Self is the Sahara of the human heart where all the noble powers of the soul are buried in its scorching sands. We may pour upon it floods of human woe and streams of melting kindness without producing the least appearance of sympathy or gratitude. The blighting sirocco of cold indifference sweeps over this desert mind, increases the powers of absorption--annihilates all that is cheering and lovely. The keenest miseries of a fellow man cannot move it--the mournful obsequies of his death cannot shame it. It is one of the foul blots imprinted on human nature by Lucifer and should be hurled back to Pandemonium. It dwells only in little minds and pinches them as dandy boots do the feet--covering them with excrescences as painful as corns and chilblains. He who is a slave to self could calmly look on the "wreck of matter and the crash of worlds" if it would add one item to his sordid gains. Man was created a social being--benevolent, sympathetic, kind, affectionate--quick to feel and prompt to alleviate the misfortunes of his fellow man. But for the soul-killing influence of self these noble germs of human nature, as originally cast in the mould of creative wisdom, would bud and blossom as the rose and crown the human family with millennial glory. On the pages of history we find many bright spots of self sacrifice and blooming benevolence. Individuals have lived who banished self and devoted their lives, fortunes and sacred honors to promote the best interests of the human race--men whose motives, impelling them to action, were chastened by purity, who aimed to promote public good and personal happiness.