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XVIII
THE LOVE OF GOD
How strange it is that what is often the latest reward of the
toiler after holiness, the extreme solace of the outwearied saint,
should be too often made the first irksome article of a childish
creed! To tell a child that it is a duty to love God better than
father or mother, sisters and brothers, better than play, or
stories, or food, or toys, what a monstrous thing is that! It is
one of the things that make religion into a dreary and darkling
shadow, that haunts the path of the innocent. The child's love is
all for tangible, audible, and visible things. Love for him means
kind words and smiling looks, ready comfort and lavished kisses;
the child does not even love things for being beautiful, but for
being what they ARE--curious, characteristic, interesting. He loves
the odd frowsy smell of the shut-up attic, the bright ugly
ornaments of the chimney-piece, the dirt of the street. He has no
sense of critical taste. Besides, words mean so little to him, or
even bear quaint, fantastic associations, which no one can divine,
and which he himself is unable to express; he has no notion of an
abstract, essential, spiritual thing, apart from what is actual to
his senses.
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