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By "memory" two things are designated, which are really very distinct; the one is the power of bringing past experience into consciousness; and the other is the power of retaining past experience in the mind out of consciousness. Suppose I meet a friend. He says to me as we meet, "What is the Latin for door?" I answer at once, "Janua." The question has brought this Latin word at the moment into my consciousness, and we say that I remembered it. But if I am a Latin scholar there are thousands of Latin words in my mind; not in the sense of being at present in my consciousness — because all the Latin I am conscious of at the moment is "janua" — but in the sense that I am capable of bringing them into consciousness when required. Perhaps it would be a good thing if in English these two powers were designated by two words instead of one. They are in other languages. This is the difference in German between "erinnerung" and "gedachtniss"; and in French between the word "souvenir" and "memoire." Perhaps in English the power of bringing past experience into present consciousness might be called "recollection," while the word "memory" might be reserved for the other power of keeping past experience in the mind out of consciousness. This latter power of keeping past experience in the mind out of consciousness is in some respects the most extraordinary feature in the whole realm of psychology. You might put it in this way, that at the back of our present consciousness — I mean the consciousness of the moment — there stretches within us a vast treasury or magazine in which past impressions are stored. In some people it is larger, in others smaller; in some minds it may be slight, in others well arranged. You can hardly help thinking of it, in some people, as comparable to one of the huge warehouses of this city, where the passages are like streets for length, and there are ever so many departments, but everything is in its own place. Things that are like one another are found near one another, and the master has complete hold over all his possessions. But where is this storehouse? Has it a local habitation? Is it in the head, or where is it? Perhaps there is nothing which is so antagonistic to a materialistic view of the human mind. You know materialism holds that thought is simply a movement of matter; but if so, in what form do these modifications of matter continue so as to be remembered? If they were additions to the matter of the brain, however slight, they would very soon expand far beyond the holding power of the skull. If they were marks, like tracks or other marks, they would soon be covered up, so as to be wholly irrecoverable. The spiritual view looks on mind, as a whole, as a mystery; and it refers, especially this aspect of memory, to the region of mystery, and that is obviously where it belongs; and though in the act of remembering, as perhaps in every mental act, the mind uses the brain as its organ, the brain is no more to be identified with the mind than the musical instrument is to be identified with the person who is playing. "Great," says St. in his confessions, "great is the force of memory, O my God; a large and boundless chamber! Who ever sounded the bottom thereof? And men go abroad to admire the heights of mountains, the mighty billows of the sea, the broad tides of rivers, the compass of the ocean, and the circuits of the stars, and pass themselves by." The second power to which the name of memory is applied is the power of bringing past experience into present consciousness. Now, in comparison with the great magazine which I have described, this power of memory takes place on a very limited stage. It is as if in front of this silent magazine there were erected a platform, to which the images of the magazine could at any time be summoned. The summons occasionally is very slight. All that is necessary often is that a passing thought should appear on the platform, when immediately a thought like it comes from within. Perhaps a whole bevy of them may come. For instance, one will go home at the holiday time to his native place, and will take a walk in some scene of beauty which he used to frequent in his boyhood; and as you go along at every step the images of the past will throng out on you, the faces of your companions and their merry talk. "On this seat," you will say to yourself, "I used to sit with so-and-so by my side; at that turn of the road I once thought on such a subject; across the ravine some one's voice once called to me." Images will pour out of the past on you in a perfect tumult, and you will be astonished at the vividness and minuteness of the reproduction. At other times, however, the summons has to be louder and more urgent. Sometimes, when you call for the images of the past, they will not come. Perhaps the wrong ones come, and you have to order them back to their places again. However loud you call they will not come, and you may have to go into the magazine, and search about in odd corners, and tumble things over, and at last you say, "Ah, there it is; I remember." Or perhaps after all your searching you are baffled, and you say, "No, I am beaten; I cannot remember." If we remembered everything we should be embarrassed with our riches. As a rule, older impressions push out newer ones, though in old age this law is reversed, although in every mind there are some memories that never become dim:

"Time but the impression deeper makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear."But the rate at which memories become dim and sink out of sight is extremely different in different minds; and one of the excellences of what is called a good memory is to have a large domain of reminiscence permanently within one's grasp. Every man of great ability thus holds sway over a wide domain of acquisition and experience. Another excellence of memory is the power of committing things rapidly to heart., as we call it. This also varies exceedingly in different persons. In some it has been almost miraculous. It is said, for instance, that the scholar Scaliger committed the Iliad to heart in three weeks, and even more astonishing feats of memory have been accomplished by men who were not in the least distinguished in other directions. And a still more curious thing is that such persons have sometimes been able to retain the things they thus rapidly committed to memory. But, as a rule, what comes quickly goes quickly. An advocate, for instance, may get up quickly details of a complicated case, and perhaps along with that the outlines of a whole science, for a particular occasion, but as soon as the occasion is past, the whole thing goes out of his memory. Perhaps the most enviable excellence of memory is the copious and ready delivery of its contents as occasion requires. It is this that makes the happy historian, because, as he writes, he can recall parallel incidents from other histories. It is this that makes the good speaker, because, as he speaks, his memory calls principles and illustrations unto his mind from which he can select what is most suitable. It is this that makes the fortune of the conversationalist; whereas the speaker who has not this quality of memory makes all his best remarks to himself on the way home after the occasion is past. The conditions of a good memory are very simple and are worth remembering. The first is, that we must attend to things as they are entering the mind. The more we attend to them at the time they are entering the mind, the more easily will we remember. Then, secondly, we remember what we have repeatedly attended to. The oftener we think of things, the more likely are we to remember them. But most important of all is emotion — to mix things as they enter the mind with emotion. Now, this will easily guide us to the religious use of memory, and I cannot help regarding it as a fortunate circumstance that we are discussing this subject to-day, because there is no day so consecrated to memory as the last Sabbath of the year. "Forget not all His benefits." That is the first religious use of memory. I am sure none of us can look back over the past year, however carelessly, without observing how good God has been to us, to our families, to our Church; but we shall remember these benefits the better the more we attended to them at the time when they happened. Even, however, if we did not attend to them then, we can compel the memory to give them up. We can go into the magazine which I described, and search for what we have lost or forgotten. We can go back to the beginning of the year, and trace downwards till to-day the footsteps of our Almighty Guide. Then the other great religious use of memory, especially on a day like this, is to remember our sins. Some of them, like God's mercies, can he seen the moment we turn our eyes in that direction, because all of us during the year have committed some sins that burn in the memory. Others may need to be called up out of the place where they are loitering because at the time they were not much Observed, our consciences not being keen. It is only as we look back on a day like this, over an important stretch of life, that we see how little use we have made of golden opportunities; how little we have grown; how little we have done; how seldom we have prayed. It is no pleasing task thus to recall our sins of the past, but it may be a very salutary one. Better to recall them now than to recall them in a place of woe. Do you remember the first word spoken to one in that place? What did Abraham say to the rich man? It was, "Son, remember." Memory is the worm that dieth not.

(J. Stalker, D.D.)

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KJV: Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits:

WEB: Praise Yahweh, my soul, and don't forget all his benefits;