Chapter VIII · THE MENDELSSOHN EPOCH.

Renaissance of the Jewish Race—Moses Mendelssohn—His Youth—Improves Hebrew Style—Lessing and Mendelssohn—Mendelssohn's Writings—The Bonnet-Lavater Controversy—Kölbele—The Burial Question—Reimarus—Anonymous Publication of his Work—Lessing's "Nathan the Wise"—Mendelssohn in "Nathan"—Mendelssohn's Pentateuch—Opposition to it—The "Berlin Religion"—Montesquieu—Voltaire—Portuguese Marranos in Bordeaux—Isaac Pinto—His Defense of Portuguese Jews—Dohm and Mendelssohn—Joseph II of Austria—Michaelis—Mendelssohn's "Jerusalem"—Wessely: his Circular Letter—Mendelssohn's Death.

1750–1786 C. E.

Can "a nation be born at once"—or can a people be regenerated? If the laboriously constructed organism of a nation has lost vitality, if the bonds connecting the individual parts are weakened, and internal dissolution has set in, even the despotic will which keeps the members in a mechanical union being wanting; in short, if death comes upon a commonalty in its corporate state, and it has been entombed, can it be resuscitated and undergo a revival? This doom has overtaken many nationalities of ancient and modern times. But if in such a people a new birth should take place, i.e., a resurrection from death and apparent decomposition, and if this should occur in a race long past its youthful vigor, whose history has spread over thousands of years,—then such a miracle deserves the most attentive consideration from every man who does not stolidly overlook what is marvelous.

The Jewish race has displayed miraculous phenomena, not only in ancient days, the age of miracles, but also in this matter-of-fact epoch. A community which was an object of mockery not merely to the malicious and ignorant, but almost more to benevolent and cultured men; despicable in its own eyes; admirable only by reason of its domestic virtues and ancient memories, both, however, disfigured beyond recognition by trivial observances; scourging itself with bitter irony; of which a representative member could justly remark, "My nation has become so estranged from culture, that the possibility of improvement is doubtful"—this community nevertheless raised itself from the dust! It revived with marvelous rapidity from its abjection, as if a prophet had called unto it, "Shake thyself from the dust; arise ... loose thyself from the bands of thy neck, O captive daughter of Zion!" And who caused this revival? One man, Moses Mendelssohn, who may be considered the incarnation of his race—stunted in form, awkward, timid, stuttering, ugly, and repulsive in appearance. But within this race-deformity breathed a thoughtful spirit, which only when misled pursued chimeras, and lost its self-esteem only when proscribed. No sooner did it understand that it was the exponent of the truth, than it dismissed its visionary fancies, its spirit transfigured the body, and raised the bent form erect, the hateful characteristics disappeared, and the scornful nickname of "Jew" was changed almost into a title of honor.

This rejuvenescence or renaissance of the Jewish race, which may be unhesitatingly ascribed to Mendelssohn, is noteworthy, inasmuch as the originator of this great work neither intended nor suspected it; in fact, as already remarked, he almost doubted the capacity for rejuvenescence in his brethren. He produced this altogether unpremeditated glorious result not by means of his profession or his public position. He was not a preacher in the wilderness, who urged the lost sons of Israel to a change of mind; all his life he shrank from direct exercise of influence. Even when sought after, he avoided leadership of every kind with the oft-repeated confession, that he was in no way fitted for the office. Mendelssohn played an influential part without either knowing or desiring it: involuntarily, he aroused the slumbering genius of the Jewish race, which only required an impulse to free itself from its constrained position and develop. The story of his life is interesting, because it typifies the history of the Jews in recent times, when they raised themselves from lowliness and contempt to greatness and self-consciousness.

Moses Mendelssohn (born at Dessau, August, 1728, died in Berlin, January 4, 1786) was as insignificant and wretched an object as almost all poor Jewish children. At this time even infants seemed to possess a servile appearance. For quick-witted boys there was no period of youth; they were early made to shiver and shake by the icy breath of rough life. They were thus prematurely awakened to think, and hardened for their struggle with unlovely reality. One day Mendelssohn, a weakly, deformed lad in his fourteenth year, knocked at the door in one of the gates of Berlin. A Jewish watchman, a sort of police officer, the terror of immigrant Jews, who was ordered to refuse admission to those without means of subsistence, harshly addressed the pale, crippled boy seeking admission. Fortunately, he managed bashfully to stammer out that he desired to enroll himself among the Talmudical pupils of the new rabbi of Berlin. This was a kind of recommendation, and enabled him to dispense with a full purse. Mendelssohn was admitted, and directed his steps towards the house of the rabbi, David Fränkel, his countryman and teacher, who had shortly before been called from Dessau to the rabbinate of Berlin.

He took an interest in the shy youth, allowed him to attend his rabbinical lectures, provided for his maintenance, and employed him in copying his Commentary to the Jerusalem Talmud, because Mendelssohn had inherited a beautiful handwriting as his only legacy from his father, a writer of scrolls of the Law. Even if Mendelssohn learnt from Fränkel nothing besides the Talmud, yet the latter exerted a favorable influence upon the mind of his disciple, because his method, exercising itself upon virgin soil, the Jerusalem Talmud, was not so distorted, hair-splitting, and perverse as that of most expounders of the Talmud, who made the crooked straight, and the straight crooked. Mendelssohn's innate honesty and yearning for truth were not suppressed or hindered by his first teacher, and this was of value.

Like the majority of Talmud disciples (Bachurim) Mendelssohn led the life of poverty which the Talmud in a measure makes a stipulation for study:—

"Eat bread with salt, drink water by measure, sleep upon the hard earth, live a life of privations, and busy thyself with the Law."

His ideal at this time was to perfect himself in the knowledge of the Talmud. Was it chance that implanted in Berlin the seed destined to produce such luxuriant fruit? Or would the result have been the same, if he had remained with Fränkel in Dessau, or if the latter had been called to Halberstadt, or Fürth, or Metz, or Frankfort? It is highly improbable. Retired though Mendelssohn's life was, yet a fresh breeze was wafted from the Prussian capital into the narrow chambers of his Rabbinical studies. With the accession of Frederick the Great, who besides war cultivated the Muses (though in a French garb), literary dilettanteism, French customs, and contempt for religion began to grow into fashion among Berlin Jews. Although their condition under Frederick was restricted, yet, because several became wealthy, the new spirit did not pass over them without leaving an impression, however inadequate and superficial. An impulse towards culture, the spirit of innovation, and imitation of Christian habits began to manifest themselves.

A Pole first introduced Mendelssohn to the philosophical work of Maimuni, which for him and through him became a "Guide of the Perplexed." The spirit of the great Jewish thinker, whose ashes had lain in Palestine for more than five hundred years, came upon young Mendelssohn, inspired him with fresh thoughts, and made him, as it were, his Elisha. What signified to Mendelssohn the long interval of many centuries? He listened to the words of Maimuni as if sitting at his feet, and imbibed his wise instruction in deep draughts. He read this book again and again, until he became bent by constant perusal of its pages. From the Pole, Israel Zamosc, he also learned mathematics and logic, and from Aaron Solomon Gumpertz a liking for good literature. Mendelssohn learned to spell and to philosophize at the same time, and received only desultory assistance in both. He principally taught and educated himself. He cultivated firmness of character, tamed his passions, and accustomed himself, even before he knew what wisdom was, to live according to her rules. In this respect also Maimuni was his instructor. By nature Mendelssohn was violent and hot-tempered; but he taught himself such complete self-mastery that, a second Hillel, he became distinguished for meekness and gentleness.

As if Mendelssohn divined it to be his mission to purify the morals and elevate the minds of his brethren, he, still a youth, contributed to a Hebrew newspaper, started by associates in sympathy with him for the purpose of ennobling the Jews. The firstlings of his intellect are like succulent grass in the early spring. He abandoned the ossified, distorted, over-embellished Hebrew style of his contemporaries, which had debased the Hebrew language into the mere mumbling of a decrepit tongue. Fresh and clear as a mountain-stream the Hebrew outpourings of Mendelssohn welled forth. Philosophical-religious views pervaded these early works, not only where he desired to depict trust in God and the inefficacy of evil, but also the rejuvenescence of nature in her spring vesture, and the delight of the pure mind of man at this beautiful change. The school of suffering through which he had passed for so many years, instead of dragging him down, had awakened, elevated, and ennobled his spirit. His struggles for a livelihood ceased when he obtained the situation as tutor in a rich family (that of Isaac Bernard), which, though not over-lucrative, sufficed for his frugal habits. His journeyman days were, however, not yet at an end. The old and the new, tradition and original views agitated his mind; clearness and self-consciousness were to flow into it from another source.

To the great minds which Germany produced in the eighteenth century belongs Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. He was the first free-thinking man in Germany, probably more so than the royal hero Frederick, who had indeed liberated himself from bigotry, but still had idols to whom he sacrificed. With his gigantic mind, Lessing burst through all bounds and regulations which depraved taste, dry-as-dust science, haughty orthodoxy, and pedantry of every kind had desired to set up and perpetuate. The freedom that Lessing brought to the Germans was more solid and permanent than that which Voltaire aroused in depraved French society with his biting sarcasm; for, his purpose was to ennoble, and his wit was only a means to this end. Lessing wished to exalt the theatre to a pulpit, and art to a religion. Voltaire degraded philosophy into light gossip for the drawing-room.

It was an important moment for the history of the Jews, when these two young men, Mendelssohn and Lessing, became acquainted. It is related that a passionate lover of chess, named Isaac Hess, brought them together at the chess-board (1754). The royal game united two monarchs in the kingdom of thought. Lessing, the son of a pastor, was of a democratic nature: he sought the society of outcasts, and those despised by public opinion. As shortly before he had mixed with actors in Leipsic, and as afterwards he associated with soldiers in Breslau, so now he was not ashamed to converse in Berlin with despised Jews. He had before this dedicated the first-fruits of his art, which to him appeared the highest art, to the pariah nation. By his drama, "The Jews," he desired to show that a Jew can be unselfish and noble, and he thereby aroused the displeasure of cultivated Christian circles. The ideal of a noble Jew which Lessing had in mind while composing this drama, he saw realized in Mendelssohn, and it must have pleased him to find that he was not mistaken in his portraiture, and that reality did not disprove his dream.

As soon as Lessing and Mendelssohn became acquainted, they learned to respect and love each other. The latter admired in his Christian friend his ability and unconstraint, his courage and perfect culture, his overflowing spirit, and the vigor which enabled him to bear a new world upon his broad shoulders; and Lessing admired in Mendelssohn nobility of thought, a yearning for truth, and firmness of character based upon a moral nature. They were both so imbued with lofty nobility of mind that the one prized in the other whatever perfection he could not attain to equally with his friend. Lessing suspected in his Jewish friend "a second Spinoza, who would do honor to his nation." Mendelssohn was completely enchanted by Lessing's friendship. A friendly look from him, he confessed, had such power over his mind that it banished all grief. They exerted perceptible influence upon each other. Lessing, at that time a mere "Schöngeist," as it was termed, aroused in Mendelssohn an interest for noble forms, æsthetic culture, poetry, and art; the latter in return stimulated Lessing to philosophical thought. Thus they reciprocally gave and received, the true relationship in a worthy friendship. The bond of amity became so strong, and united the two friends so sincerely, that it lasted beyond the grave.

The stimulus that Mendelssohn received from his friend was extraordinarily fruitful both for him and for the Jews. It maybe said without exaggeration that Lessing's influence was greater in ennobling the Jewish race than in elevating the German people, due to the fact that the Jews were more eager for study and more susceptible to culture. All that Mendelssohn gained by intercourse with his friend benefited Judaism. Through his friend, who by reason of a genial, sympathetic nature exerted great attraction upon talented men, Mendelssohn was introduced into his circle, learned the forms of society, and threw off the awkwardness which was the stamp of the Ghetto. He now devoted himself zealously to the acquisition of an attractive German style—a difficult task, as the German language was strange to him, and the German vocabulary in use among Jews was antiquated and misleading. Nor had he any pattern to follow; for, before Lessing enriched German style with his genius, it was unwieldy, rugged, and ungraceful. But Mendelssohn overcame all difficulties. He withdrew, as he expressed it, "a portion of his love from the worthy matron (philosophy), to bestow it upon a wanton maiden (the so-called belles-lettres.)" Before a year's intimacy with Lessing elapsed, he was able to compose in excellent form his "Philosophical Conversations" (the beginning of 1755), in which he, the Jew, blamed the Germans, because, misapprehending the depth of their own genius, they bore the yoke of French taste: "Will, then, the Germans never recognize their own worth? Will they always exchange their gold for the tinsel of their neighbors?" This rebuke was applicable even to the philosophical monarch Frederick II, who could not sufficiently scorn native talent, nor sufficiently admire that of foreign lands. The Jew was more German than most of the Germans of his time.

His patriotic feelings for Judaism did not suffer diminution thereby; they were united in his heart with love for German ideals. Although he could never overcome his dislike to Spinoza's revolutionary system, yet in his first work he strove to save the latter's birthright in the new metaphysics. The "Philosophical Conversations" Mendelssohn handed to his friend, with the jesting remark that he could produce something like Shaftesbury, the Englishman. Without his knowledge Lessing had them printed, and thus contributed the first leaves to his friend's crown of laurel. Through Lessing's zeal to advance him in every way, Mendelssohn became known in the learned circle in Berlin. When a "Coffee-house of the Learned," for an association of about one hundred men of science, was established in the Prussian capital, hitherto deficient in literary interests, the founders did not pass over the young Jewish philosopher, but invited him to join them. Every month some member delivered a discourse upon a scientific subject. Mendelssohn, however, was prevented from reading in public by modesty and an imperfection of speech; he presented his contribution in writing. His essay was called an "Inquiry into Probability," which must replace certainty in the limited sphere of human knowledge. While it was being read aloud, he was recognized as the author, and was applauded by the critical audience. Thus Mendelssohn was made a citizen in the republic of literature, took an active part in the literary productions of the day, and contributed to the "Library of the Fine Arts," which had been founded by his friend Nicolai. His taste became more refined every day, his style grew nobler, and his thoughts more lucid. His method of presentation was the more attractive because he seasoned it with incisive wit.

That which the Jews had lost through the abasement of thousand years of slavery, Mendelssohn now recovered for them in a short space of time. Almost all, with the exception of a few Portuguese and Italian Jews, had lost pure speech, the first medium of intellectual intercourse, and a childish jargon had been substituted, which, a true companion of their misfortunes, appeared unwilling to forsake them. Mendelssohn felt disgust at the utter neglect of language. He saw that the Jewish corrupt speech contributed not a little to the "immorality of the average man," and he hoped for good results from the attention beginning to be paid to pure language. It was one of the consequences of the debasement of language, that the German and Polish Jews had lost all sense of form, taste for artistic beauty, and æsthetic feeling. Oppression from without and their onerous duties, which had reduced them to veritable slaves, had banished from their midst these, together with many other, ennobling influences. Mendelssohn recovered these lost treasures for his brethren. He acquired so remarkable a sense for the beautiful, that he was afterwards recognized by the Germans as a judge in questions of taste. The perverse course of study pursued by the Jews since the fourteenth century had blunted their minds to simplicity. They had grown so accustomed to all that was artificial, distorted, super-cunningly wrought, and to subtleties, that the simple, unadorned truth became worthless, if not childish and ridiculous, in their eyes. Their train of thought was mostly perverted, uncultivated, and defiant of logical discipline. He who in a short time was to restore their youthful strength, so schooled himself that twisted methods and thoughts became repugnant to him. With his refined appreciation for the simple, the beautiful, and the true, he acquired a profound understanding of biblical literature, whose essence is simplicity and truth. Through the close layers of musty rubbish, with which commentaries and super-commentaries had encumbered it, he penetrated to the innermost core, and was able to cleanse the beautiful picture from dust, and to understand and render comprehensible the ancient Revelation as if it were a new one. Though not gifted with the ability of expressing his thoughts poetically or rhythmically, he had a delicate perception of the poetic beauties of every literature, especially of those in the holy language. And what formed the crowning-point of these attainments was, that his moral views were characterized by extreme delicacy; he was painfully conscientious and truthful, as if there flowed through his veins the blood of a long series of noble ancestors, who had chosen for their life's task all that is honorable and worthy. Almost childlike modesty adorned him, modesty quite remote however from self-despising subservience. He combined in himself so many innate and hardly acquired qualities, that he formed a striking contrast to the caricatures which German and Polish Jews of the time presented. There was but one feeling wanting in Mendelssohn—and this deficiency was detrimental to the near future of Judaism. He lacked an appreciation for history, for things petty on close view, but great in perspective, for the comic and tragic course of the human race during the progress of time. "What do I know of history!" he observed, in half-apologetic, half-scornful tones; "whatever is called history, political history, history of philosophers, I cannot understand." He shared this deficiency with his prototype Maimuni, and infected his surroundings with it.

Some of his brilliant qualities shone out from Mendelssohn's eyes and features, and won him more hearts than if he had striven to gain them. Curiosity about "this Jew" began to be aroused even at the court of Frederick the Great. He was considered the embodiment of wisdom. The dauntless Lessing infused such courage into him, that he ventured to criticise in a periodical the poetical works of the Prussian sovereign, and gently hint at their faults (1760). Frederick the Great, who regarded verse-making as poetry, and dogmatism as philosophy, worshiped the Muse in the court language of the day, thoroughly despised the German tongue, at this time pregnant with real poetry, and mocked at intellectual treasures sacred to solid thinkers. Mendelssohn, the Jew, felt hurt at the king's hatred of German, as well as by his superficial judgments. However, as one dare not tell the truth to monarchs, he cleverly, through the trumpet of praise, emitted a soft note of blame, clear enough to the acute reader.

Skillfully as Mendelssohn had concealed his censure of the king, yet a malicious courtier, the preacher Justi, discovered it, and also the name of the fault-finder, and denounced him, "a Jew, who had thrown aside all reverence for the most sacred person of His Majesty in insolent criticism of his poetry." Suddenly, Mendelssohn received a harsh command to appear on a Saturday at Sans-Souci; an act in accordance with the coarseness of the age. Full of dread, Mendelssohn made his way to Potsdam to the royal castle, was examined, and asked whether he was the author of the disrespectful criticism. He admitted his offense, and excused himself with the observation, that "he who makes verses, plays at nine-pins, and he who plays at nine-pins, be he monarch or peasant, must be satisfied with the judgment of the boy who has charge of the bowls as to the merit of his playing." Frederick was no doubt ashamed to punish the Jewish reviewer for his subtle criticism in the presence of the French cynics of his court, and thus Mendelssohn escaped untouched.

Fortune was extraordinarily favorable to this man, unwittingly the chief herald of the future. It gave him warm friends, who found true delight in exalting him, though a Jew, in public opinion. It secured for him a not brilliant, yet fairly independent situation as book-keeper in the house where he had hitherto held the toilsome position of resident tutor. It bestowed on him a trusty, tender, and simple life companion, who surrounded him with tokens of devoted love. Fortune soon procured a great triumph for him. The Berlin Academy had offered a prize for an essay upon the subject, "Are philosophical (metaphysical) truths susceptible of mathematical demonstration?" Modestly Mendelssohn set to work to solve this problem. He did not belong to the guild of the learned, had not learnt his alphabet until grown up, at an age when conventionally educated youths have their heads crammed with Latin. When he became aware that his friend, the young, highly-promising scholar Thomas Abt, was also a competitor, he almost lost courage, and desired to withdraw. Still his work gained the prize (June, 1763), not alone over Abt, but even over Kant, whose essay received only honorable mention. Mendelssohn obtained the prize of fifty ducats and the medal. The Jew, the tradesman, had defeated his rivals of the learned guild. Kant's disquisition went deeper into the question, but that of Mendelssohn had the advantage of clearness and comprehensibility. "He had torn the thorns from the roses of philosophy." Compelled to acquire each item of his knowledge by great labor, and having only with difficulty become conversant with the barbarous dialect of the schools, he did not content himself with dry formulæ, but exerted himself to render intelligible, both for himself and others, metaphysical conceptions and truths. This circumstance gained him the victory over his much profounder opponent. His essay, which together with that of Kant was translated into French and Latin at the expense of the Academy, earned for him assured renown in the learned world, which was enhanced by the fact that the prize-winner was a Jew.

In the same year (October, 1763), he received a distinction from King Frederick, characteristic of the low condition of the Jews in Prussia. This honor was the privilege of being a protected Jew (Schutz-Jude), i. e., the assurance that he would not some fine day be expelled from Berlin. Hitherto, he had been tolerated in Berlin only as a retainer of his employer. The philosophical King Frederick sympathized with the antipathy of his illustrious enemy Maria Theresa to the Jews, and issued anti-Jewish laws worthy of the Middle Ages rather than of the eighteenth century, so boastful of its humanity. He wished to see the Jews of his dominions diminished in number, rather than increased. Frederick's "general privilege" for the Jews was an insult to the age. Marquis d'Argent, one of Frederick's French courtiers, who in his naïveté could not conceive that a wise and learned man like Mendelssohn might any day become liable to be driven out of Berlin by the brutal police, urged Mendelssohn to sue for the privilege of protection, and the king to grant it. However, a long time elapsed before the dry official document granting it reached him. At last Mendelssohn became a Prussian "Schutz-Jude."

The philosophical "Schutz-Jude" of Berlin now won great success with a work, which met with almost rapturous admiration from his contemporaries in all classes of society. Two decades later this production was already obsolete, and at the present day has only literary value. Nevertheless, when it appeared, it justly attained great importance. Mendelssohn had hit upon the exact moment to bring it forward, and he became one of the celebrities of the eighteenth century. For almost sixteen centuries Christianity had educated the nations of Europe, governed them, and almost surfeited them with belief in the supernatural. It had employed all available means to effect its ends, and finally, when the thinkers awakened from their slumber induced by its lullabies, to inquire into the certainty secured by this announcement of salvation which promised so much, serious people said with regret—whilst sceptics chuckled with brutal delight—that it offered delusive fancies in the place of truth.

In serious compositions, or in satires, the French thinkers of the eighteenth century—the whole body of Materialists—had revealed the hollowness of the doctrine, in which the so-called civilized peoples had found comfort and tranquillity for many centuries. The world was deprived of a God, the heavens were enshrouded in mist; all that had hitherto seemed firm and incapable of being displaced was turned topsy-turvy. The doctrine of Jesus had lost its power of attraction, and become degraded in the eyes of the earnest and thoughtful to the level of childish fables. Infidelity had become a fashion. With the undeifying of Jesus appeared to go hand-in-hand the dethronement of God, and doubt of the important dogma of the immortality of the soul, which Christian theology had borrowed from Greek philosophy and, as always, adorning itself with strange feathers, had claimed as its original creation. Thereupon depended not merely the confidence of mankind in a future existence, but also the practical morals of the present. If the soul is mortal and transient, they thought in the eighteenth century, then the acts of man are of no consequence! Whether he be good or evil, virtuous or criminal, on the other side of the grave there was no retribution. Thus, after the long dream of many centuries, the civilized portion of mankind again fell into the despondency prevalent in the Roman society of the empire; they were without God, without support, without moral freedom, without stimulus to a virtuous life. Man had been degraded to a complicated machine.

Mendelssohn was also biased by the prejudice that the dignity of man stands and falls with the question of the immortality of the soul. He therefore undertook to restore this belief to the cultured world, to discover again the lost truth, to establish it so firmly and ward off materialistic attacks upon it so decisively, that the dying man should calmly look forward to a blissful future and to felicity in the after-life. He composed a dialogue called "Phædon, or the Immortality of the Soul." It was to be a popular book, a new doctrine of salvation for the unbelieving or sceptical world. Therefore he gave to his dialogue an easily comprehensible, attractive style, after the pattern of Plato's dialogue of the same name, from which he copied also the external form. But Plato supplied him with the mere form. Mendelssohn caused his Socrates to give utterance to the philosophy of the eighteenth century through the mouth of his pupil, Phædon.

His starting-point, in proving the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, is the fact of the existence of God, of which he has the highest possible certainty. The soul is the work of God, just as the body is; the body does not actually perish after dissolution, but is transformed into other elements; much less, then, can the soul, a simple essence, be decomposed, and perish. Further, God has acquainted the soul with the idea of immortality, has implanted it in the soul. Can He, the Benevolent and True One, practice deception?

"If our soul were mortal, then reason would be a dream, which Jupiter has sent us that we may forget our misery; and we would be created like the beasts, only to seek food and die."

Every thought inborn in man must for that reason be true and real.

In demonstrating the doctrine of immortality, Mendelssohn had another noble purpose in view. He thought to counteract the malady of talented youths of the day, the Jerusalem-Werthers, who, without a goal for their endeavors, excluded from political and elevating public activity, lost in whimsical sentimentality and self-created pain, sank to thoughts of suicide, which they carried out, unless courage, too, was sicklied over. Mendelssohn, therefore, in his "Phædon" sought to inculcate the conviction, that man, with his immortal soul, is a possession of God, and has no manner of right to decide arbitrarily about himself and his life, or about the separation of his soul from his body—feeble argumentation, but sufficient for that weakly, effeminate generation.

With his "Phædon," Mendelssohn attained more than he had intended and expected, viz., "conviction of the heart, warmth of feeling," in favor of the doctrine of immortality. "Phædon" was the most popular book of its time, and was perused with heart and soul. In two years it ran through three editions, and was immediately translated into all the European languages, also into Hebrew. Theologians, philosophers, artists, poets, such as Herder, Gleim, and Goethe, then but a youth, statesmen, and princes—men and women—were edified by it, reanimated their depressed religious courage, and, with an enthusiasm which would to-day appear absurd, thanked the Jewish sage who had restored to them that comfort which Christianity no longer afforded. The deliverance by Mendelssohn, the Jew, was as joyfully welcomed by the world grown pagan, as in an earlier epoch that effected by the Jews, Jesus and Paul of Tarsus, was welcomed by the heathens. His contemporaries were delighted both with the contents and the form, with the glowing, fresh, vigorous style, a happy, artistic imitation of Plato's dialogues. From all sides letters of congratulation poured in upon the modest author. Everyone of the literary guild who passed through Berlin eagerly sought out the Jewish Plato, as one of the greatest celebrities of the Prussian capital, to have a word with him. The Duke of Brunswick seriously thought of securing the services of Mendelssohn for his state. The Prince of Lippe-Schaumburg treated him as a bosom friend. The Berlin Academy of Sciences proposed him as a member. But King Frederick struck the name of Mendelssohn off the list, because, as it was said, he desired at the same time to have the Empress Catherine admitted into the learned body, and she would be insulted in having a Jew as a companion. Two Benedictine friars—one from the convent of Peter, near Erfurt, the other from the convent of La Trappe—addressed Mendelssohn, the Jew, as the adviser of their conscience, for instruction in moral and philosophical conduct. The book "Phædon," out of date in twenty years, as remarked above, raised its author to the height of fame. He was fortunate, because he introduced it to the world exactly at the right moment.

An incident vexatious in itself served to exalt Mendelssohn to an extraordinary degree in the eyes of his contemporaries, and to invest him with the halo of martyrdom. John Caspar Lavater, an evangelical minister of Zürich, an enthusiast who afterwards joined the Jesuits, thought that he had found in Mendelssohn's intellectual countenance a confirmation of his deceptive art, the reading of the character and talents of a man from his features. Lavater asserted that in every line of Mendelssohn's face the unprejudiced could at once recognize the soul of Socrates. He was completely enchanted with Mendelssohn's head, raved about it, desiring to possess a well-executed model, in order to bring honor upon his art. Mendelssohn having caused his Phædon to speak in so Greek a fashion that no one could have recognized the author as a Jew, Lavater arrived at the fantastic conclusion that Mendelssohn had become entirely estranged from his religion. Lavater had learned that certain Berlin Jews were indifferent to Judaism, and forthwith reckoned Mendelssohn amongst their number. There was the additional fact that, in a conversation reluctantly entered upon with Lavater, Mendelssohn had pronounced calm, sober judgment upon Christianity, and had spoken with a certain respect of Jesus, though with the reservation, "if Jesus of Nazareth had desired to be considered only a virtuous man." This expression appeared to Lavater the dawning of grace and belief. What if this great man, this incarnation of wisdom, who had become indifferent towards Judaism, could be won over to Christianity! This was the train of thought which arose in Lavater's mind after reading "Phædon." Ingenuous or cunning, he spread his net for Mendelssohn, and thus showed how ignorant he was of his true character. About this time, a Geneva professor, Caspar Bonnet, had written in French a weak apology, entitled "Investigation into the Evidences of Christianity against Unbelievers." This work Lavater translated into German, and sent to Mendelssohn, with an awkward dedication, which looked like a snare (September 4, 1769). Lavater solemnly adjured him to refute publicly Bonnet's proofs of Christianity, or, if he found them correct, to do "what sagacity, love of truth, and honesty would naturally dictate, what a Socrates would have done, if he had read this treatise, and found it unanswerable." If Lavater had been really acquainted with the secrets of the heart, as he prided himself, he would have understood that, even if Mendelssohn had severed all connection with Judaism, Christianity was still more repugnant to him, and that sagacity, that is to say, regard to profit and the advantages of a pleasant existence, was altogether lacking in his character. Lavater did not desire to expose him before the public, but he wished to create a sensation, without thinking what pain he was causing the shy scholar of Berlin.

Mendelssohn later had reason to thank Lavater for having through thoughtlessness or pious cunning drawn him out of his diffidence and seclusion. Mendelssohn had indeed expressed his relations to Judaism and his co-religionists so vaguely that onlookers might have been misled. In public life he was a philosopher and an elegant writer, who represented the principles of humanity and good taste, and apparently did not trouble about his race. In the darkness of the Ghetto he was a strictly orthodox Jew, who, apparently unconcerned about the laws of beauty, joined in the observance of every pious custom. Self-contained and steadfast though he was in reality, he seemed to be a twofold personality, revealing the one or the other as he was in Christian or in Jewish society. He could not stand up in defense of Judaism without, on the one hand, affronting Christianity by his philosophical convictions, and, on the other, showing, if ever so lightly, his dissatisfaction with the chaotic traditions of the synagogue, and so offending the sensibility of his co-religionists and quarreling with them. Neither of these courses, owing to his peace-loving character, entered his mind. He would have been able to pass his life in an attitude of silence, if Lavater's rude importunity had not dragged him out of this false position, altogether unworthy of a man with a mission. Painful as it was to reveal his innermost thoughts upon Judaism and Christianity, he could not hold his peace at this challenge, without being considered a coward even by his friends. These reflections weighed heavily upon him, and caused him to take up the glove.

He skillfully carried on the contest thus forced upon him, and was ultimately victorious. At the end of 1769, in a public letter addressed to Christendom and Lavater, its representative, Mendelssohn in the mildest form wrote most cutting truths, whose utterance in former times would inevitably have led to bloodshed or the stake. Mendelssohn had examined his religion since the days of his youth, and found it true. Philosophy and belles-lettres had with him never been an end, but the means to prepare him for testing Judaism. He could not possibly expect advantage from adherence to it; and as for pleasure—

"O my worthy friend, the position assigned to my co-religionists in civil life is so far removed from all free exercise of spiritual powers, that one's satisfaction is not increased by learning the true rights of man. He who knows the state in which we now are, and has a humane heart, will understand more than I can express."

If the examination of Judaism had not produced results favorable to it, what would have chained him to a religion so intensely and universally despised, what could have prevented him from leaving it? Fear of his co-religionists, forsooth? Their secular power was too insignificant to do any harm.

"I do not deny that I have noticed in my religion certain human additions and abuses, such as every religion accepts in course of time, which unfortunately dim its splendor. But of the essentials of my faith I am so firmly and indisputably assured, that I call God to witness that I will adhere to my fundamental creed as long as my soul does not assume another nature."

He was as opposed to Christianity as ever, for the reason which he had communicated to Lavater verbally, and which the latter should not have concealed, namely, that its founder had declared himself to be God.

"Yet, for my part, Judaism might have been utterly crushed in every polemical text-book, and triumphantly arraigned in every school composition, without my ever entering into a controversy about it. Without the slightest contradiction from me, any scholar or any sciolist in subjects Rabbinic might have constructed for himself and his readers the most ridiculous view of Judaism out of worthless books which no rational Jew reads, or knows of. The contemptible opinion held of Jews I would desire to shame by virtue, not by controversy. My religion, my philosophy, and my status in civil life are the weightiest arguments for avoiding all religious discussion, and for treating in public writings of truths equally important to all religions."

Judaism was binding only upon the congregation of Jacob. It desired proselytes so little, that the rabbis had ordained that any person who offered to unite himself to this religion was to be dissuaded from his design.

"The religion of my fathers does not care to be spread abroad; we are not to send missions to the two Indies or to Greenland, to preach our belief to remote nations. I have the good fortune to possess as friends many excellent men not of my creed. We love each other dearly, and never have I said in my heart, 'What a pity for that beautiful soul!' It is possible for me to recognize national prejudices and erroneous religious opinions among my fellow-citizens, and nevertheless feel constrained to remain silent, if these errors do not directly affect natural religion or natural law (morality), but are only accidentally connected with the advancement of good. It is true that the morality of our actions does not deserve the name, if based upon error.... But as long as truth is not recognized, as long as it does not become national, so as to work as powerful an effect upon the great mass of the people as ingrained prejudice, the latter must be almost sacred to every friend of virtue. These are the reasons that religion and philosophy give me to shun religious disputes."

Besides, being a Jew, he had to be content with toleration, because in other countries even this was denied his race. "Is it not forbidden, according to the laws of your native city," he ask Lavater, "for your circumcised friend even to visit you in Zürich?" The French work of Bonnet he did not find so convincing, he said, as to cause his convictions to waver; he had read better defenses of Christianity written by Englishmen and Germans; also it was not original, but borrowed from German writings. The arguments were so feeble and so little tending to prove Christianity that any religion could be equally well or badly defended by them. If Lavater thought that a Socrates could have been convinced of the truth of Christianity by this treatise, he only showed what power prejudice exerts over reason.

If the evangelical consistory, before whom Mendelssohn offered to lay his letter for censorship before printing it, did not regret granting him permission to print whatever he pleased, "because they knew his wisdom and modesty to be such that he would write nothing that might give public offense," still he undoubtedly did give offense to many pious persons.

Mendelssohn's epistle to Lavater naturally made a great sensation. Since the appearance of Phædon, he belonged to the select band of authors whose works every cultivated person felt obliged to read. Besides it happened that the subject of the controversy was attractive at the time. The free-thinkers—by no means few at this time—were glad that at last some one, a Jew at that, had ventured to utter a candid word about Christianity. Owing to his obtrusiveness and presumptuous advocacy of Christianity, Lavater had many enemies. These read Mendelssohn's clever reply to the zealous conversionist with mischievous delight. The hereditary prince of Brunswick, who, as said above, was charmed with Mendelssohn, expressed (January 2, 1770) his admiration, that he had spoken "with such great tact and so high a degree of humanitarianism" upon these nice questions. Bonnet himself, less objectionable than his servile flatterer, admitted the justice of Mendelssohn's cause, and complained of Lavater's injudicious zeal. A letter of his dated January 12, 1770, was almost a triumph for Mendelssohn. He said that his dissertation, with which Lavater had desired to convert the Jew, had not been addressed to the honorable "House of Jacob," for which his heart entertained the sincerest and warmest wishes; much less had it been his intention to give the Jewish philosopher a favorable opinion of Christianity. He was full of admiration for the wisdom, the moderation, and the abilities of the famous son of Abraham. He indeed desired him to investigate Christianity, as it could only gain by being subjected to a close inquiry by the wise son of Mendel. But he did not wish to fall into Lavater's mistakes, and make it burdensome for him. However, in spite of his virtuous indignation, Bonnet perpetrated a bit of knavery against Mendelssohn. Lavater himself was obliged in a letter to publicly beg Mendelssohn's pardon for having placed him in so awkward a position, entreating him at the same time to attest that he had not intentionally been guilty of any indiscretion or perfidy. Thus Mendelssohn had an opportunity of acting magnanimously towards his opponent. On the subject proper under dispute, however, he remained firm; he did not surrender an iota of his Judaism, not even its Talmudical and Rabbinical peculiarities, and with every step his courage grew.

Mendelssohn did not wish to let pass this propitious opportunity of glorifying Judaism, which was so intensely contemned, and make it clear that it was in no way opposed to reason. Despite the warnings of timid Jews, to allow the controversy to lapse, so as not to stir up persecutions, he pointed out with growing boldness the chasm which Christianity had dug between itself and reason, whereas Judaism in its essence was in accord with reason. "The nearer I approach this so highly-esteemed religion," he wrote in his examination of Bonnet's "Palingénésie," "the more abhorrent is it to my reason." It afforded him especial delight when strictly orthodox Christians thought that they were abusing Judaism by declaring it to be equivalent to natural religion (Deism).

"Blessed be God, who has given unto us the doctrine of truth. We have no dogmas contrary to, or beyond reason. We add nothing, except commandments and statutes, to natural religion; but the fundamental doctrines of our religion rest upon the basis of understanding." "This is our glory and our pride, and all the writings of our sages are full of it."

Frankly Mendelssohn spoke to the hereditary prince of Brunswick of the untenability of Christian, and the reasonableness of Jewish, dogmas. He thought that he had not yet done enough for Judaism.

"Would to God, another similar opportunity were granted me; I would do the same.... When I consider what we ought to do for the recognition of the sanctity of our religion."

Those who had not wholly parted company with reason declared Mendelssohn to be in the right, and his defense to be just. They beheld with astonishment that Judaism, so greatly despised, was yet vastly superior to celebrated, official, orthodox Christianity. Through its noble son, Judaism celebrated a triumph. The unhappy ardor of Lavater, and the refined yet daring answer of Mendelssohn for a long time formed the topic of conversation in cultured circles in Germany, and even beyond its borders. The journals commented upon it, and noted every incident. Anecdotes passed backwards and forwards between Zürich and Berlin. It was said that Lavater had asserted that if he were able to continue for eleven days in a state of complete holiness and prayer, he would most positively succeed in converting Mendelssohn to Christianity. When Mendelssohn heard this saying—whether authentic or not it is characteristic of Lavater—he smilingly said, "If I am permitted to sit here in my armchair and smoke a pipe philosophically, I have no objections!" There was more talk of the contest between Mendelssohn and Lavater than of war and peace. Every fair brought pamphlets written in German and French, unimportant productions, which did not deserve to live long. Only a few were on Mendelssohn's side, the majority took the part of Christianity and its representatives against the "insolence of the Jew," who did not consider it an honor to be offered admission into the Christian community.

The worst of these was by a petty, choleric author, named John Balthasar Kölbele, of Frankfort-on-the-Main, who, from hatred of the Jews, or from distemper of body and soul, hurled such coarse insults against Mendelssohn, the rabbis, the Jews, and Judaism, that his very violence paralyzed his onslaught. Kölbele had on a previous occasion attacked Mendelssohn, and jeered at him by means of a lay figure in one of his forgotten romances. He desired to write, or said that he had written, an "Anti-Phædon" against Mendelssohn's "Phædon." His whole gall was vented in a letter to "Mr. Mendelssohn upon the affair of Lavater and Kölbele" (March, 1770). Against the assertions of Mendelssohn as to the purity of Judaism, he brought forward the calumnies and perversions of his brother in feeling, Eisenmenger. Mendelssohn's pure, unselfish character was known in almost all cultivated and high circles of Europe. Nevertheless, Kölbele cast the suspicion upon him of adhering to Judaism from self-interest, "because a Jewish bookkeeper is in a better position than a Christian professor, and the former besides derives some profit from attendance in the antechambers of princes." To Mendelssohn's asseveration that he would cling to Judaism all his lifetime, the malignant fool or libeler rejoined, "How little value Christians attach to the oath of a Jew!" Mendelssohn disposed of him in a few words in the postscript of a letter addressed to Lavater. Nothing more was required; Kölbele had condemned himself. Mendelssohn profited by these vilifying attacks, inasmuch as respectable authors, who in their hearts were not a little irritated by his independent and bold action, left him in peace, rather than be associated with Kölbele. Mendelssohn emerged victorious from this conflict, trifling only at first sight, which had lasted for nearly two years; he rose in public opinion, because he had manfully vindicated his own religion.

It had brought upon him also the reproaches of pious Jews. That which his discernment had feared took place. From love of truth he had publicly declared, that he had found in Judaism certain human additions and abuses, which only served to dim its splendor. This expression offended those who reverenced every custom, however un-Jewish, as a revelation from Sinai, because it was sanctified by time and the code. The entire Jewish world, including the Berlin community, with the exception of the few who belonged to Mendelssohn's circle, would not admit that rust had accumulated upon the noble metal of Judaism. He was therefore questioned on this point, probably by Rabbi Hirschel Lewin, and asked for an exact explanation of the phrase. He was very well able to give a reply, which probably satisfied the rabbi, who was no zealot. But his orthodoxy was still suspected by the strictly pious people whom he termed "the Kölbeles of our co-religionists." He was obliged to exculpate himself from the imputation of having pronounced the decisions of Talmudical sages "as worthless trash." Young Poles, adventurous spirits, thirsting for knowledge, "with good minds, but confused thoughts," both pure and impure elements, forced themselves upon Mendelssohn, and brought him into bad repute. The majority had broken not alone with the Talmud, but also with religion and morality; they led a dissolute life, and considered it the mark of philosophy and enlightenment. Out of love to mankind and independent thought, Mendelssohn entered into relations with them, held discussions with them, advanced and aided them, which also cast a false light upon his relations to Judaism. The frivolity and excesses of these young men were imputed to him, and they were regarded as his protégés and disciples.

He soon gave occasion for an increase of this suspicion. The Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, to avoid the dangers of premature interment, had in a mild, fatherly way (April, 1772) forbidden the Jews of his land to bury the dead at once, according to Jewish usage. Jewish piety towards the deceased, which forbids keeping the dead above the earth long enough for decomposition to set in—a feeling petrified in the ritual code—was affronted by this edict, as though the duke had commanded disregard of a religious practice. The representatives of the congregations of Schwerin supplicated Jacob Emden, of Altona, the aged champion of orthodoxy, to demonstrate from Talmudic and Rabbinic laws, that prolonged exposure of a corpse was an important infringement of Jewish law. Emden, who knew his inability to compose a memorial in German, referred the people of Schwerin to Mendelssohn, whose word had great influence with princes. They followed his advice. How astounded were they to learn, from a letter of Mendelssohn's (May, 1772), that he agreed with the ducal order, that the dead should not be buried before the third day; because, according to the experience of competent physicians, cases of apparent death were possible; and that it was right, in fact, compulsory, to rescue human life in spite of the most stringent ordinances of the religious code! Mendelssohn proved besides that in Talmudical times precautions were taken for the prevention of hasty burial in doubtful cases. His opinion was, with the exception of one blunder, faultlessly elaborated in the Rabbinical manner. Nevertheless, true to his peaceful, complaisant nature, he sent the formula of a petition to the duke to mitigate the decree. Emden, however, in his orthodox zeal, stamped this disputed question almost as an article of faith. A custom so universal among Jews, among Italians and Portuguese as well as Germans and Poles, could not be lightly set aside. Not much value was to be attached to the sayings of doctors. Mendelssohn's Talmudical proofs were not conclusive. In a letter Emden gave him clearly to understand that he was reproving him for his own benefit, to remove the suspicion of lukewarm belief, which he had aroused by his evil surroundings. Thus arose petty discord between Mendelssohn and the rigidly orthodox party, which afterwards increased.

Meanwhile, his friend Lessing, just before his death, had unintentionally stirred up a storm in Germany which caused the Church to tremble, and, under the spell of discontent and an artistic impulse, he had glorified Mendelssohn, together with all Jews, in a perfect poetic creation. The first cause of this tempest, which shook Christianity to its core, was Mendelssohn's dispute with Lavater. Lessing was so indignant at the certainty of victory assumed by the representative of Church Christianity that he had strenuously encouraged his Jewish friend to engage in valorous conflict.

"You alone dare and are able to write and speak thus upon this matter, and are therefore infinitely more fortunate than all other honest people, who cannot achieve the subversion of this detestable structure of unreason otherwise than under the pretense of building a new substructure."

He did not suspect that even then he was holding a thunderbolt in his hands, which he would soon be in a position to hurl against the false gods who thought that they had conquered heaven. During his restless life, which corresponded to his constantly agitated spirit, Lessing came to Hamburg, where he made the acquaintance of the respected and free-thinking family of Reimarus. Hermann Samuel Reimarus, a profound inquirer, indignant at the fossilized and insolent Lutheran Christianity of the Hamburg pastors, had written a "Defense of the Rational Worshipers of God," in which he rejected every revealed religion, endeavoring to secure to reason the rights denied it, and depreciating particularly the founder of Christianity. Reimarus, however, had not courage to utter boldly what he recognized as true, and lay bare publicly, in accordance with his convictions, the weaknesses of the dominant religion. He left this treatise, which contained dangerous and inflammatory material, to his family and to a secret order of free-thinkers, as a legacy. Eliza Reimarus, a noble daughter worthy of her father, handed fragments of this incendiary manuscript to Lessing, who read them with interest, and thought of publishing them. However, he had not sufficient confidence in himself to give a decision upon points of theological discussion, and, therefore, sent these fragments to his Jewish friend, who was capable of judging them. Mendelssohn did not, indeed, find this work very convincing, because the author, embittered by the credulity of the Church, had fallen into the opposite error of advocating the most spiritless form of infidelity, and, according to the shortsighted view of that age, of finding only petty intrigues in great historical movements. Despite Mendelssohn's judgment, his friend continued to think that this book would be of service in humiliating the Church. He seriously thought of hurling the inflammatory writings of Reimarus, under a false name, at the Church. But the Berlin censorship would not allow them to be printed. Then Lessing formed another plan. His position as superintendent of the ducal library of Brunswick in Wolfenbüttel permitted him to publish the manuscript treasures of this rich collection. In the interest of truth he perpetrated a falsehood, asserting that he had discovered in this library these "Fragments of an Unknown," the work of an author of the last generation. Under this mask, and protected by his immunity from censorship in publishing contributions "to history and literature from the treasures of the library at Wolfenbüttel," he began to issue them. He proceeded step by step with the publication of these fragments. The first installments were couched in an entreating tone, asking for support of the religion of reason against the religion of the catechism and the pulpit. He then ventured a step further—to prove the impossibility of the miracles upon which the Church was based, and especially to make apparent the unhistorical character and incredibility of the resurrection of Jesus, one of the main pillars of Christianity, with which it stands and falls. Finally, Lessing produced the most important of the fragments at the beginning of 1778, "Upon the Aim of Jesus and His Disciples." Herein it was explained that Jesus had only desired to announce himself as the Jewish Messiah and King of the Jews. To this end he had made secret preparations with his disciples, formed conspiracies to kindle a revolution in Jerusalem, and attacked the authorities in order to cause the downfall of the High Council (the Synhedrion). But when this plan of subversion failed, and Jesus had to suffer death, his disciples invented another system, and declared that the kingdom of Jesus was not of this world. They proclaimed him the spiritual redeemer of mankind, and gave prominence to the hope of his speedy reappearance; thus the Apostles had concealed and disfigured the original system of Jesus.

This treatment of the early history of Christianity, fairly calculated to overthrow the whole edifice of the Church, descended like a lightning-flash. It was sober, convincing, scientifically elaborated, yet comprehensible by everyone. Amazement and stupefaction were the effect, especially on the publication of the last fragment. Statesmen and citizens were as much affected as theologians. Public opinion upon the matter was divided. Earnest youths about to begin a theologic career hesitated; they did not care to yield their life's activity to what was perhaps only a dream, and chose another vocation. Some affirmed that the proofs against Christianity were irrefutable. The anonymity of the writer heightened the excitement. Conjectures were made as to who the author might be; Mendelssohn's name was publicly mentioned. Only a few knew that this blow had been struck by Reimarus, revered by theologians, too. The anger of the zealots was discharged upon the publisher, Lessing. He was attacked by all parties, and had no companion in arms. His Jewish friend would willingly have hastened to his assistance, but how could he mix himself up in these domestic squabbles of the Christians? Among the numerous slanders circulated by the orthodox about Lessing it was said that the wealthy Jewish community of Amsterdam had paid him one thousand ducats for the publication of the Wolfenbüttel fragments. Accustomed to single-handed combat against want of taste and reason, Lessing was man enough to protect himself. It was a goodly sight to behold this giant in the fray, dealing crushing strokes with light banter and graceful skill. He defeated his enemies one after the other, especially one who was the type of blindly credulous, arrogant, and malicious orthodoxy, the minister Göze in Hamburg. As his pigmy opponents could not overcome this Hercules by literary skill, they summoned to their aid the secular arm. Lessing's productions were forbidden and confiscated, he was compelled to deliver up the manuscripts of the "Fragments," his freedom from censorship was withdrawn, and he was expected not to write any more upon this subject (1778). He struggled against these violent proceedings, but he was vulnerable in one point. The greatest man whom Germany had hitherto produced was without means, and his position as librarian being imperiled, he was obliged to seek for other means of support. During one of his sleepless nights (August 10, 1778), a plan struck him which would simultaneously relieve him from pecuniary embarrassments and inflict a worse blow than ten "Fragments" upon the Lutheran theologians. They thundered against him from their church pulpits; he would try to answer them from his theatre pulpit. The latest, most mature, and most perfect offspring of his Muse, "Nathan the Wise," should be his avenger. Lessing had carried this idea in his mind for several years; but he could not have executed it at a more favorable time.

To the annoyance of the pious Christians who, with all their bigotry, uncharitableness, and desire for persecution, laid claim to every virtue on account of their belief in Jesus, and denounced the Jews, one and all, as outcasts, Lessing represented a Jew as the immaculate ideal of virtue, wisdom, and conscientiousness. This ideal he had found embodied in Moses Mendelssohn. He illumined him and the greatness of his character by the bright light of theatrical effects, and impressed the stamp of eternity upon him by his immortal verses. The chief hero of Lessing's drama is a sage and a merchant, like Mendelssohn, "as good as he is clever, and as clever as he is wise." His nation honors him as a prince, and though it calls him the wise Nathan, he was above all things good:

A son of Judaism, Nathan had elevated himself to the highest level of humane feeling and charitableness, for such his Law prescribed. In a fanatical massacre by Crusaders, ferocious Christians had slaughtered all the Jews in Jerusalem, with their wives and children, and his beloved wife and seven hopeful sons had been burnt. At first he raged, and murmured against fate, but anon he spake with the patience of Job:

In his terrible grief a mounted soldier brought him a young, tender Christian child, an orphan girl, and Nathan took it, bore it to his couch, kissed it, flung himself upon his knees, and thanked God that the lost seven had been replaced by at least one. This Christian maiden he loved with all the warmth of a fatherly heart, and educated her in a strictly conscientious manner. Not one religion in preference to another, still less his own, did he instil into the young soul of Recha, or Blanche, but only the doctrines of pure fear of God, ideal virtue, and morality. Such was the representative of Judaism.

How did the representative of Christianity behave? The Patriarch of Jerusalem, who, with his church, was tolerated in the Mahometan city by the magnanimous Sultan Saladin, by virtue of a solemnly ratified treaty, meditates treacherous plans against the sultan, concocts intrigues against him:

For Nathan, he desires to kindle a pyre, because he has fostered, loved, and raised to a lovely, spiritual maiden, a forsaken Christian child. Without the compassion of the Jew, the child would have perished:

Daya, another representative of Church Christianity, who knows Recha's Christian origin, has misgivings when she sees the Christian child basking in the warm love of a Jew. She is won over from these scruples by costly presents, but she still contemplates depriving Nathan of the most precious object to which his soul clings, even though danger should thereby befall him.

The Templar, Leon of Filnek, represents yet another phase of Christianity. A soldier and at the same time a cleric, who, spared by Saladin although he had broken his word, rescues Recha, the supposed Jewish maiden; he behaves with Christian insolence towards Nathan, speaking roughly and harshly to him, whilst the latter is pouring forth heartfelt gratitude for the rescue of his adopted daughter. Then, gradually, through the wonderful power of love, the Templar lays aside the coarse, hateful garb of Christian prejudice. In his veins there flows Mahometan blood. Only the holy simplicity of the friar Bonafides combines human kindness with monastic ecclesiasticism; but he knows only one duty—obedience—and at the command of the fanatically cruel Patriarch would commit the most horrible crimes.

These lessons Lessing preached from his theatre pulpit to the obdurate minds of the followers of Christ. The wise Jew, Nathan—Mendelssohn—has arrived at the highest level of human sympathy; while the best Christian, the Templar, every cultivated Christian—the Nicolais, the Abts, the Herders—have yet to free themselves from their thick-skinned prejudices, to attain to that height. It is a delusion to claim the possession of the one true religion and the only means of salvation. Who possesses the real ring? How can the real one be detected from the false? Only by meekness, heartfelt tolerance, true benevolence, and most fervent devotion to God; in short, by all those qualities which the official Christianity of the time did not display, and which were perfectly realized in Mendelssohn.

In every way Lessing scourged fossilized, persecuting Christianity, and glorified Judaism through its chief representative. As if this splendid drama, the beautiful first-fruits of German poetry, was to belong to the Jews, although given to the world by a Christian poet, a son of Israel aided its production. Lessing, besieged by theological foes, and fighting against dire necessity, would not have been able to complete it, if, during its composition, he had not been enabled to live without anxiety. He required a loan, and found no helper among the Christians. Moses Wessely, in Hamburg, the brother of the neo-Hebraic poet, Naphtali Wessely, who afterwards made a name for himself in Jewish history, advanced the desired sum, although he was not a wealthy Jew, and only wished to have the honor of possessing something in Lessing's handwriting.

Lessing had not been wrong in thinking that this drama would vex pious Christians much more than ten controversial pamphlets against Göze. As soon as it appeared (spring, 1779), intense wrath was felt against the poet, as if he had degraded Christianity. The "Fragments" and his polemics against Göze had not made him so many enemies as "Nathan." Even his friends greeted him coldly, shunned him, excluded him from the social reunions he loved, and left him to the persecution of his adversaries. Through this silent excommunication he felt himself aggrieved, lost more and more of his bright humor and elasticity of spirit, and became wearied, downcast, and almost stupefied. The treatment of pious Christians terribly embittered the last year of his life. He died in vigorous manhood like an aged man, a martyr to his love of truth. But his soul-conquering voice made itself heard on behalf of tolerance, and gradually softened the discordant notes of hatred and prejudice. In spite of the ban placed upon "Nathan," as well as upon its author, both in Protestant and Catholic countries, this drama became one of the most popular in German poetry, and as often as the verses inspired by conviction resound from the stage, they seize upon the hearts of the audience, loosening the links of the chain of Jew-hatred in the minds of Germans, who find it most difficult to throw off its shackles. "Nathan" made an impression on the mind of the German people, which, despite unfavorable circumstances, has not been obliterated. Twenty years before, when Lessing produced his first drama of "The Jews," an arrogant theologian censured it, because it was altogether too improbable that among a people like the Jews, so noble a character could ever be formed. At the appearance of "Nathan" no reader thought that a noble Jew was possible. Even the most stubborn dared not assert so monstrous an absurdity. The Jewish ideal sage was a reality, and lived in Berlin, an ornament not alone to the Jews, but to the German nation. Without Mendelssohn, the drama of "Nathan" would not have been written, just as without Lessing's friendship Mendelssohn would not have become what he did to German literature and the Jewish world. The cordiality of the intimacy between these two friends showed itself after Lessing's death. His brothers and friends, who only after his demise realized his greatness, turned, in the anguish of their loss, to Mendelssohn, as if it were natural that he should be the chief mourner. And in very sooth he was; none of his associates preserved Lessing's memory with so sorrowful a remembrance and religious a reverence. He was beyond all things solicitous to protect his former friend against misapprehension and slander.

As Mendelssohn, without knowing or desiring it, stimulated Lessing to create an ideal, and through him helped to dispel the bias against Jews, so at the same time, without aiming at it, he inaugurated the spiritual regeneration of his race. The Bible, especially the Pentateuch—the all in all of the Jews—although very many knew it by heart, had become as strange to them, as any unintelligible book. Rabbinical and Kabbalistic expositors had so distorted the simple biblical sense of the words, that everything was found in it except the actual contents.

Polish school-masters—there were no others—with rod and angry gestures, instructed Jewish boys in tender youth to discover the most absurd perversities in the Holy Book, translating it into their hateful jargon, and so confusing the text with their own translation, that it seemed as if Moses had spoken in the barbarous dialect of Polish Jews.

The neglect of all secular knowledge, which increased with every century, had reached such a pitch that every nonsensical oddity, even blasphemy, was subtly read into the verses of Scripture. What had been intended as a comfort to the soul was changed into a poison. Mendelssohn acutely felt this ignorance and wresting of Bible words, for he had arrived at the enlightened view that Holy Writ does not contain "that which Jews and Christians believe they can find therein," and that a good, simple translation would be an important step towards the promotion of culture among Jews. But in his modesty and diffidence it did not occur to him to employ these means to educate his brethren. He compiled a translation of the Pentateuch for his children, to give them a thorough education and to introduce the word of God to them in an undisfigured form, without troubling (as he observed) "whether they would continue to be compelled, in Saxe-Gotha, on every journey, to pay for their Jewish heads at a game of dice, or to tell the story of the three rings to every petty ruler." It was only at the urgent request of a man whose word carried weight with Mendelssohn, that he decided to publish his translation of the Pentateuch into German (in Jewish-German characters) for Jewish readers. It cost him an effort, however, to attach his name to it.

He knew his Jewish public too well not to understand that the translation, however excellently it might be done, would meet with little approval, unless it were accompanied by a Hebrew exposition. Of what value to the depraved taste of Jewish readers was a book without a commentary? From time immemorial, since commentaries and super-commentaries had come into existence, these had been much more admired than the most beautiful text. Mendelssohn, therefore, obtained the assistance of an educated Pole, named Solomon Dubno, who, a praiseworthy exception to his countrymen, was thoroughly acquainted with Hebrew grammar, to undertake the composition of a running commentary. The work was begun by securing the necessary subscribers, without whom no book could at that time be issued. It became apparent that Mendelssohn had already many supporters and admirers among his brethren, within and beyond Germany. His undertaking, which was to remove from the Jews the reproach of ignorance of their own literature, and of speaking a corrupt language, was hailed with joy. Most of the subscribers came from Berlin and Mendelssohn's native town, Dessau, which was indeed proud of him. From Poland also orders for the Germanized "Torah" arrived, mostly from Wilna, where Elijah Wilna, to a certain extent a liberal thinker, and the visionary perversities of the New-Chassidim had drawn attention to the Holy Scriptures. As a sign of the times, it may also be noticed that the translation was purchased by Christians, professors, pastors, court preachers, consistorial councilors, court councilors, and the nobility. Mendelssohn's Christian friends were, indeed, extraordinarily active in promoting his work. Eliza Reimarus, Lessing's noble friend, even collected subscriptions.

Glad as were Mendelssohn's admirers to receive the news of a Pentateuch translation from his hand, so disturbed were the rigid adherents to antiquity and obsolete habit. They felt vividly, without being able to think it out clearly, that the old times, with their ingenuous credulity—which regarded everything with unquestioned faith as an emanation from a Divine source—would now sink into the grave.

No sooner was a specimen of the translation published, than the rabbis of the old school were prejudiced against it, and planned how to keep the enemy from the house of Jacob. To these opponents of Mendelssohn's enterprise belonged men who brought honor upon Judaism, not alone by their Rabbinical scholarship and keen intellects, but also by their nobility of character. There were especially three men, Poles by birth, who had as little appreciation of the innovations of the times as of beauty of form and purity of speech. One of them, Ezekiel Landau (chief rabbi of Prague, from the year 1752; died in 1793), enjoyed great respect both within and outside his community. He was a clever man, and learned in time to swim with the tide. The second, Raphael Cohen, the grandfather of Riesser (born 1722, died 1803), who had emigrated from Poland, and had been called from Posen to the rabbinate of the three communities of Hamburg, Altona, and Wandsbeck, was a firm, decided character, without guile or duplicity, who as judge meted out justice without respect to persons, considering justice the support of God's throne. The third and youngest was Hirsch Janow, a son-in-law of Raphael Cohen, who, on account of his profound acumen in Talmudical discussions, was called the "keen scholar" (born 1750, died 1785). His acute mind was equally versed in the intricate problems of mathematics as in those of the Talmud. He was thoroughly unselfish, the trifling income that he received from the impoverished community of Posen he gave away to the unfortunate; he distributed alms with open-handed benevolence, and without asking questions whether the recipients were orthodox or heretics, whilst he himself starved. He contracted debts to save the needy from misery. Solomon Maimon, a deep thinker, who had opportunities of knowing men from their worst side, called this rabbi of Posen and Fürth "a godly man," an epithet not to be considered an exaggeration from such lips. To these three rabbis a fourth kindred spirit may be added, Phineas Levi Hurwitz (born 1740; died 1802), rabbi of Frankfort-on-the-Main, also a Pole, educated in the Chassidean school. These men, and others who thought like them, and who regarded the perusal of a German book as a grievous sin, from their point of view were right in opposing Mendelssohn's innovation. They perceived that the Jewish youth would learn the German language from the Mendelssohn translation more than an understanding of the "Torah"; that the former would strongly tend to become the chief object of study; the attention to Holy Writ would degenerate into an unimportant secondary matter, whilst the study of the Talmud would be completely suppressed. Though Mendelssohn himself enjoyed good repute from a religious point of view, his adherents and supporters were not invariably free from reproach. Unworthy men, who had broken with Judaism, and conceitedly termed themselves Mendelssohnians, were energetic in advancing the sale of the translation, and thus brought it into suspicion with the rigidly orthodox party.

Raphael Cohen, of Hamburg, a man of hasty temper, was the most zealous agitator against the German version of the Bible. But as Mendelssohn had relatives on his wife's side in this town, and also many admirers, no action could be taken against him there or in Prague, where there were freethinkers among the Jews. Fürth, therefore, was looked upon as the fittest place whence the interdict (about June, 1779) against "the German Pentateuch of Moses of Dessau" should be launched. All true to Judaism were forbidden, under penalty of excommunication, to use this translation.

Meanwhile the conflict between the old and the new Judaism was conducted with calmness, and no violent symptoms showed themselves. If Jacob Emden had been alive, the contest would have raged more fiercely, and evoked more disturbance. Mendelssohn was too unselfish, too gentle and philosophically tranquil to grow excited on hearing of the ban against his undertaking, or to solicit the aid of his Christian friends of high rank in silencing his opponents. He was prepared for opposition. "As soon as I yielded to Dubno to have my translation printed, I placed my soul in my hands, raised my eyes to the mountains, and gave my back to the smiters." He regarded the play of human passions and excessive ardor for religion as natural phenomena, which demanded quiet observation. He did not wish to disturb this peaceful observation by external influence, by threats and prohibitions, or by the interference of the temporal power. "Perhaps a little excitement serves the best interests of the enterprise nearest to my heart." He suggested that if his version had been received without opposition, its superfluity would have been proved. "The more the so-called wise men of the day object to it, the more necessary it is. At first, I only intended it for ordinary people, but now I find that it is much more needful for rabbis." On the part of his opponents, however, no decided efforts were made to suppress his translation, which appeared to them so dangerous, or to denounce its author. Only in certain Polish towns, such as Posen and Lissa, it was forbidden, and it is said to have been publicly committed to the flames. Violent action was to be feared only from the indiscreet, resolute Rabbi Raphael Cohen. He seems, however, to have delayed action until the whole appeared, in order to obtain proofs of deserved condemnation. Mendelssohn, therefore, sought help to counteract his zeal. He prevailed upon his friend, Augustus von Hennigs, Danish state councilor and brother-in-law of his intimate friend, Eliza Reimarus, to try to induce the king of Denmark and certain courtiers to become subscribers to the work; this would quench the ardor of the zealot. Hennigs, a man of hasty action, forthwith turned to the Danish minister, Von Guldberg, to fulfill the request of Mendelssohn. To his astonishment and Mendelssohn's, he received an insulting reply, to the effect that the king and his illustrious brothers were prepared to subscribe if the minister could assure them that the translation contained nothing against the inspiration and truth of the Holy Scriptures, so that the Jews might not afterwards say "that Moses Mendelssohn was an adherent to the (ill-famed) religion of Berlin."

This "Berlin religion" was at the time the terror of the orthodox, both in the Church and the Synagogue, and it cannot be said to have been an idle fear. To keep at a distance this scoffing tendency against religion, over-zealous rabbis tried to block every possible avenue of approach to the houses of the Jews. Events of the immediate future proved that the rabbis were not pursuing a phantom. Mendelssohn, in his innocent piety, did not recognize the enemy, although it passed to and fro through his own house. At length, the interdict against Mendelssohn's translation of the Pentateuch was promulgated by Raphael Cohen (July 17th); it was directed against all Jews who read the new version. The author himself was not excommunicated, either out of consideration for his prominence, or from weakness and half-heartedness. However, before the blow fell, Mendelssohn had warded off its consequences. He persuaded Von Hennigs that he need have no scruples about obtaining the king's subscription for the translation, and it was done. At the head of the list of contributors stood the names of King Christian of Denmark and the Crown Prince. By this means Raphael Cohen was effectually foiled in his endeavors to condemn and destroy a work which he regarded as heretical.

His adversaries nevertheless struck Mendelssohn a blow, to hinder the completion of the translation. They succeeded in alienating Solomon Dubno, his right-hand man, which caused Mendelssohn serious perplexity. That his work might not remain unfinished, he had to undertake the commentary to the Pentateuch himself, but finding the work beyond his strength he was obliged to seek for assistants. In Wessely he found a co-operator of similar disposition to his own; but he did not care to undertake the whole burden, and thus Mendelssohn was compelled to entrust a portion to Herz Homberg, his son's tutor, and to another Pole, Aaron Jaroslav. The former was not altogether a congenial associate. He knew that Homberg in his heart was estranged from Judaism, and that he would not execute the holy work according to his method and as a sacred duty, as he himself felt it to be. But he had no alternative. Owing to Homberg's participation in the work, the translation, finished in 1783, was discredited by the orthodox; and they desired to exclude it altogether from Jewish houses.

This severity roused opposition. Forbidden fruit tastes sweet. Youthful students of the Talmud seized upon the German translation behind the backs of their masters, who depreciated the new influence, and in secret learned at once the most elementary and the most sublime lessons—the German language and the philosophy of religion, Hebrew grammar and poetry. A new view of the world was opened to them. The Hebrew commentary served as a guide to a proper understanding of the translation. As if touched by a magic wand, the Talmud students, fossils of the musty schoolhouses, were transfigured, and upon the wings of the intellect they soared above the gloomy present, and took their flight heavenwards. An insatiable desire for knowledge took possession of them; no territory, however dark, remained inaccessible to them. The acumen, quick comprehension, and profound penetrativeness, which these youths had acquired in their close study of the Talmud, rendered it easy for them to take their position in the newly-discovered world. Thousands of Talmud students from the great schools of Hamburg, Prague, Nikolsburg, Frankfort-on-the-Main, Fürth, and even from Poland, became little Mendelssohns; many of them eloquent, profound thinkers. With them Judaism renewed its youth. All who, towards the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, were in various ways public workers, had up to a certain period in their lives been one-sided Talmudists, and needed the inspiration of Mendelssohn's example to become exponents and promoters of culture among Jews. In a very short time a numerous band of Jewish authors arose, who wrote in a clear Hebrew or German style upon matters of which shortly before they had had no knowledge. The Mendelssohn translation speedily resulted in a veritable renaissance of the Jews. They found their level in European civilization more quickly than the Germans, and—what should not be overlooked—Talmudic schooling had sharpened their intelligence. Mendelssohn's translation of the Pentateuch, together with his paraphrase of the Psalms, has produced more good than that of Luther, because instead of fossilizing, it animated the mind. The inner freedom of the Jews, as has been said, dates from this translation.

The beginning of the outward liberation of the Jews from the cruel bondage of thousands of years was also connected with Mendelssohn's name, and like his activity for their internal freedom was unconscious, without violence or calculation. It seems a miracle, though no marvelous occurrence accompanied it. It secured to the Jews two advocates, than whom none more zealous, none warmer could be desired: these were Lessing and Dohm.

Since the middle of the eighteenth century the attention of the cultured world had been directed towards the Jews without any action on their part. Montesquieu, the first to penetrate to the profound depths of human laws and reveal their spirit, was also the first to raise his weighty voice against the barbarous treatment of the Jews. In his widely-read, suggestive work, "Spirit of the Laws," he had demonstrated, with convincing arguments, the harm that the ill-treatment of the Jews had caused to states, and branded the cruelty of the Inquisition with an ineradicable stigma. The piercing cry of agony of a tortured Marrano at sight of a stake prepared for a "Judaizing" maiden of eighteen years of age in Lisbon had aroused Montesquieu, and the echo of his voice resounded throughout Europe.

"You Christians complain that the Emperor of China roasts all Christians in his dominions over a slow fire. You behave much worse towards Jews, because they do not believe as you do. If any of our descendants should ever venture to say that the nations of Europe were cultured, your example will be adduced to prove that they were barbarians. The picture that they will draw of you will certainly stain your age, and spread abroad hatred of all your contemporaries."

Montesquieu had rediscovered the true idea of justice, which mankind had lost. But how difficult was it to cause this idea to be fully recognized with reference to Jews!

Two events had brought the Jews, their concerns, their present, and their past before public notice: their demand for a legal standing in England, and Voltaire's attacks upon them. In England, where a century before they had, as it were, crept in, they formed a separate community, especially in the capital, without being tolerated or recognized by law. They were regarded as foreigners—as Spaniards, Portuguese, Dutchmen, or Germans, and had to pay the alien duty. However, the authorities, especially the judges, showed regard for the Jewish belief; for instance, they did not summon Jewish witnesses on the Sabbath. After the Jews settled in the American colonies of England had been naturalized, a bill was presented in Parliament by merchants and manufacturers, Jews and their friends, to be sure, begging that they be treated as natives of England, without being compelled to obtain civil rights by taking the sacrament, as the law prescribed. Pelham, the minister, supported the petition, and pointed out the advantages that would accrue to the country by the large capital of the Portuguese Jews and their warm attachment to England. By their opponents, however, partly self-interest, partly religious prejudices were brought to bear against them. It was urged that, placed on an equal footing with English citizens, the Jews would acquire the whole wealth of the kingdom, would obtain possession of all the landed property, and disinherit Christians: the latter would be their slaves, and the Jews would choose their own rulers and kings. Orthodox literalists argued that according to Christian prophecies they were to remain without a home until gathered to the land of their fathers. Surprisingly enough, a bill was passed by the Upper House permitting Jews who had resided in England or Ireland for three consecutive years to be naturalized; but they were not to occupy any secular or clerical office, nor to receive the Parliamentary franchise. The lords and the bishops, then, were not opposed to the Jews. The majority of the Lower House also agreed to the bill, and George II ratified it (March, 1753). Was the decision of the Three Estates really the expression of the majority of the nation? This at once became doubtful: imprecations were immediately thundered from pulpits, guilds, and the taverns against the ministry which had urged the Naturalization Act for Jews. In our days it seems hardly credible that the London merchants should have feared the ruin of their trade by the influx of Jewish capitalists. Deacon Josiah Tucker, who took the part of the Jews, and defended the Naturalization Act, was attacked by the opposition in parliament, in the newspapers, and in pamphlets, and his effigy, together with his defense of the Jews, was burnt at Bristol. To the vexation of the liberal-minded, the ministry were weak enough to yield to the clamor of the populace arising from mercantile jealousy and fanatical intolerance, and to annul their own work (1754) "because it had provoked displeasure, and the minds of many loyal subjects had been disquieted thereby." For, even the most violent enemies of the act could not impute evil to the Jews of England; they created a good impression upon Englishmen by their riches, accumulated without usury, and by their noble bearing. Public opinion warmly sided with them and their claims for civil equality, and if, for the moment, these were disregarded, yet no unfavorable result ensued.

The second occurrence, although originating in a single person, roused even more attention than the action of the English Parliament towards the Jews. This person was Arouet de Voltaire, king in the domain of literature in the eighteenth century, who with his demoniacal laughter blew down like a house of cards the stronghold of the Middle Ages. He, who believed neither in Providence nor in the moral progress of mankind, was a mighty instrument of history in the advancement of progress. Voltaire—in his writings an entrancing wizard, a sage, in his life a fool, the slave of base passions—picked a quarrel with the Jews, and sneered at them and their past. His hostility arose from personal ill-humor and irritability. He maintained that during his stay in London he lost eighty per cent of a loan of 25,000 francs, through the bankruptcy of a Jewish capitalist named Medina. He cannot, however, always be believed.

"Medina told me that he was not to blame for his bankruptcy: that he was unfortunate, that he had never been a son of Belial. He moved me, I embraced him, we praised God together, and I lost my money. I have never hated the Jewish nation; I hate nobody."

Yet, a low-minded Harpagon, who clung to his money, Voltaire, on account of this large or small loss, hated not only this Jew, but all Jews on earth. A second incident excited him still more against them. When Voltaire was in Berlin and Potsdam as court poet, literary mentor, and attendant of King Frederick, who both admired and detested this diabolical genius, he gave a filthy commission to a Jewish jeweler, named Hirsch, or Hirschel (1750), which he afterwards, at the instigation of a rival in the trade, named Ephraim Veitel, wished to withdraw. Friction arose between Voltaire and Hirschel, until some arrangement was made, which the former afterwards desired to evade. In a word, Voltaire practiced a series of mean tricks upon his Jewish tradesman: cheated him about some diamonds, abused him, lied, forged documents, and acted as if he were the injured party. At length a complicated lawsuit sprang from these proceedings. King Frederick, who had obtained information of all this from the legal documents, and from a pamphlet, written ostensibly by Hirsch, in reality by Voltaire's enemies, was highly enraged with the poet and philosopher scamp. He resolved to banish him from Prussia, and wrote against him a comedy in French verse, called "Tantalus in the Lawsuit." Voltaire's quarrel with the Prussian Jew created a sensation, and provided ample material for the mischievous delight of his opponents.

Next to avarice, revenge was a prominent feature in his character. It was too trifling for Voltaire to avenge himself upon the individual Jew who had contributed to his humiliation; he determined to make the whole Jewish nation feel his hatred. Whenever he had an opportunity of speaking of Judaism or Jews, he bespattered the Jews of the past and the present with his obscene satire. This accorded with his method of warfare. Christianity, which he thoroughly hated and despised, could not be attacked openly without rendering the aggressor liable to severe punishment. Judaism, the parent of Christianity, therefore served as the target, against which he hurled his elegant, lightly brandished, but venomous darts. In one of his essays particularly he poured forth his gall against Jews and Judaism.

This partial and superficial estimate of the Jews, this summary judgment of a whole people, and a history of a thousand years, irritated many truth-loving men; but no one dared provoke a quarrel with so dreaded an antagonist as Voltaire. It required a bold spirit, but it was hazarded by a cultured Jew, named Isaac Pinto, more from skillfully-calculated motives than from indignation at Voltaire's baseless defamation. Pinto (born in Bordeaux, 1715; died in Amsterdam, 1787) belonged to a Portuguese Marrano family, was rich, cultivated, noble, and disinterested in his own affairs; but suffered from pardonable egoism, namely, on behalf of the community. After leaving Bordeaux he settled in Amsterdam, where he not only served the Portuguese community, but also advanced large sums of money to the government of Holland, and therefore held an honorable position. He always took warm interest in the congregation in which he had been born, and assisted it by word and deed. But his heart was most devoted to the Portuguese Jews, his brethren by race and speech; on the other hand, he was indifferent and cold towards the Jews of the German and Polish tongues; he looked down upon them with disdainful pride, as Christians of rank upon lowly Jews. Nobility of mind and pride of race were intimately combined in Pinto. In certain unpleasant matters in which the Portuguese community of Bordeaux had become entangled, he displayed, on the one hand, ardent zeal, on the other, hardness of heart. In this prosperous commercial town, since the middle of the sixteenth century, there had flourished a congregation of fugitive Marranos, who had fled from the prisons and the autos-da-fé of the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisition. These refugees had brought considerable capital and an enterprising spirit, and thus secured right of residence and certain privileges, but only under the name of new-Christians or Portuguese merchants. For a time they were forced to undergo the hypocrisy of having their marriages solemnized in the churches. Their numbers gradually increased; in two centuries (1550–1750) the congregation of Bordeaux had grown to 200 families, or 500 souls. The majority of the Portuguese Jews, or new-Christians, of Bordeaux, kept large banking-houses, engaged in the manufacture of arms, equipped ships, or undertook trans-marine business with French colonies. To their importance as merchants and ship-owners they united staunch uprightness, blameless honesty in business, liberality towards Jews and non-Jews, and the dignity which they had brought from the Pyrenean peninsula, their unnatural mother-country. Thus they gained respect and distinction among the Christian inhabitants of Bordeaux, and the French court as well as the high officials connived at their presence, and gradually came to recognize them as Jews. The important mercantile town also attracted German Jews from Alsace, and French Jews from Avignon, under papal government, who obtained the right to settle by paying large sums of money. The Portuguese Jews were jealous; they feared that they would be placed on a level with these co-religionists, who were little educated, and engaged in petty trading or monetary transactions, and that they would lose their honorable reputation. Induced by these selfish motives they exerted themselves to have the immigrant German and Avignon Jews expelled from the town, by appealing to the old edict that Jews might not dwell in France. But the exiles contrived to gain the protection of influential persons at court, and thus obtained the privilege of sojourn. Through the connivance of the authorities, 152 foreign Jews had already flocked to Bordeaux, several of whom had powerful friends. This was a thorn in the side of the Portuguese, and to hinder the influx of strangers, they passed (1760) an illiberal communal law against their foreign co-religionists. They branded every foreign Jew not of Portuguese origin as a vagrant and a beggar, and as a burden to the wealthy. They calumniated the strangers, asserting that they followed dishonorable, fraudulent occupations, and thereby predisposed the citizens and authorities against them. According to their proposal, Portuguese Jews, or their council, should be vested with the right to expel the foreign Jews, or "vagrants," from the town within three days. This cruel and heartless statute had to be confirmed by King Louis XV. It was not difficult to obtain from this monarch, who was ruled by his wives and his courtiers, the most inhuman petitions. A friend and kinsman of Isaac Pinto undertook to get the sanction of the court for this statute.