Lightly Spoken Words.

Ir seems too much trouble to be very particular about such common things as words. We have so many to speak from the time that we arise in the morning to the time when, wearied out, we are able to allow our speaking powers a little repose. They are so many in number that, as for remembering them, or considering them, or caring about them, it is not to be expected of us. We are too busy. We have too much to do to be always thinking about what we had better say. And that accounts for our lightly spoken words, which, whether we wish it or not, whether we utter them consciously or unconsciously, do so much harm in the world.

What wrong ideas are put into the heads of children through lightly spoken words; what terrible fears haunt them! what distressing dreams startle their slumbers! what odd notions cling to them, even through life, because some mirthful, joke-loving person chooses to speak light words to them! We have all our memories of ideas so ridiculous that we can afford to laugh at them in our succeeding hours of wisdom, which found their places, and lived, and grew, and did plenty of mischief, too, from the same cause. But now that it is our turn it is well if we are warned by our own experience, and do not too early puzzle the poor little brains, which have plenty of work before them, with lightly spoken words.

Quite a fourth of the sorrow which darkens over the skies, and rests like a hideous nightmare on the breasts of weary men, has been caused by some lightly spoken words uttered at some time or other. What aching hearts have been made, not only through absolutely cruel words, but merely light ones. There have been hungerings which have received a stone instead of bread. There have been great wants, which strong, earnest words only could satisfy, and the speaker who might have done so much has had only "trifles light as air to give. There have been questions, on the answers to which so much has depended that the querist has held his breath, and felt ast if his whole life waited, and when the reply has come it

has been so light, so worthless, that a laugh would have been as good.

Sometimes the effects are even worse. Christians should speak no light words, especially on solemn subjects, but they do. Are there never times when the young, or some whose hearts have been newly awakened, seek wisdom, and receive only folly? Are there never hours devoted to utter frivolity which might bear on their wings the greatest blessings which could be given? Christians must sometimes afford matter for very great surprise to others. They have listened and understood the wise words of Him who spoke as never man spoke, but when it came to their turn they had only light words to utter.

Oh, the want and the mischief, the poverty of soul, the dearth of love, the ache, and sorrow, and weariness which come from lightly spoken words which we may never recal!

If we have kept all our other good resolutions, and are at a loss to know what to do next, might we not resolve to refrain from uttering them? Might we not pray that He who giveth to all liberally would teach us to talk wisely?

Looking Forward.

HAVE you ever noticed what an effect a bright morning coming, say in winter, has on the spirits and the temper? We become pacified and good-humoured when the skies are blue instead of dun, and the sun floods the whole world with beauty instead of mist and snow and rain. But the reason why bright days contribute so much to the general harmony is simply because they are earnests of what is to follow. They are promises; and the promise of the spring is a very welcome thing. Of course we tell ourselves that anticipation is only a secondary thing, that we live in the present, and always act as if the joy we have is sufficient. But in reality we live in anticipation, and it may be questioned whether hope is not really a

more enjoyable thing than possession. Even the bright June roses with their wealth of splendour cannot touch our hearts with so much joy as the first little harbinger of spring-the delicate snowdrop. As the months pass and the days broaden into the magnificent summer time, we shall gaze on landscapes of beauty, scenes where miles of green meadow land, and fields of waving corn, and the majesty of forests, are spread open before us, and we shall drink deep draughts of delight. But will even that equal the joy with which we see the first little flowers in our gardens, or the bursting buds in the hedgerows?

Promises are always dear to us, especially if they are those which we know will be kept. We are like children still. How pleased they are with promises. They are kept patient under pain, cheerful under disappointment, quiet in times of discomfort, hopeful in even sorrow and tears, by promises. But they have such confidence. They never dream of broken vows and words unkept: a promise is enough for them. Afterward, when they see life as it is, when they have been deceived and betrayed where they trusted the most fully, they begin to doubt and become incredulous with regard to promises. But from infancy to old age we cannot help looking forward, and there was need of the poet's warning in the well-known words

"Trust no future, howe'er pleasant."

We live in a land of promise, and one Friend never deceives. Night comes, but it brings with it the promise of the day; winter lingers, but even it bids us hope for the summer; sorrow falls, but even as we feel the stroke we hear the word which tells us how that "weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'

How otherwise could we live through the sadness and darkness that encompass our lives? The children would be frightened but that they have the Father's promises. "Surely I will be with Thee." "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." Who could fear with such good words from Him who has never failed? Who cares for a little present discomfort and suffering, when we know that in a little while our sorrow shall be turned into joy?

And we should find it a much more difficult thing to live if it were not that "this is not our rest." While the storms rage and the sky is overcast, we are listening to a still small voice which tells us of calm and sunshine and everlasting spring. And though the way be rough and long, we press on with rapid feet and glad hearts, for we hear a voice, "To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise."

Sunday Evening.

It is a good sight, that of thousands of people pouring out from the places where they have met to worship God according to the way which appears most right to them. The last song has died out, the multitudes have bent their heads while the benediction has been spoken, and now they will turn their backs to the sanctuary, and their faces to the world and the week. There is a calm look upon many of their faces, a placid joy lighting their eyes, which is very different from the care-worn and pained expression which they bore on the Saturday evening; and we may hope that the Master has been to the feast, that they have laved aching head and sorrowful heart in the waters of the river" the streams whereof make glad the city of our God"-that their worship has not been in appearance only, but that they have received into their very hearts the Saviour's blessing of peace. How precious Sundays are! What boons they are to us! And how much good we drive from them we do not really know. And yet many do understand it sufficiently to fight vigorously for it against those who would rob us of the sacred day.

But it is wonderful how soon, even on Sunday evening, the feeling of quiet and devotion wears off. It does, perhaps, last until we reach home-that is if we have not far to walk-and it may be that before or after supper an additional hymn is sung, and the evening prayer is a little longer than usual; but when that is over, "the Sunday feeling" passes rapidly away. Conversation glides

from the sermon to the man who preached it, and from him away to the people who listened, and from them to the general topics of the day, and then to the week and its duties and cares, and swiftly in comes the world, and away goes the Sabbath with its holy thoughts and solemn exercises. Now, might we not, with real benefit to ourselves, keep out the intruder and keep in the friend, at least for an hour or two longer?

It is wonderful how clever some people are at shortening Sunday. They retire late on Saturday night, and lie in bed two or three hours longer on Sunday morning. Then away to church or chapel (a little late), and they manage to sit through the service with only a few signs of impatience. In the afternoon, of course there is the nap, which as it cannot be indulged in all the week, has to be a long one to make up for arrears. Then there is the evening service, and after that, "Let us go to bed early tonight, for to-morrow is Monday, a busy day, and we must be up betimes." And so altogether this day, the best day -the Lord's-day, is curtailed as much as possible, and narrowed down to the very smallest size, even by some who wish it to be understood that they would on no account break the Fourth Commandment.

And whatever may be said of Sunday evening, people do not always enter the sanctuary in the early part of the day with very devotional feelings. Their brain is quite in a whirl; the Sabbath has scarcely begun to them; the work and worry have scarcely subsided; and when they take their seat in the pew, and the sacred stillness begins to steal over them they are painfully conscious that their minds are scarcely in a fit state for worship. There is no doubt that we should have happier Sundays if we could all commence them on Saturday night; if, instead of the noise of the market, and the clamour of the streets, and the pressure of unaccomplished work, there could be the prayer-meeting, or the short service, or a time for quiet communion with God and preparation for the Sabbath.

There will come a time when there will be no Sunday evenings, when the night shadows will not fall, and when the song will not cease. Happy as are our days of worship here, we get very tired; the strain is almost too much and