implies this idea. each life. Out of those things which are written in the books, our works, we shall be judged. But while God keeps the record, we are really furnishing the materials and writing the volume ourselves. What a great literature we have in the lives of mankind, what a vast library could be gathered there if we could bring together all the strange and wonderful histories of men!

God keeps an accurate history of

I. Observe how at the different periods of our lives we are engaged in writing this volume. I see the little baby fingers, inexperienced and unskilled, writing in this book. And sometimes the volume closes just there. Some of the most precious memories of many households are these little volumes that ended at the

beginning at the title page. "The day our baby died" is a date full of meaning in many a home. Childhood also writes many beautiful chapters in this volume of life. Later we may write more wisely and thoughtfully, but never more artlessly and charmingly than in happy childhood. To these earlier pages memory often turns back with a fond delight. I see youth also writing in this book. And some fine sentiments and glowing periods appear now. The volume grows hopeful and optimistic in the introduction. Hope and aspiration lend color to this part of the volume. Our young friend was suddenly called away, the pen snatched from his fingers, in the morning of life. Writing with hope and bright prospects before him, the book unexpectedly closes with the introduction. And this admonishes me that I should speak to-day, not "to those whose locks are white with the frosts of the evening, but to those whose feet are wet with the dews of the morning."

Of all the periods of the day none is more beautiful than the morning. How many artists have tried in

vain to depict its beauty-morning on the mountain,— morning in the valley,-morning in the forest,-morning on the sea. What could be more beautiful than Guthrie's word painting of the morning by the sea! "Is it the day? From the first faint streak of light that our eye catches in the eastern horizon, how steadily it grows? Hill and dale, town and hamlet, woods and winding river, shore and sea, becoming more and more distinct; one star disappearing after another in the grey sky; the fleecy clouds changing into opal, and amber, and purple, and burning gold, until the sun springs up, flaming from his ocean bed; and the daisies open their golden eyes, and the birds sing for joy, and the waves flash and dance in the light, and the earth rejoices in the perfect day." It was in this wonderful morning time that our young brother finished the history of his life. Here was one to whom St. Paul might have addressed the words, "I write unto you young men because you are strong." I see before me in this congregation an unusually large proportion of the young. You are strong in hope, in the unexpended possibilities of youth, in your very inexperience, for experience may chill your hope. You are just setting sail on the sea of life. The heavens are bright above you, the waves flash in the sunlight, the winds are favorable. The great

wide sea invites you. But some of us can tell you that there are tempests and head winds to be encountered. There are dangers and sorrows in the sea.

I look again and I see manhood continuing the history with strong and steady hand. The life history grows more serious. It is mid-day now. The heat and burden of the day are great. You men of business, you men weighted down with responsibilities, you men of toil are writing now. I look over your shoulder and I see that what you are writing is very practical and mat

ter of fact. Columns of figures crowd the pages, business memoranda, profit and loss accounts, the stirring history of the struggle for power and place and wealth, or perhaps for very existence-these things are fast filling the volume now. The man is writing now, not the boy. Would that he could keep on the page a little more of the freshness and brightness of the boy. I look once more and I see the pen in the hand of age. The writing is a little unsteady. The volume is fast nearing the end. The view is backward now rather than forward. The aged live in the memory of bygone days. The narrative is quiet and rather uneventful. Happy is he in the evening of life who can look forward still with hope, and rejoice in the promise of that great glad future of which this life is only the preface.

II. Again I am lost in wonder when I look at the contents of the human book. The most startling variety of material is contained in this volume. Is there prose? Yes, for life is for the most part common-place. And yet there is poetry, for every life has some bright days and vivid colorings. And there is romance, and there is tragedy. Ah, yes, tragedy! And how sadly is it exemplified in the cutting down of this young friend. Among the garlands and floral emblems which hundreds of loving hands have brought here to-day to "bandage the wound of death," I see the broken wheel and the shattered column, the fitting symbols of the tragedy of life. You who are sitting here to-day will hardly be persuaded that death may be very near you You think of it as something far away. Sometime you will give it attention, sometime you say you will prepare for it. You say the precipice is yet far distant. But this sad accident proves that the precipice is not a long way distant before us, the preci

even now.