СНАРТER XIII.

Infants in Beauen.

I reached home safely, and found my garden in the full splendor of this lovely month-this "kiss which Heaven gives to earth." But in every corner of my garden, under every tree, and before every flower, there rises before me the suffering form of my dear departed William, whose young life has been a most lovely May-day, one of Heaven's sweetest kisses to an undeserving parent. But his mild smiling day ended with a most distressing scene of martyrdom, that he might be perfected through suffering. O how I sometimes long to see the little angel in his celestial glory, among the infant martyrs of Bethlehem, a never-fading flower in the Paradise of God!

FROM A LETTER OF REV. DR. SCHAFF TO THE AUTHOR. DATED MAY 16, 1853.

ONE half the human race die as infants! By far the greater part of these do not live to be one year old.

Infants are the most interesting portion of every family; so are they also of the human family as a whole. They are lovely to contemplate in all those characteristics which belong to the opening season of human life. As the dewy morning is more beautiful than the perfect day—as the opening bud is more

lovely than the full-blown flower, so is the joyous dawn of infant life more interesting than the calm monotony of riper years.

Love for little children, and interest in them, is a beautiful virtue, and ought to be found in every Christian bosom, whether parent or not. It is seldom that we find even unsanctified human nature devoid of tender interest in bright and joyous infancy. Even Lord Byron, whose soul, in its own cold height, was like a mountain which no springtime ever reaches, and whose heart, in reference to all human love, was dry as summer dust-even this proud, selfish misanthrope, self-exiled in a distant land because he hated home and all its associations, sends back a sigh to the "cradled slumbers" of his infant daughter. Though he took delight in nothing human, but hated it all, he still thought he might take an interest in "aiding her mind's development," and in "watching her dawn of little joys!" He who is destitute of all interest in little children, reproaches his own mother's love, by which his infancy was cherished, and is, by common consent,

a monster.

"Three things," says the Rev. Dr. Henry, “appear to be uninjured by the fall-the song of birds, the beauty of flowers, and the smile of infancy; for it is difficult to conceive how either of these could have been more perfect had man remained holy; as if GOD would leave us something to remind us of the Paradise we have lost, and to point us to that which we may regain." Though we may not be willing to say that sin has not also mingled its discord with the songs of birds, paled the tints of the fairest flowers, and darkened the

sunny smiles of infancy: yet we may say, that as the harmony of nature is richest in the morning, and as the flower smiles in beauty on the top, before the thorns have grown hard and sharp, so sin and the curse seem to defer their bitterness to the waywardness of youth and the sorrowful years of age, while all that is lovely and holy finds expression in the happy days and joyous smiles of infancy.

Beautiful is an infant, whatever way we picture it to ourselves. Beautiful in the cradle. Beautiful upon a parent's knee. Beautiful awake or asleep. Beautiful at play, in the corner of the room, or under the shadetree before the door. Beautiful as a lamb in the Sa

viour's arms. Beautiful at the font of baptism. Beautiful beneath the coffin-lid!-Yes, beautiful even there, in the loveliness of death- with hands folded peacefully with brow like moulded wax-with eyes closed in sleep, "perchance to dream!"—with lips so gracefully composed, as if to say, "I murmur not "and with its entire face radiant with a smile, which is the imprint of its dying vision!

If infants make up so prominent and lovely a feature in the homes of earth, what must they be in our Heavenly Home? Certainly we would overlook one grand part of the heavenly treasures and attractions, did we not devote a Chapter to Infants in Heaven.

The early church devoted a special day, once a year, the third day after Christmas, to the affectionate remembrance of those infants which were slain, in Bethlehem and the coasts thereof, by the order of Herod, with the design of slaying among them the child Jesus. This is touchingly appropriate. In answer to the

question, "Who was the first Christian martyr?" children are taught to answer, "Stephen." Is this right? Were not the first Christian martyrs the infants of Bethlehem? They died for Jesus' sake. Afterwards He died for them! Their blood was the first oblation to the new-born Saviour. True, the sacrifice was brought by a wicked man; but this is not the only instance in which an unholy priest made offering in the name, and in behalf of others; why may not Herod bring the blood of these infants in the name of all, as the first-fruits of the myriads on myriads of those who are taken from the earth in infancy, washed in the Saviour's atoning blood, and received into Heaven?

Would it not be well if a warmer and more affectionate remembrance of infants in Heaven, were kept up in the church on earth? Would it not be well, early and often, to refer little children to the touching scene of infant martyrdom at Bethlehem, and, by means of it, to the Saviour who died for them, and for whom they died, as well as to that happy world, where they are crowned with their Redeemer? Yes, it would make them better-it would make us better!

We need not discuss the question whether all infants are saved. This we take here for granted. They were from first included in the promise. They were afterward included in the covenant. They were at length embraced in the Saviour's arms-and He has Himself said, "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." It is beautifully said by Irenæus, "To infants He became an infant, sanctifying infants."

They crowd around me now, the silent, solemn forms

of myriads of mourners! Ye who have counted the stars of Heaven, and the sand of the sea, draw near, and tell the number of those Rachels in whose eyes shines, deep and lovely, the "sweet sorrow" for their infant dead! Where is the family that is not divided — part on earth and part in Heaven? Where is the parent that does not visit, with tears, some little mound under the willow! Where is the parent that does not, in some lonely hour which memory loves, look up to Heaven with folded hands, and exclaim, half in joy and half in sorrow, "Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me!"

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But hath one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells for the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted.

Such mourners need for their comfort more than the bare statement of the fact that their departed infants are saved. The affectionate parental heart, which was wont to delight in all the smallest details of interest in the object of its affections, will not now settle down in vague generalities. The sorrowing heart of a bereaved parent always muses on particulars. The poet has given true expression to such a heart.

The nursery shows thy pictured wall,