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anew. He went to an inland city in New York, and at twenty-nine sold out his interest in a business in which he had become connected, and retired with $30,000. He entered the office of a leading physician as a student, worked hard, and had just been made an M.D. when his old partner failed, and having indorsed his notes, the young doctor found himself without a dollar. He borrowed $500 of a brother-in-law and went West. He struck for the largest city in the State, opened an office, and waited for fortune to come his way. In a few days the Governor of the State was taken suddenly sick in the night. A messenger was sent for the family physician, but he was not in; a search was made for some doctor, and the young man from Maine was found at home. He took the case, cured the Governor, and soon had more than he could attend to. He made money, invested in real estate, was elected mayor, and held other offices, and died president of three banks and a railroad, and worth $900,000. He recalled, in that critical moment, the experiences and victory of other hours and then rose in his kingliness and made the very opposition of the present his obedient servant. One of the most touching incidents in all the world of literature is

the sad death of Thomas Chatterton. His own hand wrought the cruel deed when only eighteen years of age. He had already written such masterpieces that the critics were deceived, and declared them to be newly discovered manuscripts of some of the world's greatest authors. He was a boy with the brain and genius of a man. He was on the threshold of wealth and fame, but in these early hours he was subjected to ill treatment and forced to suffer the pangs of poverty. In these days of hunger, and disappointment, despair seized him, and death was welcomed, even if it was suicide. The secret of this sad career and the stain upon his early grave lies in the fact that he was too young and yet too old. Life's experience was necessary for his support. He had no great and sanctified memory. He came to those hardships unprepared. Memory plays a large part in the essential preparation for the battle of life. It has wrought out marked moral revolutions and brought the soul to its regeneration. A father called his son into his shop, and, taking up an old axe, said to him: "My son, I have obtained more happiness cutting wood and hewing timber with this axe, and thus earning money, than you will ever secure in spend

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ing it." It was a wise saying. The father died, and years went on. The son found his way to Porto Rico, and there he dreamed that he was a young man again, that he was in his father's shop, and that he saw his father take up that same old axe; and then when awake it came back into his mind what his father had said. Then the son remembered how he had inherited his father's property, how he wasted it, and how little good he had obtained from it. He became, under the impulse of that memory, one of the world's best men, and by the power of God made not only a brilliant success in life but worked out the restoration of the divine image.

The saddest condition in human existence is when memory brings the sins of a man's life before him and leaves them there as his companions. Who can tell the story of the pangs of conscience! Only the soul understands its own suffering. On his twenty-fifth birthday Hartley Coleridge wrote these sad verses in his Bible:

"When I received this volume small
My years were barely seventeen,
When it was hoped I should be all
Which once, alas, I might have been.
And now my years are twenty-five,
And every mother hopes her lamb

And every happy child alive
May never be what now I am."

That is drinking at the spring of Marah before the tree is dropped into its bitter waters. Surrounded by memories of sin, and impurity, and wasted life, Byron wrote on his thirty-third birthday:

"Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragged to three and thirty;
What have these years left to me?
Nothing except thirty-three."

In such agony of vivid memories there is the sound of peace for the listening ear. "I will give you rest" is the welcome message to every prodigal. Alone, with tear-stained face and hungry body, he is feeding the beasts and eating their food. He had squandered his father's wealth of love, and now memory brings back to him the father's house, the father's table, the father's abundance, the father's heart, and the old well at the gate. He rises in the remnants of his manhood and says, "I will go home." Such a recollection is an angel-messenger. Turn not thy back upon that bright form nor stop thy ears to that heavenly messenger. Drummond repeated the cry of a sin

ful man who was dying, "Take my influence and bury it with me," and then he said he was going to be with Christ, but his influence had been against Him; he was leaving it behind. As a conspirator called by some act of grace to his sovereign's table remembers with unspeakable remorse the assassin whom he left in ambuscade at his king's palace gate, so he recalls his traitorous years and the influences which will plot against his Lord when he is in eternity. O, it were worth being washed from sin, were it only to escape the possibility of a treachery like that. It were worth living a holy and selfdenying life, were it only to join the choir invisible of those almighty dead who live again in lives made better by our presence." Drummond said, "That shall not be my life. I will crown it with sweet memories. My influence must be a force which lives forever in the elevation and salvation of humanity." And it does live and will live until the last man has made his record upon earth. His was the ideal life which came face to face with most grievous pain in the sunniest hours of his triumphs. He showed other men how to endure physical suffering without a murmur and without a fear of death. He forgot his brilliant gifts, but talked much of the

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