Eternity in the Heart

He hath made everything beautiful in its time; also he hath set the world [eternity—R.V. marg.] in their heart, yet so that man cannot find out the work that God hath done from the beginning even to the end.—Ecclesiastes 3:21. This text, like the book of which it forms a part, has been a puzzle to interpreters. In the Authorized and Revised Versions it is translated “He hath set the world in their heart.” But the word translated “world,” which suggests the boundlessness of space, is elsewhere and generally used to denote the boundlessness of time. It is the word used in the phrase “for ever and ever.” The best modern interpreters, therefore, translate it in this place by the word “eternity.” So taken, the text is a nugget of pure gold, shining out from the dry sand and bare rock. The book which mourns over the vanity of earthly things, and sees so clearly the limitations of human knowledge, recognizes, notwithstanding, a Divine element in man. In spite of man’s ignorance and weakness, God has put eternity in his heart.

2. By the word “heart” here, as elsewhere, we are to understand not man’s affections alone, but his whole mental and moral being. The assertion is that all man’s powers and processes, whether of reason or of will, involve and imply an eternal constituent, whether man is aware of it or not. And by “eternity” we are to understand not the endless prolongation of time, the everlasting continuance of successions, but rather superiority to time, elevation above successions. God Himself is not under the law of time—he is “King of the ages.” And we are made in His image. Though we have a finite and temporal existence, we are not wholly creatures of time. To some extent we are above its laws. We have “thoughts that wander through eternity,” a consciousness that we are too large for our dwelling-place, a conviction that the past and the future are ours as well as the present.

3. The drift of the passage, then, appears to be something like this: God has made everything beautiful in accordance with its function and the relation in which it stands to other created things; it is beautiful as He sees it, whether it seems so to mortal eyes or not, for its beauty consists in the truth it expresses and the spiritual work it does; and, when the time comes for it to pass away, the effects of its work will still remain, for whatever God does is done for eternity. “Whatsoever God doeth it shall be for ever.” Also God hath set the feeling of the eternal in the human heart; all men have it in some degree, even though they do not know why they should have it, cannot justify it to their reason, and cannot find out what God is doing by means of the things of time from beginning to end. Interpreted in this way, this great saying at once becomes luminous as well as profound, and the sage who originally uttered it might have been speaking for our day as well as his own in thus giving expression to his thought about the mystery of life. For three distinct things are emphasized here as present to human experience everywhere. The first is the sense of beauty; the second, mysteriously allied to the first, is the feeling of the eternal; and the third is our confession of perplexity and helplessness in the endeavour to find out what the purpose is, if any, which is being effected by means of the flux and travail of our earthly existence.

Commenting on this passage Bacon says: “Solomon declares, not obscurely, that God hath framed the mind of man as a mirror or glass, capable of the image of the universal world, joyful to receive the impression thereof, as the eye joyeth to receive light.” In his funeral sermon on Dr. Livingstone, Dean Stanley worked out a thought of a kindred kind. The earth, he said, is, broken up by seas and mountains, so that the nations seem destined to live apart; but in man’s breast there is a thirst for exploration and discovery, an unquenchable longing to know all that can be known of the world in which he lives; and as this desire takes shape in action, obstacles vanish, and all ends of the world are brought close together. The fact that the world is thus set in man’s heart, so that he is prepared to explore it, to understand it, to use and to enjoy it, is surely a proof of design in Nature and of the wisdom and goodness of the great Creator.

I

The Sense of Beauty

“He hath made everything beautiful in its time.”

Beauty is the most elusive and analysable thing that enters within the range of our perceptions. We have the idea of the beautiful, but we can never say just why any particular thing is to be pronounced beautiful, or wanting in beauty, as the case may be. Beauty is God’s art, God’s manner of working. Beauty is the necessary conception of the Creator’s thought, the necessary product of His hand; variety in beauty is the necessary expression of His infinite mind. In created things there are, of course, necessary limitations; but the Creator seems to have impressed upon the things that He has made all the variety of which they are capable; no two faces, or forms, or voices, or flowers, or blades of grass are alike. Even decay and disorganization have an iridescence of their own. Beauty is not merely the surface adornment of creation, like paint upon a house, like pictures upon its walls, like jewellery upon a woman. Beauty permeates nature through and through; the microscope, the dissecting knife, reveal it; there is no hidden ugliness, no mere surface beauty, in God’s works. If you try to eliminate their element of beauty, you destroy them. The core of the fruit is as beautiful as its rind. Beauty is an essential part of the nature of things. Equally with substance it inheres in everything that God has made. It is part of the perfection of God’s works, part of the perfection of God Himself; like truth, like holiness, like beneficence, like graciousness.

Why we receive pleasure from some forms and colours, and not from others, is no more to be asked or answered than why we like sugar and dislike wormwood. The utmost subtlety of investigations will only lead us to ultimate instincts and principles of human nature, for which no further reason can be given than the simple will of the Deity that we should be so created.1 [Note: Ruskin, Modern Painters.]

The nearest approach I can make myself to an explanation of what beauty is—and even that is no explanation, but only an index finger pointing towards it—is to say that it is the witness in the soul of that which is as opposed to that which seems—the real of which this world is but the shadow; it is a glimpse, an intimation of the Supernal, the state of being in which there is no lack, no discord, strife, or wrong, and where nothing is wanting to the ideal perfection, whatever it may be. In other words, it is the eternal truth reminding us of its presence, though unable with our limitations to do more than brush us with its wings. Keats hits the mark in his tender line:

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.1 [Note: R. J. Campbell.]

1. The beauty of the world is something quite distinct from use; it is something superadded. It is like the chasing of a goblet which would be as useful if it had no beauty of form. Whatever may be said of the beauty of true utility it is unquestionable that the most intense of the emotions called out in presence of the beautiful have no connexion whatever with any thought of the fitness or unfitness of the objects thus perceived for any particular purpose, or of the correctness of the relation occupied by them to any larger category or to creation as a whole. When we feel the beauty of a tree, for instance, or a jutting crag, we are not influenced in the slightest by anything in their appearance which suggests that they are in their right place or that in form they obey the line of development which makes in some way towards a fuller expression of life and power.

Ruskin has pointed out that the clouds could do all their work without their beauty. But they do not. They spread a perfect panorama of loveliness above us. Sometimes it is the feathery cirrus cloud, looking, as William Blake said, “as if the angels had gone to worship and had left their plumes lying there.” Another time the cumulus cloud, with piled, heaving bosom, throbbing with anger, fills the heavens, soon to find relief in the lightning flash and the cracking thunder. Or it is the stratus clouds, placid and level, rising step behind step, looking so solid that imagination finds it easy to mount them and reach the land which is afar off, where is the King in His beauty.2 [Note: G. Eayres.]

2. Beauty, however, is not without use. It is the messenger of God’s love to the world, showing that all creation “means intensely and means good.” It is the fringe of the Lord’s own self, the outshining of His presence, the appeal of His love. Ruskin says that beauty is “written on the arched sky; it looks out from every star; it is among the hills and valleys of the earth, where the shrubless mountain-top pierces the thin atmosphere of eternal winter, or where the mighty forest fluctuates before the strong wind, with its dark waves of green foliage; it is spread out like a legible language upon the broad face of the unsleeping ocean; it is the poetry of nature; it is that which uplifts within us, until it is strong enough to overlook the shadows of our place of probation, which breaks link after link of the chain that binds us to materiality and which opens to our imagination a world of spiritual beauty and holiness.”

Wordsworth was convinced (and he gave his whole life to preaching the lesson) that to find joy in the sights and sounds of Nature actually fed a man’s heart, and disposed him to the good life. In the well-known lines written on revisiting the banks of the Wye after an interval of five years, he expressed what he himself had owed to the sights seen on his former visit—

Oft in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,

And passing even into my purer mind,

With tranquil restoration.

So far we should all agree: but he goes on—

Feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man’s life,

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts

Of kindness and of love.

Wordsworth believed that happiness found among the things of Nature, the simple leap of the heart, for example, at the sight of a rainbow, transmuted itself into acts of kindness; and this need not surprise us, if we believe, as Wordsworth believed, that behind all the outward shapes of Nature lives and works the Spirit of God, who through these things sheds into our hearts His own gifts of joy and peace.1 [Note: Canon Beeching, The Grace of Episcopacy, 134.]

All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,

To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:

Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof

That few there be are weaned from earthly love.

Joy’s ladder it is, reaching from home to home,

The best of all the work that all was good:

Whereof ’twas writ the angels aye upclomb,

Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood.1 [Note: Robert Bridges.]

3. Beauty has its seasons; it flushes and fades. Everything in the world must be in its true place and time, or it is not beautiful. That is true from the lowest to the highest; only with the lowest it is not easy to discover it. It does not seem to matter where the pebble lies, on this side of the road or on the other. It may indeed do sad mischief out of its place; but its place is a wide one. It may lie in many spots and do no harm, and seem to show all the beauty and render all the use of which it is capable. But the things of higher nature are more fastidious in their demands. The plant must have its proper soil to feed its roots upon, or its bright flowers lose their beauty, and even there, only in one short happy season of the year is it in its glory, while the pebble keeps its lustre always. Higher still comes the animal, and he has more needs that must be met, more arrangements that must be made, a more definite place in which he must be set, before he can do his best. And then, highest of all, comes man, and with his highest life comes the completest dependence upon circumstances. He is the least independent creature on the earth. The most beautiful in his right time and place, he is the most wretched and miserable out of it. He is the most liable of all the creatures to be thrown out of place. He must have all the furnishings of life, friendships, family, ambitions, cultures of every kind, or his best is not attained. It belongs then to the highest and most gifted lives to seek their places in the world. It is the prerogative of their superiority. Surely it would be good for men if they could learn this early. It would scatter many delusions. It would dissipate the folly of universal genius.

The perfect woodwork of the carpenter, the strong ironwork of the smith, the carved marble of the sculptor, the August fields of the farmer, the cloth of the weaver, the school of the master, the quiet room of the student, the college with its turrets, the cottage with its hollyhocks and vines, all come with their separate charm, and help to compose the magnificence of the world. In the thrilling page of history, the poverty of the learned is seen now to be as grand as the gold of the merchant or the estates of royalty. We do not feel that Socrates needed riches, and we are glad that Jesus Christ had nothing but a soul. The isolation of His soul made it stand forth like white figures upon a dark background. His soul reposes upon poverty like a rainbow upon a cloud.1 [Note: D. Swing.]

I cannot feel it beautiful when I find men still at their business when they ought to be at home with their children. I cannot feel it beautiful to see the common work of the world going on on Sundays. I cannot feel it beautiful to see little children at hard work when they ought to be in school, or aged people still obliged to toil and moil to the very end. But good honest work, done with some pride and zest, and done in season, becomes in a way transfigured, and is “beautiful in its time.”2 [Note: Brooke Herford, Anchors of the Soul, 251.]

II

The Capacity for the Infinite

“He hath set eternity in their heart.”

The doctrine of immortality does not seem to be stated in the Book of Ecclesiastes, except in one or two very doubtful expressions. And it is more in accordance with its whole tone to suppose the Preacher here to be asserting, not that the heart or spirit is immortal, but that, whether it is or not, in the heart is planted the thought, the consciousness of eternity—and the longing after it.

We differ from all around us in this perishable world in that God hath set eternity in our hearts. All creation around us is satisfied with its sustenance, we alone have a thirst and a hunger for which the circumstances of our life have no meat and drink. In the burning noonday of life’s labour man sits—as the Son of Man once sat—by well-sides weary, and while other creatures can slake their thirst with that, he needs a living water; while other creatures go into cities to buy meat, he has need of and finds a sustenance that they know not of.

It is said that Napoleon was asked to suggest the subject for a historical picture that would perpetuate his name, and he asked how long the picture would last. He was told that under favourable conditions it might last five hundred years. But that would not satisfy him; he craved for a more enduring memorial. It was suggested that the sculptor might take the place of the painter, and genius might come nearer to conferring immortality. Now what was the meaning of that ambitious craving? It was a perverted instinct; it was a solemn and impressive testimony to the fact that God has set eternity in man’s heart. That demand for earthly immortality was but the echo—the hollow, mocking echo—of the voice of eternity in the great conqueror’s soul.1 [Note: A. Jenkinson, A Modern Disciple, 40.]

1. God has set the eternal in the mind of man.—It is the essential nature of thought to move out into the boundless, and to overleap all limitations of time and space. This seems to be precisely the meaning of the Preacher in the text. “Also he hath set eternity in their heart, yet so that man cannot find out the work that God hath done from the beginning even to the end.” The eternal in the mind of man is a movement, not a fulfilment. He cannot comprehend the boundless, and yet he must for ever feel the dynamic of it. He is bound on an endless quest because he is, on the one hand, a finite creature, and because, on the other hand, God has set eternity in his heart.

I had been attracted by Whewell’s essay on “The Plurality of Worlds,” where it is argued that our planet is probably the only world in existence that is occupied by intelligent and morally responsible persons; the stars of heaven being a material panorama existing only for the sake of the human inhabitants of one small globe. This paradox, we are to-day told, is fully fortified by “scientific proof” that the earth is mathematically placed in the centre of the limited portion of space which, according to the theorist, contains the whole material world. And all this is taken as an apology for the faith that a Divine incarnation has been realized upon this apparently insignificant planet, for the sake of persons otherwise unfit occasions of the stupendous transaction. But I do not see how science can put a limit to the space occupied by suns and their planetary systems, or how the universe can be proved to have any boundary, within a space whose circumference must be nowhere and its centre everywhere; or even a limit within time, in its unbeginning and unending duration. It seems a poor theistic conception to suppose God incapable of incarnation in man, unless this planet were thus unique in space and time. With the infinite fund of Omnipotent and Omniscient Goodness, what need to exaggerate the place of man, in order to justify his recognition, even according to the full economy of the Christian ?Revelation 1 [Note: A. Campbell Fraser, Biographia Philosophica, 259.]

2. God has set eternity in the moral nature of man.—This was what the philosopher Kant felt when he affirmed that the contemplation of the moral imperative filled him with awe, and with a sense of the sublime like that with which he looked upon the starry heavens. The moral law of which man is conscious, and by which he knows himself bound, belongs to the eternal order of things. In bestowing upon man the stupendous obligation of the moral consciousness, God has set eternity in his heart. Ill-success has attended the foolish attempt to deduce the majesties of the moral law from an accumulation of temporal experiences. A poor, little, broken code can be made out of the ingenious manipulation of man’s interests and pleasures, and some lingering sentiments may be tortured out of forced theories of evolution. But the simple majesty of the moral imperative and the incomparable sublimity of moral truth bear a stamp which is known only in the heavenly places. The simple explanation is all-sufficing and manifestly true; the Lord proclaimed His law from heaven.

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong,

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

If you came across a piece of gold reef in the midst of a peat bog you could do no other than infer that it had been brought there by some ancient flood from some great system to which it truly belonged, or else that down beneath the blackness and ooze of the peat bog there lay a solid stratum wholly different in quality and worth. Or again, if, as is the case in some parts of the world, you saw a valley watered and made fertile by a stream that seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth, you would want to know where the reservoir was from which that stream got its volume. It is not otherwise with the heart of man. Right in the midst of the sombre ugliness of our common life lies the gold-bearing rock which tells of a nobler origin for the soul, and of a stratum of being in which there is nothing of the blackness and the slime of evil. And in the valley of our cumulative experience, wherein so much that is gracious and beautiful springs and grows, watered by the flowing crystal river of spiritual ideals and aspirations that rises unceasingly from the mysterious deeps of our being, surely there is that which tells of our eternal home. It is in our heart because God has put it there, and because it is the fundamental fact, the most essential fact, of our strangely complex nature.1 [Note: R. J. Campbell.]

Tennyson has drawn a wonderful picture of a man of noble nature who has been led captive by lust. He knows the right and admires it. His soul has been filled with aspirations after it. But this one sin has crept slily in and made its home in his heart; it has fascinated and mastered him, so that he cannot shake it off. Sometimes his better nature rises up; he tries to break his chains—he fancies himself free; but the next time the temptation faces him he lays down his arms, and is willingly made captive. Though his passion is gratified he has no peace. The very nobility of that nature which is now degraded only makes his misery the greater. The fact that he knows the right so well, and yet, somehow, cannot be man enough to do it, makes his life at times intolerable.

Another sinning on such heights with one,

The flower of all the west and all the world,

Had been the sleeker for it; but in him

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose

And drove him into wastes and solitudes

For agony, who was yet a living soul.

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made

Full many a holy vow and pure resolve.

These, as but born of sickness, could not live.

“I needs must break

These bonds that so defame me; not without

She wills it. Would I, if she willed it? nay

Who knows? but if I would not, then may God

I pray Him, send a sudden Angel down

To seize me by the hair and bear me far,

And fling me deep in that forgotten mere,

Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.”

Such is man as we find him. He sits down in this poor, sinful world and, gathering everything he can reach around him, he tries to be content. But there is enough of God and eternity within him to confound him and make him miserable.1 [Note: W. Park.]

3. God has set eternity in the spiritual outreaching of man.—Man is by nature a worshipping creature. He cannot help stretching forth his hands towards the heavens, and seeking communion with the everlasting invisible Power which is felt to dwell there. He cannot rest in temporal companionship and in the interests of time and place. His spirit summons him to unknown heights and bids him wistfully wait at the gates of eternal glory.

When Shelley sought to dethrone and deny God, he was fain to set up in His stead an eternal Power which he called the Spirit of Nature. To this his spirit went pathetically out in earnest longing, and to this he rendered a homage indistinguishable from worship. God had set eternity in Shelley’s heart, and he could not escape from the impulses of worship in his own spirit. The spirit of man, even when encompassed with much darkness of ignorance, must still stand

Upon the world’s great altar stairs

That slope thro’ darkness up to God.2 [Note: J. Thomas, The Mysteries of Grace, 251.]

III

The Tyranny of Circumstances

“He hath set eternity in their heart, yet so that man cannot find out the work that God hath done from the beginning even to the end.”

1. Here are two antagonistic facts. There are transient things, a vicissitude which moves within natural limits, temporary events which are beautiful in their season. But there is also the contrasted fact that the man who is thus tossed about, as by some great battledore wielded by giant powers in mockery, from one changing thing to another, has relations to something more lasting than the transient. He lives in a world of fleeting change, but he has eternity in his heart. So between him and his dwelling-place, between him and his occupation, there is a gulf of disproportion. He is subjected to these alternations, and yet bears within him a repressed but immortal consciousness that he belongs to another order of things, which knows no vicissitude and fears no decay. He possesses stifled and misinterpreted longings—which, however starved, do yet survive—after unchanging Being and Eternal Rest. And thus endowed, and by contrast thus situated, his soul is full of the “blank misgivings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized.”

This creature with eternity in his heart, where is he set? What has he got to work upon? What has he to love and hold by, to trust to, and anchor his life on? A crowd of things, each well enough, but each having a time; and though they be beautiful in their time, yet fading and vanishing when it has elapsed. No multiplication of times will make eternity. And so, with that thought in his heart, man is driven out among objects perfectly insufficient to meet it.

A great botanist made what he called “a floral clock” to mark the hours of the day by the opening and closing of flowers. It was a graceful and yet a pathetic thought. One after another they spread their petals, and their varying colours glow in the light. But one after another they wearily shut their cups, and the night falls, and the latest of them folds itself together and all are hidden away in the dark. So our joys and treasures—were they sufficient did they last—cannot last. After a summer’s day comes a summer’s night, and after a brief space of them comes winter, when all are killed and the leafless trees stand silent.

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.1 [Note: A. Maclaren.]

2. We may be sure that this contrast between our nature and the world in which we are set is not in vain. We are better for having these cravings in our heart, which can never be satisfied here. Were we without them, we should sink to the level of creation. We sometimes say half sadly, half in jest, that we envy the peaceful contented lives of the lower animals. But we do not mean what we say. We would rather have our human life, with its hopes and fears, its pathetic yearnings, its storms and its calms, its immortal outlook, than a life without cares and without hopes beyond those of the present moment. Picture some tropical forest, where animal and vegetable life luxuriates to the full, and where the swarms exuberant of life know no discontent. Would you give up your high though unsatisfied yearnings for bright but unreasoning life like theirs? Or when, in spring, you wander through the fields, burdened with cares and doubts and fears about the future, while the birds, in utter freedom from care, are filling the air with song, would you exchange with them, and part with your hopes of an endless life, your longings for the Father in heaven? Why, just to ask the question gives it its answer.

When Alexander of Macedon, after he had subjugated the whole of the known world, shed tears that his conquests were over because there was nothing left for him to conquer, however much we may disapprove of the ambition to which he had surrendered his life, yet we admire him more than if he had sat down in selfish ease to enjoy himself for the rest of his days. The soul that aspires is nearer to God than the soul that is content and still. Or if we meet with one who cares for nothing higher than the worldly wealth and ease and pleasure he enjoys, would you change your noble discontent for his ignoble content with what “perishes in the using”? When we think of the future which lies before each one of us, we shall regard it as a crowning mercy and blessing, that, though at present God does not bestow the life we crave, He does give us longings for it, and refuses to let us forget it, since even in time “he has set eternity in our heart.” It is this that keeps us from utter degradation; without it how base we should be.1 [Note: Memorials of R. T. Cunningham, 96.]

3. This universal presentiment itself goes far to establish the reality of the unseen order of things to which it is directed. The great planet that moves in the outmost circle of our system was discovered because that next it wavered in its course in a fashion which was inexplicable, unless some unknown mass was attracting it from across millions of miles of darkling space. And there are “perturbations” in our spirits which cannot be understood, unless from them we may divine that far-off and unseen world which has power from afar to sway in their orbits the little lives of mortal men. It draws us to itself—but, alas, the attraction may be resisted and thwarted. The dead mass of the planet bends to the drawing, but we can repel the constraint which the eternal world would exercise upon us; and so that consciousness which ought to be our nobleness, as it is our prerogative, may become our shame, our misery and our sin.

This is the marvellous thing, that there is something in the heart of man constantly and successfully contradicting the sight of the eyes. For the eyes of man—and no one realized this more intensely than the Preacher—are weary with the sight of the things that fade and die. From the first time they look out upon the world, they behold the sad and continuous process of decay. All things are in flux, all things decay, nothing continues. Every voice speaks of mortality. Not only do leaves and flowers wither and fade, but a more educated eye beholds the stars fade in their orbits. The man that the eye beholds is a mortal creature passing swiftly from the cradle to the grave. For the eye of man mortality is signed and sealed in the dust of the tomb. “The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: surely the people is grass.” What a tremendous witness to immortality must exist in the heart of man, to scorn the partial vision of the eye, and to transfigure its scenes of mortality into the light of immortal hope!

“The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord,” said the author of the Book of Proverbs. Yes, a candle, but not necessarily one lighted; a candle, but one that can be kindled only by the touch of the Divine flame. To the natural man immortality is only a future of possibilities. To make it a future of realities we need to join ourselves to Jesus Christ. Take Christ, and eternity in the heart will not be an aching void, an unsatisfied longing, a consuming thirst. There is satisfaction here and now. He that believeth on the Son hath eternal life. Immortality is a present possession. The present is potentially the future. As Newman Smyth has said: “Just as the consciousness of the child contains in it the germ of his manhood, and just as gravitation on earth tells us what gravitation is among the constellations, so eternity in the heart here shows us what eternity will be hereafter.”1 [Note: A. H. Strong, Miscellanies, i. 331.]

In that delightful book The House of Quiet there is a striking passage where The Life of Charles Darwin is thus characterized: “What a wonderful book this is—it is from end to end nothing but a cry for the Nicene Creed. The man walks along, doing his duty so splendidly and nobly, with such single-heartedness and simplicity, and just misses the way all the time; the gospel he wanted is just the other side of the wall.”1 [Note: David Smith, Man’s Need of God, 9.]

Two worlds are ours; ’tis only sin

Forbids us to descry

The mystic heaven and earth within,

Plain as the sea and sky.2 [Note: Keble.]

Literature

Allon (H.), in Harvest and Thanksgiving Services, 17.

Beeching (H. C.), The Grace of Episcopacy, 130.

Brooks (P.), Twenty Sermons, 244.

Calthrop (G.), In Christ, 12.

Campbell (D.), The Roll-Call of Faith, 21.

Cunningham (R. T.), Memorials, 88.

Fürst (A.), Christ the Way, 168.

Hall (E. H.), Discourses, 26.

Hamilton (J.), Works, iii. 100.

Herford (B.), Anchors of the Soul, 245.

Jenkinson (A.), A Modern Disciple, 33.

Maclaren (A.), Sermons Preached in Manchester, iii. 209.

Newbolt (W. C. E.), The Gospel of Experience, 1.

Peabody (A. D.), King’s Chapel Sermons, 179.

Shore (T. T.), The Life of the World to Come, 23.

Smith (D.), Man’s Need of God, 3.

Snell (B. J.), The Widening Vision, 49.

Strong (A. H.), Miscellanies, i. 313.

Swing (D.), Sermons, 166.

Thomas (J.), The Mysteries of Grace, 243.

Christian Commonwealth, xxxii. (1912) 405 (R. J. Campbell).

Christian World Pulpit, xxviii. 259 (W. Park); 1. 374 (J. Stalker); lxi. 181 (J. W. Walls); lxxiv. 123 (G. Eayres).