Children fear heaven, because of the dismal notions the unchildlike give them of it. I do not see that one should care to present an agreeable picture of it; for, suppose I could persuade a man that heaven was the perfection of all he could desire, what would the man or the truth gain by it? If he knows the Lord, he will not trouble himself about heaven; if he does not know him, he will not be drawn to him by it. But would that none presumed to teach the little ones what they know nothing of themselves! What have not children suffered from strong endeavor to desire the things they could not love! Well do I remember the trouble at not being pleased with the prospect of being made a pillar in the house of God, and going no more out! Those words were not spoken to the little ones. Yet are they, literally taken, a blessed promise compared with the notion of a continuous church-going! What boy, however fain to be a disciple of Christ and a child of God, would prefer a sermon to his glorious kite, with God himself for his playmate! He might be ready to part with kite and wind and sun, and go down to the grave for his brothers—but surely not that they might be admitted to an everlasting prayer-meeting! I rejoice that there will be no churches in the high countries, nothing there called religion; for how should there be religion where every throb of the heart says God! What room will there be for law, when everything upon which law could lay a shalt not will be too loathsome to think of? What room for honesty, where love fills full the law to overflowing—where a man would rather drop into the abyss, than wrong his neighbor one hair’s-breadth?