SYMPATHY IN OUR SOCIAL RELATIONS.

ORIGINAL.

WHO can estimate the evils resulting from a want of sympathy in our social and domestic relations to each other?

While we must concede that there are secret windings and recesses of the human heart, seen only by the eye of Omniscience, we still assert that much mischief might be avoided by obedience to the precepts of the Gospel.

What countless tales of sorrow would have found no place in the catalogue of human woe, had we all obeyed the injunction, “Be ye not unequally yoked together." One example is given as an illus

tration.

"What shall we do with our George?" gently inquired Mrs. B. of her husband, as he was sitting by the window, on a pleasant Sabbath morning, reading a secular newspaper.

"I do not see but the boy is well enough," replied Mr. B., without looking up from the paper.

"O dear!" sighed the wife, "how much I have prayed for and with that child! How many hours I have talked with him; and all avails nothing!"

"What is the use of fretting, wife?" said Mr. B., laying down the paper; "he will come right of his own accord, if you will let him alone. I wish you would let him enjoy himself, and not make his life so gloomy with your puritanism. What has George done now?"

"My dear," replied the mother, with a throbbing heart and trembling voice, "I have been urging him to lay aside that fashionable magazine this morning, and take a book proper for this holy day; but his reply is, 'Well, mother, when you can make father read anything but the newspaper on Sundays, I'll agree to read sober books, but not till then!""

We spare our readers the sequel.

Dr. Payson implied much when he remarked that he never saw a truly Christian woman united to an impenitent man, without being reminded of a dove with one broken wing.

There must be sanctified affections, unanimity of faith and practice, and heartfelt sympathy, or life at home will have no sunny side."

MY MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER.

BY MRS. CHRISTIANA B. COWELL.

--

I HEAR it still, that low, fervent tone of supplication, stealing, like the sweet cadence of some far-off music, on the half-waking slumbers of early morning! At first I seemed dreaming of something soft and soothing entrancing my senses, until, opening my eyes to the first dawning of day, I knew it was my mother's hour of prayer. She had, as she was wont, left her rest, which her weary cares demanded; and, while her babe yet slept, while the older ones were still, and before the pressing duties of the day commenced, was away, in the gray twilight of the morning, to commune with God. Her place of retreat was in a chamber directly above the one occupied by myself and sister. I could have been, at that time, but six or seven years of age. More than a score of years have since borne their records on high; yet those impressions, then engraven on my young heart, are with me still. They have been woven like a bright thread through my whole subsequent life. How very little did that pious mother know,—all alone and unheard, as she thought herself,- of the thrills she was sending over the spirit of her child, never to cease their vibrations! I never thought to utter them; indeed, I knew no language sufficient. I had never before so felt the great moral distance between myself and her. Although she had sometimes gathered us around her, just before we retired at evening, and described to us heaven, as the abode of all which is pure and lovely, of our heavenly Father, who loves to meet and commune with those who seek His favor,—yet it was not until that still, impressive hour, when there was not an object or a sound to prevent my spirit from yielding to the hallowed influence thus distilled upon it, that I truly felt how close the alliance was which my mother held with Heaven. An irresistible yearning then took possession of me to have an inheritance in the skies, to which I knew she would go. But who would read the voiceless, hidden breathings of such a child, or understood the searching glance with which I scanned the calm dignity of her countenance, when I met her in the morning? Yet all these left their impress on the waxen tablet of my heart.

when a tear was

When there were marks of grief,

on her cheek, I durst not ask why; I did not then understand these tears. But now, when little immortals are here who call me "mother," whose trusting eyes are often fixed on mine with a gaze which seems to reflect my own soul,- when, too, I mark the upshootings of evil in their hearts, and think of the strength of its affinity with the thousand allurements to vice which are abroad in life's pathway, ever ready to steal away the heart's best treasures,--now it is I understand a mother's tears; and, when my spirit seems oppressed with life's ills and arduous duties, when the countless freaks and follies of childhood are ever drawing on the small store of patience and wisdom, then it is I understand why a mother should take the first calm moments of the morning to go up to the fountain of every grace, and gather fresh supplies to strengthen her for coming duties and conflicts.

Yet another thought hangs now upon my pen. It is, that these our little ones, now daily in our presence, will soon be away in the world, beyond the influence of the true and loving hearts of home. But, if our image be ever with them, they may cease not to be the moral daguerreotype of her

Who sung their evening lullabies,

And taught their morning thoughts to rise.

MY MOTHER'S VOICE.

My mother's voice! How often creeps
Its cadence on my lonely hours!
Like healing on the wings of sleep,

Or dew on the unconscious flowers.
I might forget her melting prayer,
While pleasure's pulses madly fly;
But in the still, unbroken air

Her gentle tones come stealing by;
And years of sin and manhood flee,
And leave me at my mother's knee.

N. P. WILLIS,

THIS celebrated painter was born in the State of New York. Some time during his boyhood his parents removed to New York City, and there he immediately commenced the study of drawing. After having served an apprenticeship of seven years, he established himself in the great metropolis, and soon attained eminence in his profession.

Among the most notable of his productions are The Boyhood of Washington, Mumble the Peg, An October Afternoon, The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, A Woodland Scene, and The Sleep of Death.

The characteristics of Inman's paintings are full coloring and complete naturalness, together with the highest order of finish; the first adding much to the effect of the painting, and the two latter constituting the chief merit and charm of all productions in this department of human effort.

HEALTH.

PART SECOND.

EDITORIAL.

IN resuming the subject of Health, we take it for granted that every one now admits its desirableness. A few years ago, there was a class of literateurs whose sickly sentimentality led them to associate all female loveliness with fragility and weakness. Every novel heroine was slender and delicate, almost ethereal, subsisting without food or sleep; yet, with a strange inconsistency, they were all required to perform feats of endurance and activity which would have taxed the strongest nerves, and the most powerful genius. Every school-girl wished to be slight and pale; and many were willing to swallow the most deleterious substances, such as chalk and vinegar, in order to produce this desirable result. Thanks, however, to some strong thinkers, writers and teachers, opinion is evidently undergoing a change on this subject. Still, the art of preserving health and strength does not seem to have attained that general attention, and practical cultivation, which its importance demands.

No doubt, some of the highest instances of virtue and talent have been associated with much physical imperfection and weakness. Cowper, Dr. Johnson, Robert Hall, Hannah More, Elizabeth Barrett, and many others, may be cited as having brought their mental and moral powers to a high state of perfection and activity, in the midst of bodily pain and suffering. It has been our fortune to know a number of persons, in the common walks of life, on whose poor, misshapen frames, early disease, or accident, had wrought a cruel and lasting work; a work so dire as almost to isolate its victim from the ordinary hopes and sympathies of humanity; yet, whose soul had risen superior to the ills of its imperfect tenement, and shown itself equal, not only to the strict performance of every duty, but to the enjoyment of pure and elevated happiness. But, though by help from God, in whom they trusted, and from a peculiar innate force of soul, they were enabled to do this, they regarded health as one of the greatest and most desirable of blessings, and well might.