Broken Promises.

PROF. JOSEPH H. CHICKERING, A.M., University of Vermont, Burlington.

HAT accounts," said one wise man to another, "for the lack of integrity in the social, political, and business life of our time?" "The failure," was the reply, "rightly to estimate the value of one's word; the popular belief that people do not mean what they say, or only half mean it. If anything is worse," he added, "than the way in which promises are broken, it is the way in which they are made, obligations being readily assumed by those who must know they can never discharge them."

This conversation set me to thinking on the causes which had brought about this condition of affairs. In thought, I followed the child from his earliest education in the home and the school to his entrance upon the active duties of life. I seemed to hear the parent threatening a punishment that is never inflicted; the teacher promising a reward that is never bestowed; the employer holding out a hope of advancement that is never realized. And then I saw how the child, putting upon a promise the same value that he sees his superiors put upon it, is soon copying their example. "I will surely," he says, "be back by five o'clock;" "I will, without fail, learn my lesson for to-morrow;" "I will not leave the office until it has been thoroughly swept." Promises thus readily made are as readily broken. The next step, from matters of little to those of large importance, is a very easy one. The young man borrows money, engaging to pay it at a certain time; the promise is forgotten, and the day passes by. He pledges himself to provide for a destitute family; something takes his attention, and the needy are neg

lected.

He makes a marriage engagement very hastily and inconsiderately, sees some one else he likes better, and throws his promise to the winds. The process of moral decay is a simple one. The man is not overpowered in a moment by a sudden temptation; the habit has grown with his years, until it has become a part of his very being. No obligation now has binding authority. He breaks faith with himself, with his fellow men, with his Maker-for he takes upon himself the most solemn vows one can take, with little idea of their real meaning and little conception of the sin of violating them.

I have not, I am sure, drawn a fancy picture; I have simply set forth a state of affairs that is causing the deepest anxiety to all lovers of their kind, to those-and, thank God, they are many-to whom loyalty to their assumed or implied obligations to the family, to society, and to the church, is a matter, not of convenience, but of principle and duty.

If, now, it be asked, what is the remedy, at least two distinct answers present themselves. The first concerns itself with the individual, with you and with me. Suppose every man, woman, and child, whose eye meets these lines should take as his motto that adopted by a business man of large experience and success: "Make few promises, but keep those you have made, at all hazards." What a difference it would make in the relations of parent and child, of teacher and scholar, of master and servant. The merchant would no longer be in doubt whether the note would be paid the day it was due; the judge would not fear that the jury would return any but a true and righteous verdict; the clergyman would not wonder whether his church members would fulfill the solemn obligations they had assumed. The dawn of a new day of confidence and hope would surely be near.

The second remedy, and the only other one I shall mention, will be found in holding up and emphasizing, in all possible ways, illustrious examples of the virtue in question. Leonidas and his three hundred at the pass, Horatius and his companions at the bridge, Casabianca alone on the deck, are figures as inter

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

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