III.

Light in Darkness.

"I saw a precious babe convulsed with pain;
I marked the heaving of its little breast;
I saw it wither, waste, and die.

Say, has its spirit passed into the sky ?"

"IT is only a babe!" was the heartless response to the inquiry, "Whose funeral ?" "Only a babe!" The words grated on my soul. He, cold-hearted man, had no child, at least in heaven. He felt no sympathy, because he felt no loss. But if he could have entered into the hearts of the parents, he would, at least, have had pity. Their hearts were riven by the stroke. Nor could Death have inflicted a keener blow, had they lost a child, prepared to die, of riper years. At such a time, an act of kindness, a word of sympathy, is like the music of an angel. A heartless

word is like a sword.
of, the wounded heart.
ers! The busy world,

Speak tenderly to, and God pity the mournintent upon its pur

suits, passes on, laughing at the folly of tears and regrets-for it is "only a babe !" What can its death affect on 'change? But the rumbling of the cold world's chariot, and its icy smiles in their tear-furrowed cheek, only make them weep the more for their loving treasures, their beautiful treasures, torn from sorrowing hearts. To them how cutting, how cruel, the heartless response, "It is only a babe!"

Many a parent can recall the touching lines of a heathen father's heart:

"Observing other houses

Flourish with children, I grew fond of them,
And wished to be a father. Had I known,

Had I experienced what a father feels
When of a child deprived, I had not fallen
Into my present woe.

"Grief for my son, long rankling at my heart, Hath wasted all my strength. A greater grief Can mortals know, thro' all the various ills

Of life than this, to see their children dead ?"

Or better, this which the bereaved, "possessed

with Christian hopes," but not in the exercise

of Christian faith:

"For, O! to dry a parent's tears,
Another babe may bloom;

But what remains on earth to him
Whose last is in the tomb?

To think his child is blest above,
To pray their parting brief—

These, these may soothe, but death alone,
Can heal a father's grief."

As already mentioned, my attention had been so much absorbed by the truth and reality of my desolateness, that I did not, could not, think clearly upon any subject. I only knew that the image of my children would soon fade away, and that their cold and colorless forms would decay. But though the body molders, the immortal spirit can not. Then, with intense interest, my mind revolved the inquiries, Does the promise of immortality gild an infant's tomb? Is there sufficient warrant for faith to follow the young spirit within the veil? Thousands of aching hearts seek a response. For unless the black clouds which hang heavily and gloomily over the grave can

be dissipated, its darkness deepens into the midnight of despair. The world sheds no light upon little graves; nor does philosophy, nor any earth-born knowledge.

Yet in my intercourse with bereaved parents, and I have seen many an infant die, and heard many a wail of anguish, I have never found one who did not believe that the infant dead are saved. I have known Christian parents who recognized this truth, or rather took it for granted; but its significancy and consolation were not realized. It was an abstraction. Their children were "like olive plants around their tables." They had no infant in heaven. I have seen them again after their homes had been desolated and their heart-strings had been torn. That stroke had changed their impressions. They believed, they felt that their babes were in glory. In the night of bereavement and loneliness, just when most needed, the consolation of this doctrine strengthens the soul. Even after the lapse of years have I seen the tear moisten the eye at the recollection of the bitter night, and a smile chase that

tear away, because their babe amid angels stands. I find this belief is not confined to Christians. All whose babes are snatched away, except a few of the most godless, who are utterly indifferent about the eternal wellbeing of their children, either living or dead, believe they have gone to glory. The exist ence of this belief, as wide-spread, I had almost said as universal, in Christian lands, is undoubted. It is just as true that this belief was not a part of either the ancient or modern heathen religions. Their epitaphs and sad elegies on the death of children, breathe no intimation of an infant's future life.

Here is a fact for whose existence we must account. How has this belief grown up in the human heart? How happens it that it is most firmly held and warmly cherished where the religion of Jesus is the most flourishing? What reason will explain the fact that all Christian parents, when bereaved, cordially believe that all who depart this life in infancy are saved?

In support of the fact, volumes have been