esting as familiar, and will never be outgrown or forgotten. But we need not go back to ancient days, or fly to foreign shores; our own time and our own country furnish them in abundance. Where can we find a better example, in political life, of loyal devotion than in Charles Sumner, who, having once espoused the cause of the slave, never deserted it to the end of his long and arduous life, bearing obloquy, misrepresentation, even personal violence, without a murmur of regret. In a less conspicuous position, whose record is brighter than that of John B. Gough, the apostle of temperance, who, having taken the pledge, fought a long, unwearying struggle against the power of this habit in himself, and died with words of good counsel on his lips? In military life, who has a better title to fame than the great leader in our civil war, who declaring that he would "fight it out on that line, if it took all summer," kept his promise and saved his country?

But there are examples nearer home. Many a neighborhood, many a family, has its own hero, unknown to fame, but with record on high. Let me tell you of one.

In the study of a friend there hangs, just over his desk, a pen-and-ink sketch that has always excited my interest. Only lately has he told me the story. The picture represents a boy, perhaps a dozen years old, struggling in the midst of a swollen torrent, to reach the opposite shore. The result of his effort seems doubtful, and the words underneath, "Faithful unto death," increase our apprehensions. It seems that, many years ago, my friend, then a young man, was lying sick with a fever. His condition was critical. The doctor needed to be with him every moment; but there were too many sick in the village to make this possible. A distant relative of my friend, a lad of thirteen, was staying in the house, and, as the physician left to make another visit, he called the boy to him and said, "If at midnight there seems any change in Harry's condition, I shall expect you to let me know. I shall be at my office by that hour, and, if there is need, I will return here at once. Can I depend upon you for this service?" "Yes, sir, you can," was

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the simple reply. Midnight came, and the need was urgent. The boy ran a few rods down the road, only to find that the bridge, at the other end of which stood the doctor's house, was gone. In its place, an angry flood was sweeping everything before it. But he did not hesitate; he was sturdy and strong, and the life of another was hanging in the balance. Plunging in, he battled long and manfully to reach the other side. At last he gained the bank. The doctor was summoned, and, by help of a bridge half a mile down the stream, crossed in safety, and, in all probability, saved the life of my friend. But alas for the boy, so brave and devoted! The exposure was too severe, and he survived it but a few months. He had kept his word, he had saved the life of another at the cost of his own. He had fought and overcome. In that family, his name is a household word, held in lasting remembrance, an inspiration to lofty deeds and self-sacrificing devotion.

It may not be ours to render any such service, to attain any such distinction; but we may each, in his own place, however humble that may be, do something to make social intercourse truer and better, something to make faithlessness appear in its genuine deformity, something to deserve the blessing promised to him that "sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not."

The Beauties of Simplicity.

B

REV. CARTER JAY GREENWOOD, A.M., Iowa Falls, Iowa.

EAUTY and simplicity are not incongruous terms. The most beautiful things are not necessarily complex; neither does it follow that ugliness should accompany simplicity.

An apple blossom is a simple flower, and yet it is beautiful in design and color. And, as Beecher says, "An apple tree puts to shame all the men and women that have attempted to dress since the world began." Solomon "in all his glory" was outrivaled by a common lily of the field. And yet, the lily in its modesty and artlessness is the very personification of simplicity. Nature has a fashion of constructing the most beautiful things from the simplest elements. She gathers up refuse animal and vegetable matter and it comes forth reanimated in other forms of life. Out of the calcareous rocks that the builders have rejected she rears domed cathedrals frosted with stalactites and paved with stalagmites. From swamp and stagnant pool she snatches the liquid putrefaction, and distills it into crystal dewdrops. Into her wonder-working looms she thrusts her old and worn-out garments, and, behold, there come forth new fabrics of finest texture and softest colors. With deft fingers and the most consummate skill and tact she blends, softens, subdues, and harmonizes, everywhere avoiding glare and gaudiness. From snow-capped mountain to dew-decked violet, Nature has emphasized the fact that beauty of the highest order is the child of simplicity.

As Nature is the expression of God's thoughts, so Art is the expression of the thoughts of man. The more closely Art patterns after Nature in simplicity of design, the more beautiful will be her creations. Nature abhors affectation. When Cicero

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inquired of the oracle at Delphi what course of study he should pursue, the answer was, Follow Nature." We should all do well to take the advice of the oracle. Our actions are the most beautiful, not when the most eccentric, but when the most natural. "We are never rendered so ridiculous by qualities which we have, as by those which we aim at," says the French proverb. If we would acquire beauty of style in speech and composition we should use simple language. The hymns, "My Country, 'tis of Thee," "Home, Sweet Home," and "Nearer, My God, to Thee," are very simple in musical construction, but the beauty of these old-time melodies thrills us when we weary of the classics by the great masters. As models for constant study and contemplation, one prefers the less obtrusive tints of Titian to the glaring colors of Rubens. The most beautiful queens of earth have not figured in courts and palaces. The Man of Nazareth-the most beautiful character in human history-was simplicity par excellence.

It might be a wise provision to establish in every educational institution a chair for cultivating the beauties of simplicity. We should seek to be adorned with those graces imparted by culture rather than by the clothes made by the tailor. It was a magnanimous act on the part of that wealthy girl graduate who induced her companions to join with her in appearing on the platform clad in plain calico gowns in order to place a poor classmate on an equality with themselves. If the college gown is a means by which the beauty of simplicity is sacrificed for show, then it should be abolished. In line with this suggestion Beecher furnishes these pertinent words: "A tallow candle does not become wax by being put in a golden candlestick. If there is no difference between you and other people, except that you wear drab and they wear broadcloth, then there is no difference." Strive not only to be simply beautiful in every word and act, but endeavor to be beautifully simple, which is the most difficult art.

The Value of Pleasing Manners.

A

WILLIAM C. KING, Springfield, Mass.

PERSON'S manners generally indicate his character. They are an index of his tastes, his feelings, his temper, and reveal the kind of company he has been accustomed to keep.

There is a kind of conventional manner, a superficial veneer, a "society cloak," used by some people on special occasions which is of but little importance, of no practical value, and as transparent as it is worthless.

Artificial politeness is an attempt to deceive, an effort to make others believe that we are what we are not; while true politeness is the outward expression of the natural character, the external signs of the internal being. Thus a beautiful character reflects a beautiful manner.

There is a vast difference between "society customs" and genuine good manners. The former is a bold but fruitless attempt to counterfeit a noble virtue, while the latter is the natural expression of a heart filled with honest intentions.

True politeness must be born of sincerity. It must be the response of the heart, otherwise it makes no lasting impression, for no amount of "posture" and "surface polish" can be substituted for honesty and truthfulness.

The genius of man may for a time hide many defects, but the natural character cannot long be hidden from view; the real individual is bound sooner or later to come to the surface, revealing his imperfections, natural tendencies, and personal characteristics.

Good manners are developed through a spirit imbued with