I THINK I have said before, that the great trouble with poor, weak humanity to-day is selfishness,—but I want to repeat it with added emphasis. And another great trouble is the fact that most people can see everybody's selfishness except their own. A lady said to me one day, with a great sigh of satisfaction: "There is one thing about it, I know that I am not selfish!" Every one else?—O, yes; but not I!
But to be selfish, and then to be entirely blind to it, is a very bad case indeed. What does selfishness mean?—It means self-love, and that is natural to the human heart; but, surely, we ought to love other people as well. If we do, we will be just to them; we will be kind to them; we will be courteous to them; we will not consider our own interests before theirs;—in fact, we will not look every man on his own things, but on the things of others. If we are unselfish, we will not do anything to help ourselves up, on the downfall of others. If you are a farmer, you will not smile when you see that the wheat crop of your neighbor is thin and poor, while your own is good. If you are a dressmaker, you will not boast that your work is better than that of the little woman around the corner, who has not had the experience you have had. You will be as anxious for her to secure customers as you are to secure them for yourselves. If you are a minister of the Gospel—the blessed Gospel of good-will toward men—which is the Gospel of unselfishness—you will not behave gruffly toward your brother minister, because the people seem to take more interest in his sermons than in your own. You will feel as John did, when he said in reference to Christ: "He must increase, but I must decrease." Blessed unselfishness!
Let us be particularly unselfish toward our brethren in Christ, remembering that we are to do good to all men, "especially toward" them. But let us, above all else, banish selfishness from our own homes, toward those we love best. But alas and alas! our homes are too often the very places where selfishness in all its hideousness is most manifest.
"John, will you harness Dolly for me? I want to do a little shopping, and am not strong enough to go to the village on foot."
"Dear me, Mary; the fact is, I can't spare the horse. Let the shopping go until to-morrow."
Mary went into the house, a disappointed sigh escaping the white lips. Five minutes later, John appeared, riding the horse rapidly on his way to town to buy a fishing-rod for his next day's sport. That very evening John was reading a sketch of a brave fireman who risked his life in a terrible fire for the sake of saving a little child. It was a narrow escape. The walls of the burning building fell almost as the brave man reached the last round of the ladder with his precious burden. It was a brave act; but the poor man lost his sight. Of course, John was lost in admiration of the hero.
"Why, mother! I'd rather have been that man than General Grant or even Bonaparte. Just think how unselfish he must have been! I do so admire unselfishness!"
Poor John! how blind you must be! Suppose you begin to practise the self-denial and unselfishness you so admire, right at home.
And just here, again, the love and prayers and labors and example of a godly mother are needed. Who so able as she to teach her young sons courteous gallantry and Christian unselfishness toward their sisters? Who so well adapted as she to teach her daughters those little acts of unselfishness which go so far toward the making of a beautiful, symmetrical character?
A group of little girls are playing on the green. "Unless I can be the teacher," whined one of them, "I shall not play school,—I shall go right home this minute. I'm the oldest, and am in the highest grade, and, 'pon my word, I shall go straight home unless I can have my way."
"Seems to me Mamie ought to have that place, let her be teacher this time," remonstrates Ella.
"Very well; I will go at once into the house," and the whining, selfish child walked sulkily away.
"What's the matter, daughter?" called the unwise mother from the window.
"The girls won't play as I want them to."
"Well, Julia, if they do not appreciate you more than that, you need not play. They are very selfish, I am sure."
And yet that same mother wondered a few years afterward that her daughter has no thought for the feelings or the comfort of any one in the house. She is a constant source of trial to her parents and of mortification to her few friends.
Many years ago there lived a little boy who early developed a greedy and selfish disposition; Every year this self-love grew stronger and stronger until, after a while, he did not love any one but himself. He became wayward and hard-hearted and cruel, and, after he grew older, he became a thief, and stole money which was entrusted to his keeping, to be given to the poor and unfortunate. The years went by. Finally he had an opportunity to betray his best friend for thirty paltry pieces of silver. Well, we know the result. He could not resist the temptation. The habit of selfishness had become too strong to be broken. In an evil hour he yielded. But not for an hour did he enjoy his ill-gotten hoard. To this day, the name of Judas is a hissing and a by-word, the centuries have passed. I maintain that if the home life of Judas Iscariot had been what it ought to have been, had his mother and his father been faithful to their trust, had the youthful home been a home of prayer and unselfish love, how different might have been the outcome.
The other day I stepped into a notion store on Main Street. Close behind me followed a lady and her little boy of about five years. As soon as the child noticed the toys, the trouble began:
"Mama, mama, I want this ball!" The mother, seemingly deaf, paid no attention, and continued making her selections.
"Mama, I say, mama, I must have this pretty ball!"
Still no attention. Meanwhile the young hopeful had appropriated the toy, and stood admiring its bright colors. But the poor mother seemed as blind as she was deaf. I wondered that the clerk did not notice the child, but he was very busy.
"Mama!" this time still more imperatively." "I say I shall have this ball!"
At last madame has heard; and replies softly and absent-mindedly: "Johnny, put that down." But Johnny was feeding the little demon of selfishness, and determined to have his way.
In another moment his mother had made her purchases, and was followed into the street by her young son,—the precious toy still grasped firmly in his fingers.
"Poor little thief!" I said to myself, "and poor, poor mother! some day, unless you alter your tactics considerably, you will weep bitter tears, as you see your little Johnny behind the iron doors of a prison."
"O, I see; you are still placing the responsibility upon parents."
Am I?—well, I am placing it where Inspiration did, when the oft-quoted words were written about bringing "up a child in the way he should go."