies,

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

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THE CLOSING YEAR.-By George D. Prentice.

TIs midnight's holy hour, and silence now

Is hro


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