Of all the woe, and want, and wretchedness, which awaken our compassion; of all the scenes of misery which call so loudly for sympathy; there is none that so harrows up the feelings as the drunkard's home! Look at him who began life with the love of friends, the admiration of society, the prospect of extensive usefulness; look at him in after years, when he has learned to love the draught, which, we shudder while we say it, reduces him to the level of the brute. Where is now his usefulness? where the admiration, where the love, that once were his? Love! none but the love of a wife, or a child, can cling to him in his degradation. Look at the woman, who, when she repeated for better for worse,' would have shrunk with terror had the faintest shadow of the 'worse' fallen upon her young heart. Is that she who on her bridal day was adorned with such neatness and taste? Ah me, what a sad change And the children, for whom he thanked God, at their birth; the little ones of whom he had been so proud, whom he had dandled on his knee, and taught to lisp the endearing name of father-see them trembling before him, and endeavoring to escape his violence. Look at the empty basket, and the full bottle; the natural wants of the body denied, to satisfy the unnatural cravings of a depraved appetite.

Oh God, have pity upon the drunkard's home! The artist has well told his story, and who that looks upon it but would fearingly turn aside from the first step to ruin?

We too have a tale to tell, which, it pains us to acknowledge, contains more truth than fiction.

James Boynton was the first-born of his parents, and a proud and happy mother was Mrs. Boynton, when her friends gathered around her to look at her pretty babe. Carefully was he tended, and all his infantile winning ways were treasured as so many proofs of his powers of endearment.

In wisdom has the Almighty hidden the deep secrets of futurity from mortal ken. When the mother first folds her infant to her heart, could she look through the long vista of years, and see the suffering, the sin, the shame, which may be the portion of her child, would she not ask God in mercy to take the infant to himself? Would she

not unrepiningly, nay, thankfully bear all the agony of seeing her little one, with straightened limbs, and folded hands, and shrouded form, carried from her bosom to its baby-grave? And yet, not one of all the thousands who are steeped in wickedness and crime, but a mother's heart has gladdened when the soft eye first looked into hers, and the soft cheek first nestled on her own. And, still more awful thought! not one of all these Pariahs of society but has an immortal soul, to save which, the Son of God left his glory, and agonized upon the cross!

James grew up a warm-hearted boy, and among his young companions he was a universal favorite. "Jim Boynton is too good-natured to refuse doing anything we ask," said Ned Granger one day to a school-fellow who feared that James would not join a party of rather doubtful character, which was forming for what they called a frolic. And this was the truth. Here lay the secret of Boynton's weakness-he was too goodnatured: for this very desirable and truly amiable quality, unless united with firmness of character, is often productive of evil. But we pass over his boyish life, and look at him in early manhood.

He has a fine figure, with a handsome, intelligent countenance, and his manners have received their tone and polish from a free intercourse in refined circles. He passed his college examination with credit to himself; but, from sheer indecision of character, hesitated in choosing a profession. At this time, an uncle, who resided at the South, was about retiring from mercantile life, and he proposed that James should enter with him as a junior partner, while he would remain for a year or two to give his nephew the benefit of his experience. The business was a lucrative one, and the proposal was accepted.

James left his home at the North, and went to try his fortunes amid new scenes and new temptations. His uncle received him warmly, for the old man had no children of his own, and James was his god-child. His uncle's position in society, and his own frank and gentlemanly demeanor, won him ready access to the hospitality of Southern friends, and it was not long before he fell in love with a pretty orphan girl, whom he frequently

met at the house of a common acquaintance. That the girl was portionless, was no demerit in his uncle's eyes. Not all his treasures, and they were large, had choked the avenues to the old man's heart, and the young people were made happy by his approval of their union.

After a visit to his friends in the North, James returned with his bride; and in a modern house, furnished with every luxury, the happy pair began their wedded life. And now, who so blest as Boynton ? Three years pass away, and two children make their home still brighter. Does no one see the cloud, "not bigger than a man's hand," upon the verge of the moral horizon?

Boynton's dislike to saying 'no,' when asked to join a few male friends at dinner, or, on a party of pleasure; his very good-nature, which made him so desirable a companion, were the means of leading him in the steps to ruin.

"Come, Boynton, another glass."

more." How often, instead of throwing the mantle of charity over a brother's sin, instead of telling him his fault "between thee and him alone," is it bared to the light of day, trumpeted to a cold and censure-loving world, until the victim either sinks into gloomy despondency, and believes it hopeless for him to attempt amendment, or else stands forth in bold defiance, and rushes headlong to his ruin. Not one human being stands so perfect in his isolation, as to be wholly unmoved by contact with his fellows; what need, then, for the daily exercise of that godlike charity which "suffereth long and is kind," which "rejoiceth not in iniquity," which "beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things."

Seven years have gone with their records to eternity-where is James Boynton now?

In one room of a miserable, dilapidated tenement, inhabited by many unfortunate victims of

had entered a home which taste and luxury ren

And Boynton, wanting in firmness of character, yielded to the voice of the tempter. Need we say, that, with indulgence, the love for the poison was strengthened?

For a while the unfortunate man strove to keep up appearances. He was never seen during the day in a state of intoxication; and from a doze on the sofa in the evening, or a heavy lethargic sleep at night, he could awake to converse with his friends, or attend at his counting-room, without his secret habit being at all suspected.

But who that willingly dallies with temptation, can foretell the end? Who can "lay the flattering unction to his soul," that in a downward path he can stop when he pleases, and unharmed retrace his steps? Like the moth, circling nearer and still nearer to the flame, until the insect falls with scorched wing a victim to its own temerity, so will the pinious of the soul be left scathed and drooping.

Soon Boynton began to neglect his business, and he was secretly pointed out as a man of intemperate habits. At last he was shunned, shaken off, by the very men who had led him astray. Who were most guilty? Let Heaven judge.

Here let us pause, and ask why it is, that so many look upon a fellow-being verging to the brink of ruin, without speaking one persuasive word, or doing one kindly act, to win him back to virtue? Why it is, that, when fallen, they are thrust still farther down by taunting and contempt? Oh, such was not the spirit of Him who came "to seek and to save that which was lost." Such was not the spirit of Him who said, "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no

every side. His four children are pale and sickly, from want of proper food, and close confinement in that deleterious atmosphere. They have learned to hide away when they hear their father's footsteps, for, alas! to his own, he is no longer the good-natured man. Fallen in his own esteem, frequently the subject of ribald mirth, his passions have become inflamed, and he vents his ill-humor on his defenceless family. He no longer makes even a show of doing something for their support; and, to keep them from starving, his wife works wherever, and at whatever she can find employment.

A few more years, and where is Mrs. Boynton? Tremble, ye who set an example to your families of which ye cannot foretell the consequences! Tremble, ye whom God has made to be the protectors, the guides, the counsellors, of the women ye have vowed to love and cherish! Mrs. Boynton, like her husband, has fallen! In an evil hour, harassed by want, ill-used by her husband, she tasted the fatal cup. It produced temporary forgetfulness, from which she awoke to a sense of shame and anguish. Ah, she had no mother, no sister, no woman-friend who truly cared for her, to warn, to plead, to admonish! Again was she tempted, again she tasted, and that squalid home was rendered tenfold more wretched, by the absence of all attempt at order. However great may be the sorrow and distress occasioned by a man's love for strong drink, it is not to be compared to the deep wretchedness produced by the same cause in woman; and it is matter for thankfulness, that so few men drag down their wives with them in their fall.

Providence raised up a friend who took the

FEBRUARY.-There are at least two memorable days in February the fourteenth and the twenty-second. Kindly Saint Valentine smiles upon the first, and rains odors and sweeter billets-doux wherever young folks are found; while on the other, honors, to which every year of our national life gives deeper and deeper significance, are paid to the Father of our country. Two ennobled days in one short month are enough to give it interest; and the present February has the addditional grace of the supplemental day, whose quadrennial return gives to the unsought among the weaker sex, the precious privilege of pursuing too diffident bachelors into their very fastnesses. One determined celibat of our acquaintance, who chanced to be in a company of ladies when the clock struck twelve on New Year's night, fled instantly, with every mark of extreme terror, on being reminded that Leap-Year had now commenced. But we can tell him him that flight will be of no avail. Che sarà sarà. What is written in our foreheads must be accomplished; and leap-year only smooths the way for the decrees of Fate.

THE IDEAL OF AN OFFICE OF PUBLICATION. Suffering not inconsiderably ourselves from the mistaken notions of a portion of our correspondents, who seem to forget that editorial and publishing business of all kinds is to be done by a few heads in each establishment, we have been much amused by the following burlesque account-which we find, where we find many other capital things, in the Evening Mirror of the vast machinery of a newspaper office. After a good deal of grand talking on the subject of editorial duties in general, the writer thus describes the material apparatus of the office:

"In the basement beneath the publishing office, are the extensive troughs in which is mixed the paste used in the different departments of the paper; a grindstone, which is always in motion for sharpening the scissors of the editors; a large box for the reception of unopened letters on which the postage has not been paid; and the steam engine

which sets all the complicated machinery of the office in motion. In the upper loft of the building is the splendid suite of offices occupied by the different editors of the paper, all of which communicate with the library. In the office occupied by our literary-editor, is a very ingenious contrivance, resembling one of the instruments of torture in the Spanish Inquisition, which is kept in motion by steam machinery; it is a small hammer that is constantly rapping the head of this employé to keep him from falling asleep while he is reading James' Novels for the purpose of reviewing them. The office occupied by our musical critic is furnished with a fine collection of musical instruments, chiefly hautboys, ophicleides, trombones, French horns, serpents and bassoons, to enable him to vent his swelling indignation against modern composers, when it gets too big for words Two baggage wagons are constantly engaged in bringing our exchange papers from the Post Office. Adjoining the office of the principal editor is a large drying room, heated by steam, in which are dried the morning papers, before they are submitted to him for his inspection. In addition to a large and well-drilled corps of dreadful-accident makers, we have our ship-news collector, our Court journalist, our Wall-street reporter, our pun-maker, and a large body of foreign correspondents, who occupy the garret of the opposite building. It will thus be seen, that a great many different hands are employed in making up a newspaper; but in addition to all those we have enumerated, there are a great many well-informed friends of ours, who are continually sending us essays and observations on every conceivable topic; and who sign themselves for the most part your constant reader," although your constant writer, we believe, would come much nearer the truth. We have said nothing about the number of hands employed in our compositors' loft; nor of the number of men with large families who derive their living from us; but we will mention, for the sake of our statistical readers, that we consume annually,

29 gross of cast-steel Scissors.

35 tons of Paste.

1400 dozen Steel Pens.

18 hogheads Writing Fluid.

3 1-2 cart loads of Sundries.

And that our expenditures approximate much nearer to our income than is desirable. Any other information concerning our establishment will be cheerfully given when any of our subscribers apply for it."