"Satan induces these Rabbis," said he, "to study only those portions of our holy literature on which they can whet their ingenuity. But from all writings which would promote piety and fear of God he keeps them away."
I was delighted and astonished to hear the Shochet thus deliver himself, but before I could express my acquiescence, his attention was diverted by a pretty maiden who came along driving a cow.
"What a glorious creature!" said he, while his eyes shone.
"Which?" said I laughingly. "The cow?"
"Both," he retorted, looking back lingeringly.
"I understand now what you mean by pious literature," I said mischievously: "the Song of Solomon."
He turned on me with strange earnestness, as if not perceiving my irony. "Ay, indeed," he cried; "but when the Rabbis do read it, they turn it into a bloodless allegory, Jewish demons as they are! What is the beauty of yonder maiden but an emanation from the divine? The more beautiful the body, the more shiningly it leads us to the thought of God."
I was much impressed with this odd fellow, whom I perceived to be an original.
"But that's very dangerous doctrine," said I; "by parity of reasoning you would make the lust of the flesh divine."
"Everything is divine," said he.