Great Texts of the Bible
Man’s Chief End
Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.—1 Corinthians 10:31.
This verse, with the passage immediately preceding, illustrates St. Paul’s constant habit of solving questions as to conduct by the largest principles. He did not keep his theology and his ethics in separate watertight compartments, having no communication with each other. The greatest truths were used to regulate the smallest duties. Like the star that guided the Magi, they burned high in the heavens, but yet directed to the house in Bethlehem.
The Corinthians were in a practical difficulty. Social life had been upheaved by the action of Christianity. Like the shuddering of the sunny, peaceful plains of Campania from the fierce shock of the insurgent fires of Vesuvius, the whole social fabric, wherever Christ’s hand had touched it, was in a state of convulsive trembling; and the convulsion was felt in the agonies of its rebound alike in the deepest and in the most trivial things of life. The ordinary gentleman of the day, in Corinth, was no longer able to associate himself with his everyday acquaintances in the pleasures or the business of social life, without the rebuking face of the new religion gazing at him in serious warning. He could not, as we should say, “dine out” with his friend without being at once confronted by a practical difficulty. The old idol-worship had interpenetrated the social life of Corinth; and when Christians came to accept the invitation of their friends to an ordinary social entertainment, they were placed in a serious dilemma, as they would either appear to sanction by their presence a service of idols and an insult to God, or else would be forced to cut themselves off from the commonest demands of the society of the time. Now, certainly St. Paul in his usual manner touches specific dangers with specific remedies; but at the same time he never limits himself to such a method. Invariably, whatever be the difficulty he has to deal with, he goes beyond the exact line of the particular question and its corresponding remedy, and sketches out a serviceable and yet a comprehensive canon of conduct. Thus, feeling that what is a desirable principle for all converts, when they have seceded from heathenism to the Christian Church, is some guidance for those at Corinth how to comport themselves properly in their social entertainments, instead of going into all the wearisome intricacies of the difficulty—although he does touch them also when necessary—he lays down the comprehensive rule of the text.
The principle of this text is—“Do all to the glory of God.” Following out (i) this great principle of conduct, we get (ii) a test of action; (iii) a Christian ideal in everyday life; (iv) a transfiguration of drudgery and common toil.
“Do all to the glory of God.”
1. St. Paul’s words are an expression of a fundamental truth of religion, the truth, namely, that while the living God is the source and efficient cause of all things, so also He is their final end. It follows that God (though He gives lavishly to man gifts of help, and comfort, and blessing) is Himself, and not anything He gives, man’s final and only satisfaction; and therefore, that the end He had in view in His creation, and has in view in His government, of the world, is not at all that He Himself may receive from any external being or thing a support which is never needed by that majestic self-sufficing life, but that He may have about Him numberless sons, like Himself in goodness and beauty, and finally fitted to be partakers of His own glory. Now if this truth, as to the final object of life, and therefore the final cause of God’s action in Christ Jesus, and government of the world, underlay the Apostle’s thought, what must be the result? Surely nothing else but the statement of the text.
“Do all to the glory of God,” that is, in a higher manner, in a nobler spirit. Instead of the busy, ever-recurring image of self, which is always like “a forward child” chattering within us, let the thought of God be present with us, like the sea, silent and unfathomable, like the light and air, living and infinite, yet also communicated by Him to us. Let us do all to the glory of God—not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but, as the servants of God, from the heart. When we bring ourselves into that Presence, the temptations of sense flee away; when we lay our doubts and difficulties before Him, in the brightness of that light they are dispersed. It is by communion with Him, who is the essence of Righteousness and Truth and Love, that we are enabled to rise above ourselves. This is what the Scripture calls “living to His glory.” The vision of God in His glory (not merely as in a picture, surrounded by angels, but in the higher form of mind or thought) is sometimes seen at a distance from the heights of philosophy, and sometimes has a dwelling-place in the humble soul. If we attempted to describe it, we should fall into unreality, for we see “through a glass” only. Let us think sometimes of the best moments of our lives, when we have been most resigned to the will of God, when we have risen most above the opinions of men, when we have been most free from the temptations of sense, when we have desired to look into the truth, and seen it so far as our earthly state allowed. In this way we may form an idea of what the Apostle meant by living to God’s glory, of what Christ meant when He said, The kingdom of God is within you.1 [Note: B. Jowett.]
2. Now Christianity is not a sum of isolated observances. It is the hallowing of all human interests and occupations alike. Worship is a very small fragment of devotion. The Christian does not offer to God part of his life or of his endowments in order that he may be at liberty to use the rest according to his own caprice. All life, all endowments, are equally owed to our Lord, and equally claimed by Him. Every human office in every part is holy. Our conduct—our whole conduct—is a continuous revelation of what we are. At each moment we are springs of influence. Virtue goes out of us also—or weakness. Our silence speaks. We who profess to be Christians must from day to day either confirm or disparage our Creed. Our faith—our want of faith—must show itself. It is finally the soul that acts. The body is but its instrument.
The sense of being God’s minister gives to any life that noble pride which is our birthright, and which we ought carefully to cherish. Do we not see on a lower level how fond people are of linking their name and calling with royalty? “Purveyor to His Majesty.” We sometimes wonder how these petty hucksters came to possess this sounding title. No doubt the distinction often rests on a slender charter; a mere gossamer thread binds the obscure counter to the throne; yet the privilege is sedulously guarded, and throws a coveted lustre upon the village shop. But how truly grand to relate all life to God, even in its lowliest phases! Nothing is then common or unclean. Everything is on the altar; all is sacramental. Every service is as royal as the golden crowns cast on the jasper pavement. This gives to the ordinary life infinite honour and content.1 [Note: W. L. Watkinson.]
Teach me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see;
And what I do in any thing,
To do it as for Thee.
Not rudely, as a beast,
To runne into an action;
But still to make Thee prepossest,
And give it his perfection.
A man that looks on glasse,
On it may stay his eye;
Or if he pleaseth, through it passe,
And then the heav’n espie.
All may of Thee partake;
Nothing can be so mean,
Which with his tincture “for Thy sake”
Will not grow bright and clean.
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine:
Who sweeps the room as for Thy laws
Makes that and th’ action fine.
This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold,
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for lesse be told.2 [Note: George Herbert.]
A Test of Action
It is surprising how difficult the duties of men sometimes become, when opposite rules are set against one another, or when they have to be reconciled with differences of character. It is surprising how simple they grow when they are considered by the light of great principles; when, dismissing tradition and custom and the opinions of men, we are able simply to ask: “What is the will of God?” If you can say that there is no will of God about this trifling ceremony, about this small dispute (for God does not interfere in such matters, but only in the greater things of righteousness and temperance and truth), the question is already answered: “An highway shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called the way of holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it; the wayfaring man shall not err therein.”
People are perpetually squabbling about what will be best to do, or easiest to do, or advisablest to do, or profitablest to do; but they never, so far as I hear them talk, ever ask what it is just to do. And it is the law of heaven that you shall not be able to judge what is wise or easy, unless you are first resolved to judge what is just, and to do it. That is the one thing constantly reiterated by our Master—the order of all others that is given oftenest—“Do justice and judgment.” That’s your Bible order; that’s the Service of God,—not praying nor psalm-singing. You are told, indeed, to sing psalms when you are merry, and to pray when you need anything; and, by the perverseness of the evil Spirit in us, we get to think that praying and psalm-singing are “service.” If a child finds itself in want of anything, it runs in and asks its father for it—does it call that doing its father a service? If it begs for a toy or a piece of cake—does it call that serving its father? That, with God, is prayer, and He likes to hear it; He likes you to ask Him for cake when you want it; but He doesn’t call that “serving Him.” Begging is not serving: God likes mere beggars as little as you do—He likes honest servants,—not beggars. So when a child loves its father very much, and is very happy, it may sing little songs about him; but it doesn’t call that serving its father; neither is singing songs about God, serving God. It is enjoying ourselves, if it’s anything, most probably it is nothing; but if it’s anything it is serving ourselves, not God. And yet we are impudent enough to call our beggings and chauntings “Divine service”: we say, “Divine service will be ‘performed’ ” (that’s our word—the form of it gone through) “at so-and-so o’clock.” Alas! unless we perform Divine service in every willing act of life, we never perform it at all. The one Divine work—the one ordered sacrifice—is to do justice; and it is the last we are ever inclined to do. Anything rather than that! As much charity as you choose, but no justice. “Nay,” you will say, “charity is greater than justice.” Yes, it is greater; it is the summit of justice—it is the temple of which justice is the foundation. But you can’t have the top without the bottom; you cannot build upon charity. You must build upon justice, for this main reason, that you have not, at first, charity to build with. It is the last reward of good work. Do justice to your brother (you can do that whether you love him or not), and you will come to love him. But do injustice to him, because you don’t love him; and you will come to hate him.1 [Note: Ruskin, The Crown of Wild Olive (Works, xviii. 419).]
There is a little organism called volvox, which, in its construction, habits of life, and mode of reproduction, stands on the border-line between the animal and vegetable kingdoms. I suppose ever since it has been known, this little creature—so small that it can scarcely be seen with the unaided eye—has been bandied about between the two kingdoms. Why? Because scientists have applied different tests. One has noted its possession of green colouring matter, and has therefore claimed it for the vegetable kingdom, while another, noting its mode of reproduction to be similar to that of some lower forms of animal life, has therefore claimed it for the animal kingdom. Like the volvox, many actions have been bandied about. Some claim that they belong to the kingdom of darkness, others that they belong to the Kingdom of God. Ought I to smoke, ought I to go to the theatre, ought I to drink intoxicating liquors, ought I to read my newspaper on Sunday? Ought I to cycle, tram or train on Sunday? Ought I to make my man or maid servant work on Sunday? Ought I to enter the public ballroom, or ought I to dance at all? Ought I to accept bribes in business? Bring the action to this test. Let this bright light shine upon it. Can I do this to the glory of God? In other words, I am a follower of Christ, who summed up His lifework in the sentence, “I have glorified thee on the earth.”2 [Note: G. Hay Morgan.]
Charles Marriott’s unfailing good nature—but in fact it was his inveterate Christian consideration—really knew no bounds. Overwhelmed (as he always was) with all manner of work, he never denied himself to any one who saw fit to call on him, or wanted anything of him. “I see you are too busy. I will not disturb you,” once exclaimed Edward King,—(afterwards Bishop of Lincoln, who was at that time an undergraduate of Oriel—“a royal fellow,” as C. M. used to call him)—and was proceeding to leave the room. “That depends” (quietly rejoined Marriott) “on the relative importance of what I am doing and what you have come to me about.” The reply aptly expresses what the speaker seems always to have felt—namely, that the twelve hours of every day had to be spent in God’s service, and that he was not a competent judge beforehand of how God might be most acceptably served. He therefore always held himself in readiness to meet any demand which might by any one be made upon him for a measure of his time, or for a share of his attention.1 [Note: J. W. Burgon, Lives of Twelve Good Men, i. 339.]
A Christian Ideal in Everyday Life
Religion recognizes no bisecting into sacred and secular. “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” It is just as much a part of Christian duty to do one’s weekday work well as it is to pray well. “I must be about my Father’s business,” said Jesus in the dawn of youth; and what do we find Him doing after this recognition of His duty? Not preaching or teaching, but taking up the common duties of common life and putting all His soul into them. He found the Father’s business in His earthly home, in being a dutiful child, subject to His parents, in being a diligent pupil in the village school, and later in being a conscientious carpenter. He did not find religion too spiritual, too transcendental, for weekdays. His devotion to God did not take Him out of His natural human relationships into any realm of mere sentiment: it only made Him all the more loyal to the duties of His place in life. We ought to learn the lesson. Religion is intensely practical. Only so far as it dominates one’s life is it real. We must get the commandments down from the Sinaitic glory amid which they were first graven on stone by the finger of God and give them a place in the hard, dusty paths of earthly toil and struggle. We must get them off the tables of stone and have them written on the walls of our own hearts. We must bring the Golden Rule down from its bright setting in the teaching of our Lord and get it wrought into our daily, actual life.
The Law of God concerning man is, that if he acts as God’s servant he shall be rewarded with such pleasure as no heart can conceive nor tongue tell.1 [Note: Ruskin, in Cook’s Life of Ruskin, ii. 329.]
Jenny Lind once said to John Addington Symonds, “I sing to God.” Coming as it did from the heart, it was a fine expression. The famous cantatrice was deeply devout, and these words expressed the secret of her soul. She had a vivid sense of God, a boundless joy in Him, and her music was the spontaneous acknowledgment of His presence and beauty. Why should we not do all the work of life in the same spirit?—“I sing for God”; “I plough for God”; “I write for God”; “I build for God”; “I weave for God”; “I buy and sell for God.” All that Jenny Lind sang was not strictly sacred, it was often, no doubt, secular and trivial; but she had ever a commanding sense of the heavenly presence, and sang to the God whose gladness filled her heart. So whatever our task may be we may serve Him day and night in His presence.2 [Note: W. L. Watkinson.]
Dismiss me not Thy service, Lord,
But train me for Thy will;
For even I in fields so broad
Some duties may fulfil;
And I will ask for no reward,
Except to serve Thee still.
How many serve, how many more
May to the service come;
To tend the vines, the grapes to store,
Thou dost appoint for some:
Thou hast Thy young men at the war,
Thy little ones at home.
All works are good, and each is best
As most it pleases Thee;
Each worker pleases when the rest
He serves in charity:
And neither man nor work unblest
Wilt Thou permit to be.
O ye who serve, remember One
The worker’s way who trod;
He served as man, but now His throne,
It is the throne of God;
The sceptre He hath to us shown
Is like a blossoming rod.
Firm fibres of the tree of life
Hath each command of His,
And each with clustering blossoms rife
At every season is;
Bare only, like a sword of strife,
Against love’s enemies.
Our Master all the work hath done
He asks of us to-day;
Sharing His service, every one
Share too His sonship may.
Lord, I would serve and be a son;
Dismiss me not, I pray.1 [Note: T. T. Lynch, The Rivulet.]
A Transfiguration of Drudgery and Common Toil
1. The life of nearly every man has great spaces that are flat and uninteresting. The predominant colour is grey. Incident is rare, monotony is continuous. The same things have been done day by day, and a child’s entry in a diary would report the life of many of our days, “Nothing special to-day.” But, really, life is not monotonous. It is we who are monotonous. Life is full of a hidden beauty, a hidden glory—indeed, of a hidden God. We may look through its tiniest part, if it is well done and done in sincerity, and see the vision of the golden heavens, and catch suggestions of the face of Jesus. Even the most limited sphere will give us room for the discipline of our character into the beauty of heaven. And the least conspicuous life may perform ministries which are near relatives to the service of the very angels. It is the dropping of God out of life that makes life uninteresting; it is the neglect of His presence that shadows our days. Let Him be there, let His face shine upon us, and the most trivial act is invested with an awful glory, and every bit of life is enhanced and transfigured with its power. The way to find blessedness is to find God; and He is to be found in every ordinary thing in our daily round. We always find Him when we try to do everything for His glory. “For Thy sake!” This is life’s deepest inspiration, and this its highest power. This touches us when all other motives are weak. This changes drudgery into Divinity. But to be fruitful it must be always held before the mind, and always kept in the heart. Day by day our lowliest duty must be lifted to this great height; so will the great God stoop to our lowliness, and our dustiest and most commonplace way be radiant with His infinite glory.
It may be argued again that dissatisfaction with our life’s endeavour springs in some degree from dulness. We require higher tasks because we do not recognise the height of those we have. Trying to be kind and honest seems an affair too simple and too inconsequential for gentlemen of our heroic mould; we had rather set ourselves something bold, arduous, and conclusive; we had rather found a schism or suppress a heresy, cut off a hand or mortify an appetite. But the task before us, which is to co-endure with our existence, is rather one of microscopic fineness, and the heroism required is that of patience. There is no cutting of the Gordian knots of life; each must be smilingly unravelled.1 [Note: R. L. Stevenson, A Christmas Sermon.]
Brownlow North has told us that it was about eleven months after his awakening at Dallas, when he strongly felt it to be his duty to do some service for the Lord. For two months before this he had shut himself up in his own room, reading the Bible and praying. He then said to himself that he must do something for God, but felt that he could not. The thought suggested itself to his mind that he might at least distribute tracts, but he felt that to do so would make himself ridiculous, and that people would laugh at him and call him mad. At last he resolved to try, and putting a number of tracts into his pocket, he went into the most secluded part of Elgin, in which he was living. The first person he met with was an old woman, who amazed him by accepting his tract without laughing at him. To another old woman whom he saw coming down the road he presented another tract, and she received it with thanks. The third he gave to a policeman, who said, “Thank you, Mr. North.” He recorded it as his experience after fourteen years’ trial, that only on one occasion was a tract refused, and that was by a professed infidel, and yet he had systematically given away tracts to persons of all ranks, in all sorts of places. Very few Christians can be preachers like Brownlow North, but there are none who cannot be tract distributors.1 [Note: K. Moody-Stuart, Brownlow North, 50.]
This is what Brother Lawrence once told me, writes his friend and biographer: “For me, the time of action does not differ from the time of prayer, and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are together calling for as many different things, I possess God in as great tranquillity as when upon my knees at the Blessed Sacrament.
“Nor is it needful,” says Brother Lawrence himself in his Conversations, “that we should have great things to do.” I am giving you the picture of a lay-brother serving in a kitchen; let me then use his own words: “We can do little things for God; I turn the cake that is frying on the pan for love of Him, and that done, if there is nothing else to call me, I prostrate myself in worship before Him, who has given me grace to work; afterwards I rise happier than a king. It is enough for me to pick up but a straw from the ground for the love of God.
“We search for stated ways and methods of learning how to love God, and, to come at that love, we disquiet our minds by I know not how many devices; we give ourselves a world of trouble and pursue a multitude of practices to attain to a sense of the Presence of God. And yet it is so simple. How very much shorter it is, and easier to do our common business purely for the love of God, to set His consecrating mark on all we lay our hands to, and thereby to foster the sense of His abiding Presence by communion of our heart with His! There is no need either of art or science; just as we are, we can go to Him, simply and with single heart.”
Only a little shrivelled seed,
It might be flower, or grass, or weed;
Only a box of earth on the edge
Of a narrow, dusty, window-ledge;
Only a few scant summer showers;
Only a few clear shining hours;
That was all. Yet God could make
Out of these, for a sick child’s sake,
A blossom-wonder, as fair and sweet
As ever broke at an angel’s feet.
Only a life of barren pain,
Wet with sorrowful tears for rain,
Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam
Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream;
A life as common and brown and bare
As the box of earth in the window there;
Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom
Of a perfect soul in that narrow room;
Pure as the snowy leaves that fold
Over the flower’s heart of gold.1 [Note: Henry van Dyke.]
2. All that God wants of any one is faithfulness. Not brilliance, not success, not notoriety which attracts newspaper notice, but the quiet, regular, and careful performance of trivial and common duties, as beneath “the great Taskmaster’s eye.” To be faithful in that which is least will win as rich a reward as faithfulness in the greatest. Indeed, it is harder to be faithful over a very little than over much. The opportunity, therefore, of winning the highest reward in the future world is given not only to those who are called to occupy the high places of the field, where every brilliant act is chronicled by admiring pens, but to those who dig out the foundations, who do duty in the trenches, and who are buried in common graves, without magnificent obsequies or glowing epitaphs. Of many it will be said at last: “They had their reward” in the blowing of the trumpet of earthly fame and the murmured applause of many voices; the turn of those to whom no one said “Thank you” will then have arrived.
Have you not seen the way in which men construct arches? A number of beams, wooden uprights, and cross-pieces are constructed into the form of the arch which is to be. The structure looks very confused and flimsy, it is difficult to trace the design, and one spark of flame would consume the whole; but upon its span the bricks and stones are deposited which will last for generations. So upon the mean structure of daily drudgery, which excites no enthusiasm, which strains the muscles and wearies the nerves, is being built up a character which will be “a thing of beauty and a joy for ever” when the heavens have passed away “as a scroll.”2 [Note: F. B. Meyer.]
We cannot kindle when we will
The fire which in the heart resides;
The spirit bloweth and is still
In mystery our soul abides.
But tasks in hours of insight will’d
Can be through hours of gloom fulfill’d.
With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
We bear the burden and the heat
Of the long day, and wish ’twere done.
Not till the hours of light return,
All we have built do we discern.1 [Note: Matthew Arnold.]
Do not ask for great opportunities of service, or be disappointed if you feel no glow of devotion to other people or even to God. We are all too anxious to be conscious of beautiful feelings; they comfort us and lead us to think that we are in the right way; but the real test is obedience—doing the right things as far as we know them. Feelings are very misleading: let them come when they come; do not be disheartened if they do not come, or if when they come they soon vanish. This I think is the path to higher perfection; at any rate no other path is certain. Hold fast to the assurance that God wants you to have the mind of Christ; pray for it; but meanwhile, whether your heart goes with it or not, try in humble, unostentatious ways to serve Christ by serving others.2 [Note: The Life of R. W. Dale of Birmingham, 664.]
Only one letter received by this momentous mail brought the least encouragement to Coillard—it was one addressed by the Rev. W. G. Lawes, of the L.M.S., New Guinea, to Mme. Coillard, who had gone out with him and his wife in the John Williams (1860).
“Port Moresby, September 18, 1877.
“I remember you perfectly as you were then, and have sometimes been helped and strengthened by the remembrance of your strong faith … Our work on Savage Island was very delightful. ‘All work for Christ is that,’ you will say, and so indeed it is, but it had in it that which human nature rejoices in—a large measure of success and prosperity. It was my happiness to baptize upwards of one thousand converts, to train a band of young men who are now at work as pastors on their own island, and as pioneers on this and other heathen [islands], and, above all, to translate into their language the whole of the New Testament and part of the Old.… I felt sorry to leave the work on Savage Island, but the call to harder work, more self-denying work, is an honour from the Master’s hands. Does He not in this way deal with His servants? Is not the reward of service in His Kingdom more service, harder service, and (measured by human standards) less successful service? We deal just so with our children, and we ought not to repine when our Father calls us from some loved, congenial work to something more arduous and difficult.”
These words at such a time came to them—to M. Coillard especially—as a message straight from God. It was not the only time that a letter, apparently quite accidental, opportunely shed light upon his path, and showed him, as he himself would say, how real is the Communion of Saints, and what a myth is the supposed rivalry of sects and societies, when each other’s experiences, successes, and even apparent failures teach such lessons of faith and obedience in God’s service.1 [Note: C. W. Mackintosh, Coillard of the Zambesi, 288.]
Love and pity are pleading with me this hour.
What is this voice that stays me forbidding to yield,
Offering beauty, love, and immortal power,
Æons away in some far-off heavenly field?
Though I obey thee, Immortal, my heart is sore.
Though love be withdrawn for love it bitterly grieves:
Pity withheld in the breast makes sorrow more.
Oh, that the heart could feel what the mind believes!
Cease, O love, thy fiery and gentle pleading.
Soft is thy grief, but in tempest through me it rolls.
Dreamst thou not whither the path is leading
Where the Dark Immortal would shepherd our weeping souls?2 [Note: A. E., The Divine Vision, 78.]
Man’s Chief End
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Barry (A.), Westminster Abbey Sermons, 91.
Brooks (P.), The More Abundant Life, 68.
Byles (J.), The Boy and the Angel, 123.
Clayton (C.), Stanhope Sermons, 382.
Dale (R. W.), Weekday Sermons, 218, 260.
Ewing (J. F.), The Unsearchable Riches of Christ, 359.
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Jowett (B.), College Sermons, 225.
Kingsley (C.), Village, Town and Country Sermons, 155.
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Maclaren (A.), Expositions: 1 and 2 Corinthians, 164.
Macmillan (H.), The Gate Beautiful, 246.
Meyer (F. B.), The Soul’s Pure Intention, 155.
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Reid (H. M. B.), Books that Help the Religious Life, 41.
Sandford (C. W.), Counsel to English Churchmen Abroad, 260.
Souper (W.), Concerning Character and Conduct, 9.
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Westcott (B. F.), Christian Aspects of Life, 224.
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Cambridge Review, viii. Supplement No. 196 (Worlledge).
Christian World Pulpit, ii. 218 (Abercrombie); xii. 161 (Jones); xx. 11 (Beecher), 257 (Barry); xli. 185 (Pearson); xliv. 124 (Morgan); 1. 353 (Horton); lxxiii. 171 (Burton); lxxix. 236 (Farr).