Another much valued friend of ours was the great scholar Bernays. He also was a constant visitor whilst we were living in Bonn, often sitting for hours beside my mother’s invalid couch, talking to her. But he never partook of a meal in our house, and my childish mind was much troubled at this. His explanation was, that being a Jew, he must avoid being drawn into anything contrary to the customs and observances of his race. For his conscientious scruples, no less than for his profound learning and the breadth and liberality of his views, my parents entertained the very highest respect and admiration, my mother in particular never wearying of hearing him discourse on one or other of those deeper problems that will forever occupy men’s minds, rejoicing meanwhile to feel her own store of knowledge increase and her intelligence expand in this congenial atmosphere.

Bernays was not merely well-read in the Jewish Scriptures, but seemed to know the New Testament also better than we did ourselves, and his ideas on religious topics were always striking and impressive. I did not then know of his intimate friendship with Ernest Renan, and of the correspondence they kept up. I was indeed at this time considered much too young to be admitted even as a listener to the long and serious conversations—of such absorbing interest to both my parents—that took place between them and Bernays. The latter, I have since heard, felt it a great hardship that he should be excluded, on account of his nationality, from holding a professorship at the University, and this in spite of his being in his own line probably the finest scholar Bonn has ever produced. As for my own childish impression, I confess that it was chiefly one of awe at the solemn, rather severe-looking personage, whose eyes seemed to wear an expression of such unchanging gravity behind their dark spectacles. He was in point of fact much too short-sighted to see other faces clearly, and thus no ray of recognition ever lit up his own.

It was on account of his short-sightedness, and the nervousness that arose from it, that my mother always insisted on sending a manservant, carrying a lantern, to accompany Bernays home, whenever he had spent the evening with us. For the streets of Bonn were by no means brilliantly illuminated in those days. Whenever full moon was down in the almanack, then very few street lamps were lit. But certainly the moonlit nights were of exceptional loveliness. Our villa, which was called the Vinea Domini, had a beautiful big garden, sloping right down to the banks of the Rhine. Many and many an evening was spent on the terrace in the moonshine, watching the boats glide past, and it was hardly ever before the last steamer came puffing along, that the party broke up. “Here comes the late boat!” was a sort of standing joke, used as a signal for departure by more intimate friends, towards guests inclined to tarry perhaps all too long. On such occasions, when the conversation threatened to spin itself out into the small hours of the night, and my mother began to look tired out, someone—and more often than not it was Prince Reuss, the future ambassador, then young and full of high spirits—would call out: “Here is the evening boat,” and the assembly would at last disperse. To the minds of all who took part in those pleasant gatherings, the remembrance of the pretty house, with its sweet garden, must have been endeared. But they, alas, no longer exist; have long since disappeared, and the ground has been cut up and built over.

I was too young at that time, as I have said, to be allowed to hear much of the discussions that went on, and I have often thought since that it was a pity that I should have missed the chance of profiting by them. For, child as I was, I was studious and thoughtful beyond my years, and being of a naturally devout temperament, which was fostered by our pious training, I would have given much to hear my parents’ learned friend, whom they held in such unbounded veneration, expound his views on religion. It would have been worth still more, I have often said to myself since, to hear one so remarkable discourse, could they but have been brought together, with those kindred spirits, Renan and Tolstoi! As it was, of the rich spiritual feast set forth in such profusion, it was but a few crumbs that fell to my share. I cannot therefore profess to quote from memory Bernays’s precise words on any occasion, and should be the more diffident of the attempt, since he is no longer in this world, to correct any mistake I might inadvertently make. But very many of his arguments and inferences remained with me, together with a very clear apprehension of their general scope and tendency. Of the dogmatic value attaching to these, it is not for me to decide; but it would have been impossible for me, in chronicling these memories of my childhood, not to give full prominence to the striking personality whose teaching exercised so unbounded an influence over the minds of my parents, whilst in my own its mere echoes may possibly have aroused the first interest in the philosophy of religion, which I have retained throughout my life. For long years his opinion was constantly cited in our family circle;—“Bernays said this,” or, “Bernays would have thought so and so,” were phrases of daily recurrence, and carried with them the authority of an oracle.

It was a favourite assertion of Bernays, that the Jewish is the only religion which has kept itself free from any taint of fetichism; Christianity, like every other religion which is bent on proselytising, having been powerless to avoid contamination from the beliefs and practices of heathen nations, among whom its first converts were made. Is there not perhaps some truth in this contention? Is it not the weak point in the armour of every Faith that lays itself out for propaganda, that it is insensibly betrayed into making concessions, and thereby inevitably in the long run falls away from its lofty ideals! Christianity, we must own with shame, has lowered its standard since the days when its first teachings flowed, pure and untarnished, from the lips of its Divine Founder. And were we, who call ourselves Christians, to measure our thoughts and actions by the pattern set before us in the Sermon on the Mount, must we not blush at our own short-comings?

It was certainly by no means incomprehensible to me, that our friend should have taken it so ill, when his own brother became a Christian. On that point I have always had, I own, very much the feeling of the Roumanians, whose dislike to any change of religion is so thorough and intense, that they use the same expression—“s a’ turcit,”—i.e., “he has become a Turk, a Mahomedan,” indiscriminately to denote any change of faith, whether on the part of one becoming a Christian or a Mussulman. Quite different in this from their Russian brethren of the Orthodox Church, the Roumanians view with absolute disfavour the action of those who join their communion. To them such an act is always simply apostasy, and their language possesses no other term by which to designate it. In this, as I was saying, I am much in sympathy with them. Is it not an admission of weakness, to say the least, deliberately to abandon the Faith of our Fathers and enter another fold? Since all Churches are in a sense human institutions, what advantage have we in leaving the one in which we were born and brought up, only to find that of our choice equally fallible and imperfect! Should we not content ourselves with doing our very best, in all honesty and sincerity of purpose, within the community in which our lot is cast, striving to raise its aims and purify its ordinances, rather than impatiently to fling aside fetters that have perhaps become irksome, only by so doing to burden ourselves with other and perchance heavier chains, and from which we must no longer seek to free ourselves, seeing that they are of our own choosing? Is then the outward form under which we worship God, of so much importance after all? Some form undoubtedly there must be, as long as human beings meet together for prayer and praise, feeling themselves thereby more fitly disposed for their orisons and thanksgiving; but let us not forget that the essence of all service consists in its being performed “in spirit and in truth!” The rest matters little.

In the home that is now mine, Nathan the Wise might be welcomed daily, he would find here members of widely differing confessions dwelling together in harmony in one family. Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox, each respects the other’s faith, and never has the slightest discord arisen. As for the children, they have certainly never had occasion to feel, that the creed in which they are being brought up in any way differs from that of their elders. And in our household there is an Israelite to be reckoned among our secretaries, and he it is who is my most faithful auxiliary in all charitable work. So that of religious intolerance or narrow-mindedness it can surely never be question among us, and I have been able to live on here true to the lessons and traditions of my youth. Nor can any accusation of having recently either sanctioned or connived at the so-called persecution of the Jews, be equitably brought against the Roumanian government. What really took place was this. In this sparely populated country, in which all industries and manufactures are in the hands of foreigners,—notably of the Jews,—a succession of bad harvests, after causing indescribable suffering in agricultural districts, at length made itself felt in the commercial centres also. There had been no crops, and consequently no food for man or beast, no work done on the land for years, and there was no money forthcoming; as a result trade naturally suffered, and to such an extent that numbers of the traders—not merely Jews, but Catholics and Protestants also—left the land. They were not driven away, except by the same untoward circumstances that pressed so heavily on the whole nation; they emigrated voluntarily from a land which could no longer afford them the means of subsistence. As long as it was merely the peasantry who were starving, all Europe looked on with the greatest indifference, perhaps even in ignorance of what was going on; but directly the consequences of those years of famine began to affect the commercial and industrial classes, then all Europe was in an uproar.

If, however, to this last story of persecution an emphatic denial may be given, it by no means follows that I would condone the cruel treatment to which in bygone centuries Jews have constantly been subjected, at the hands of their Christian brethren. Perhaps those very persecutions have served a little to make them what they are,—so strong, so united, so self-reliant. Another source of strength has lain in the absence of all missionary zeal that characterises Judaism. Never have its followers either desired or sought to induce other nations to espouse their belief. The hatred therefore with which they often inspire these others has less its origin in religious fanaticism than in instinctive antagonism of race. Religious wars have often been but a name and a pretext under which the stronger, fundamental, racial antagonism has asserted itself, and in this case their bitterness has been intensified by the quiet tenacity, the unfailing resource, the indomitable energy and absolute cohesion of the numerically weaker and disadvantageously situated party. No nation can enjoy seeing the stranger within its gates flourishing to the detriment of the children of the soil, and the jealousy, suspicion and dislike which the prosperity of the former excites, has perhaps not infrequently been in direct ratio to the inability of the latter to turn their own natural advantages to equally good account. Were it not wiser on our part, instead of pursuing senseless animosities, to learn from the people we have too long despised and perhaps unduly mistrusted, the secret of their success, the lesson of courage, endurance, of steadfast faith in God, which has preserved them through all dangers, as living witnesses to His power and goodness?

If to this end we study with renewed attention the history of the Jewish race, we find all the qualities that constitute their strength concentrated and carried to the highest pitch in the person of one man, the wisest and greatest perhaps of whom any nation can boast, and to whose almost superhuman talents and energies the very survival of his nation must be attributed. The debt owed to Moses by his fellow-countrymen can hardly be over-estimated. Lawgiver and judge, physician and priest, their leader in war and peace, where has there ever been the monarch who could compare with this marvellously gifted individual, founder of a religion, of a Code, of a nation, that has victoriously withstood all perils, and outlived the mighty empires by which it was overthrown and oppressed. CÆsar, Charlemagne and Haroun-al-Rashid, wise and powerful as they may have been, must each yield the palm to Moses, for their work has left no trace, the ideals to which they devoted their lives are but an empty name, whilst the Hebrew, born in servitude, has left his mark on the thought, the action, and the religion of the whole Gentile world, and made of the wretched tribes, whom he led forth out of bondage, a nation increasing daily in number and in strength, wealthy beyond all others, and rapidly spreading over the face of the earth. It would seem indeed as if the evils engendered by too great riches and prosperity were the sole danger seriously threatening the Jewish race. Already in bygone days it was against this rock that they more than once well-nigh suffered shipwreck; and had not the salutary school of adversity called them back from their foolish pride to saner counsels, humanity might have been the poorer by the loss of these foremost champions of monotheism.

That loss indeed we could ill afford. We are only too apt to forget, that it is to this despised race that we owe one priceless treasure, the book of books, the Bible, in which scarce out of infancy we were taught to read, and which remains our chief comfort throughout life. In it the highest wisdom stands revealed in so noble a form, truth and poetry are blended together to such perfect harmony, the result is a masterpiece whose like no other literature in the whole world can match. Does not the finest work of all other great poets sink into insignificance beside the sublime utterances of the Hebrew prophets? In long dark dreary sleepless nights, I know not where such solace for weary souls may be found, as in the magnificent imagery, the impassioned language of Isaiah and Jeremiah. All the sorrow and suffering of the human heart since the beginning of Time seem to cry aloud with their voice, and it were vain to seek help in other books of devotion, whilst the words of these grandest spirits are there, to speak for us and bring us more than earthly consolation. Surely none has ever steeped his soul in these writings, and not risen from their perusal strengthened and refreshed. We might do without all other books, provided only this one, the source of life, the Revelation of God to man, were left us. For, together with the sublime poetry of the Psalms and the prophetic books, what wisdom and learning, rules of conduct for all seasons and under all circumstances, are stored up here! The Jew, who follows the letter of the Law, need never be at a loss as to the right course to take; the pathway of duty is clearly marked for him, and under whatever vicissitudes of fortune he will have in his own Scriptures as sure a guide as was the Ark of the Covenant to the footsteps of his fathers. As to the historic books of the Old Testament, their simplicity and directness are a strong testimony in favour of the veracity of the writers; and I was much struck once by the suggestive remark of a Jew of high culture, who in discussion with a Christian, smilingly retorted: “All I can say is, that I wish for you that the history of your nation may one day be written with equal honesty, and that you may then be able to have it read out aloud for general edification in your churches, as we do ours!”

How comes it that by no other people has the attempt been made? Is it that we instinctively feel that in the Hebrew Scriptures the history of mankind has been told once and for all,—that for this, as for all other needs, the Bible may suffice? Otherwise, might not Christ Himself have wended His way to Persia, India or China, to bring to one or other of those nations the Gospel of peace and goodwill, framed in accordance with their own sacred books? The fact is certainly not without significance. For, maintain as we may that the men of greatest genius belong to no special age or country, that Dante, Shakespeare, Sophocles, Michelangelo and Goethe are the common property of mankind, it is all the same of no trivial import, that just this nation, and no other, should have been selected in each case for the honour of bringing them forth. And where else, save among a people cast down from its former high estate, conquered, humiliated and oppressed, could the apotheosis of Suffering be so fitly preached, the message of Hope be brought to the poor and humble, and the erring be led back to the fold? Alas! that in a proud and vain-glorious spirit, expecting the promised Messiah in all the pomp of earthly power, they should have rejected the New Covenant of Mercy by which the uncompromising severity of the Mosaic dispensation was to be attenuated and made perfect!

I have wandered away somewhat from my theme. Perhaps however more in semblance than in reality, for as I pursue my own personal reflections, insensibly much is incorporated with them, which in the old days in the Vinea Domini was constantly being discussed, and may be said to have vaguely permeated the whole atmosphere. Judaism, as we then learned to know it, was presented less under an aspect of formality and exclusiveness, than as a leaven of righteousness, whereby the whole world should be regenerated. And possibly, could the other nations of the world have been brought to accept the Mosaic Code, much misery might have been spared them. For the great Lawgiver was wise in advance of his age, and many of the preventive measures, for instance, with which we now seek to ward off sickness from our flocks and herds, were foreseen and prescribed by Moses, long before Bacteriological Institutes were dreamt of! What profound knowledge too of human nature, what psychological intuitions were his, who dared to let four generations of his weakened and demoralised followers perish, and merely serve as stepping-stones to the one destined to enter the Land of Promise and to settle down there in peace and plenty. What indomitable strength of purpose, what iron resolution must the man have possessed, who could wait thus calmly for results! Well might he feel that he had power to bid water flow from the barren rock, nay more, that in his righteous indignation he was justified in breaking the Tables of the Law, which he had just received, since it lay with him to inscribe them again. The light that flashed from his eyes was of more than mortal brilliancy, it was the sacred fire of enthusiasm, the glory that might illumine his face alone, who knew himself to be in direct communication with the Deity. And well and wisely has that kindred soul, Italy’s greatest sculptor, portrayed him thus, with the aureole of genius and titanic strength encircling his brow. Across the centuries these two, mystically allied by their superhuman energies and achievements, have met and understood one another, and the real Moses stands forever revealed to us in the form and features lent him here. It is strength in its highest manifestation which Michelangelo has symbolised, and we feel ourselves in presence of something that transcends our puny human faculties,—that springs from Faith, unswerving and unshaken.

Whence comes it that such faith is no longer ours? The fault is our own. God has never yet forsaken the least of us. And surely if there be a Creator of this marvellous universe, it behooves Him to watch over and uphold His creation. That much is sure. Every day brings with it a further proof of the insufficiency of so-called scientific explanations of the mystery of Being, every hour some highly praised and loudly welcomed discovery sinks into oblivion,—how many new theories of the universe, how many philosophic systems have I seen come and go, how many new prophets and teachers arise and pass away, in the course of the half-century I can look back upon! And if these apodictic truths are become naught, these theories discarded, these preachers turned into ridicule, well may I feel more and more disposed to cling to the simple childlike faith of my early years, and hold fast to this one sure anchor in a shifting world! Let the prophets of old serve as our example and guide. They were neither ignorant nor inexperienced, and their path was often beset by the Powers of Darkness, but their simple unquestioning faith brought them triumphantly through the greatest perils. Can we do better than imitate them? They are our spiritual fore-fathers, for our religion sprang forth out of Judaism,—we would deny it in vain.

Would that we resembled them more! Had we their faith, we should also have the same freedom from superstition that goes hand in hand with it, and which these heroes of the Old Testament have bequeathed to their natural heirs, to the representatives of the Jewish people among us now. It may be that it is a mere question of race, of constitutional temperament, but the fact none the less remains, that the Jew possesses a positive aversion to every form of superstition—that outcome of weakness and helplessness, the last refuge of despairing souls. It is not in his nature to give way to despair; from that the dictates of his strong common-sense would in a measure guard him, but his absolute security comes from his trust in the God of Israel. The love of riches, and of the ease and luxury that riches bring, this, it cannot be too often said, the besetting sin of our age, is the one peril that menaces the Jewish race. Not only for their own sake, but for the services rendered to humanity, must we not pray that the curse be averted, and that they who proudly term themselves God’s chosen people may avoid the gilded snare, and return to the simplicity and moderation of patriarchal times?

Someone—I have forgotten who it was—once called this earth l’Ile du Diable, and there are moments when it might seem almost to merit the name. And yet, quite so bad it surely need not be, if only each and all of us strive, in all single-mindedness and honesty of purpose, to make it something better—not by indulging in foolish vanities and useless luxuries—but, by the exercise of forbearance, gentleness and Christian charity, by the effort to bring light into dark places, and to brighten with some ray of joy the saddest lot. Were we but to act thus, Earth need be no Hell—it lies in our power to make it into a Paradise for ourselves and others. The Temple of Jerusalem will not be raised from its ruins in our days; there is no Zion on earth for the Children of Israel, for the Holy Places once laid waste may not be restored by human hands until long years of expiation have gone by. That truth, Judah’s best and noblest spirits are the first to acknowledge. Something of the ideas of one of them I have tried to recall in these pages, which I dedicate to his memory. They can give but a vague image of the picture in my mind, and the unavailing regret comes over me once more, that of the wisdom and learning once so near me, I have been able to preserve but so dim a recollection. I could envy the pupils of Bernays, the students who enjoyed the privilege of listening to his exposition of the Greek Testament, on which all the wealth of research, the critical insight of a true scholar were brought to bear. Deeper and further than most of us he surely saw!