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fore follow that the fact is less real, and they are less interesting. Many there are who are charmed with literature, thrilled with music, fascinated with art, and struck with admiration by the wonderful adaptations and vastness of the material world, who regard little children as too common-place to be noticed with a loving attention, and too uninteresting to be made objects of reverential contemplation. They esteem, to some extent, the hoary - headed veteran, whose "fourscore years” weigh him down to the margin of the grave, but they can bend over the cradle of an infant without the least sensibility. If they speak of them, it is very slightingly, except they be the offsprings of opulence and royalty, with whose being the history and welfare of a nation is associated; and, even then, the interest excited in them is but small. In many cases—that which seems to the eye of some to be great and grand, will attract more attention than those little creatures whose existence is linked with eternity, and comprised in the everlasting counsels of God. But though such interesting beings—as little children unquestionably are—may be slighted by some, they are interesting to others. The wild

flower of the lowly dell loses none of its beauty, because none but God and angels look upon it. It may “waste its sweetness on the desert air," but it is nevertheless pleasing to Him who moulded, and beautified, and scented it. And so, too, is infant being and young life. Little children are the most lovely flowers this side Eden: they bring with them into this hapless world the aroma and joy of that forfeited and blissful region. By their angel-like presence they purify human nature, and enrich it with those sympathies and sensibilities which make parents more virtuous and godlike. The heart's frozen affections are melted by the warmth of their innocent and sunny smile, and its dormant faculties awoke up to a new life by their early and strange prattle. They clothe it with those kindly attributes, and charitable excellencies, which are the best and brightest adornments of humanity. And what a cheerful and merry home they make! The horny-handed mechanic feels himself more than repaid for his sweating toil to procure for them “the bread that perisheth,” when he returns at even-tide, and is greeted by their smiles and gladsomeness. And even the poor slave, who has laboured like

a horse for his inhuman master, and met with nothing but barbarous treatment and low curses all the day, forgives and forgets all when he reaches his humble cabin, and associates again with the dear objects of conjugal love. The unrestrained laughter which rings in the happy dwelling—the revel-rout of young voices which bounds over the homestead, is the sweetest music which can greet the human ear, or thrill the human heart. Well might Lord Byron, whose "genius” modern authors have branded as “demon,” yet who, in all his voluptuous career, never lost the feelings of a father, pronounce “the voices of children, and their early words,” the richest melody of a parent's soul! They are God-sent boons whose mission is to chase away "dull care,” - little angels, who shake from off their golden wings the light and joy of Paradise! That home is not truly a home which is not gladdened and beautified with little children. The Rev. Thomas Binney says

_“I think them the poetry of the world, the fresh flowers of our hearths and homes ;little conjurors, with their natural magic,' evoking by their spells what delights and enriches all ranks, and equalizes the different classes of society. Often as they bring with them anxieties and cares, and live to occasion sorrow and grief, we should get on very badly without them. Only think -- if there was never anything anywhere to be seen, but great, grown-up men and women !-how we should long for the sight of a little child! Every infant comes into the world like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children', and to draw 'the disobedient to the wisdom of the just.""

Infidelity speaks of little children—as it does of every important and interesting subject—with a savage and lowering dogmatism, and styles them incarnate accidents-nature's toys, whose existence, if they die in infancy, can answer no purpose in the economy of humanity, nor yet in any other economy, as, if they possess souls, they must necessarily be in an infantile, and, consequently, unfinished state, and must therefore perish with the body in the grave of mortality;—the drop from the great ocean of life returns to its native element, and there it mingles, and is lost. Now, granting, for a moment, that the theory of the materialist is true, we demur to it as a sufficient and satisfactory reason why little children should be treated with cruel indifference. It is true they cannot act for themselves either physically or mentally, and, if left to themselves, must inevitably perish: but the simple and abstract fact that they possess life, invests them with an importance and a grandeur by the side of which worlds sink into insignificance! Life, in any form, or in any thing, is the sublimest mystery in creation! But we cannot receive any portion of the sceptic's shallow sophistry as true. We firmly believe, both from reason, and instinct, and Revelation, that an infant comes into the world the possessor of an immortal and infinitely-valuable soul—a vital principle, which, though in, is distinct from the body, and, unlike its infantile state, is a perfect and indestructible substance. But, supposing the soul of an infant is like its physical organism, as far as size and condition are concerned, does this prove that therefore it will perish together with the body? Nay! The sublime discoveries of chemical science prove that annihilation is no principle or law of the ascertained universe. This is demon

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