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music, or a perfume, will bring up scenes long ago forgotten; a strain of music, and a face that had grown dim to memory, comes back from the dead in all its freshness. I never hear a certain hymn but a scene of my childhood plants itself before me with such vividness that all else fades out, and I can see nothing beside: a little country school-house dimly lighted for evening service, and a small company of neighbors and kindred assembled for prayer and praise. I have heard the symphonies of the great masters, and choruses sung by vast multitudes, but above them all I can hear the hymn that bore up the supplicating praise of that little assembly, and I doubt not I shall hear it when I hear the song of Moses and the Lamb, for it mingled with the foundations of my beginning. And who has not by chance taken in the perfume of new-mown hay, and by that subtle breath been borne back to the early home, the hill-side, the winding river, and the dear companionship of the past ? It is a most significant fact that so slight a thing can thus stir and uncover the depths of memory. You are all familiar with the common fact that persons resuscitated from drowning uniformly speak of that flash of inner light by which their entire lives pass in order before them. What can this be but a prelude to what follows every death — the beginning of a revelation that only fails of completion through chance ? How plainly does it suggest that nothing is forgotten, and that death unlocks the chambers of memory, revealing all the deeds done in the body. If so, it must be for a purpose; there must be some special intent in this divine ordinance by which revelation attends great change. You are also familiar with the often quoted incident, — commented on by Coleridge, — of the servant-maid of a German professor, who, while ill of fever, repeated long pbrases of Greek and Hebrew, having by chance, when well, heard her master utter them aloud. How delicate the tablet that receives such impressions, how tenacious in its keeping, and yet how sure to render them up! DeQuincey, a profound observer upon the subject, says that when under the influences of opium, the most trifling incidents of his early life would pass again and again before his distempered vision, varying their form, but the same in substance. These incidents, which were originally somewhat painful, would swell into vast proportions of agony, and rise into the most appalling 'catastrophes. This was the action of a diseased nature, but it indicates what shape our lives may assume if viewed at last through the medium of a sin-diseased soul. The body may be a clog upon the soul, but it keeps down what is evil as well as what is good. There is no doubt but that all the nobleness and excellence of our nature will spring into full sight and action when this clog is taken off; and there is like certainty that the evil within us will stand forth in equal clearness of light. Death is simply the removal of conditions, the unveiling and making manifest of the whole man.
it. Nothing is lost that has once happened to it. Nature is a wonderful conserver of what takes place in its realm. Science has been showing us of late something of the force residing in the actinic rays of light, by which it transfers impressions from one object to another. Wherever light goes, it carries and leaves images. The trees mirror one another, and opposing mountains wear each the likeness of the other upon their rocky breasts. These fine properties in nature suggest corresponding probabilities in man. It is poor logic to accept these fresh miracles of nature that are being so often revealed, and hold that we have compassed man and his possibilities. If such a process as this is going on in the dull substances without, how much more surely is it going on in the soul. All contact leaves its mark. We are taking into ourselves the world about us, the society in which we move, the impress of every sympathetic contact with good or evil, and we shall carry them with us forever. We do not pass through a world for nought, -it follows us because it has become a part of us.
It may be said that these impressions are so numerous and conflicting that they can yield no distinct picture hereafter. But we must not limit the capacity of the soul in this respect, in the presence of greater mysteries. In some sense, it may present, as it were, a continually fresh surface. A most apt illustration waits upon our thought drawn from the palimpsests found in the monasteries of Italy; parchments that, centuries ago, were inscribed with the history or laws of heatben Rome, the edicts of persecuting emperors, or the annals of conquest. When the church arose, the same parchments were used again to record the legends and prayers of the saints. Later still, they were put to further use in rehearsing the speculations of the school-men, or the revival of letters, yet presenting but one written surface. But modern science has learned to uncover these overlaid writings one after another, finding upon one surface the speculations of learning, the prayers of the church, and the blasphemies of paganism. And so it may be with the tablets of the soul, written over and over again, but no writing ever effaced, they wait for the master-hand that shall uncover them to be read of all. What are these Apocalyptic books but records of our works printed upon our hearts ? What are the books opened but man opened to himself?
This is a view of the judgment that men cannot scoff at. Its elements are provided ; its forces are at work; it lies within the scope of every man's knowledge. It is but the whole of what we already know in part. Even now sin draws off by itself, shunning the light of day and the gaze of good men; hereafter the separation will be complete. Even now good and evil stamp their works upon the face, configuring the whole body to their likeness; there the soul will stand forth in all its actual proportions, and this standing forth is that opening of the books which goes before judgment. It is man opened to himself; opened also to the universe of intelligent beings.
As there are powers in man that render judgment possible, so there are conditions on the other side that coöperate. One cannot be judged except there be one who judges. Man is judged by man; nothing else were fit. The deflections from perfect humanity cannot be measured except by the standard of perfect humanity. Hence it is the Son of Man, the humanity of God, who judges. When man meets Him, all is plain. His perfection is the test; He furnishes the contrast that repels, or the likeness that draws. This then is judgment: man revealed by the unveiling of his life, and tested by the Son of Man.
I have striven so to present it that we shall feel its certainty. It is not an arbitrary arrangement of the future, dissociated from the laws of our nature, but it is their inevitable outworking. Its preliminary process, its foreshadowings, are part of present experience. Just in the degree in which character discloses itself, does the judgment of separation take place. Possibly there may be one here whose heart and life are vile, whose mind is the nest of evil thoughts, whose desires run unchecked into baseness; and by the side of such an one may sit another, pure in heart and life. They sit side by side, and may go hence together, may even dwell under the same roof, and break bread together, but if they were suddenly revealed to one another, soul to soul, with no veil of flesh between, one all fair and pure, the other dark and foul, they would by instinct separate and fly apart. And the judgment is this only, — a separation. There