That Ill-Favored Compound.
By Emma Hildreth Adams
FAR out in the eloquent, ever-preaching Pacific, over two thousand miles from our fascinating West Coast, lies a little island, some of whose inhabitants never have hope of leaving its green, flower-gemmed shores. Amid the vast sea they will abide for life, no matter how earnestly loving hearts may long for a sight of their faces; may long for the tones of their voices; for a grasp of their hands; no matter how touchingly may plead life's interests and ties in far-away lands; nor how appealing the invitation from other islands of the group, with their embroidery of rivers, plains, volcanoes, and mountains, those people are there for life; until death claims them, Molokai's green shores will encircle them. They are the victims of disease—a disease contagious, afflictive, and in most cases hopeless of cure; a disease which bars entrance to the homes of their loved ones; which closes the door to coveted society; thrusts aside many of the laudable pursuits of life; says "No" to ambition, to the winsome cry of right endeavor, and commands, "Turn back" at every pathway to fame, to wealth, to high mental attempt. One's first thought, and true thought, about these isolated men and women is: How sad, how pitiable is their lot! Each ill one can tell his tale of sorrow only to other ill ones, since, surely, there can be found no SANE man or woman who will consent to dwell among them for the purpose of cheering, comforting, and ministering to them. Such step would involve voluntary and probably final separation from home, relatives, and friends; the surrender of life's inviting labors, pleasures, and rewards. Yes, hardest of all, the surrender of life itself, for sake of a pitiable, island-bound, death-facing community. But let us be not too hasty. A few, a very few, yet very SANE persons, pitiful, sympathetic, and Christlike in their self-denial, have bidden farewell to the pathways of culture, the refined pleasures, the sweet fellowship so priceless to them, and have become gracious ministers to these hopeless dwellers on Molokai. That term "self-denial" is an uncomely compound, at first sight. Few words have an aspect more repellent, more chilling. It is sure to arouse antagonism. An army of wants and needs springs up at first call for it. A single glance at the term satisfies most of us. It is a married expression whose partners seem very unequally yoked together. What is the element in this compound which distresses us so much? "Self," the first member, has an attractive look. It is rounded out with the things we like. Self-esteem, self-conceit, self-sufficient, self-righteous, self-defense, self-protection, and a still longer catalog crowds the four first letters. Every one has a smiling, pleasing countenance. We take them all by the hand, cordially. It must, therefore, be the second partner, "Denial," which so repels us, is so ill-visaged. Let us see. What if by some strange procedure both words should turn out to be our friends in an exalted sense? There have been occasions in our lives when we have been wonderfully charmed by a face whose features once strongly repelled us. What subtle, invisible influence produced this change in us? We discovered simply that back of the homely visage reigned character, an almost indefinable quality fashioned into delicate beauty, able to perform noblest deeds, wrought of material destined to endure long after the earth-born face molders back to dust. Thus has it been, thus will it be again, with our strangely affective compound. At first sight, at first thought, we turn from it as from an enemy equipped to harm us. But let us once experience the elation, the unalloyed pleasure, which trains after the class of deeds for which it stands, and in the flash of a star it becomes a magnet drawing us Godward with immense power. Self-denial includes LOVE, that noblest element, that absolute essential in the divinest character. But for boundless love, God had never given His Son, that whosoever believeth in Him might not perish, but have everlasting LIFE. And but for love Christ had never said, "The Son of Man hath not where to lay His head"—words breathing the very essence of self-denial. Who can estimate, who can conceive, the total results to man, of Christ's love and self-denial? Paul once wrote to the Corinthians, "Eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath laid up for them that love Him." Will not those "THINGS," whatever they shall be, prove munificent reward for all the self-denial we shall here have practised for Christ's sake? We might site noble instances of self-denial almost endlessly. They illumine the pages of history. They are flash-lights bursting forth from places of suffering, of peril, of daring. They glorify some of the humblest, not less than some of the most cultured, homes in every land. Nevertheless, the want of our race is that the cultivation of this element become more wide-spread. And this leads us to remark that the home is the place for the development of this heaven-born characteristic. We have been in families in which self-abnegation seemed the settled practise of the household, and the example of Christ was charmingly followed. But such homes are infrequent. The world were better off if they were common. Frequently one parent or one child is the only exhibitor of the noble grace. This is ever most unfortunate, since to the degree that one member of a family yields his will, wants, rights, possessions to other members, without equal surrender on their part, do they become rooted in the fertile soil of selfishness. The effective remedy for selfishness is self-denial. Permit a daughter to sacrifice continually her time, pleasure, rights, chances in life, to the will of a brother, and you dwarf in him the very element of character which will take him out into the world to be a blessing, to live the noblest and truest life. He needs the edifying experience of "doing without things" as much as does the daughter, and possibly more.