gave, redeemed, with a mercy which they pursue him; makes his footing sure endureth forever. But, in the experience of these Hebrew lyrical poets, Jahveh is not only the God of nature and the God of the nation; he is not only present in nature and in national history; he is a personal friend, and present in the individual life. He is the poet's companion: a shepherd who causes him to lie down in green pastures, leads him beside still waters, restores him when wandering, leads him in right paths, is his fellow-traveler in the valley of the shadow of death, and spreads for him a table while his enemies look on amazed and unable to disturb his meal. Jahveh knew the poet before he was born; was at his birth, and brought him forth into. the light of life; taught him the right way. in which to walk; in the time of danger protected him as the mother bird protects her young from the hawk; is a very present help to him in trouble; is ever at his right hand so that he has no fear; in times of great anxiety puts him to sleep as a nurse a wearied, worried child; is his rock and his fortress, delivering him from his enemies; and when he transgresses, accepts his confession and forgives his sin.1 It is impossible to conceive these poets as considering it a question whether there is a God. To his thinking it is only a fool who saith, There is no God. To the poet Jahveh is personally known; he is my king, my refuge, my God; an ownership of love and loyalty like the ownership of the citizen in his king, the child in his father, the wife in her husband, is established, recognized, maintained. God is in the poet's experience. To be separated from his God is the sorest evil in his captivity; to hear his God insulted with the cry, Where is now thy God? is of all taunts the hardest to bear; to realize that he has sinned against his God brings on him a remorse which for the time obliterates all sense of sin against himself and against his neighbor: "Against thee, thee only, have I sinned," he cries. Jahveh is with him in all the commonplace experiences of life; makes his feet nimble to run through the troop of his enemies, to leap the wall and escape when 1 Psalms cxxxix., 15, 16; xxii., 9; xxv., 8: xxvii., 11; lvii., 1; xlvi., 1; xvi., 18; iii., 5; xxxi., 3; li., 32. 2 Psalm xiv., 1. as he climbs the dangerous cliffs; makes his arm strong to bend the bow of brass.1 Sorrow only drives him to God as his refuge; through doubts and despair he struggles on toward hope in Jahveh, his God; the gentleness of Jahveh makes him great; the loving-kindness of Jahveh fills his cup to overflowing; the mercy of Jahveh forgives his sins and restores his soul. For not even the poet's sins can separate him from his God; his God is a healer, a redeemer, a physician of souls. This is the final, the transcendent fact in the experience of the Hebrew singer. Bless the Lord, O my soul; tender mercies: It would be strange if one man had wrought all this out in his own experience; but it is not less strange, looking back across the intervening centuries into a barbaric age and upon a barbaric nation, to find in eight centuries and a half of song all the ripened fruit of Christian experience suggested, except only the assurance of immortality. A God who is a universal presence; a God who is in all nature and with the nations of the earth; a God who cares for the children of men; a God who cares for the beasts of the forest; a God who is gentle, patient, pitying, rendering an unbought mercy out of his own free love, forgiving iniquities because they are gre t and man cannot deliver himself from them; a God who saves men even from their own self-willed destruction, and who crowns them with a kindness that is full of love and a mercy that is full of nursing; a God who gives promise of One who shall come in time, to make clearer revelations of his judgment, of his deliverance, of his power, and of his grace-something such as this seems to me to be the religious teaching of eight centuries and a half of the unparalleled lyric song contained in the Hebrew psalter. 1 Psalm xviii., 28-35. Psalm ciii., 1-5. T By Annie Steger Winston HE dusky congregation of Persimmon Ridge Church groaned and swayed, ejaculated and assented, in decorous answer to the eloquence of the lank and impassioned preacher. "An' yet, my bred'ren," he chanted, "d'is some so blin', d'is some so foolish, d'is some so h'isted in dee own conceit Unc' Adam rocked in his seat in the Amen corner, and groaned response. "Um-huh! um-huh! Dat so! Dat my ol' 'oman to de ve'y life!" "D'is some so boun' in de chains o' wickedness; d'is some so satisfi' wid a fyar outside-” his black little puckered face suggested a "U-u-ur yas! So she are!" fervently des see how he do 'er !" from Unc' Adam. "D'is some so wrop up in sin an' selfishness; d'is some so guv up to de debble an' all his wuks—" "Ya-a-as, my brudder! Mahaly Ann !" The preacher stretched his long arm pointedly toward Unc' Adam. "D'is some so soak' in spite an' meanness; d'is some so chock full o' gall an' bitterness-" " Amen !" " Amen !" came in fullvoiced chorus, and the heads of the mobile congregation turned as one toward the left-side pew. But through it all not a ribbon quivered upon the neat bonnet of Mahaly Ann, sitting in sober dignity in the middle aisle. "Hit sho is scan'lous de way Unc' Adam 'have hisse'f," had been for years a commonplace of Persimmon Ridge society, and "What mek he do so?" a perennial speculation. Certainly it seemed a strange perversity that prompted his "meanness" to Mahaly Ann—a woman so patently in every way the superior of her spouse that it was hard to imagine why she had ever entered into the unequal partnership; though there was a dim tradition that in his youth Unc' Adam had been "likely " to look upon. Now whatever comeliness belonged to the pair appertained solely to Mahaly Ann-erect still for all her threescore and odd years, light brown in color, and of a matronly massiveness of figure; while Unc' Adam had shrunk and shriveled with age until The unaccountable acrimony into which he had gradually fallen seemed, indeed, to concentrate itself upon his wife, and upon the pride of her heart, "Jawn," her son and his, now for years settled and married in far California; from whence came regular supplies, and, every now and then, a dutiful letter. The "meanness" of Unc' Adam toward his longsuffering spouse was never more glaring than on those red-letter days on which news came to her from "Jawn." While Clarindy James's "little gal," who had been to school, painfully spelled out the precious epistle to the hungry ear of Mahaly Ann, Unc' Adam would tramp around the cabin, under pretense of "lookin' for sump'n'," jerk open drawers, rattle pans, and interject sarcasm. Dat what hol' can'le What de "U-u-u-ur yas !" he would say. “ U-uu-ur ya-a-as! You happy now, I reckon! Nutt'n' like Jawn! Ob cose! I say. Ain' nobody fitt'n' to to Jawn-ev'ybody know dat. use o' bodderin' wid no-count critters like dem in dese parts? You ain' got no time to study 'bout trash-you ain'. Don' mek no diffunce 'bout nutt'n' dee says. Aw naw. Don' mek no diffunce 'bout nutt'n' but Jawn! I 'spec' he done set de las' one of de ribbers in Californy on fire by now!" But perhaps, after all, the common opinion of Persimmon Ridge that "he des 'buse Jawn to spite Sis' Cunnigum" was not far wrong. For outside of Mahaly Ann's presence the subject drew forth no remarks of especial tartness. He even acquiesced gruntingly in the praises evoked by his son's success in life and dutiful conduct, and from time to time announced the advent of his successive grandchildren with something like grandparental pride. Indeed, in all matters unconnected with Mahaly Ann he could still upon occasion show distinct good nature; sometimestowards children especially-even exceptional forbearance and kindness. The most important avocation remaining to Unc' Adam in his old age was the cultivation and care of a little garden; the devastation of which on three separate and several occasions by the hens of lame little Wash'n'ton Jefferson over in the next cabin he yet took with the most exemplary patience. Unc' Adam was also a skillful brewer of persimmon beer. And on this delectable beverage the heart of Unc' Adam was most fondly set. Yet once, after all the labor of gathering the fruit, making into cakes, baking over the fire, breaking up into the carefully prepared barrel, piling on of fresh persimmons, apple-parings, and honey-shucks, and pouring in of water; after the seemingly interminable period of waiting for it to "wuk" was almost over, and Unc' Adam's mouth was already watering for the first"'simmon beer" of the seasonClarindy James's "little gal," in a wild game of "hi-spy" with her young companions, had fallen against the barrel as it stood under the sloping eaves of the cabin and knocked it over, to the bursting of its venerable staves and the pouring out of its stored up sweetness. "An' Unc' Adam," the child reported with almost adoring gratitude, "Unc' Adam he des say, 'Shet up dat hollerin' an' go 'long, chile. You ain' meant to done it.'" Facts like these rendered still more inexplicable his unwearying persecution of his high-minded and irreproachable wife. Towards Mahaly Ann there was a really amazing energy of bitterness in the dim and decrepit old man, and an ingenuity in finding out ways of expressing it which wrung a sort of admiration even from those who most condemned his atrocious domestic conduct. "Ain' he de out-breakin'es' man? But he sho is got de gif' o' de gab!" one would say to another, not without gusto, after a neighborly visit to Mahaly Ann; upon which occasions he not unfrequently sat by and maintained a running commentary of startling frankness upon the personal appearance, mental endowments, and general characteristics of his wife, with all of which the erstwhile visitor never failed to regale Persimmon Ridge. And it was the part of some recipient of the recital to ask, "An' what Sis' Cunnigum say to dat?" to lead up to the never-varying climax "Sis' Cunnigum? Sis' Cunnigum nuvver open' 'er mouf'.” Unc' Adam shook his woolly white head and muttered to himself, on one side of the neatly swept red brick hearth; while upon the other sat the decent partner of his joys and sorrows, placidly knitting a gray yarn sock by the light of the fire; though one would not have thought the soliloquy which Unc' Adam took no pains to render inaudible would have been conducive to tranquillity in the breast of his spouse. "I gwine 'way fum yere 'fo' long, I sholy is. I done ben sayin' it long 'nough; now I gwine up an' do it. I done stan' dat 'oman des 'bout long's I gwi' stan' 'er, I is. Dat what I gwi' do. Yas, I is. I des 'bleege' to git shet o' dat ar 'oman. I des 'bleege' to git shet o' 'er-d'ain' no use talkin'. One dese mornin's I gwi' up an' lef' 'er, an' she ain' gwi' see me no mo'. I gwi' light out, sho!" He feebly rubbed his head with his small shriveled hands, and groaned heavily. "Dat 'oman! Ugh! I dunno to save my life huccome I uvver come 'cross de fool notium o' ma'in' 'oman like dat-I sut'ny don't. I reckon I out o' my min' when I done dat-spang out o' my min'. I des 'bleege' to been. 'Case she allis was ugly as sin, an' she nuvver did had a bit o' sense." He nodded sleepily forward, and weakly. recovered himself. "Tek keer o' de fire, Adam!" warned his wife. "Tek keer o' de fire'? 'Tek keer o' de fire'?" he echoed, angrily. "Ain't I got sense 'nough to keep out o' de fire? U-u-ur yas! Tek keer o' de fire'! Hummany times is I bu'n up, I like to know? I des ax you dat. Hummany times is I bu'n up?" She measured the foot of the sock which she was knitting by its finished fellow, and obviously engaged in some mental calculation regarding it. "I dunno, Adam," she answered, absently, seeing that he waited a reply. He glared at her with his dim yellow eyes, and brought his clenched hand down upon the calico-covered arm of his comfortable padded chair. "Dere 'tis !" he said. "Dere 'tis Dat what I say! des well talk to de side o' de house. Des 'ear 'er: 'I dunno, Adam!' 'I dunno, Adam!' An' she dunno what 'tis she dunno. I tell you what 'tis she dunno-she dunno nutt'n'. Dat what 'tis she dunno. She mighty right, she dunno! Ain' got no mo' sense 'n a bee-mar tin, she ain'. Ain' got a grain o' sense. Dat what de mahter wid 'er, des like I say. Dat what mek 'er think ain' nobody else got no sense. 'Tis des 'cause she ain' got none 'erse'f. Dat de way you allis fin' it. She ain' got sense 'nough to know she ain' got none. An' dat whar de trouble come in." He nodded again, and hastily drew back. "Go 'long to bed, Adam," his wife advised. He straightened himself up. "U-u-ur yas! Po' ol' man! too ol' to set up wid young folks like you, is I? But I gwine when I wanter, an' I ain' gwine befo'! You hear dat, does you?" "Dey sutn'y oughter tu'n Unc' Adam outer de chu'ch," Clarindy James announced, returning one evening from a friendly dropping in on Mahaly Ann. "Seem like he got a debble dese days, it sholy do. D'wa' nutt'n' 'pon top de yearth he didn' name Sis' Cunnigum des now. He des sot dar 'bukin' 'er an' he sot dar 'busin' 'er de whole blessed time. I ain' nuvver 'ear 'im so scan'lous befo'. An' what she say?' She ain' 'spon' one word, Sis' Cunnigum ain'. She ain' 'spon' one word !" Unc' Adam fidgeted in his chair, watching Mahaly Ann, as she began silently to prepare supper, after her visitor had gone. "Say sump'n', 'oman," he suddenly commanded her. She started at his voice. After all, even Mahaly Ann's nerves were not made of steel. To-night her face looked very lined and old, and there was a curious tenseness of lip and nostril. "Say sump'n'!" he thundered, weakly. "I done stan' dis thing long 'nough, an' I ain' gwi' stan' it no longer. You gotter say sump'n' when I talks to you, you hear dat? I ain' gwi' hab you treatin' me disaway-lettin' me set up an' call you out o' yo' name ev'y which-a-way-an' you des as calm as ef 'twas fly buzzin' on de wall. I done call you dis, an' I done call you dat; I done 'buse you to de neighbors, and I done hel' you up in meetin'. An' it ain' done no manner o' good. What you gotter say, hey? What you gotter say? You ain' got nutt'n'? Dar den! See what you kin say to dat!" It was a puny blow, but the buttermilk pitcher slipped from Mahaly Ann's grasp and crashed upon the floor. She dropped upon a stool, covered her face with her apron, and rocked to and fro in a sudden tempest of deep-drawn sobs. "Adam," she said, "huccome you 'spise me so?" "Huc-huccome I 'spise you so?" he stammered. His teeth were chattering as from an ague, and he shook from head to foot. "Huc-huccome I 'spise you so? Huccome you 'spise me so hit don' mek no diffunce what I says nor what I does? Dat what I wa' know? Dat what I been axin' myse'f for thutty year, an' I ain' foun' out yet. I done been layin' myse'f out to see ef d' wa' no word o' mine could tetch you; I done wo' myse'f out, an' I done 'zaust de lanwige-an' d' ain' none. You done cook my vittles an' you done mek my clo'es, an' you done 'low dat 'nough to do for no-'count critter like me; d' wa' no call in de worl' to 'spec' me. An' you ain' 'spec' me no mo'n de blowin' o' de win'. You cyar' say I ain' guv you good chance. I done riz up, an' I done riz up, an' I done riz up. I done 'front you dis way, an' I done 'front you dat way; an' you dunkeer. Dar you been, des as cool as a cucumber, hol'in' you'se'f way off yander, an' d' wa' no mortal way o' tetchin' you. An' hit des come to dis: I 'low to myse'f, 'Ef I cyar' mek you feel my tongue, I is gwi' mek you feel my fis', des once befo' I dies.' An' I done done. it." He stood watching her swaying abandonment to unwonted tears with a strange exaltation of countenance, over which began gradually to steal a shadow of awe. The pool of buttermilk slowly widened. upon the floor, the rasher fried acridly against the bottom of the pan, the blackening pone smoked upon the hearth; and Mahaly Ann, a veiled image of despair, showed in her convulsive weeping no sign of surcease. A childlike wonder dawned and deepened upon his face. "Mahaly Ann," he said, "what you crying 'bout?" For a moment she fought for her voice. "I done stood, an' I done stood, an' I done stood," she wailed, "till I des cyar' stan' no mo'. I done been min'in' it all de time I ain' thought I min' it! An' den, 'pon top o' all, for you to up an' hit me!" The bacon burnt into extinction, the bread turned to a cinder, the buttermilk P slowly soaked into the floor, and still the veiled form of Mahaly Ann swung to and fro, Unc' Adam looking on with a face in which compunction struggled with an unaccustomed peace. He feebly cleared his throat at last and shifted in his seat. He scratched his head and gazed at her thoughtfully. He rubbed his face and neck. And then he lifted himself rheumatically from his chair and limped toward her. He drew the apron from before her face with a quaint touch of masterful gentleness. "Don' cry no mo'," he said, "ef you cryin' 'bout dat ar lick I gin you. 'Tis cur'us thing 'bout dat ar lick. Seem to me now dat moughter been des a kin o' love-lick, honey!" Clark's "Distribution of Wealth ROFESSOR CLARK'S new volume on “The Distribution of Wealth" deserves more attention from general readers than they are accustomed to bestow upon works on abstract economics. It is, indeed, a book written by an economist for economists, but its style is clear, and its basic thought illuminates a subject which the thinking public continually discusses. The germinal thought out of which Professor Clark's philosophy of the distribution of wealth has grown is the contention of Henry George that wages are regulated by the amount of wealth that labor can produce on rentless land. Professor Clark recognizes that this is true in agricultural districts near the margin of cultivation, since no laborer there will work for less than he can produce on land to be had rent free; but he also recognizes that this factor in the regulation of wages has a very remote bearing upon wages in city factories. Recognizing its inadequacy, and recognizing, also, the similarity between the rent paid for the use of land and the rent paid for the use of capital, Professor Clark proceeds to show that in other industries besides agriculture there is work which a laborer may do without paying rent for the use of capital; and that what the laborer can produce at such work governs the wages paid in these The Distribution of Wealth. A Theory of Wages, Interest, and Profits. By John Bates Clark, Professor of Political Economy in Columbia University. The Macmillan Company, New York. $3. industries as much as the product of labor on rentless land governs wages in agriculture. In support of his generalization, Professor Clark cites many examples of the employment of capital without the payment of rent for its use. "There are," he points out, "mills and furnaces so antiquated, so nearly worn out, or so badly located, that their owners get nothing from them; and yet they run so long as superintendents can earn their salaries and ordinary workers their natural wages. There are machines that have outlived their usefulness to their owners, but still do their work, and give the entire product that they help to create to the men who operate them. There are railroads and steamship lines that pay operating expenses only. There are stocks of merchandise so full of remnants and unstylish goods that it barely pays salesmen to handle them. Everywhere, in infinite variety and extent, are no-rent instruments; and if labor uses them, it gets the entire product of the operation." Furthermore, even beyond these distinctively no-rent instruments, there are in nearly all dividend-paying or rent-paying plants certain branches of work at which more men or fewer men may be engaged without perceptibly affecting the income of the owners of the plant. Here, too, therefore, is what Professor Clark calls "a zone of indifference in the field of em |
