And so I suppose people of all nations and religions love and tend their little ones, and watch and yearn over them. I have seen little Catholics cared for by kind nuns with wistful tenderness, as the young ones came clinging to their black veils and playing with their chaplets;—little high-church maidens growing up rosy and happy amid crosses and mediæval texts, and chants, and dinners of fish, and kind and melancholy ladies in close caps and loose-cut dresses;—little low-church children smiling and dropping curtseys as they see the Rev. Mr. Faith-in-grace coming up the lane with tracts in his big pockets about pious negroes, and broken vessels, and devouring worms, and I daresay pennies and sugar-plums as well. Who has not seen and noted these things, and blessed with a thankful, humble heart that fatherly Providence which has sent this pure and tender religion of little children to all creeds and to all the world? The Carver’s Lesson. Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery, No mere practice of a dexterous hand, Will suffice, without a hidden spirit, That we may, or may not, understand. And those quaint old fragments that are left us Have their power in this,—the Carver brought Earnest care, and reverent patience, only Worthily to clothe some noble thought. Shut, then, in the petals of the flowers, Round the stems of all the lilies twine, Hide beneath each bird’s or angel’s pinion, Some wise meaning or some thought divine. Place in stony hands that pray for ever Tender words of peace, and strive to wind Round the leafy scrolls and fretted niches Some true, loving message to your kind. Some will praise, some blame, and, soon forgetting, Come and go, nor even pause to gaze; Only now and then a passing stranger Just may loiter with a word of praise. But, I think, when years have floated onward, And the stone is gray, and dim, and old, And the hand forgotten that has carved it, And the heart that dreamt it still and cold: There may come some weary soul, o’erladen With perplexed struggle in his brain, Or, it may be, fretted with life’s turmoil, Or made sore with some perpetual pain. Then, I think, those stony hands will open, And the gentle lilies overflow, With the blessing and the loving token That you hid there many years ago. And the tendrils will unroll, and teach him How to solve the problem of his pain; And the birds’ and angels’ wings shake downward On his heart a sweet and tender rain. While he marvels at his fancy, reading Meaning in that quaint and ancient scroll, Little guessing that the loving Carver Left a message for his weary soul. A. A. P. William Hogarth: PAINTER, ENGRAVER, AND PHILOSOPHER. _Essays on the Man, the Work, and the Time._