onscious instrument of many of his plans,
then we may say that children are sent by him for the express purpose of
producing these effects, and in that sense have a mission.

I pass to consider some of the modes in which that mission is
accomplished.

I. Little children give us a sincere and affectionate manifestation
of human nature. I know that even a child will soon become artful,
and imbibe the spirit of dealing and of policy. But in a strongly
comparative sense, the child is artless. The thoughts of the heart leap
spontaneously from the lips. The bubbling impulse is closely followed
by the action. Its desire, its aversion, its love, its curiosity,
are expressed without modification. The broken prattle, those
half-pronounced words, are uttered with clear, ringing tones of
sincerity. There is no coil of deceit about the heart. There are no
secrets chambered in the brain. The countenance has put on no disguise.
There is no manoeuvring with lips or actions, no suspicion or plotting
in the eyes. It is simple human nature fresh from the hands of God, with
all its young springs in motion, trying themselves in their simplicity
and their newness. The eyes open upon the world, not with speculation,
but with wonder. To them, the ancient hills and the morning stars are
just created, new phenomena burst upon them every moment, and nature in
a thousand channels pours itself into the young soul. And how soon it
learns the meaning of a mother's smile, and the protection of a father's
hand! How soon the fountains of affection are unsealed and the mystery
of human love takes possession of the hear! But the tides of that love
are controlled by no calculation, are fettered by no proprieties, but
flow artlessly and freely.

Humanity soon runs into deceit, and the sincerest man wears a mask.
We cannot trust our most familiar friends, to the whole extent. We all
retain something in our inmost hearts that nobody knows but we and
God. The world bids us be shrewd and politic. We walk in a mart of
selfishness. Eyes stare upon us, and we are afraid of them. We meet as
traders, as partisans, as citizens, as worshippers, as friends-brothers,
if you will-but we must not express all we think, we must school
ourselves in some respects,--must adopt some conventionalities. There is
some degree of isolation between ourselves and every other one. But
from the world's strife and sordidness, its wearisome forms and cold
suspicions, we may turn to the