The opening song was, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, followed by prayer by Brother Larimore, and the song, Friends Who Have Loved Us Are Slipping Away; after the sermon the congregation sung, Some Sweet Day. After reading—from Brother Srygleys own well-worn copy of the Bible, his constant companion for years—Job. 14: 1,2; Ps. 23; Rev. 22:14, Brother Larimore said:

When Stonewall Jackson fell, Lee, immortal hero of the lost cause, said: I have lost my right arm. Some of us—I am one—lost infinitely more than that when F. D. Srygley fell; and the cause that can never be lost, lost much more when out dear brother ceased to write, to talk, to breathe, than the lost cause lost when Stonewall Jackson said, Let us pass over the river and rest in the shade of the trees, and silently passed to the eternal shore. His life was brief, but eventful and important: his life and labors were such that all the ravages and revolutions of time can never erase the impressions he made. The present generation may never properly appreciate him, but generations yet unborn shall know his worth and speak his praises. Such is the history of men who have towered above their fellows. A costly monument marks the place where Burns, the peerless bard of Scotland, died in poverty and want, neglected and despised. Americas own Washington, known the wide world over and almost worshiped now, was shamefully slandered, bitterly reviled, and relentlessly persecuted, while living as sublimely patriotic and unselfish a life as sage or statesman hath ever lived; and some poetic scribe hath said,

history teaching that each of those seven cities claimed the honor of being the birthplace of the blind, beggar-poet. The heartrending history of the human race is replete with such lessons as these. Few are the flowers, filled with the fragrance of love, we give to the living; many, bedewed with the tears of regret, we give to the dead. Yea, the hand that crushes the living sometimes crowns the dead.

Our beloved friend and brother, Fletcher Douglas Srygley, was born in the hill country of North Alabama on December 22, 1856. In August, 1874, he was born into the church, the family of God, the household of faith, the fold of Christ.

Believing the Bible with all his heart; perfectly satisfied with the word, the will and the way of the Lord; hence deeming it his duty, as it was his desire, to be a Christian—only this, and nothing more—he never joined anything, never belonged to any denomination. He was simply a Christian. It was joy to him to earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints—pure, unadulterated, undenominational Christianity.

His not becoming a Christian when he was a little boy, instead of when he was almost a man, was a natural result of a marvelous cause—a cause that should have never existed. The impression prevailed in that community then that children should not be encouraged to enlist in the army of the Lord. Possibly that same pernicious opinion prevails in some communities now. Why, no mortal may ever by able to explain. Satan may strive and smile to have and see it so, but Heaven hath never willed it. The will of Heaven should be done.

Some of the sublimest of the sublime servants of the Lord were lambs in the fold of the divine Shepherd of souls in childhoods happy days. If my information on the subject be correct, Jesse Sewell obeyed the gospel when he was only nine years old Isaac Errett, when only ten years old; and David Lipscomb—known and loved, respected and revered, as a veteran of the cross who would die for his convictions any day—when he was only eleven years old. Neither reason, revelation, history, observation, nor experience justifies the thought that children should not be encouraged to obey the Lord.

At Mars Hill, Ala., on December 22, 1878—his twenty-second birthday—our beloved brother was married to Miss Ella Parkhill, a sweet, Christian girl, scarcely sixteen years old, who made him a good, faithful, helpful, happy wife.

At Hopkinsville, Ky., on December 26, 1888, he was married to Miss Jennie Scobey, who did her duty as a faithful, Christian wife, so lovingly, so tenderly, so wisely, and so well that his brother Filo, was constrained to say to me, a few moments ago: He was an invalid and had been for years when she married him, and I verily believe she added ten years to his life. He never enjoyed perfect health.

More than thirty years ago I went from Nashville, Tenn.—my native State—to Alabama, to Rock Creek, to the new historic Rock Creek Meetinghouse. My mission was to preach the word. The church there then numbered seven souls. As, the first time, I approached the door of that old log cabin meetinghouse—a penniless stranger in a strange land—I saw, standing about thirty feet away, to the right and front of me, twenty feet from the door I was approaching, a bright, little black-eyed, bareheaded, barefooted boy; a picture of health, happiness, peace, and contentment; perfectly beautiful—to me—then as, on memorys page, now. His cheeks were rosy; his eyes were black. Faultless in form and feature, he stood silent, motionless, and erect.

He was standing there to see the preacher as he passed, probably not caring to ever be nearer him than then. Instinctively I turned toward him, went to him, took his little right hand into mine, put my left arm around him, said something I deemed appropriate to him, and led him into the house. From that day to the day when, in the delirium of death, he, suddenly recognizing me, enthusiastically grasped me by both hands and thrilled my soul with an expression I can never forget, he was my devoted friend.

The body of that faithful friend, than whom no human friend was ever truer, lies, in the silence and stillness of death, before us.

Notwithstanding he was my bosom friend, having and holding my confidence, love, and esteem nearly a third of a century; my constant correspondent a quarter of a century; and, with jealous care, kept watch and ward over me, even as a brave, true husband shields and shelters the wife that he loves, as a fond and faithful mother cares for the babe that she bears, four and twenty years at least, if not, indeed, thirty; he lacked four months and twenty days of being forty-four years old when he want away, closing his eventful career on earth about fifty minutes after midnight, on August 1, 1900—morning of August 2, 1900—a date long to be remembered in sorrow and sadness by those who know him and therefore loved him.

As a child, he was always submissive, obedient, cheerful, hopeful, helpful, happy, and kind. His loving, unselfish devotion to his mother was simply sublime. Where she went, he was glad to go; where she was, he was glad to be; what she did, he was glad to do. He, though never very vigorous, deemed it not a burden, but a blessing, to make a full hand in the field, cultivating crops, and, while others rested, help his mother card and spin, wash dishes and cook—work with her, from parlor to pantry, anywhere and everywhere she went and worked. He simply bore, gladly and lovingly, as much of his mothers burden as it was possible for him to bear. Blessed be the boy who bravely bears his mothers burdens, and so fulfills the law of love.

As a husband, he was what every husband ought to try to be. O. S. Fowler, prince of phrenologists, says, in a chart furnished him long, long ago: You will make as good a husband as any man. Those who knew our brother best and loved him most believe the peerless phrenologist tells ympathy and succor, instead of censure and scolding.

Once, a few months ago, when he and I were sitting on his front porch, about sunset, we heard of his little boys crying. He asked to be excused, left the porch; returned, after a few moments, with the little fellow in his arms; resumed his seat, and said to the child: Long ago, in the country called Egypt, lived and reigned a wicked king, called Pharaoh, whom commanded his soldiers and servants to kill all the little Hebrew baby boys born in his kingdom. The Hebrews were his slaves. One Hebrew mother, who loved her baby, as your mother loves you, put him into a little basket, etc. Thus he told the story of Moses, while the listening child forgot his troubles and his tears.

His wife tells me that he, when at home, always prepared the boys for bed, immediately after supper, while she prepared the girls. Then, every member of the family being present, he related some humorous, pathetic, or otherwise interesting story in such a manner as to make it entertaining and instructive to the little ones, as well as to his wife; then they read two or three times as many verses of scripture as there were souls in their little circle—each one who could read, reading; and father or mother reading for each one who could not read, it being thus understood that even baby read as many verses as papa read.

The reading over and comments finished, the entire circle knelt, the baby in its mothers arms excepted, while a fervent prayer went up from that happy home to God; then the children were put to bed, and father and mother talked and worked till nearly noon of night. If you think such a life is not above reproach and adverse criticism, please ask yourself the question: How much better is the life that I am living?

He was never haughty, proud, or boastful. I never heard him boast of anything. The nearest approach to boasting I ever knew him to make was when speaking of his last book, and he was too sad for anything he said to ever savor of boasting then.

When his work on that book was nearly completed, he said: It will be the best book in the world. After the publishers had sent him a neatly bound copy, only a few days before his death, he said, I may be mistaken, of course, but I honestly believe, the Bible excepted, it is the best book I have ever seen.

While this may seem to sound a little like boasting, those who knew him, heard him, and saw him when, almost in the shadow of death, which he knew was at hand, he said these things, know—absolutely know—the spirit of boasting was not there. Fletcher Srygley never boasted.

Long ago he said to me: I am going to write me a book some time. Many a time did I menhat all Gods children should be one, should be Christians—only this, and nothing more—and that all Christians should love one another with a pure heart fervently.

All these things—the law of induction into the kingdom of Christ, the law of the Christian life—and many other things of thrilling importance—creation, redemption, and salvation—were to be woven into that book, his book, the wonderful book that he never wrote, the book that can never be written.

Thinking of that thrilling love story, that none can ever tell or read or write or know, reminds me of what those who knew him and loved him know: a pure river of truest, tenderest, sweetest, sincerest love flowed through his sympathetic heart.

This love and sympathy sometimes led him to do things that cold-blooded stony-hearted men might consider even cranky; but he was never a crank.

To him and Ella were born two sweet little girls—Mamie and Jeffie. Before Jeffie was born, Mamie was taken from the cradle to the grave; was buried at Mars Hill, Ala., where the little family then lived.

Ella, the bereaved child mother, was inconsolable. Sighing and sobbing as if her aching heart would break, she said: O, if I had only kept one sweet little curl—one of the curls I loved so well and have so often kissed—how precious it would be to me now! But my baby is gone—all gone—and how can I live without her?

The sun was sinking in the west, the day on which little Mamie was buried was nearly gone, when the thoughts of that sweet curl gave birth to that heartrending wail of woe. The Mars Hill school and community were a family filled with sympathy, confidence, and love then—all glad to bear one anothers burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Brother Srygley, his own heart bleeding and almost breaking, in strictest confidence submitted a strange suggestion to some of us. The mere suggestion was all sufficient. The sun set, the moon rose, the stars appeared, midnight came. The bereaved, childless mother slept. The stillness of death reigned supreme over the community. Little Mamies grave was emptied; her little white coffin was opened. The sweetest curl that kissed her marble brow was clipped—a precious, tiny treasure for which the mother sighed. The coffin was closed and gently lowered into the grave; the grave was filled. At the proper time and in the proper way the curl was given to the mourning, moaning mother; but she never knew the story I have just revealed.

Early in this year—a few weeks before his death—he went to Coal Hill, Ark., the home of his father and mother after their removal from their dear old Rock Creek, Ala., home. There, in the room to which he took his beautiful bride immediately after his second marriage, which was their home during the first year of their married life, and in which he kissed his mother good-by the last time he ever saw her, he wrote his wife the sweetest, and me the saddest, letter he ever wrote. To me he wrote: I cannot stay here long; it is too sad.

That was his last missionary tour. He tried to preach at Marianna, Ark., but Dr. Robinson and others, knowing he was in a dying condition, sent him home.

At home, immediately after this return, he wrote me: The doctors sent me home from Arkansas—sick. They say I must not try to preach. I cannot meet you in Murfreesboro on June 30, as I had hoped. We will be glad to have you in our home whenever you can come.

He preached from the pulpit as long as he could—longer than physicians deemed proper, longer than prudence would permit. Through the press he preached as long as he lived. In our hearts and in he shall continue to live. Through the press he continues to preach. His influence may preach forever.

Solomon (Prov. 17:17) says, A friend loveth at all times; and (Prov. 27:6), Faithful are the wounds of a friend. Neither Damon nor Pythias, David nor Jonathan, was ever a truer friend than F. D. Srygley. I know whereof I speak when I speak of his fidelity, friendship and love. He was my friend, faithful and true, almost as long as the Man of sorrows—the Man divine, the friend of sinners, the Savior of souls—lived, loved, and labored; suffered, sorrowed, and sighed, in this vain world of sickness, sorrow, pain, and death. In prosperity, in adversity; at home and abroad; in sickness, in health; anywhere, everywhere, at all times and under all circumstances his friendship was truly sublime.

He was too wise and he knew me too well to deem me perfect, of course; but he was not willing for man to mention my imperfections. He frequently said to confidential friends: Ill criticism him when he needs it, if I want to; but no other man shall do it.

Not that he loved life less, but that he loved me more, he would have died any day to shield and save me.

Shall I revere his memory and try to shield and save and bless loved ones he has left in loneliness to lament their loss? If I am a man.

May the Lord love and lead, succor and shield, abundantly bless, and eternally save them all—give them at last an eternity of bliss with their loved one, not lost, but gone before.

He was sublimely unselfish. When he was preparing his last book, for the press, called me to the telephonewas justly mine.

Those who knew him know there was no affectation, duplicity, or deception in these things. He was honest, generous, and frank; he said what he meant and meant what he said; he was sincere.

He believed and preached that owe no man anything, but to love one another (Rom. 13:8) applies to money matters, as well as to other things. M. H. Meeks, his lifelong friend, confidant, and legal, as well as business, advisor, says there are not complications in his business affairs. It is not known or believed by those who knew him best and loved him most that he left one penny unpaid. If he did, it was unintentionally done; but it is scarcely possible that he did. Moreover, if he did, that penny will be promptly paid.

His name will occupy its accustomed place on the first page of the Gospel Advocate; friends who have loved him and who love him still will keep up his page, as well as they can, though knowing they can never fill his place; those who wish to tell of his merits, his worth, and his works can do so in the columns of that page; unpublished paragraphs written by him will appear there; and his loved ones now left without husband and father will, if they will—and I hope they will—continue to draw his salary till the remnant of this century passes away, at least. Such is the expressed purpose and will of the proprietors and publishers of the paper he helped to edit so long.

His writings were strictly—and, to some, sometimes seemed severely—scriptural, as well as intensely logical; and, while they were sweet and precious to those who knew and loved him, some who felt the force of his logic, the facts he related, and the scripture he quoted sometimes thought him unkind. Though I knew him long, intimately, and well, I never heard an unkind expression fall from his lips—never. A brother once said to me: in this weeks Advocate, Srygley says Brother ---------- has lied. I was sure the brother was mistaken, but I examined the paper to see. Without one word of comment, Brother Srygley had simply quoted two brief paragraphs from the pen of Brother ----------, either of which positively contradicted the other. That was all. This is a sample of Brother Srygleys hard sayings. To his writings I appeal for proof. Read what he wrote, that you may know what he said. Please permit him, our brother and friend, to speak for himself.

Christianity, pure and simple, is the religion he practiced, preached, and professed. The Bible is the only book he regarded as authority in religion. How often he read the Bible through, from beginning to end, no mortal knows; but it is known that he read it through consecutively ten times in the last ten years of his life—once each year.

He labored as an evangelist, principally among the poor, with whom he always sincerely sympathized. He said: The Savior preached to the poor. It was one of the proofs that he was the looked-for Messiah that the poor had the gospel preached to them. The rich are able to pay for preaching, and many of them have more preaching that they are willing to hear. I want to preach the gospel to the poor; they need it and appreciate it, and in preaching to them I do as my Savior did.

I thank my God that his providence permitted me to spend the last week of our dear brothers painful pilgrimage through this world with him and his sorrowing family. I started home once. He did not protest. Had he done so, I would not have started. A few moments before I started, he said to me: We have parted many a time, parted to meet again: but when we part this time, I think we part to meet no more. I started, but returned. I could not go. I am sorry I started. I knew not what to do. I thought I had to go. It was so sad to see him suffer, so hard to see him die. I thought we could not give him up. We all did for him all we could; we tried to do the right.

A few hours before his death—after he had been unconscious several hours—Brother Scobey said to him: Brother Srygley, Brother Larimore has come; here is Brother Larimore. He opened his eyes wide. At first he looked startled. The next moment he looked surprised—astonished. The look that immediately supplanted that—his last conscious look—was a radiant expression of rapturous delight that swept me back to the joyous days of his innocent childhood. He was in a gently reclining position; be could not lie prostrate. Grasping me enthusiastically by both hands, he looked steadily into my eyes with an expression of tenderness that almost talked. I said: Do you know me, Brother Srygley? He said: Yes. I said: How do you feel? He said: I feel good. Then he closed his eyes and relapsed into an unconscious state that lasted till, without a struggle, he simply ceased to breathe.

Our brother left, to lament their loss, while in loneliness living without him, a wife, who tenderly loves him; Jeffie, Ellas only living child, about eighteen years old; James S., nine; Fletcher D., six; Sarah Alice, five; Augusta, three; Jean, the baby, only eight months.

Ella sleeps in the cemetery at Savannah, Tenn.; little Mamie lies in the family graveyard at Mars Hill—my home—four miles from Florence, Ala., the body of the mother our beloved brother so tenderly loved rests at Coal Hill, Ark.—no two in the same State and all sleeping among strangers, far away form home and loved ones.

His body is to await the resurrection morn in Mount Olivet—Nashvilles beautiful cemetery—the only city of the dead I have ever seen that looks, not lonely and gloomy, but bright and attractive to me. There would I bury all my dead and there would I be buried, if I could.

Though always armed with sparkling wit, charming humor, and ready repartee, our beloved brother was no exception to the rule: Man that is born of a woman if of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not. He was no exception to the rule: Man was made to mourn. He has ceased to suffer; we are left to mourn. Let us all so live that, some sweet day, we may meet him and know him and love him in that love-lit land of pure delight, were sorrow is unknown.