“THE BOOKS SHALL BE OPENED.”

1. The Book of Providence will be opened.—­In this book has been recorded, and from its pages can be shewn, by Jesus Christ, everything which has been done to us, and for us, by Himself, since the hour of our birth till that of our death.  Every temporal mercy or spiritual blessing—­every advice given by ministers, relations, or friends—­every Sabbath which dawned upon us—­every stirring of conscience within us—­every visitation of sickness or domestic affliction—­every item, in short, of that immense sum of things which, in His providence or by His grace, was given us each successive hour of life, and which was intended to mould our characters according to the will of God;—­all shall be revealed at judgment, that the universe may know what Jesus Christ, the King, has really done for each one of His subjects, and what each subject has been, and done, in relation to Him.

2. The Book of Memory shall be opened.—­An awful volume!  It seems almost certain that anything once known to us must for ever abide in memory, and can never be absolutely and for ever lost.  Out of sight it may be, but never really out of mind.  It may appear to be dead, though it only sleeps, ready to start into vigorous life when touched by some hand which can reach it in the dim mysterious recess where it lies concealed.  It is thus, before returning, after a long absence, to the home of our early life, we are unable to discover any page in the volume of our memory inscribed with more than a few incidents which filled up those early years of gladness.  Every page seems a blank, or its records, if not obliterated, can hardly be traced.  But when we do return, what a magic influence is exercised by every tree, rock, and stream, and by the old home itself with which these were once inseparably associated!  The history of days and years now glow with the vividness of first impressions, where, until now, all was so indistinct and illegible.  Old familiar voices ring in our ears, beloved faces of the old dead gaze upon us as of yore, and their forms flit before our moist eyes.  But were not these things all the while in our memory, although unnoticed by us until called forth by fitting circumstances?  And have we not seen evidence of the same mysterious life of the past within us, when in extreme old age a second childhood awakens all the incidents of the first; when memory, like a flash of lightning, irradiates the sky, otherwise dark and wintry, revealing the scenes of early days, which were before quite forgotten?  More wonderful still—­it is certain that things once known, which in health were as lost to memory as if they had never been, are suddenly recalled, and appear in all their former life and freshness, when fever touches the brain with her delirious hand.  The sick man, in his ravings, speaks perhaps a language known only in his infancy, and recalls incidents belonging to a period which was a total blank in his recollections