The Maccabaean

Thou wouldest have a desire to the work of thy hands.

But no; the visible actualities of life quickly rob him of that hope:

The waters wear the stones;

The dust of the earth spreads over the growths thereof;

And thou destroyest the hope of man!

Total destruction seems to him the rule of visible nature; and what does the love of God help him, if, withal, he cannot tear away the scales from his eyes, and penetrate the fatal darkness of ignorance surrounding his soul?

The solution of his own personal problem is inseparably bound up with the solution of the general problem, and the solution of one means the solution of the other. This is why, in the fifth speech, he cries out in mortal anguish:

(8t See Mishpat Haurim.)

to the O earth, cover t'ou not my blood, And let my cry have no resting place. of life Even now, behold, my witness is in heaven, And he that vouched for me is on high. over the My friends scorn me; But mine eyes poureth out tears unto of man! God, the rule That one mig't plead for a man with the love God, not tear As a son of man pleadeth for his and pene- neighbor. ignorance For when a few years are come, I shall go the way whence I s'all not al prob- return. the solu- Job is unwillingly to die before he shall the so- have been vindicated. He would thus be of the unable to learn the great truth, the way of speech, he God with his creature—man. . . . . And yet he hopes and believes: hopes against all hope, and believes—against all his trials.

(To be Concluded)

WE hear so much of the "brotherhood of man," and we listen so often to discourses on the "Unity of Mankind," "Universal Peace," and on other prospects of the distant future, that we are often apt to forget that in the national will to live there also exists to day a force which has exerted an influence upon civilization so profound that these grand universal dreams seem but as side-issues when compared with this invincible yearning.

This desire for nationality, aided by the songs of the minstrel and the gifted words of the poet, has its foundation in science.

The biologist tells us that every climate produces its characteristic trees and fruits: that while we may introduce foreign seeds into new localities, the result will depend, to a very large extent, on the new environment—the nature of the soil, climate, and the competition of other plants. In short, while you may transplant seeds in new lands, you can do so only within well-defined limits. Furthermore, in nature—before the hand of man interferes—you will find the fir tree in one locality, the maple tree in another well-defined territory, and

the sugar-cane in another environment entirely distinct from the former.

In animal life we find the same situation. The lion of Africa and the tiger of India have certain well-defined kingdoms of their own, distinct and separate from the quarters of the polar bear and the domestic horse and cow. Within certain limits you may acclimatize them, but they show a strong tendency to revert to the norm —to the life of their ancestors.

By the use of clothing, houses for shelter and the thousands of inventions that minister to the needs of mankind, the highest class of animals have learned to adapt themselves to diverse environments. Yet, even man, the heir of the ages, is restricted to a relatively small portion of the earth's surface. Furthermore, the places that men occupy are apportioned among various races—the white man cannot live and thrive in the tropics, and the Esquimaux perishes in the mild and inviting climate of California. England has conquered a vast empire in the East, yet the sons of Britain fail to bring forth a second generation to inherit the riches of India. America has