WHY THE WORST DOES NOT COME. THERE is often something that looks very bad in my affairs or prospects; yet I observe the worst does not come. Things do not come to extremities. The evil may generally be traced to my own folly or perverseness; yet still the case is the same. Still I am spared, still I am not brought to extremities. And, on looking around me, I make the same observation on all sides. It holds good with respect to others. Danger does not come to its full extent. We are constantly anticipating a crisis, but do not experience it. Thank God we have not yet been brought to extremities. Now, how shall we account for this? Some one, perhaps, will answer, It is Divine Providence. Yes; but let us go a little deeper. I think I see the true reason in the cross of Christ. Matters came to an extremity with our crucified Lord on Calvary. He there endured the utmost; the whole pain, the whole shame. Hence, when " they gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh," ""He received it not." The wine would have allayed His thirst for the moment; the myrrh might have proved a temporary alleviation of His sharp pains. But He put back the proffered help-" not sullen nor in scorn"-Keble's construction is the true construction "Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all; And rather would'st Thou wrestle with strong pain, So clear in agony, Or lose one glimpse of heaven before the time." Thus we escape. Thus unknown trials, perplexities, calamities, extremities, are ever threatening us-are ever deserved; but do not come.-Rev. J. C. Boyce's Pastoral Counsels. "MARY AND HER UMBRELLA."-A few years ago there was a time of much dryness in a certain part of England, no rain had fallen for several weeks, and it seemed as if the crops would all perish for want of moisture, a few farmers who believed in that text of Scripture, "In everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God," asked their minister to arrange for a prayer meeting, to supplicate the needed blessing of rain. The time was fixed, and the appointed day was as bright and cloudless as those which had preceded it. Among the attendants the minister soon noticed a little Sunday scholar, who carried a large old fashioned umbrella. "Why, Mary," "he exclaimed," what could have induced you to bring an umbrella on such a lovely morning as this ?" "I thought sir," answered Mary, "that as we were going topray for rain, I should be sure to want the umbrella." The minister patted her cheek good-naturedly, and the service commenced. While they prayed the wind arose, clouds gathered, and at length the long desired rain fell in torrents. Mary and the minister went home together under the umbrella, while the rest of the congregation reached their dwellings well drenched. May we thus be able to pray, believing he does hear, and will send us what we ask, if it is good for THERE is no sorrow, Lord, too light There is no anxious care too slight To wake Thy sympathy. Thou who hast trod the thorny road There is no secret sigh we breathe And every cross grows light beneath Life's ills without, sin's strife within, But for that love which died for sin, The "Cheering Word" Volume for last year, now ready, 8d. London: Printed by ROBERT BANKS, 9, Crane-court, Fleet-street, E.C. Published by G. J. Stevenson, 54, Paternoster-row, E.C; sold by most Booksellers.-Price One Halfpenny. VOL. XV. MARCH, 1865. No. 161. PASSIN THE OLD MAN'S HOPE. ASSING along one of the great thoroughfares in the east of London one Sabbath evening, on my way to public worship, my attention was attracted to a group of individuals who seemed to have all their thoughts intently fixed upon the utterances of one in their midst. There were other congregations assembled upon the same space of ground; but none for me had the same attractions. The composition of THAT congregation drew me irresistibly toward it. Instead of the usual proportion of men, women, and children, which usually comprise the hearers of an out-door preacher, there were here about twenty men, and these not the well-to-do artizan, nor the small tradesman, who, taking their usual Sabbath evening walk, stopped to listen, if perchance they might gain some new thought, or discover some new idea of truth which, if realized, should make them both the happier and wiser; but these men were the hard-handed, rough-skinned, common day labourers, who toil in our docks, upon our wharves, or by the road side; exposed to all changes of the weather, and to whom wet or dry, sunshine and cloud produces about the same effect. To look at their hard skin and weather beaten countenances, you would scarce think they had a fellow-feeling for the world; no sympathy or love could you see in their rough exterior. In their midst stood an old man; the winters of age had pressed upon his head, and left their snows in white hair. Many a year had passed over him with their allotted portions of care and sorrow, each one as it passed away, leaving their footONE HALFPENNY. prints in furrows on his brow. His dark black eye had not yet lost its lustre; with head erect, his eye piercing as it were the blue sky above, he told that listening group of his hope-the only hope he appeared to possess. "Once," said he, "I had a wife; I loved her as man should love his wife, but death came and she passed away: I felt I was alone-for she who shared my joys, my sorrows, my trials was gone! There were none to console or comfort me in this trying time. While I was searching for consolation, I overlooked that which to me has been all that man could wish. I had a little girl that used to attend a school; this pretty little fair-haired child would come home and sing the hymns and repeat the Scriptures she learned at school, till I have sat and wept, feeling she was more an angel than a child. When in sorrows and cast down she has lifted me up and been the sunshine of my life. But one day-dark to me sickness overtook her; and she lay wait. ing for the angels to come and fetch her, and as I sat by her side, she said, "Do not weep, father, I am only going home first; promise me you will come, too, after me, and I will sit at the gate of heaven, and wait till you come, that I may be the first to lead you to the throne,' and sinking back upon her pillow the angels came and carried her home to glory. "And now," said the old man, she has seen the throne, and I can see her sitting at the gate-waiting to take ME to the throne." Down the faces of those rough-looking men I saw the tears trickle as the father told the tale. Truly beneath that rough exterior there was the heart that could sympathize, and love, and feel for another's woes; and I thought of the many consolations we have at hand, but which are not prized. Reader, you and I have not far to go for comfort; ofttimes we seek for it when it is near at hand. Remember He who is our consolation is not afar off, but nigh at hand, "a very PRESENT help in every time of trouble." a THE GRAVE AND GLORY. HAT a difference between those two words! The Grave! a W lonely, lifeless place, where we when the soul is gone out of it, where the body moulders into dust, becomes food for worms, and is from us hidden as for ever. But Glory is a word of brillianey and beauty; and the word expresses THE PERFECTION OF PURITY AND POWER, on the one hand; and the LOVELINESS and HAPPINESS of the HEAVENLY WORLD on the other. Dr. Bell, in his sweet volume called "Hymns of Truth," says-"Above the clouds a city stands, A blessed place, not made with hands, Where God the Saviour reigns. 'Tis built for sinners, bought with blood, And cleansed from all their stains." When I was travelling down to Henry Strickett's funeral, I thought much upon death; and to myself I said, there are three great mysteries about death, in some cases. There is the mystery of time, the mystery of separation, and the mystery of eternity. Upon these three great mysteries I may add a short comment another month. Now one word respecting Henry Strickett's death is all I can give. One evening, on sitting down to rest a moment, the following note came to hand : "Mr. Banks, Dear sir,-My beloved husband is much worse; he is evidently sinking fast; he wishes very much to see you, and have an interview with you once more on earth. Will you kindly come as soon as you possibly can; if you will come I should feel deeply grateful to you, as he so much wishes to see you. The disease has gained ground with most fatal rapidity during the last fortnight; he is prostrated to a fearful degree, but "His hopes are fixed on nothing less Than Jesus' blood and righteousness." He is calmly, hopefully awaiting the summons, "Come up hither." He desires his kind Christian love to you, hoping to |