Towards dusk, on a mid-November Friday in the year 1570, Azariah

de Rossi descended from his own apartments to those of his married

daughter. It was in Ferrara, and for some hours past earth-tremblings

had made people anxious. Within an hour of his lucky visit to his child

De Rossi’s abode was wrecked.

To this earthquake, as Zunz suggested in 1841 (_Kerem Hemed_, vol. v,

p. 135), we owe the first attempt by a Jew to investigate critically,

and with the aid of secular research, the history of Jewish literature.

De Rossi had a fine command of Latin, and though he was less at

home with Greek, he had a good working knowledge of it. After the

earthquake, he left his home, and took refuge in a village south of

the Po. A Christian scholar, a neighbor in the new settlement, was

diverting his mind from the recent disturbing calamities, by perusing

the Letter of Aristeas. There is a rare charm in the scene that

followed. Finding some difficulties in the Letter, the Christian turned

to the Jew, suggesting that they should consult the Hebrew text. But

De Rossi was, to his chagrin, compelled to admit that there _was_ no

Hebrew text! Such a lamentable deficiency need not, however, continue.

In less than three weeks De Rossi had translated the Letter into

Hebrew, and with that act the modern study of Jewish records by Jews

opens.

Chroniclers were once upon a time fond of contrasting the physique and

the intellect of the worthies of former ages. Those were the days, one

might almost say, of “kakogenics,” if our own is the era of eugenics.

So we read of De Rossi that though “well-born” by ancestry, he was

“ill-born” in person. Graetz somewhat overcolors the record when he

writes of De Rossi thus: “Feeble, yellow, withered, and afflicted with

fever, he crept about like a dying man.” At all events, he was thin

and short, and neglectful of his bodily health. Yet he was not quite

the weakling Graetz presents, for he lived to the age of sixty-four

(1514-1578). Moreover, he assures us, giving full details of the

diet and treatment, that he was thoroughly cured of the malaria, of

the ravages of which Italian Jews so frequently complain. As to his

“family,” that was old enough. The legend ran that four of the families

settled by Titus in Rome survived into the Middle Ages; the stock

of the De Rossis (_min ha-adummim_) belonged to one of the famous

quartette. The other three were the Mansi, de Pomis, and Adolescentoli

groups.

This was the man who created modern Jewish “science”--to use the term

so beloved of our Continental brethren. De Rossi’s great work appeared

as a quarto in November, 1573 (some date it 1574). It was well printed

in the pretty square Hebrew type for which Mantua is famous. The author

called it _Meor ‘Enayim_, that is, “Light of the Eyes.” It was, indeed,

an illuminant. Graetz summarily asserts that “the actual results of

this historical investigation, for the most part, have proved unsound.”

Assuredly many of De Rossi’s statements are no longer accepted. He

was the father of criticism, yet he was often himself uncritical. In

his chapter on the antiquity of the Hebrew language, for instance, he

remarks: “I have seen among many ancient coins, belonging to David

Finzi of Mantua, a silver coin on which, on the obverse, is a man’s

head round which is inscribed ‘King Solomon’ in Hebrew square letters,

while the reverse bears a figure of the temple with the Hebrew legend

‘Temple of Solomon.’” As Zunz observes, this coin must have been a

modern fabrication. In many other points De Rossi erred. But some of

the “mistakes” for which he is blamed are not his but his critics’.

Zunz, like Graetz, had little patience with the Zohar. The literature

of the Kabbalah was to both these great scholars “false and corrupt.”

At this date we are much more inclined to treat the Kabbalah with

respect. De Rossi has been justified by later research. Then, again,

Zunz categorically includes among De Rossi’s blunders his acceptance of

the Letter of Aristeas as genuine. But in the year 1904 Mr. H. St. J.

Thackeray, in the preface to his new English translation of the Letter,

asserts “recent criticism has set in the direction of rehabilitating

the story, or at any rate part of it.” Here, one can have no hesitation

in claiming, De Rossi was right, and his critics wrong.

It is pleasing to be able to make this last assertion. The Letter of

Aristeas purports to tell the story how the Greek translation of the

Pentateuch was made in Alexandria. We are not now concerned with the

story itself. But, as we have already seen, it was this Letter which

induced De Rossi to write his book. The book, after a short section

on the Ferrara earthquake, in which the author collects much Jewish

and non-Jewish seismological lore, goes straight to Aristeas. Now, it

would be a somewhat unfortunate fact if Jewish criticism began with

the acceptance of a forgery, if the father of all our modern scholars

(including Zunz himself) had started off with a bad critical mistake.

We are spared this anomaly, for though Aristeas may not be as old as

it claims (the third century B. C. E.), it is demonstrably older than

its assailants made it out to be. De Rossi is far nearer the truth than

Graetz. Of course, we do not now turn to De Rossi for our critical

nourishment. Though editions of the _Meor ‘Enayim_ continued to appear

as late as 1866 (in fact one of the author’s books appeared for the

first time in London in 1854), his works are substantially obsolete.

For this reason I am not attempting any close account of their contents.

But while it is antiquated in this sense, it is a book of the class

that can never become unimportant. For let us realize what De Rossi

accomplished. In the first place he directed Jewish attention to the

Jewish literature preserved or written in Greek. He re-introduced

Philo to Jewish notice; not very accurately, it is true, yet he _did_

re-introduce him. Secondly, he showed how much was to be derived from

a study of non-Jewish sources. No one, after De Rossi, has for a

moment thought it possible to deal with Jewish history entirely from

Jewish records. Every available material must be drawn on if we are to

construct a sound edifice. It is a just verdict of Graetz’s that De

Rossi’s “power of reconstruction was small.” But he showed subsequent

generations how to build. De Rossi, finally, was not one who regarded

Jewish literature merely as the subject matter for research. He was

intensely interested in it for its own sake. He was a poet as well as

a historian. And this he shows both by his whole style and outlook as

well as by the Hebrew and Italian verses that he wrote. He was, indeed,

known both as Azariah and as Bonajuto, the latter being the Italian

equivalent. Let us end with this fact: the same man, who inaugurated

modern Jewish criticism, added some notable hymns to the synagogue

prayer-book.

GUARINI AND LUZZATTO

An aristocrat all his life, Guarini was out of place in the court life

of Ferrara. He spent his vigor in a vain attempt to accommodate himself

to the sixteenth century Italian conditions. Then, broken in strength

and fortune, he retired to produce his dramatic masterpiece. Not that

the _Pastor Fido_ can be truly termed dramatic. It is much more of a

lyric. But just as Banquo, himself no king, was the father of kings, so

Guarini, of little consequence as a dramatist, begot famous dramas. For

the _Faithful Shepherd_ deeply influenced European drama throughout the

two centuries which followed its publication in 1590.

The Hebraic muse owed much to Guarini. Moses Hayyim Luzzatto

(1707-1747) has been the only writer of Hebrew plays whose work counts

in the literary sense. Luzzatto derived his whole dramatic inspiration

from Guarini. Let no one question this assertion without first

comparing _La-Yesharim Tehillah_ and _Migdal ‘Oz_ with the _Pastor

Fido_. The characters and scenes, and even more, the style, are closely

alike. Nor is this latter fact wonderful. John Addington Symonds

describes Guarini’s work as “a masterpiece of diction, glittering and

faultless, like a bas-relief of hard Corinthian bronze.” Luzzatto

produces the same effect in his Hebrew imitation, using a similar

metre as well as similar dramatic conventions. In imitating, however,

he re-interprets. Guarini’s play is sometimes gross, it is never

truly rustic. But a Hebrew poet, moved by such models as the Song of

Songs, better knew how to be sensuous with purity; grossness must be

antipathetic to him. On the other hand, Hebrew poetry is genuinely

rustic. The biblical shepherd, whether in scriptural history or

romance, is the most beloved of heroes. Some of the great characters of

the Bible are shepherds: Abraham, Moses, David, Amos, Shulammith--but

why pile up instances? It is obvious that a Hebrew poet, adopting

a rural background for a lyrical drama, must inevitably write with

sincerity. He could not, at the same time, fail to write with delicacy.

Luzzatto took much from Guarini, but he both refined and adorned what

he borrowed.

Yet, though it is because of Luzzatto that I am writing of Guarini,

nevertheless, Guarini, and not Luzzatto, is my present subject. So I

will re-tell for the reader the story of the _Pastor Fido_. Not that

it is an easy task. Guarini, who influenced the late Elizabethans,

shared, with the best of the latter, the inordinate fancy for

complicated plots. Plot is entangled within plot, until we lose

sight of the main theme. Luzzatto--I find it impossible to keep the

Hebrew out!--here simplifies. He hardly gives us a story at all; he

provides an allegory, eking out Guarini with Midrash. In the process

of disentangling Guarini’s intricacies, he somewhat sacrifices the

chief merit of his Italian model. Luzzatto’s _dramatis personae_ are

almost abstractions; they remind us of the figures in morality plays.

A Luzzatto drama more resembles _Everyman_ than it does _As You Like

it_. Of Guarini, on the other hand, it may be said, that though he

means his characters to represent types, he draws them as individuals.

Silvio, to adopt Mr. Symond’s summaries, is “cold and eager”; Mirtillo

“tender and romantic.” Corisca’s “meretricious arts” contrast with

and enhance Amarillis’s “pure affection”; Dorinda is “shameless.” The

dramatist, however, be he Luzzatto or Guarini, writes with a distinct

tendency. His aim is to set up the country life and the country girl

as essentially superior to the city varieties. This _motive_ is as old

as satire, and as young as the “verses of society.” Austin Dobson’s

Phyllida is all that is sweet and natural, she is a foil to the

artificiality of the “ladies of St. James’s.” Guarini enjoys the honor

not of creating the mood, but of bringing it into new vogue.

But I am still keeping from the story. The scene is Arcadia. Yearly the

inhabitants must sacrifice a young maiden to Diana. Diana had suffered

through the perfidy of Lucrina; but the Oracle declares:

Your Woes, Arcadians! never shall have End,

Till Love shall two conjoin of heavenly Race,

And till a faithful Shepherd shall amend,

By matchless Zeal, Lucrina’s old Disgrace.

Montano, the priest of Diana, seeks, therefore, to join in marriage his

only son, Silvio, to the noble nymph, Amarillis, descended from Pan.

But Silvio thought more of hunting than of love. The young shepherd,

Mirtillo, becomes enamored of Amarillis, and she of him. The artful

Corisca, desiring the shepherd for herself, charges Amarillis with

infidelity--she is betrothed, though not wedded, to Silvio. Amarillis

is sentenced to death. Mirtillo offers himself, and is accepted, as

her substitute. Led to the--fatal, not the bridal--altar, Mirtillo’s

identity is discovered. The shepherd is Montano’s son. Let us read

the rest in the terms of the “argument” (as given in the 1782 English

version): “On which Occasion, the true Father, bewailing that it

should fall to his lot to execute the law on his own blood--(for to

Montano, as priest, the office of carrying out the sacrificial rite

belonged)--is by Tirenio, a blind soothsayer, clearly satisfied by the

interpretation of the Oracle itself, that it was not only opposite

to the will of the gods that this victim should be sacrificed, but

moreover that the happy period (_i.e._, end) was now come to the woes

of Arcadia, which had been predicted by the sacred Voice, and from

which, as every circumstance now strongly corresponded, they concluded

that Amarillis could not be, nor ought to be, the spouse of any other

than Mirtillo. And as a little previous to this, Silvio, thinking to

wound a wild beast, had pierced Dorinda, who had been exceedingly

distressed by the slight he had shown to her violent passion for him,

but whose wonted savageness was changed by this accident and softened

into compassion--after her wound was healed, which at first was thought

mortal, and after Amarillis was become the spouse of Mirtillo, he too

became now enamoured of Dorinda, and married her; by means of these

events, so happy and so extraordinary, Corisca is at length convinced

of and confesses her guilt, and, having implored pardon and obtained it

from the loving couple, her perturbed spirit now pacified and satiated

with the Follies of the World, she determines to change her Course of

Life.” The play ends with the wedding chorus for the hero and heroine

(Luzzatto, too, wrote his plays for marriage celebrations). In words

very like those used by Luzzatto, Guarini’s shepherds sing to Mirtillo

and Amarillis:

O happy pair!

Who have in Sorrow sown, and reap’d in Joy,

How hath your bitter share of grief’s alloy

Now sweetened and confirmed your present bliss!

And may ye learn from this,

Blind, feeble mortals! to distinguish right

What are true ills, and what is pure delight--

Not all that pleases is substantial good;

Not all which grieves, true ill, well understood--

That, of all joys, must be pronounced the best,

Which virtue’s arduous triumphs yield the breast.

In this story may be perceived the germs both of Fletcher’s _Faithful

Shepherdess_ and of Luzzatto’s _Unto the Upright Praise_. But while the

former seized upon and elaborated the sensuous element in Guarini’s

plot, giving us a truly disgusting figure in Chloe, Luzzatto pounced

on the finer aspects, and his heroines outshine even Amarillis in

purity and beauty of mind, just as his heroes surpass Mirtillo in

fidelity to the standards of manhood. That one and the same model

should have produced two such varied copies says much for the genius

of the original author. To him, it is true, we owe the tragi-comedy of

intrigue. But to him also we are indebted for idylls, as full-blooded

as those of Theocritus, but far more spiritual.

HAHN’S NOTE BOOK

The Hahn family came to Frankfort-on-the-Main from Nordlingen

(Bavaria), whence the Jews were expelled in 1507. Between that date and

1860 Nordlingen could not boast of a synagogue; such Jews as visited

the place were admitted for a day at a time to the fairs, or were

allowed temporarily to reside in war times. In each case a poll-tax was

exacted (see _Jewish Encyclopedia_, vol. ix, p. 335). In Frankfort,

the family dwelt in a house bearing the sign of “The Red Cock” (_Zum

rothen Hahn_). Graetz fully describes the regulations which compelled

the Jews of Frankfort to fix shields with various devices and names

on their houses. He cites “the garlic,” “the ass,” “green shield,”

“red shield” (Rothschild), “dragon.” The Frankfort Jews were forced

to name themselves after these shields. Hence, in the Jewish sources,

the author with whom we are now concerned is sometimes called Joseph

Nordlinger, from his original home, and sometimes Joseph Hahn, from the

family house-sign in Frankfort.

He himself was not permitted to live peaceably in Frankfort. Born in

the second half of the sixteenth century, he not only had to endure the

pitiable restrictions to which the Jews were at normal times subjected,

but he suffered in 1614 under the Fettmilch riot, as the result of

which, after many of the whole Jewish community had been slain and more

injured, the survivors left the town. In March, 1616, the Jews--Joseph

Hahn among them--were welcomed back amid public demonstrations of

good-will, and the community instituted the Frankfort Purim on Adar 20,

the anniversary of the return. Though the trouble thus ended happily,

we can understand how insecure the life of the German Jews was at the

beginning of the seventeenth century. Hence we need not be surprised

to find in Hahn’s book _Yosif Omez_ (§ 483) a form of dying confession

drawn up in Frankfort to be recited by those undergoing martyrdom. It

is a moving composition, simple in its pathos, yet too poignant in its

note of sorrow to be cited here in full.

Let it not be thought, however, that the book is a doleful one. Joseph

Hahn’s is a warm-hearted Judaism, and there was room in it for a

manifold human interest. The work, in a sense, is learned, but it

is written so crisply and epigrammatically that its charm surpasses

and even disguises its technicalities. It was printed in 1723, but

was written a good deal earlier, as we know that the author died in

1637. I have alluded to the manifold interests which occupied Hahn’s

mind. Questions of Jewish law and fundamental problems of morality are

considered; but so are matters of costume and cookery. How to wear a

special dress for synagogue and how to keep a special overcoat for the

benediction of the moon, how to rub off ink-stains from the fingers

before meals, how “it is a truer penance to eat moderately at ordinary

meals than to endure an occasional fast,” how the children should be

encouraged to read good books at table, and how, when such a book is

finished, there should be a jolly _siyyum_--these and many another

interesting view crowd Joseph Hahn’s delightful pages. He enjoyed a

cheerful meal, but he proceeds to denounce in unmeasured terms those

who (“and there are many such in our times,” he adds) sing love-songs

or tell indecent stories over their wine. “Do not esteem lightly,” he

cautions his readers (§ 183), “the advice of our sages,” as to first

putting on the right shoe and first removing the left. Joseph Hahn,

in truth, is a remarkable mixture of the old and the new; he loves old

customs, yet constantly praises new ones, such as the introduction

of Psalms and of _Lekah Dodi_ into the Friday night service. We are

so familiar with the hymn “Come, O friend, to meet the bride,” that

it is startling to be reminded that it dates from the sixteenth

century. Joseph Hahn thoroughly entered into the spirit of such lively

processions from place to place as accompanied _Lekah Dodi_, though he

held them more suitable for Palestine than Germany. He detested low

songs, and objected to games of chance, but he was no kill-joy. Again

and again he refers to the synagogue tunes, and revels in _hazzanut_.

His was a thoroughly Jewish synthesis of austerity and joviality.

He has many remarks as to the proper treatment of servants. An employer

shall not retain wages in trust for the servant, even at the latter’s

desire. He must first pay the wages, and the servant may then ask the

employer to save it (§ 361). He had a very loving heart as well as a

just mind. Delightful is his custom of saying _Sheheheyanu_ on seeing

a friend or beloved relative after an interval of thirty days. On the

other hand, he, with equal gravity, tells us (§ 455) how his father,

when he left the city, took a little splinter of wood from the gate,

and fixed it in his hat-band, as a specific for his safety, or sure

return. This is a wide-spread custom. The whole book is a wonderful

union of sound sense and quaintness. The author, in the midst of deep

ritual problems and of careful philological discussions of liturgical

points, will turn aside to warn us against buying the Sabbath fish

on Thursday. Fish, he says, must be fresh. In the same breath he has

this fine remark: “What you eat profits the body; what you spare for

God (that is, give to the poor) profits the soul.” He protests (§

547) against permitting the poor to go round to beg from house to

house; officials must be appointed to carry relief to the needy in

their homes. But do not forget to taste your _shalet_ on Friday to

test whether it be properly cooked! One of the most characteristically

Jewish features of life under the traditional _régime_ was the _man’s_

participation in the kitchen preparations. But Joseph Hahn takes a high

view of the woman’s part in the moralization of the domestic life. Just

as the husband was not excluded from the kitchen, so the wife was not

limited to it. Yet Hahn would not allow women to sing the _Zemirot_ or

table hymns.

I have said that our author loves the old, yet has no objection to

the new. The latter feature is exemplified by a long song on the

Sabbath Light, composed by Joseph Hahn for Friday nights. Each verse

is printed in Hebrew (§ 601) with a Yiddish paraphrase. He disliked

setting the _Zemirot_ to non-Jewish tunes. There is no sense, he adds,

in the argument of those who urge that these non-Jewish tunes were

stolen from the temple melodies! The children, we learn, had a special

Sabbath cake. A Jewish child, he relates (§ 612), was carried off by

robbers, but cried so pitifully for his cake on Friday night, that he

was eventually discovered by Jews and ransomed. He protests against the

“modern innovation” of introducing a sermon in the morning service;

this compels the old and ailing to wait too long for breakfast. The

sermon must, as of old, be given after the meal (§ 625). Yet he did

not mind himself introducing an innovation, for he instituted a simple

haggadic discourse on the afternoons of festivals, so as to attract the

people and keep them from frivolous amusements (§ 821). The greater

_Spinholz_ on the Saturday before a wedding was still customary in

the author’s time. He complains of those people who drink better wine

on Sundays than on Saturdays (§ 693). He objects to the practice of

the rich to have their daughters taught instrumental music by male

instructors (§ 890). But here I must break off, though it is difficult

to tear oneself from the book, even the narrowness of which has a

historical interest, and the prejudices of which entertain. As a whole,

it represents a phase of Jewish life which belongs to the past, yet

there runs through it a vein of homely sentiment which is found also in

our present.

LEON MODENA’S “RITES”

Said to have been composed at the request of an English nobleman for

the delectation of James I, Leon Modena’s account of Jewish ceremonial

was certainly intended for Christian readers. Though written in

Italian, it first appeared in France (Paris, 1637), through the good

offices of the author’s pupil and friend, J. Gaffarel. It was the

source of a whole library of similar books. Not only was it translated

into several languages, but onwards from Modena’s time, writers, Jewish

and Christian, competent and incompetent, devoted themselves to the

task of presenting to the world in general the teachings and customs

of Judaism. The recent treatise of Oesterley and Box is a lineal

descendant of Modena’s _Rites_.

Of the author it may be said that he was the Admirable Crichton of his

age (1571-1648). His range of knowledge and power was extraordinary.

As Dr. Johnson said of Oliver Goldsmith, he touched nothing which

he did not adorn. Besides writing many books on many subjects, he

filled the office of Rabbi at Venice with distinction, his sermons in

Italian attracting large audiences. Some of his German critics call

him “characterless.” Why? Because he denounced gambling, and yet was

a life-long victim to the vice. In his boyhood he produced a pamphlet

against card-playing, and in 1631 successfully protested against the

excommunication of card-players. But is there lack of character here?

Of many another great man could it be said that he saw and approved the

better yet followed the worse. And there are things which one dislikes

without wishing to put the offenders under a ban. On another occasion,

Modena severely attacked Rabbinism, and then published a reply to his

own attack. He assuredly was not the only man impelled to refute his

own arguments.

Modena was, one might rather say, a man of moods, and therefore of

singular openness and width of mind. He suffered not from lack of

character, but from an excess of impressionability. A bee has not

less character than a caterpillar, because the former flies from

flower to flower, while the latter adheres to the same cabbage leaf.

Modena, to put the case in yet another way, lived at a transitional

period, when Jews were only beginning to acclimatize themselves to

modern conditions, and when settled views on many subjects were

not only difficult but undesirable. Despite his vagaries, one is

rather attracted to him. There must have been solidity as well as

versatility in his disposition, or he could not possibly have retained

the important rabbinic post he filled for more than half-a-century.

Probably the secret was that he not only possessed personal charm, but

the real man was best known to those who knew him best. They--or many

of them--assuredly admired and loved him.

We will now turn to another figure--the first English translator of

Modena’s _Riti Ebraici_. This was Edmund Chilmead, who was born in

1610 and died in 1654. He was a good scholar and an accomplished

musician. Up to 1648 he resided in Oxford, but as a result of the

troubles between Charles I and the Parliament, he was expelled from the

University because of his royalist opinions. Two things, however, speak

well for Cromwell’s toleration. Chilmead was not only allowed to live

unmolested in London to the day of his death, but had no hesitation, on

the title-page of his translation of Modena, to describe himself still

as “Chaplain of Christ Church, Oxon.” The date of the translation gives

the clue. “The History of the Rites, Customes, and Manner of Life of

the Present Jews throughout the World” was printed “for Jo. Martin and

Jo. Ridley, at the Castle in Fleet Street, by Ram Alley” in 1650. By

that time Cromwell was probably thinking of the Jewish question, and he

must have welcomed this first-hand statement on the Jewish religion.

Chilmead’s edition, one must confess, is badly printed, and is not very

creditable to the printing capacity of the “Castle in Fleet Street.”

One might pardon the many misprints in the Hebrew, but it is hard to

overlook the numerous faults in the English. It is not wonderful that,

in the following century, Ockley thought it necessary to issue a new

version.

Modena’s own original was not, as the title suggests, a history. It

does not so much give sources as facts. But this circumstance, that

it is mainly _descriptive_, confers on it a permanent value. For it

thus becomes a document. It helps us to realize several aspects of the

Jewish position at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The author

uses the term _history_ in the sense of narrative; as he states in his

Prefatory Epistle, he is concerned with the _what_ and not with the

_why_ (“Quod sunt,” not “Propter quod sunt,” as he expresses it). He

deals with his present, not with the past, and for that very limitation

we may be grateful. He claims, too, that he is a “Relater,” not a

“Defender.” That being so, it is of peculiar interest to find what we

do in his work, arranged in five books, “according to the number of the

Books of the Law.”

Several forms of prayer appear for the first time in his pages.

Certainly Chilmead is the earliest to give us in English the Prayer for

the Government, or a translation of the Thirteen Articles drawn up by

Maimonides. Modena, again, tells us that in his day it was customary

to “leave about a yard square of the wall of the house unplaistered

on which they write either the verse of Psalm 137, ‘If I forget

thee, O Jerusalem,’ or the words _Zecher Lahorban_--a Memorial of

the Desolation.” He knows only _wooden_ Mezuzahs. Jews in Italy have

pictures and images in their houses, “especially if they be not with

Relief, or Imbossed work, nor the Bodies at large.” Few, he reports,

take heed to the custom of placing the beds north and south; many

attach significance to dreams. Jewish men never paint their faces,

for the custom is “effeminate”; and “in whatsoever country they are,

they (the men) usually affect the long garment, or Gown.” The women

dress “in the habite of the countries where they inhabite”; but after

marriage wear a _perruke_ to cover their natural hair. The Jews

build their synagogues wherever they can, “it being impossible for

them now to erect any statelie or sumptuous Fabricks.” Things, as we

know, soon after Modena’s time became different, for by the middle of

the seventeenth century, several fine synagogues were built in Rome

and elsewhere. The women “see whatever is done in the _School_ (thus

Chilmead renders _scuola_ or synagogue), though they are themselves

unseen of any man.” In the same city there will be places of worship

“according to the different customes of the Levantines, Dutch (German),

and Italians.” Then, “in their singing, the Dutch far exceed all the

rest: the Levantines and Spaniards use a certain singing tone, much

after the Turkish manner; and the Italians affect a more plain, and

quiet way in their devotions.” The “Favours” of “having a hand” in the

acts connected with the reading of the Law “are bought of the Chaunter,

and he that biddeth most, shall have a share in them.”

Willingly, did space permit, we would follow the author through his

account of the Judaism of his time. The majority of Jews, he says, are

poor, yet annually they send “Almes to Jerusalem, Safed, Tiberias,

and Hebron.” The Jews never “torment, or abuse, or put to any cruel

death, any Brute Beast.” Very few Jews are able to speak Hebrew; all

learn the language of the countries where they are born. “Onely those

of the Morea still retain the Hebrew Tongue also, and use it in their

Familiar Letters.” In Italy, he records, the Talmud “continues utterly

prohibited,” and copies are not to be found in the country. Jews do not

regard “Vowes” as “commendable”; yet “when they are made, they ought

to be kept.” Not many now observe the “tradition” against eating “Fish

and Flesh together.” He tells us of an arrangement by which, for the

Sabbath, some “so ordered the matter aforehand, that the Fire should

kindle itself at such and such a time.” The Passover bread is made in

“flat cakes of divers forms and shapes.” The “Ceremonie with a Cock,”

on the eve of the Day of Atonement, “is now left off both in the East

and in Italy, as being a thing both Superstitious and Groundlesse.”

But they still, on Purim, “as often as they hear Haman named, beat

the ground, and make a great murmuring noise.” Bigamy “is seldome or

never used.” Marriages are usually performed before full moon, and the

favorite days are Wednesdays and Fridays, with Thursdays for widows.

“Little boyes, with lighted torches in their hands,” sing before the

bridal couple, who are seated under the canopy. The Ketubah is read

at the marriage. Modena mentions the charms against _Lilit_, and

name-changing in case of sickness. He describes how, in Germany, in

the case of girls, “the Chaunter goeth home to the Parents house, and

lifting the child’s cradle on high, he blesseth it, and so giveth it

the Name.” Modena also informs us that the Karaites were, in his time,

numerous in Constantinople, Cairo, and Russia.

Modena records that among the Jews “there are many women that are much

more devout and pious than the men, and who not only endeavour to bring

up their children in all manner of Vertuous Education; but are a means

also of restraining their husbands from their Vitious Courses, they

would otherwise take, and of inclining them to a more Godly way of

Life.” With which handsome and just compliment we will take leave of

our author.

PART III

PART III

MENASSEH AND REMBRANDT

On April 25, 1655, six months before starting on his mission to

Cromwell, Menasseh ben Israel--visionary about to play the rôle of

statesman--completed in Amsterdam the Spanish book which forms the

subject of this paper. Duodecimo in size (5¹⁄₄ x 2⁷⁄₈ inches), it

consists of 12 + 259 pages, with a list of the author’s works published

or projected, and on the last of the unpaginated leaves a Latin version

of Psalm 126. In the catalogue of his works appended to the _Vindiciæ

Judæorum_ (London, 1656) Menasseh includes “_Piedra pretiosa_, of

_Nebuchadnezzar’s_ image, or the fifth Monarchy.” This was not,

however, the real title. The title was, in truth, in Hebrew _Eben

Yekarah_, and in Spanish _Piedra Gloriosa_, i.e., the “Precious Stone.”

The date given above for the completion of the book is fixed by the

dedication, which is addressed to Menasseh’s Christian friend, Isaac

Vossius.

On a casual glance the book seems a hopeless jumble of incongruities.

Nebuchadnezzar’s image, Jacob’s dream, the combat of David and Goliath,

the vision of Ezekiel--what have these in common, and what has the

title to do with them? The answer to these questions is soon found.

The whole work is Messianic, and in his usual symbolic style, Menasseh

seizes on a “Stone” as the central feature for his little treatise.

There was the stone, “cut out without hands,” which smote the image

seen by the king of Babylon. There was the stone, gathered from the

field of Beth-el, on which Jacob laid his weary head to rest when

fleeing from his brother. There was the stone, picked smooth from the

brook, with which David slew the Philistine. Perhaps the three were

one and the same stone, Menasseh seems to imply. Anyhow, he saw in all

these incidents a Messianic reference. Nebuchadnezzar’s image, with its

feet of clay, typified the Gentiles that were to rise and fall before

the great day of the Lord. The ladder of Jacob, with its ascending and

descending angels, typified again the rise and fall of nations. David’s

victory over Goliath foreshadowed the triumph of the Messiah over the

powers of earth. And the whole is rounded off with Ezekiel’s vision

of the chariot with its strange beasts and emblems--a chariot which,

in the view accepted by Menasseh, typified the Kingdom of the Messiah.

[Illustration: MENASSEH BEN ISRAEL

(From an etching by Rembrandt, in the possession of Mr. Felix Warburg,

New York)]

Following the dedication to Vossius is an explanatory note to “the

Reader.” In this note the author explains that to make his meaning

clear he has added four illustrations. He does not name the artist.

But we know that he was none other than Menasseh’s neighbor and

intimate, Rembrandt. Four etchings, signed by Rembrandt and dated

1654, are possessed by more than one library; probably the fullest

sets are to be found in the Fitzwilliam and British Museums. They were

originally etched on one plate, which was afterwards cut into four.

When all four etchings formed one plate, the arrangement was (as Mr.

Middleton explains in his _Descriptive Catalogue of the Etched Work of

Rembrandt_, p. 240):

(I) Upper left: _Nebuchadnezzar’s Image_. Clothed only about the

loins; there is a band or fillet about the head, and a short cloak

hangs behind. The stone which breaks the legs of the image (the feet

are seen falling to the left) has been cast from a roughly shaped

rock. The stone is near part of a globe; illustrating the text “And

the stone that broke the image became a great mountain, _and filed

the whole earth_” (Daniel 2. 35). The brow is inscribed “Babel,” the

right and left arms “Persae” and “Medi,” the waist “Graeci,” the legs

“Romani” and “Mahometani.” These names only appear in the _fifth_

“state” of the etching. There’s a proof of the fourth “state” in

Paris, which bears the names written in Rembrandt’s own hand.

(II) Upper right: _Vision of Ezekiel_. The lower part, in the

foreground, shows the four creatures of the chariot; above is a

“glory,” amid the rays of which is seen the Almighty, surrounded by

adoring angels.

(III) Lower left: _Jacob’s Ladder_. The patriarch, bearded, lies

half-way up the ladder, tended by an angel, others are bending down in

gaze, while one figure is seen mounting the rungs immediately above.

(IV) Lower right: _Combat of David and Goliath_. The most spirited

drawing of all; in a scene overhung by rocks with warriors looking on,

the giant grasps his lance in his left hand and with shield advanced

on his right arm is charging David, who has his sling in action over

his right shoulder.

The Museum, as already implied, possesses proof of the etchings

in various “states”--the artist touched and retouched them, until

they assumed the state reproduced by the present writer in 1906, in

commemoration of the tercentenary of Rembrandt’s birth. The etchings

are beautiful tokens of sympathy between the Rabbi and the painter.

The various “states” show, as Mr. I. Solomons has suggested, that

Rembrandt took unremitting pains to obtain Menasseh’s approval of his

work.

Yet he failed to win this approval. It is pretty certain that the

etchings were never used. Mr. Fairfax Murray possessed the _Piedra

Gloriosa_ with the etchings, and has now presented the volume to the

University Library, Cambridge; another copy is to be seen in the Musée

Carnavalet, Paris, a copy formerly owned by M. Dutuit of Rouen. But

Mr. Solomons seems right in asserting that “the original etchings in

the copies of Mr. Murray and M. Dutuit were no doubt inserted after by

admirers of Rembrandt’s work, but certainly not with the knowledge and

sanction of Menasseh.” Why not? The etchings are good work; they really

illustrate their subject, and must have added to the commercial, as

well as to the artistic value of Menasseh’s work.

The most curious fact is that, though Rembrandt’s etchings were never

used, a set of copper-plate engravings, based, as Mr. Solomons guesses,

by the Jewish engraver Salom Italia on Rembrandt but not identical with

his work, is found in some copies of Menasseh’s book--copies possessed

by Mr. Solomons, M. Didot, and the Levy Collection in Hamburg. These

engravings are laterally inverted, the right of Rembrandt’s etchings

becomes the left of Salom Italia’s engravings. There are other

differences in detail, all calculated to render the pictures more

fitted for book illustration, but of all the changes only one is of

consequence, and it was Mr. Solomons who detected the real significance

of the change.

The change referred to gives the clue to the whole mystery. On

comparing the two versions of the Vision of Ezekiel a striking

variation is discernible. The figure of the Almighty has been

suppressed! Here was the fatal defect in Rembrandt’s work. Menasseh

could not possibly use a drawing in which the Deity is represented;

he was not the one to repeat the inadvertence of the artist of the

Sarajevo Haggadah. Possibly he only detected the fault at the last

hour. But a fatality clung to the second set of illustrations also.

Several copies of the _Piedra Gloriosa_ are extant without any pictures

at all.

LANCELOT ADDISON ON THE BARBARY JEWS

“Justice is done to the private virtues of the Jews of Barbary.” So

Mr. Francis Espinasse remarks in his biography of Lancelot Addison.

It is an accurate comment. Lancelot, the father of the more famous

Joseph Addison--who himself wrote so amiably of the Jews a generation

later--spent several years in Africa as English chaplain. Born in 1632,

he showed an independent mind at Oxford. He roughly handled some of

the University Puritans in 1658, and was promptly compelled to recant

his speech on his knees in open Convocation. Tangier came into the

possession of Charles II in 1662. Lancelot Addison had officiated in

Dunkirk for the previous three years; but when that port was given up

to the French, Addison was transferred to Morocco.

Here he kept his eyes open. Several lively volumes came from him

on Tangier life, on Mohammedanism, on Moorish politics. The most

remarkable of these deals with the Jews. So popular was this volume

on their “Present State” that three editions were called for. The

first came out in 1675. If one may judge by the British Museum copy,

it lacked the awesome frontispiece which may be seen in the edition of

1676. Though superscribed “The Present State of the Jews in Barbary,”

the almost naked figure is not meant to represent a child of Israel.

The personage depicted wears a gorgeously feathered hat and a short

waist-covering, also of feathers. Add to this a spear bigger than its

wielder, and you have his full costume. It is less Addison’s than his

illustrator’s idea of a typical Moor.

From the very opening paragraph of the dedication we see that Lancelot

possessed some of his son’s gift of gentle humor. He had inscribed

a former book to Secretary Williamson, and he now repeats the act,

“it faring with Scriblers, as with those Votaries who never forsake

the Saint they once finde propitious.” As for his account of the

Jews, he claims that his is more “particular and true” than other

descriptions, “this being,” he says, “the result of Conversation

and not of Report.” (“Conversation,” of course, he uses in the old

sense of “direct intercourse”). Some of the modern assailants of the

Jews who appropriate aristocratic names will hardly like Addison’s

justification of his interest. It is because of their clear

genealogies and ancient lineage that he in the first instance admires

the Jews. And if their ancestry was noble, they were not less happy in

their primitive religion. “Now seeing that they have been the channel

of so many benefits to the rest of mankind, they ought to be the matter

of our thankful Reflection, and not of our obloquy and reproach.”

With fine indignation, he goes on to resent the manner in which the

Jews of Barbary were “lorded over by the imperious and haughty Moor.”

The Moorish boys beat the Jewish children, and the latter dare not

retaliate. “The Moors permit not the Jews the possession of any

war-like weapons, unless in point of Trade.” Addison adds that this

gratifies the Jews, who are, he asserts, as “destitute of true courage

as of good nature.” It is important to remember these severe remarks on

the Jewish character, as it shows that when the author praises he does

so not from partiality but from conviction. Curiously enough, he has

hardly done calling them cowards, when he tells us that the Christians

and Moors use the Jews for “sending them upon hazardous messages,” such

as “collecting the maritime imposts,” an office which must have needed

more than a little hardihood.

Our author contrasts the black caps of the Jews with the red of the

Moors, and has other quaint details as to costume. He then calls

attention to the religious unanimity of the Jews. “They are signally

vigilant to avoid divisions, as looking upon those among Christian

Professors, to be an argument against the truth of the things they

profess.” This is amusing, coming from a man who, throughout his life,

was a rather sturdy opponent of union among the Christian bodies. And

what would he think of the unity among Jews if he could see _our_

“present state”? Addison then enters into a eulogy of the sobriety

and temperance of the Jews; he terms their conduct “well civilised,”

and declares that they “cannot be charged with any of those Debauches

which are grown unto reputation with whole nations of Christians.”

Then he specifies. “Adultery, Drunkenness, Gluttony, Pride of Apparel,

etc., are so far from being in request with them that they are

scandalised at their frequent practice in Christians.” Again and again

the author laments that he has to praise the Synagogue at the expense

of the Church. But he takes it out in firm abuse of the rabbinic

theology, information on which he obtained from a local Rabbi, “Aaron

Ben-Netas”--a not unlearned man, he says, one who only needed to be a

Christian to be thoroughly worthy of esteem.

But we must pass over Addison’s elaborate analysis of the Jewish

creed, and of his many curious and mostly accurate details on rites

and superstitions. The notable thing is that as soon as he touches

fundamental social questions, his eulogy of the Jews reappears.

“Orderly and decent” are the adjectives he uses of the Jewish marriage

customs. I regret that I am unable to find space for Addison’s allusion

to the fashions of dressing the brides for the canopies, or rather

“bowers and arbours,” which in Barbary replaced the canopies used in

other countries. Thus the custom in some American homes of performing

Jewish marriages under a floral bower rather than a canopy has its

analogue in the past. Very significant is another statement about

marriage. Theoretically he found polygamy defended, but monogamy was

the rule of life. “The Jews of whom I now write, though they greatly

magnify and extol the concession of polygamy, yet they are not very

fond of its practice.” He ascribes this abstinence to policy rather

than to religion, and there is more truth in this than Addison saw.

For such social institutions are entirely a matter for the social

conscience, and “policy” dictates them. So long as social institutions

remain within the bounds of such sanctification as religion can

approve, religion must be content to follow “policy.” Monogamy is

so clearly felt to be the best policy for mankind, under modern

conditions, that religion in the West maintains it. “Religion” and

“policy” are here at one.

Addison fairly gives his enthusiasm the rein when he discusses Jewish

education. “The care of the Jews is very laudable in this particular,

there being not many people in the world more watchful to have their

children early tinctured with religion than the present Hebrews.”

Though they usually speak “_Moresco_, the Language of their Nativity,

and a sort of Spanish which enables them for Traffick,” they learn

Hebrew. The children, he informs us, are usually taught the Hebrew for

the domestic utensils and “terms of Traffick Negotiation.” The method

was quite in accord with modern ideas of teaching a language. “By

this Order they furnish the Children with a _Nomenclature of Hebrew_

Words; and all this before they admit them to Syntax and Construction.”

Addison pictures the Jewish Sabbath with some charm; he even cites

passages from Luria, to whom the home and synagogue rites of the day

of rest owe so much. On no subject is our author more interesting than

with regard to the Jewish charities. The Jews live “in a more mutual

charity of alms than either the Moor or Christians”; and Addison

admits, “it cannot be denied that the Jews’ manner of relieving the

poor, is regular and commendable.” In his day it was, as it is in ours,

the Synagogue’s ideal to relieve its own poor. There were no beggars

in the Barbary Jewry. “For though among the Jews of Barbary there is

a great store of needy persons, yet they are supplied after a manner

which much conceals (as to men of other religions) their poverty.”

Obviously Addison would like these people to become Christians. Why

do they refuse? The “stiffness of their necks,” on the one hand, and

the “naughtiness of our lives,” on the other, cries the author. The

“naughtiness” will, let us hope, be more easily removed than the

“stiffness.” Lancelot Addison, says Macaulay, “made some figure in the

world.” He deserved to do so. His book on the Jews was a credit to his

power of observation and his goodness of heart.

THE BODENSCHATZ PICTURES

Johann Christoph Georg Bodenschatz, a priest of Uttenreuth, underwent

a triple training for his great work on Jewish Ceremonial. He

studied literature, observed facts, and used his hands. The _Jewish

Encyclopedia_ remarks that he “is said to have made elaborate models

of the Ark of Noah and of the Tabernacle in the Wilderness.” There is

no reason for the qualifying words “is said.” In a dedicatory epistle

to the Margrave Friederich of Brandenburg, Bodenschatz distinctly

informs us that in 1739 he constructed these models, “after the records

of Scripture and of Jewish Antiquities.” He adds that the models were

preserved in the royal _Kunst und Naturaliencabinet_. I cannot say

whether they still exist; but at the beginning of last century, the

Tabernacle was at Bayreuth and the Ark at Nuremberg.

In 1748 Bodenschatz began to issue his work on the Jews; he completed

the publication in the next year. In it he dealt with the Jewish

religion (_Kirchliche Verfassung der heutigen Juden, sonderlich derer

in Deutschland_). He had planned a continuation on the Civil Laws

of the Synagogue. But he left it unfinished, though he lived another

half-century. Perhaps he had exhausted all his means, for the thirty

copper-plates must have been expensive. The very title-page states he

paid for them out of his own pocket. These illustrations he introduced

with a double object: they were, in part, to serve as an ornament, but

chiefly as an elucidation of the text. Both his book and his pictures

became very popular, and did much to secure for Judaism a favorable

consideration in Germany.

As we know that Bodenschatz possessed some artistic skill, we may

safely assume that he inspired and assisted the artists whom he

employed. He does not appear, however, to have done any of the drawings

with his own hand. Nearly all the pictures are signed. Most of them

were designed by Eichler in Erlangen, and engraved by G. Nusbiegel in

Nuremberg. Both of these belonged to artistic families; there were

three generations of Eichlers, and a Nusbiegel engraved illustrations

for Lavater’s works. One of the Bodenschatz pictures was engraved

by C. M. Roth; another, among the best of the whole series--the

illustration of Shehitah--was drawn by Johann Conrad Müller. It would

be interesting to collect the names of those Christian artists and

mechanics who, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, were

engaged in illustrating books on Judaism. There was, for instance, the

Englishman R. Vaughan who worked at Josephus (Josippon); there was the

Frenchman Bernard Picart; and there were very many others, though the

exquisite medallions, which adorn the title-pages of all six volumes of

Surrenhusius’ Latin Mishnah, were from a Jewish hand.

Bodenschatz made use of his predecessor Picart, whose twenty plates

illustrative of the “Ceremonies des Juifs” appeared in Amsterdam in

1723. But what he chiefly owed to Picart was the composition of the

groups; the details are mostly original. Similarly he derived his idea

for the processions of the bride and the bridegroom, with their musical

performers, from Kirchner, but here, again, the details are his own,

and the total effect is full of charm. I do not wish, by any means,

to depreciate Kirchner, who in his _Jüdisches Ceremoniel_ (1726) has

some fine engravings. One of them, depicting the preparation of the

Passover bread, is as vigorous as anything in Bodenschatz, though I

think that the latter is, on the average, superior to Kirchner. Readers

can easily judge the character both of the Bodenschatz and the Kirchner

pictures from the specimens so wisely reproduced in the volumes of the

_Jewish Encyclopedia_. No one need complain that the _Encyclopedia_

prints these illustrations too profusely. For--to limit my remarks to

Bodenschatz--though copies of that worthy’s book are common enough,

many of them are incomplete. From the British Museum example, six of

the thirty plates are missing; the Cambridge copy also lacks some of

the plates, in particular the marriage ceremony under the canopy,

which, however, may be seen in the _Jewish Encyclopedia_, vol. vi, p.

504. On the other hand, the _Encyclopedia_ (vol iii, p. 432) somewhat

exaggerates the glare of the eyes in the grim realism of Bodenschatz’s

picture of an interment.

What is assuredly one of the most interesting of Bodenschatz’s plates

does not, so far as I have noticed, appear in the _Encyclopedia_. I

refer to the Pentecost celebrations, where Bodenschatz shows us both

the cut flowers and the growing plants in the synagogue decorations

of the day. The floral border of this plate is particularly well

conceived. Very attractive, too, is the picture of Blessing the New

Moon: the outlines of the houses stand out in bold relief. Bodenschatz

is careful to inform us that the favorite time for the ceremony is

a Saturday night, when the men are still dressed in their Sabbath

clothes, and thus make a good show. The Priestly Benediction is also a

notable success; the Cohen with his hands to his eyes impresses. More

than once Bodenschatz depicts a curious scene, once common now almost

unknown. On the front of the synagogue is a star, cut in stone, and

after the marriage the husband shatters a vessel by casting it at the

star. The glass, where the custom is retained, is now broken under the

canopy. By the way, the author also introduces us to the more familiar

ceremony of the same nature at the actual wedding or betrothal.

Altogether ingenious is the plate on which are diagrammatically

represented the various forms of boundaries connected with the Sabbath

law.

Naturally a goodly number of the pictures deal with curiosities. The

quainter side of Jewish ceremonial obviously appeals to an artist.

Thus the waving of the cock before the Day of Atonement, the _Lilit_

inscriptions over the bed of the new-born infant, the Mikweh, the

Halizah shoe, make their due appearance. But Bodenschatz does not show

these things to ridicule them. He is among the most objective of those

who, before our own days, sought to reproduce synagogue scenes. He

must have had a very full experience of these scenes; he must have

been an eye-witness. It would seem as though he meant us to gather

this from one of his Sabbath pictures, of which he has several. I do

not refer to the vividness of the touches in his representation of the

Friday night at home--though this illustration presupposes personal

knowledge. Nor do I refer to his pictures of Sabbath ovens, for these

could have been examined in shops. But what I allude to is this. In his

picture of the interior of the synagogue, we see the Sabbath service

in progress. Standing on the right, looking on, is a hatless observer.

Does Bodenschatz mean this for himself, thus suggesting that he had

often been a spectator where the rest were participators? It may be so.

Anyhow, most of those who have had to steep themselves in literature

of this kind have a warm feeling of regard for Bodenschatz. He was not

invariably just, but he was never unkind; no mistakes that he made (and

he is on the whole conspicuously accurate) were due to prejudice. Any

scholar, any artist, would be proud to deserve such a verdict.

LESSING’S FIRST JEWISH PLAY

There are bigger virtues than consistency, and I have spared a good

word for that human chameleon Leon Modena. But, undeniably, a great

career is all the nobler when through it there runs a consistent

purpose. Wordsworth, in a famous poem, asked:

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he

That every man in arms should wish to be?

And the first sentence of his answer runs:

It is the generous spirit, who, when brought

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought

Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought.

If this be so, then Lessing was a happy warrior indeed. For religious

tolerance is interwoven with his combative life. It was the ideal of

his boyhood and of his age. It is to be seen in his “Nathan,” the

masterpiece of his mature genius, and it equally underlay his youthful

drama _The Jews_. Nathan the Wise is Mendelssohn, and was drawn on

the basis of experience; but the “Traveller,” who is the hero of

_Die Juden_ is no individual, having been drawn by Lessing out of

his own good heart. Thirty years separate the two plays (written,

respectively, in 1749 and 1779). But they are united in spirit.

_Die Juden_ is a short composition, even though it includes

twenty-three scenes. Some of these scenes are very brief. The plot is

quite simple. A baron and his daughter are saved by a traveller from

robbers; the impression made by the rescuer is so great, that the baron

is inclined to find in him a son-in-law. Then the traveller reveals

the fact that he is a Jew. Baron and Jew part with mutual esteem.

Dramatically, the play is not of much merit. The “Traveller” is not so

much a person as a personification. He is the type of virtue, honor,

magnanimity. He leaves one cold, not because, as Michaelis objected in

1754, he is impossibly, or at least improbably, perfect, but because he

is crudely and mechanically drawn. Mendelssohn completely rebutted the

criticism of Michaelis; but, none the less, the “Traveller” possesses

little of that human, personal quality which makes “Nathan” so

convincing and interesting. On the other hand, the baron is admirably

painted. He is not a bigoted Jew-hater; he is simply animated by a

conventional dislike of Jews. Lessing, even in his student years, was

too good an artist to daub on his colors too glaringly.

The importance of _Die Juden_ is to be found, as we have seen, in its

anticipation of _Nathan der Weise_. Sometimes the identity of thought

is strikingly close. In the fourth act of _Nathan_ occurs this dialogue:

_Friar_: Nathan! Nathan! You are a Christian! By God, you are a

Christian! There never was a better Christian!

_Nathan_: We are of one mind! For that which makes me, in your eyes, a

Christian, makes you, in my eyes, a Jew!

Compare (as Niemeyer has done) the exchanges in _Die Juden_:

_Baron_: How estimable would the Jews be if they were all like you!

_Traveller_: And how admirable the Christians, if they all possessed

your qualities!

A Tsar is said to have repeated pretty much the baron’s speech to

Sir Moses Montefiore. It is not recorded that the latter made the

traveller’s reply.

Edmund Burke, in one of his speeches on America, protested that it

was impossible to draw up “an indictment against a whole people.” He

forgot the frequency with which such indictments are drawn up against

the Jews. Now if there was one thing that more than the rest roused

Lessing’s anger, it was just this tarring of all Jews with one brush.

One can conceive the glee with which Lessing wrote the passage in which

the baron commits this very offence, unconscious of his peculiarly

unfortunate _faux pas_, for he has no notion yet that the traveller is

a Jew:

_Baron_: It seems to me that the very faces of the Jews prejudice one

against them. You can read in their eyes their maliciousness, deceit,

perjury. Why do you turn away from me?

_Traveller_: I see you are very learned in physiognomies--I am afraid,

sir, that mine....

_Baron_: O, you wrong me! How could you entertain such a suspicion?

Without being learned in physiognomies, I must tell you I have never

met with a more frank, generous, and pleasing countenance than yours.

_Traveller_: To tell you the truth, I do not approve of

generalizations concerning a whole people.... I should think that

among all nations good and wicked are to be found.

These quotations will suffice to convey an idea of the aim of the

dramatist and of the manner in which it is carried out. There is a

certain amount of comic relief to the gravity of the main plot. The

foot-pad and garroter, Martin Krumm, cuts an amusing figure as an

assailant of the honesty of the Jews. “A Christian would have given

me a kick in the ribs and not a snuff-box,” says Christopher, the

traveller’s servant. Christopher is a funny rogue. When his master

cannot find him, and naturally complains, the servant replies: “I can

only be in one place at one time. Is it my fault that you did not go to

that place? You say you have to search for me? Surely you’ll always

find me where I am.”

There were a few attempts prior to Lessing to present the Jew in a

favorable light on the stage, as Sir Sidney Lee has shown. But between

Shylock and Nathan there stretches a lurid desert, broken only by the

oasis of _Die Juden_. To some it may occur that the battle of tolerance

fought by Lessing did not end in a permanent victory. Lessing himself

would not have been disquieted at that result. As he expressed it, the

search for truth rather than the possession of truth is the highest

human good. A leading Viennese paper said some few years ago that if

_Nathan the Wise_ had been written now, it would have been hissed

off the German stage. It is not unlikely. Fortunately, Lessing wrote

before 1880! _Nathan_ does not remain unacted. I saw Possart play the

title-role in Munich in the nineties. His splendid elocution carried

off Nathan’s long speeches with wonderful absence of monotony.

A thing of truth is a boon forever, because it makes further progress

in truth-seeking certain. Because there has been one Lessing,

there _must_ be others. And if _Nathan the Wise_ be thus a lasting

inspiration, let us not forget that the poet was trying his hand,

and maturing his powers, by writing the play which has served as the

subject of this sketch.

ISAAC PINTO’S PRAYER-BOOK

It was in America that the first English translation of the Synagogue

Prayer-Book appeared (1761 and 1766). Often has attention been drawn

to the curiosity that this latter volume was published not in London

but in New York. The 1761 edition has only recently been discovered by

Dr. Pool; with the 1766 work we have long been familiar. According to

the _Bibliotheca Anglo-Judaica_ (p. 174), “the Mahamad would not allow

a translation to be printed in England.” If such a refusal was made,

we must at least amend the last words, and read _in English_ for _in

England_. For it was in London, in 1740, that Isaac Nieto’s _Spanish_

rendering of the prayers for New Year and Day of Atonement saw the

light of publication.

Indeed, in Isaac Pinto’s preface the point is made quite clear. “In

Europe,” he says, “the Spanish and Portuguese Jews have a translation

in Spanish, which, as they generally understand, may be sufficient;

but that not being the case in the British Dominions in America, has

induced me to attempt a translation, not without hope that it may

tend to the improvement of many of my brethren in their devotion.”

Admittedly, then, Pinto designed his work for American use; at all

events, the objection of the Mahamad must have been to the language

used by Pinto. We know how resolutely Bevis Marks clung to Spanish,

and how reluctantly it abandoned some of the quaint uses made of it in

announcements and otherwise.

“Some crudities there are in this translation, but few mistakes, and

the style has a genuine devotional ring,” says Mr. Singer. Pinto could

not easily go wrong, seeing that he made use of Haham Nieto’s “elegant

Spanish translation.” Dr. Gaster remarks that Pinto’s rendering

“rests entirely,” as the author declares, on Nieto’s. Pinto’s exact

words are: “In justice to the Learned and Reverend H. H. R. Ishac

Nieto, I must acknowledge the very great advantage I derived” from

Nieto’s work. Mr. G. A. Kohut shares Mr. Singer’s high opinion of

Pinto’s style. “The translation,” he asserts, “seems to be totally

free from foreign expressions, and is characterized throughout by a

dignity and simplicity of diction which is on the whole admirable.”

With this favorable judgment all readers of Pinto will unhesitatingly

concur. A remarkable feature which Pinto shares with Nieto is this:

the translation appears without the Hebrew text. Commenting on the

absence of Hebrew, Mr. Singer observes: “This fact would seem to show

that there must have been an appreciable number of persons, who,

for purposes of private worship at least, and perhaps also while

in attendance at synagogue, depended upon English alone in their

devotions.” On the other hand, it is possible that, as Hebrew printing

must have been costly in London and New York in the eighteenth century,

the absence of the Hebrew may be merely due to the desire to avoid

expenses. The translations may have been meant for use with copies of

the Hebrew text printed in Amsterdam and elsewhere on the continent of

Europe.

Pinto’s book was small quarto in shape; it contained 191 pages. There

are some peculiarities on the title-page, of which a facsimile may

be seen in the _Jewish Encyclopedia_, vol. x, page 55: “Prayers for

Shabbath, Rosh-Hashanah, and Kippur, or the Sabbath, the Beginning of

the Year, and the Day of Atonements; with the _A_midah and Musaph of

the Mo_a_dim, or solemn seasons. According to the Order of the Spanish

and Portuguese Jews. Translated by Isaac Pinto. And for him printed by

John Holt, in New York, A. M. 5526” (= 1766). It will be noted that

Pinto indicates the _ayin_ by the use of italics in the words _A_midah

and Mo_a_dim. Also, though he employs the ordinary Sephardic term for

the Day of Atonement (_Kippur_ without the prefix of _Yom_), he does

not translate the singular, but the plural, for he renders it the “Day

of Atonements,” which is not exactly a blunder (though the Hebrew

_Kippurim_ is, of course, really an abstract plural with a singular

sense).

But who was Isaac Pinto? It is not at all clear. Some have hastily

spoken of him as though he were identical with Joseph Jesurun Pinto,

who was sent out by the London Sephardim to New York in 1758. The home

authorities, at the request of the New York Congregation Shearith

Israel, elected a Hazan, but the chosen candidate, “having since

declined going for reasons unknown to us,” writes the London Mahamad,

through its treasurer, H. Men. da Costa, “we this day (June 7, 1758)

proceeded to a second election, and our chois fell on Mr. Joseph

Jesurun Pinto, who was examined by our direction and found very well

versed in the reading of the Pentateuch and in the functions of a

Hazan.” This Hazan could do more: he was able, as Mr. Kohut shows,

to write Hebrew, for in October, 1760, he composed a prayer for

recitation on the “General Thanksgiving for the Reducing of Canada to

His Majesty’s Dominions.” The prayer was written in Hebrew, but printed

in English, being translated by a “Friend of Truth.” A note at the

end of the booklet runs thus: “N. B. The foregoing prayer may be seen

in Hebrew, at the Composer’s Lodgings.” Mr. Kohut adds: “Apparently

original Hebrew scholarship was a curiosity in New York City in 1760.”

A year before, Joseph Jesurun Pinto instituted the keeping of records

as to those “entitled to Ashcaboth” (memorial prayers), and drew up

a still used table of the times for beginning the Sabbath for the

meridian of New York; he must have been a man of various gifts and

activities.

What relation Isaac Pinto was to the Hazan we have no means of telling.

Joseph’s father was named Isaac, but this can scarcely have been our

translator. An Isaac Pinto died in 1791, aged seventy; he may be (as

Mr. Kohut suggests) the translator in question; in 1766 he would have

been in his forty-fifth year. Steinschneider thought that he was

identical with the author of a work against Voltaire (Amsterdam, 1762)

and other treatises. “But,” as Mr. Kohut argues, “this versatile

author lived at Bordeaux, while our translator was in all probability

a resident of New York.” Mr. L. Hühner accepts this identification,

and adds the possibility that this same Isaac Pinto was settled in

Connecticut as early as 1748. More certain is it that Isaac Pinto

is the same who appears in the earliest minute-book of the New York

Congregation Shearith Israel as a contributing member and seat-holder

(1740, 1747, and 1750).

Isaac Pinto was certainly living in New York in 1773. Ezra Stiles

was president of Yale from 1778 till 1795, and in his diary he makes

many references to Jews, as is well known from the publications of

the American Jewish Historical Society. Under date June 14, 1773,

Stiles has this entry: “In the forenoon I went to visit the Rabbi

(Carigal)--discoursed on Ventriloquism and the Witch of Endor and the

Reality of bringing up Samuel. He had not heard of Ventriloquism before

and still doubted it. He showed me a Hebrew letter from Isaac Pinto to

a Jew in New York, in which Mr. Pinto, who is now reading Aben Ezra,

desires R. Carigal’s thoughts upon some Arabic in Aben Ezra.” Prof.

Jastrow, from whose essay I cite the last sentence, adds: “As late as

April 14, 1790, Stiles refers to a letter received from Pinto, whom he

speaks of as ‘a learned Jew in New York,’ regarding a puzzling Hebrew

inscription found by Stiles in Kent in the fall of 1789. Unfortunately

there is no other reference to this supposed Hebrew inscription, on

which Pinto was unable to throw any light.” Stiles does not seem to

have provided sufficient data. We would fain know more of this Isaac

Pinto. But the glimpses we get of him are enough to satisfy us that he

was a man of uncommon personality.

MENDELSSOHN’S “JERUSALEM”

Of a hundred who discuss Moses Mendelssohn’s conception of Judaism,

perhaps barely five have read _Jerusalem_, the book in which that

conception is most lucidly expressed. It is a common fate with certain

literary masterpieces that they are read in their own day and talked

about by posterity. The fame of Mendelssohn, moreover, underwent

something like an eclipse during the last generation. To paraphrase

what Antony said of Cæsar, but yesterday his word might have stood

against the world; now, none so poor as to do him reverence.

The depreciation of Mendelssohn was due to two opposite reasons. For

some time, though most Jews were unconscious of it, it was becoming

obvious that there were two, and only two, thorough-going solutions of

the Jewish problem for the modern age. The one may be termed religious

liberalism, the other territorial nationalism. Now, Mendelssohn’s views

are in accord with neither of these tendencies. He was so far from

being a territorialist--and I use that term in the widest sense--that

he has been acclaimed and denounced as the father of assimilation.

He was so remote from liberalism, that he has been acclaimed and

denounced as the founder of neo-orthodoxy. His theory of life was

that the emancipated Jew could and must go on obeying under the new

environment the _whole_ of the olden Jewish law. This is not possible!

cry both the liberal and the nationalist. Hence the liberal asserts

one-half, the nationalist the other half of the Mendelssohnian theory.

The liberal would modify the law, the nationalist would change the

environment. In other words, instead of holding Mendelssohn in low

esteem, both sides ought to recognize that they each derive half their

inspiration from him.

And it is fortunate that Jews are, at this juncture, coming to

appreciate Mendelssohn all over again. Our German brethren have just

initiated a capital series of little books which cost less than a

shilling each. The first of these “Monuments of the Jewish Spirit”

contains the _Jerusalem_, and much else of Mendelssohn’s work. Here

one reads again the words first penned by the Berlin Socrates in 1783:

Judaism knows nothing of a revealed religion, Israel possessed a divine

legislation. “Thought is free,” we can hear Mendelssohn thundering--if

so harsh a verb can be applied to so gentle a spirit--“let no

Government interfere with men’s mode of conceiving God and truth.”

State and religion are separated as wide as the poles. Israel has its

own code, which in no way conflicts with the State; still less does

Israel seek to impose that code on the State. Mendelssohn did not

believe that all men were destined to attain to truth by the road of

Judaism. “Judaism boasts of no exclusive revelation of immutable truths

indispensable to salvation.” Hence, too, “Judaism has no articles of

faith.” It follows that not unbelief was punished under the Jewish

_régime_, but contumacious disobedience. The Jew was never commanded:

believe this, disbelieve that; but do this, and leave that undone.

Judaism is the Jew’s way of attaining goodness, other people can attain

it in other ways. Not consonance but manifoldness is the design and end

of Providence. “Religious union is not toleration, it is diametrically

opposed to it.” Toleration consists rather in this: “Reward and punish

no doctrine; hold out no allurement or bribe for the adoption of

theological opinions.” How far in advance of his age Mendelssohn was!

It took a full century after his _Jerusalem_ for England to abolish

theological tests at the universities, tests which indeed did “reward

and punish” doctrines. Mendelssohn goes on: “Let everyone who does not

disturb public happiness, who is obedient to the civil government,

who acts righteously towards his fellow-man, be allowed to speak as he

thinks, to pray to God after his own fashion, or after the fashion of

his fathers, and to seek eternal salvation where he thinks he may find

it.” No one, unless it be that earlier Jewish philosopher Spinoza, had

ever put the case for toleration so cogently. Whether Mendelssohn’s

own principles are consistent with his further conclusion that once a

Jew always a Jew, will ever be doubted. The Talmud (Sanhedrin 44a) had

said: An Israelite, though he sin, remains an Israelite. Mendelssohn

rather said: An Israelite has no right to sin. True, the world need

not accept Judaism, but the Jew may never reject it. “I do not see,”

cries Mendelssohn, “how those who were born in the house of Jacob can,

in any conscientious manner, disencumber themselves of the law. We are

allowed to think about the law, to inquire into its spirit ... but all

our fine reasoning cannot exonerate us from the strict obedience we owe

to it.” I am not now criticising Mendelssohn. I am trying to expound

him. To live under the law of the State and at the same time to remain

loyal to the law of Judaism is hard. But Mendelssohn went on: _Bear

both burdens_. That assuredly is a counsel which should be inscribed

in golden letters over the portal of Judaism now, even though we may

interpret the burdens differently in our different circumstances.

Mendelssohn’s masterpiece includes much else. But what precedes ought

to be enough to whet readers’ appetites for the whole meal. On an

occasion when I had a long talk with William James, I spoke to him

of Mendelssohn, and he admitted that his own Pragmatic theories were

paralleled by the _Jerusalem_. He promised to write on the subject,

but death claimed him all too soon. Whether we agree with Mendelssohn

or not, let us at least agree in appreciation of his genius. What he

did, and what we do not do, is to face unflinchingly the discussion

of fundamentals. Reading Mendelssohn is to breathe the fresh air. But

there’s the rub! _Read_ Mendelssohn? How, if we know no German? It is

deplorable that the _Jerusalem_ is no longer accessible in English. I

say no longer, because once it was accessible. And not once only, but

twice.

In 1852, Isaac Leeser published an English version in Philadelphia.

No wonder our American brothers still hold Leeser in such reverent

esteem. He deserved well of the Jewry of his land. But Leeser’s was

not the first English translation of _Jerusalem_. In 1838, M. Samuels

issued in two volumes an English version in London; it was dedicated to

Isaac Lyon Goldsmid, and contained much besides the _Jerusalem_. I know

nothing of the translator except one thing that he was not, and another

thing that he was. He was not a native Englishman, and he was a good

scholar. About a dozen years earlier (1825) he had produced a volume,

entitled “Memoirs of Moses Mendelsohn” (what a pitfall that double

_s_ is to printers! Throughout M. Samuels’ earlier book an _s_ is

missing in the name; in the later publication it has been recovered).

Samuels asserts himself a “disciple of the leading system of the work”;

perhaps this accounts for his enthusiasm, shown in his conscientious

annotations, which are fragrant with genuine Jewish thought. With very

slight furbishing up, Samuels’ rendering could be reprinted to-day.

One of the most urgent needs of our age in English-speaking lands is

that Jews should once more become familiar with the thought of the

eighteenth century, and particularly of Mendelssohn. Like many another

of my generation, I was brought up rather to decry him. I have learned

better now, and would fain urge others to a like reconsideration.

HERDER’S ANTHOLOGY

Johann Gottfried von Herder belonged to the school of Rousseau. The

latter, from whom the French Revolution derived its philosophy, was

enamored of the primitive and the ancient. Nature began far better

than she became after man mis-handled her. Herder (1744-1803) plays

on the word “simplicity.” He loved the Hebrew poetry because it was

so spontaneous, so untainted by artificiality. Herder’s work on

the _Spirit of Hebrew Poetry_ (1772-3) is fairly characterized by

Graetz when he terms it epoch-making. Herder was among the first of

the moderns to rouse interest in the Bible as literature. What his

contemporary Lessing did in Germany for Shakespeare, Herder did for the

Psalter.

Now Herder’s treatment of ancient literature rendered a lasting service

despite his fundamental misconception. What James Sully calls Herder’s

“excessive and sentimental interest in primitive human culture”

prepared the way for the “genetic” theories of our time. He thoroughly

realized the natural element in national poetry. He explained genius in

terms of race. To him is due some part of the conception of a “Jewish

culture,” as formulated by present-day Zionists of Ahad ha-‘Am’s

school. It is rather curious that while, on the one hand, Herder’s

theories helped national anti-Semitism, on the other hand, they gave

suggestions to national Judaism. By laying undue stress on the natural,

Herder exaggerated the national in the human spirit. In his early

manhood Herder had thought of training as a physician. But he abandoned

the idea because he could not endure the dissecting-room. When he came

to discuss the world’s genius he used the scalpel freely enough. His

gorge rose against cutting up the body, but he felt no reluctance to

dissect the spirit.

Earlier writers had overlooked the national element in the Bible.

Herder saw in the Old Testament nothing but national songs. The thought

often led him right. He strongly opposed, for instance, the mystic and

allegorical interpretations of the Song of Songs. To him it was a love

poem, the purest, most delicate love poem of antiquity (“den reinsten

und zartesten Liebesdichtung des Altertums”). Hebrew literature was

national, but it revealed its nationality under unique conditions, for

it was marked by the “poetic consciousness of God.” In all this Herder

was magnificently right. But he could not leave well alone. In one

of his latest essays he summed up the Hebrew poetry as distinguished

indeed by religiosity, but also by simplicity (“kindliche Naivetä,

Religiosität, Einfalt”). No term could be worse chosen. Hebrew poetry

shows consummate art. If it conveys the sense of simplicity, it is

because the poet’s art so thoroughly conceals its workings. Herder made

aesthetically the same mistake as Wellhausen perpetrated theologically.

According to Wellhausen, the prophets of the eighth century before

the Christian era suddenly appeared as an utterly new phenomenon on

the Hebraic horizon, whereas, in truth, by the time we reach Amos we

have got to a very advanced stage in the religious history of Israel.

So, too, is it with the biblical poetry. It is, even in its earliest

fragments, such as the Song of Deborah, a highly cultivated form.

“Simplicity” is the last word to apply to it. It is powerful, it is

sincere, but it is not naive. The Greek athlete who conquered at the

Olympic games was robust, but he had gone through a long process of

training. Vigor is not synonymous with artlessness. Trench wrote a

charming book on the “use of words.” An equally entertaining book

could be compiled on the “misuse of words.” In such a book, a front

place would be assignable to Herder’s “simplicity.”

What distinguished Hebrew poetry was not that element which it derived

from the narrowing fetters of locality and epoch. Why is the Bible the

most translatable book? Why has it been found the easiest of the great

classics to re-express in the manifold tongues of man? Because it is

so independent of the very qualities by which Herder sought to explain

it! The poetry of Israel was “natural” and “national” in the sense that

it corresponded to human nature, and was susceptible of interpretation

in terms of every nationality. Over Herder’s tomb was inscribed the

legend “Licht, Liebe, Leben.” Herder might have inscribed these or

similar words over certain of the gems of Hebrew literature. “Light,

love, life” are a truer characterization than “naiveness, religiosity,

simplicity.”

Graetz thought that, though Herder dreamed of the time when Jew and

Gentile would understand and appreciate each other, he was ill-disposed

to the Jews. He was, it is true, not one of those who fell under

the spell of Moses Mendelssohn’s personality. He was disinclined

to subject himself to the spell. When Mendelssohn sought Herder’s

acquaintance, the latter received the proposal coldly. This was not

necessarily due to unkindness. It seems to me that Herder, who much

admired Lessing, was rather resentful of the close intimacy between

the hero and the author of _Nathan the Wise_. Herder had no desire to

form one of a _ménage à trois_. As Graetz adds, Mendelssohn and Herder

did come closely together after Lessing’s death. Herder, in one of his

essays, dated 1781, the very year in which Lessing passed away, pays

Mendelssohn a pretty compliment, praising him as an exponent of Jewish

ideals.

Herder’s essay was prefixed to his “Anthology from Eastern Poets”

(_Blumenlese aus morgenländische Dichtern_). Few of us remember that

the word _Anthology_ corresponds exactly with _Blumenlese_; it means

a “collection of flowers.” (Compare Graetz’s _Leket Shoshannim_.)

Foremost among the floral graces of Herder’s Oriental garland are the

famous selections made from the Talmud and Midrash. Here, as elsewhere,

Herder was rather too inclined to treat the rabbinical legend and

parable as “naive.” He was, moreover, a little patronizing to the

Haggadists when he declared that “people laughed at what they did not

understand”--referring to the supposed grotesqueness of some of the

rabbinic modes of expression. But he was happier when he described

vandals like Eisenmenger as men who “rough-handled the butterfly, and

who, mangling the beauteous creature between their coarse fingers,

wondered that all they found on their hands was a particle of dust.” No

one has ever translated rabbinic parables so successfully as Herder.

His very love for the unfamiliar stood him in good stead. He does not

tell us whence he derived his knowledge of the originals. Probably

it was in oral intercourse with Jews. Such a spelling of _Lilit_ as

_Lilis_ looks as though he heard it pronounced by a German Jew.

Be that as it may, Herder enters into the spirit of the rabbinic

apologues with rare understanding. He chose the subjects with judgment,

and executed the renderings with felicity. There could have been

nothing but love for Judaism in the man who thus selected and who

thus translated. Graetz was unduly hard on him. It was quite possible

for a man to be fond of Jews and yet not drawn to Mendelssohn. The

last-named fascinated so many that he could afford to find one person

antipathetic--if indeed he was so. Long before others took to a cult

of the rabbinic wit and wisdom, long before Emanuel Deutsch startled

the English world in October, 1867, by his question in the _Quarterly

Review_: “What is the Talmud?”, Herder had introduced the German world

to it, and had in part answered Deutsch’s question by anticipation.

From several points of view, therefore, Herder is of import for the

Jewish student of nineteenth century history.

WALKER’S “THEODORE CYPHON”

Cumberland’s play, _The Jew_, appeared in 1794, and two years later

was published _Theodore Cyphon_. The author was George Walker, a

book-seller of London and a prolific writer of novels. His works are

a curious compound of wild melodramatic incident with comments, often

shrewd enough, on social and political actualities.

_Theodore Cyphon_ well represents Walker’s method. The main plot

is a tiresome story, told in retrospect, of Theodore’s heroism and

misfortunes in several walks of life, from the Minories to Arabia. He

ends on the scaffold for an offence which was in truth his noblest act

of chivalry. In between we have a quite able discussion on the cruelty

of inflicting capital punishment in cases of mere robbery. The author

concludes his Preface with the fear that readers may exclaim: “Well, it

was very tragical; but I am glad the hero is settled at last.” That, at

least, is the sentiment of a modern reader.

This novel of Walker’s, however, arrests attention by being set in

a Jewish frame. The term frame is used advisedly, since the main

narrative is independent of the setting.

The full title of the book is _Theodore Cyphon, or the Benevolent

Jew_. There were two editions of it. The first came out in 1796, the

second in 1823. Of the second edition the British Museum possesses a

complete copy; of the first edition an imperfect example--consisting

of the first of the three volumes--has recently been presented to the

University Library, Cambridge. The “benevolent Jew” is one Shechem

Bensadi, and he is drawn with more than sympathy. Shechem lends money

at exorbitant rates to the improvident aristocracy, and devotes his

gains to the relief of deserving unfortunates. Nay, his clients are

not always deserving. When robbed, Shechem refuses to prosecute; he

showers favors on those who treat him despitefully. His philanthropy

is extended to Jew and Gentile alike. There is one remarkable scene in

the fifth chapter, in which Shechem is shown in a large storehouse,

surrounded by scores of poor Jews to whom he supplies goods, thus

enabling them to earn a livelihood. In equally striking chapters

Shechem plays the rôle of benefactor and friend to others than his own

coreligionists.

The first edition of _Theodore Cyphon_ was obviously suggested by

Cumberland’s success. Curiously enough, the sub-title, _The Benevolent

Jew_, is used in the sheet concerning Cumberland’s play printed in

vol. vii of the _Transactions_ of the Jewish Historical Society of

England, p. 177. It is not improbable that the second edition of

_Theodore Cyphon_ was due to the popularity of Scott’s _Ivanhoe_,

which was published in December, 1819. There are not wanting some

superficial parallels between Scott’s masterpiece and Walker’s earlier

and more moderate production. Eve, Shechem’s daughter, nurses Walker’s

hero, just as Isaac’s daughter Rebecca nurses Scott’s hero. The most

interesting parallel--perhaps the only real one--is presented in two

scenes, one in _Ivanhoe_, the other in _Theodore Cyphon_. The first is

the occasion on which Rebecca sings her famous hymn. Scott describes

his poem as a “translation” of a hymn with which the evening ritual of

the Synagogue concluded. It is really an original composition inspired

by various scriptural texts, and in its turn may have suggested some

great lines in Kipling’s _Recessional_. Is it possible that Scott’s

idea of Rebecca’s hymn was suggested by Walker? For, in the second

scene alluded to above, Eve, too, is overheard singing a song to “music

wild, yet so soft.”

Walker gives us only the last stanza of Eve’s song, which runs thus (p.

46 of vol. i of the 1796 edition):

The wand’rers of Israel, through nations dispers’d,

Shall again dwell in safety, again rest in peace;

And the harp, that so plaintive our sorrows rehears’d,

Shall thrill with new pleasures, as pleasures increase;

The sweet, spicy shrubs, that wave over the hills,

Untouch’d by the simoom, eternally blow,

Frankincense and myrrh from their bosom distils,

And love shall attend on our path as we go.

Scott, of course, had other models beside Walker. Byron’s _Hebrew

Melodies_ came out both with and without Nathan’s musical

accompaniment, in 1815, four years before _Ivanhoe_ was written.

It is curious, by the way, to note that Rudolf Eric Raspe, the

original of the character whom Scott so mercilessly caricatures as

Dousterswivel in his novel _The Antiquary_, was not only the author of

_Baron Münchausen_, but was also the first translator into English of

Lessing’s _Nathan der Weise_ (London, 1781). Scott does not seem to

have been acquainted with Lessing’s play, either in the original or in

translation. Scott’s indebtedness to Marlowe, on the other hand, has

already been pointed out by the present writer.

Having drawn attention to the parallel between Walker and Scott, it

will be useful to note an equally striking contrast. On pages 110-112

of _Theodore Cyphon_ occurs the passage:

“His chief concern was for Eve, whom he saw, notwithstanding Theodore’s

supposed engagements, and the restrictions of religion, still encourage

sentiments which sapped the foundation of her happiness, and which

no expedient offered to remove, but by parting with its object, or

suffering their marriage spite of religion and law.

“Though a Jew, skilled in the learning of the Talmud and Mosaic law,

he was without those prejudices that attend on superstition. He saw

clearly that, when those precepts were first instituted, they were

designed as a prevention of communication between the Israelite and

Heathen, lest by the influence and interchange of the softer sex,

they might be led into the practice of idolatry. Yet now, taking up

the argument in a religious way, the danger existed no longer; both

Jew and Christian agreeing in the chief article of worship, though

divided about what the understanding of neither can comprehend. In a

civil light, man was created for the society of man. The distinction

of kingdom and people were childish, and fit only to insult the

understanding. But whilst he indulged himself in these speculations,

he avoided hinting to Eve that there was a possibility she should ever

become the wife of Theodore, that the unattainability of the object

might blunt or destroy the ardour of hope: for however he might have

wished for such a character (so far as observation could judge) as his

son-in-law, under the present circumstances he could not have allowed

it, had even the affections of Theodore been placed upon her, which he

believed was far from the case, as the observation he had made when

he entered his chamber abruptly, and the words, ‘O Eliza,’ which his

daughter had heard, led him to conclude some prior engagement retained

him.”

The sequel shows that Theodore is already married to Eliza. With

Walker’s view, however, as to such a marriage, it is fruitful to

compare the noble passage, on the same subject, with which Scott

concludes the preface to the 1830 edition of _Ivanhoe_:

“The character of the fair Jewess found so much favour in the eyes

of some fair readers, that the writer was censured, because, when

arranging the fates of the characters of the drama, he had not assigned

the hand of Wilfred to Rebecca, rather than to the less interesting

Rowena. But, not to mention that the prejudices of the age rendered

such an union almost impossible, the author may, in passing, observe

that he thinks a character of a highly virtuous and lofty stamp is

degraded rather than exalted by an attempt to reward virtue with

temporal prosperity. Such is not the recompense which Providence has

deemed worthy of suffering merit, and it is a dangerous and fatal

doctrine to teach young persons, the most common readers of romance,

that rectitude of conduct and of principle are either naturally allied

with, or adequately rewarded by, the gratification of our passions,

or attainment of our wishes. In a word, if a virtuous and self-denied

character is dismissed with temporal wealth, greatness, rank, or the

indulgence of such a rashly-formed or ill-assorted passion as that of

Rebecca for Ivanhoe, the reader will be apt to say, Verily, virtue

has had its reward. But a glance on the great picture of life will

show, that the duties of self-denial, or the sacrifice of passion

to principle, are seldom thus remunerated; and that the internal

consciousness of their high-minded discharge of duty produces on their

own reflections a more adequate recompense, in the form of that peace

which the world cannot give or take away.”

From the artistic point of view, Walker’s novel has little merit. But

it deserves to be better known from the historical point of view. It

was another expression of the new attitude towards the Jew, which began

to distinguish English letters in the latter part of the eighteenth

century.

HORACE SMITH OF THE “REJECTED ADDRESSES”

Horace Smith and his brother James are famous as the joint authors of

the most successful parody ever perpetrated. Drury Lane Theatre was

re-opened on October 10, 1812, having been rebuilt after the fire which

destroyed it some three years previously. The Committee advertised a

competition for the best address to be spoken at the re-opening. It is

easy to imagine what occurred. Masses of poems were sent in, and in

despair all of them were rejected, and Byron was invited to write a

prologue. It occurred to the Smiths to produce a series of parodies in

the style of the poets of their day. They pretended that all, or most

of them, had been candidates for the prize, and on the very day of the

re-opening was published the volume of _Rejected Addresses_, which,

conceived, executed, printed, and published within the space of six

weeks, continues in the general judgment of critics the finest _jeu

d’esprit_ of its kind.

Interesting enough it would be to linger over the general aspects of

this book. We must, nevertheless, resist the temptation to recall

the marvellous imitations of that genial friend of ours, the author

of _Ivanhoe_--or of that crabbed foe of Jewish emancipation, William

Cobbett. Capital, too, is the skit on Thomas Moore. Eve and the apple

come into that effusion as a matter of course. To Moore, Eve was as

Charles’ head to Mr. Dick. One could compile a fair-sized volume out

of the Irish sentimentalist’s allusions to the first pair in Paradise.

Moore used the allusion seriously and humorously. In the _Lives of the

Angels_, Adam is driven not from but into Paradise, for as Eve had to

go, it would have been the reverse of bliss for him to be left behind

in Eden. In another poem, Moore plays on the rabbinic suggestion that

woman was made out of the man’s tail, and so, comments the poet, man

ever after has followed the original plan, and leaves his wife behind

him whenever he can. Again and again, Moore in his poems claims close

acquaintance with rabbinic lore, of which, in fact, he knew only a few

scraps from second-hand sources.

So we might continue to glean thoughts from _Rejected Addresses_. It

needs gleaning, because the direct references to contemporary Jews are

very few. This negative point is not without interest. A dramatic

squib nowadays would almost certainly have its hits against Jews. The

Smiths only once refer to a Jew--the unfortunate Lyon Levi or Levy, who

committed suicide by flinging himself over the London Monument. He was

a merchant of Haydon Square, and the newspapers of January 19, 1810,

record the event as having occurred on the previous day. It is not

surprising that the incident should be fresh in men’s minds when the

Smiths wrote three years later. For after an interval of thirty-seven

years, we again find an allusion to it in the _Ingoldsby Legends_. Levi

was neither the first nor the last to precipitate himself from the

summit of Wren’s column; eventually the top was encaged, to bar others

from a similar temptation.

It was remarked above that the _Rejected Addresses_ were absolutely

free from anti-Jewish gibes. Impossible would it have been for the

Smiths to have acted otherwise. Horace, in particular, was an ardent

admirer of Richard Cumberland, writer of _The Jew_, which at the end of

the eighteenth century did so much to rehabilitate the Jews in English

good-will. We can see Horace Smith’s tendency, negatively, in one of

his other poems. In the “Culprit and the Judge,” he deals with a case

of coin-clipping in medieval France. As with all of Horace’s verses,

it is full of good points. The judge denounced as profanation the crime

of filing the similitude of good King Pepin, and ordered the offender

to be punished with decapitation. This is the clever reply of the

culprit:

“As to offending powers divine,”

The culprit cried,--“be nothing said:

Yours is a deeper guilt than mine.

I took a portion from the head

Of the King’s image; you, oh fearful odds!

Strike the whole head at once from God’s!”

One wonders whether the author had ever heard of the closely parallel

idea of the ancient Rabbi, who denounced the murderer as one who

diminished the divine image in which man had been made. Observe,

however, how Horace Smith refrains from making cheap capital out of

the joke by describing the offender as a Jew. Smith knew the truth too

well. He knew that, though some Jews were given to coin-clipping, there

were many offenders who were not Jews. It is absolutely characteristic

of Horace Smith that he should have refrained from libelling all Jews

for the sins of some.

Horace Smith was, as already suggested, actuated in his philo-Semitism

by knowledge. And this is the reason why, though his brother James

wrote some of the best of the parodies in _Rejected Addresses_, this

present article deals less with him than with Horace. For that the

latter knew and understood Judaism can be demonstrated by the clearest

evidence. In 1831 he published a prose volume, which ought to be better

known to English Jews than it is. The title is “Festivals, Games, and

Amusements, Ancient and Modern.” The second chapter deals with the

ancient Jews. It reveals an almost perfect insight into the Jewish

conception of life. Only one or two passages require amendment to make

it quite perfect. I need not expound, it will suffice to quote a single

passage:

“It is worthy of remark that the government he (Moses) established, the

only one claiming a divine author, was founded on the most democratical

and even levelling principles. It was a theocratical commonwealth,

having the Deity Himself for its King. Agriculture was the basis of

the Mosaic polity; all the husbandsmen were on a footing of perfect

equality; riches conferred no permanent preeminence; there was neither

peasantry nor nobility, unless the Levites may be considered a sort

of priestly aristocracy, for they were entitled by their birth to

certain privileges. But this is foreign to our purpose. The most

distinguishing features of the government were the vigilant, the most

anxious provisions made for the interests, enjoyments, and festivals of

the nation; and that enlarged wisdom and profound knowledge of human

nature, which led the inspired founder of the Hebrew commonwealth to

exalt and sanctify the pleasures of the people by uniting them with

religion, while he confirmed and endeared religion by combining it with

all the popular gratifications.”

When Sir Walter Scott saw the verses attributed to him in _Rejected

Addresses_, he exclaimed: “I certainly must have written this myself,

though I forget on what occasion.” Some of us might say the same of

certain of the phrases in the passage just quoted. The joyousness

of Judaism has not been asserted with more sureness of touch by any

Jewish writer than it was by Horace Smith. In another part of his book,

he misconceived the attitude of the Pentateuch to the non-Jew, but

otherwise he well understood Moses and the Law.

PART IV

PART IV

BYRON’S “HEBREW MELODIES”

No selection from Byron’s poetry is complete unless it contain

some of the “Hebrew Melodies.” Matthew Arnold included five of the

twenty-three pieces; Bulwer Lytton adopted them all. Swinburne, it is

true, gave us a volume of selections without a Hebrew melody in it, but

curiously enough he admits the verses beginning: “They say that Hope

is happiness,” which, it would seem, were intended for the melodies,

though they do not appear among them. Nathan duly adds the lines to

his collection, where they form the last item of the fourth and final

“Number.” The musician also includes “Francesca,” and, on the other

hand, omits the “Song of Saul before his Last Battle.”

The “Melodies” first came out with settings by the Jewish musician,

Isaac Nathan. The tunes, partly derived from the Synagogue, were not

well chosen; hence, though the poems have survived, the settings are

forgotten. In the same year (1815), John Murray also published the

verses without the music. Before consenting to this step, Byron wrote

to Nathan for permission to take it. He wished, he said, to oblige Mr.

Murray, but “you know, Nathan, it is against all good fashion to give

and take back. I therefore cannot grant what is not at my disposal.”

Nathan readily consented, and the volume of poems was issued with

this Preface: “The subsequent poems were written at the request of

the author’s friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew

melodies, and have been published with the music arranged by Mr. Braham

and Mr. Nathan.” In point of fact, Braham had nothing to do with the

musical arrangement. Though his name is associated with Nathan’s on the

title page of the original edition, it is removed in the reprints.

[Illustration: TITLE-PAGE OF THE FIRST EDITION OF BYRON’S “HEBREW

MELODIES”]

It has been said above that the musical setting has not retained

its hold on public taste. The Rev. Francis L. Cohen (in the _Jewish

Encyclopedia_, vol. ix, p. 179) speaks of it as having “deservedly

sunk into oblivion.” I have recently had several of them played over

to me, and my verdict is the same as Mr. Cohen’s. In themselves the

tunes are sometimes good enough, _Maoz Zur_ appears among them. But

the words and the airs rarely fit, and Nathan lost chances by ignoring

the Sephardic music. Nathan’s contemporaries had, however, a higher

opinion of the work. Perhaps it was because the composer sang his songs

so well; Braham does not seem to have included them in his repertoire.

But Nathan’s auditors were charmed by his renderings. Byron himself

was most moved by “She Walks in Beauty”--to a modern ear Nathan’s is a

commonplace and inappropriate setting--and “he would not unfrequently

join in its execution.” The verses were really written for the tunes,

and the poet often consulted the musician as to the style and metre

of the stanzas. Nathan (in his _Fugitive Pieces_, 1829), records many

conversations during the progress of the joint work. He tells us, for

instance, how Byron refused to alter the end of “Jephtha’s Daughter.”

As Nathan read the Scripture, and as many others also read it,

Jephthah’s daughter did _not_ perish as a consequence of her father’s

vow; but Byron observed: “Do not seek to exhume the lady.” On another

occasion, Nathan was anxious to know what biblical passages were in the

poet’s mind when he wrote some of the verses, such as “O snatch’d away

in beauty’s bloom!” Byron vaguely answered: “Every mind must make its

own reference.” The local color of the poems, besides their substance,

is in fact sometimes at fault. “Each flower the dews have _lightly_

wet,” is not a Palestinian touch; the dews there are remarkable for

their heaviness.

At this point let us for a moment interrupt Nathan’s reminiscences

of Byron himself, and cite what he tells us of another famous poet’s

appreciation of the “Melodies.” “When the Hebrew melodies were first

published,” says Nathan, “Sir Walter, then Mr. Scott, honoured me with

a visit at my late residence in Poland Street. I sang several of the

melodies to him--he repeated his visit, and requested that I would

allow him to introduce his lady and his daughter. They came together,

when I had the pleasure of singing to them ‘Jephtha’s Daughter,’ and

one or two more of the favourite airs: they entered into the spirit

of the music with all the true taste and feeling so peculiar to the

Scotch.” Another admirer of Nathan’s singing of the melodies was Lady

Caroline Lamb, herself the author of what the conventions of the period

would have termed “elegant verses.” Once she wrote to Nathan: “I am,

and have been, very ill; it would perhaps cure me if you could come

and sing to me ‘Oh Mariamne’--now will you? I entreat you, the moment

you have this letter come and see me.” The same lady translated for

him a Hebrew elegy which he wrote on the death of his wife. Nathan

must obviously have been an amiable companion and a charming renderer

of his own music, or he would not have gained the applause of these

distinguished judges.

As has been seen from the conversations recorded above, Byron and

Nathan became very intimate in the course of their collaboration over

the “Hebrew Melodies.” It was this work that brought them together,

though they were contemporaries at Cambridge about 1805, Byron

being a student at Trinity College, and Nathan a pupil at Solomon

Lyon’s Jewish school in Cambridge town. But they naturally did not

become acquainted then. Douglas Kinnaird (according to Mr. Prothero)

introduced them to one another. Kinnaird was Byron’s banker and

Cambridge friend. This mention of Mr. Prothero reminds me that in his

edition of Byron’s Letters, he cites a note written by the poet to

thank Nathan for a “seasonable bequest” of a parcel of _matsos_. Byron

must have grown very attached to Nathan. An officious friend of the

poet exhorted the musician to bring the melodies out in good style, so

that his lordship’s name “might not suffer from scantiness in their

publication.” Byron overheard the remark, and on the following evening

said to Nathan: “Do not suffer that capricious fool to lead you into

more expense than is absolutely necessary; bring out the book to your

own taste. I have no ambition to gratify, beyond that of proving useful

to you.” The poet was, indeed, so indignant that he generously offered

to share in the cost of production, an offer which Nathan as generously

declined.

Readers of the “Hebrew Melodies” must have been struck by the

appearance of _two_ poems based on Psalm 137. Byron first wrote:

“We sate down and wept by the waters,” and later on another version

beginning: “In the valley of waters we wept.” Byron himself observed

the duplication, and wished to suppress the former copy. It is well

that he yielded to Nathan’s importunities, for the first version is

assuredly the finer. But the incident shows the close connection

between the verses and the music. For Byron ended the discussion with

these words: “I must confess I give a preference to my second version

of this elegy; and since your music differs so widely from the former,

I see no reason why it should not also make its public appearance.”

Such being the close bond between poet and musician, it is all the

more regrettable that the latter did not make a more competent use of

his opportunity. A better fate befell the earlier collaboration which

(in 1807) resulted in Thomas Moore’s “Irish Melodies”--a title which

suggested that given to Byron’s series. Stevenson served Moore better

than Nathan was able to serve Byron. Yet it seems a pity to leave

things in this condition. Such poems as those already alluded to--and

such others as “Saul,” the “Vision of Belshazzar,” and the “Destruction

of Sennacherib”--all bear the clearest marks of their design; they were

written to be sung, not merely to be read or recited. Jeffrey spoke

of their sweetness; Lytton of their depth of feeling; Nathan himself

realized that “Oh! weep for those” reaches the acme of emotional

sympathy for persecuted Israel. Here, then, there is a chance for a

modern Jewish musician. S. Mandelkern, in 1890, gave us a spirited

translation of the verses into the Hebrew language. Let a better artist

than Nathan now translate them musically into the Hebrew spirit.

COLERIDGE’S “TABLE TALK”

Coleridge was not master of his genius; his genius was master of

him. In one place he speaks of the midrashic fancies about the state

of our first parents as “Rabbinic dotages”; in another he laments,

with Schelling, that these same rabbinic stories are neglected, and

proceeds in his periodical, _The Friend_, to quote several with

obvious approval. Again, he writes in one passage of the “proverbial

misanthropy and bigotry” of Pharisaism; then, in another, he asserts,

on the authority of Grotius, that the “Lord’s Prayer” was a selection

from the liturgy of the Synagogue.

The truth is that a large part of Coleridge’s work is of the nature

of table talk. His relative indeed published the poet’s “Table Talk,”

but a good deal else in Coleridge belongs to the same category. His

thoughts are, for the most part, _obiter dicta_, stray jottings, often

stating profound truths, often expressing sheer nonsense. On the

whole, he was not unkind to the Jews. He delivered many lectures on

Shakespeare, but he never spoke on the _Merchant of Venice_. He alludes

with contempt to the incident of the pound of flesh. Jacob, it is

true, he regards as “a regular Jew” because of his trickiness; but he

hastens to take the sting out of the remark by adding: “No man could be

a bad man who loved as he loved Rachel.”

Throughout we find, in Coleridge’s remarks on the Jews and Judaism, the

same mixture of conventional views and original judgments. He notes the

theory that the Jews were destined to “remain a quiet light among the

nations for the purpose of pointing out the doctrine of the unity of

God,” but spoils the compliment by the comment: “The religion of the

Jew is, indeed, a light; but it is the light of the glow-worm, which

gives no heat, and illumines nothing but itself.” He can see in the Jew

only love of money, yet he always found Jews “possessed of a strong

national capacity for metaphysical discussions.”

The last remark points to his personal familiarity with Jews. This

was actually the case. “I have had,” he says, “a good deal to do with

Jews in the course of my life, although I never borrowed any money

from them.” He records several conversations with Jews, and does not

hesitate to admit that he mostly got the worst of the argument. He

argued with one Jew about conversion, and he cites the Jew’s answer:

“Let us convert Jews to Judaism first”--an epigram which has been a

good deal repeated in other forms since 1830, when Coleridge first

recorded it. On one occasion he accosted an “Old Clothes” man, and in

a hectoring tone exclaimed: “Why can’t you pronounce your trade cry

clearly, why must you utter such a grunt?” The Jew answered: “Sir, I

can say ‘Old Clothes’ as well as you can, but if you had to say it ten

times a minute, for an hour, you would say, ‘Ogh clo’’ as I do now,”

and so he marched off. Coleridge confesses that he “felt floored.” He

was so much confounded by the justice of his retort, that, to cite his

own words again: “I followed, and gave him a shilling, the only one I

had.”

Of one particular Jewish friend we know. Coleridge had a deep affection

for Hyman Hurwitz, whom he terms “pious, learned, strong-minded,

single-hearted.” Afterwards Professor of Hebrew at University College,

London, Hurwitz was, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the

head of the “Highgate Academy.” He died in 1844, surviving Coleridge

by ten years; the latter died at Highgate in 1834. Thus the poet and

the Hebraist were neighbors as well as friends. Coleridge translated

into poor English verse Hurwitz’s feeble Hebrew elegy on the death of

Princess Charlotte. He also contracted to prepare for the publisher,

Murray, a volume of “Rabbinical Tales”; in this work Hurwitz was to

collaborate with him. The fee was settled; it was to be two hundred

guineas; but the arrangement came to nothing. Coleridge was rich in

plans which he failed to accomplish. As an instance, let me cite what

he says about an epic on the “Destruction of Jerusalem.” “That,” he

declares, “is the only subject now remaining for an epic poem.” Mark

what follows: “I schemed it at twenty-five, but, alas! _venturum

expectat_.” Perhaps another remark of his explains why he never

attempted the task. The subject of the destruction of Jerusalem,

with great capabilities, has one great defect. “No genius or skill

could possibly preserve the interest for the hero being merged in the

interest for the event”--a profound sentiment.

Perhaps in no direction was Coleridge more in advance of his age than

in his treatment of the ethics of the Pharisees. The Pharisees were,

he contends truly, not a sect; they were, he puts it less aptly,

the _Evangelicals_ of their day. By that he means those who made

religion the main concern of life; therein he is right, but the term

is somewhat unhappily chosen. Yet not from one point of view. I have

already cited Coleridge’s opinion as to the Jewish sources of the

“Lord’s Prayer.” He takes up a similar position with regard to the

ethics of the Gospels in general. Here is a very remarkable concession:

“The Being and Providence of the Living God, holy, gracious, merciful,

the creator and preserver of all things, and a father of the righteous;

the Moral Law in its utmost height, breadth, and purity; a state of

retribution after death, the Resurrection of the Dead, and a Day of

Judgment--all these were known and received by the Jewish people, as

established articles of national faith, at or before the proclaiming

of Christ by the Baptist.” This is taken, not from the collection of

“Table Talk” so named, but from the “Aids to Reflection” (Aphorism

vii). Coleridge justifies his claim in behalf of the Jews by citing

Leviticus 19. 2 and Micah 6. 8, finding the acme of morality in the

command to be holy and in the prophet’s answer to the question, “What

doth the Lord require of thee?” Just so did Huxley choose Micah’s

saying: “To do justly, to love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God,”

as the last word of religion. To give the words of Huxley which cannot

be repeated too often: “If any so-called religion takes away from

this great saying of Micah, I think it wantonly mutilates, while if it

adds thereto, I think it obscures, the perfect idea of religion.” No

two minds were more unlike than Huxley’s and Coleridge’s--the one the

scientist, the other the metaphysician; the one the agnostic, the other

the mystic. Yet they agreed in perceiving in the prophetic teaching a

unique expression of basic moral truth.

BLANCO WHITE’S SONNET