[43-1] Cp. the ἑλέναυς, ἕλανδρος, ἑλέπολις of Aesch. Agam. 689, and the play on the word Πενθεύς in Eurip. Bacch. 508.
[VI]
[SKETCH OF THE TALMUD]
The old proverb “Habent sua fata libelli” is perhaps nowhere more strikingly illustrated than in the Talmud. This gigantic literary work has a peculiar history of its own. Now honoured, now decried, it has been at once the study of the scholar, the butt of the sceptic, and the scapegoat of the bigot.
In the Middle Ages, some of the high dignitaries of the Roman Church thundered their anathemas against it, and caused edition after edition to be publicly burnt. What strikes one most is their profound ignorance of its real contents. They were satisfied to condemn it on hearsay evidence, or on the strength of some garbled quotations. Henricus Seynensis, a Capucin friar, having heard a good deal about the heretical Talmud, took it to be a Rabbi, and swore that he would ere long have him put to death by the common executioner. The censor, too, whose duty it was to amend any passage or expression found in the Talmud which might be construed in a sense hostile to the representatives of the Roman Church, displayed, as a rule, more zeal than erudition. Thus, for the Talmud to say, for instance, that a Roman swore by the Capitol or by Jupiter, was sufficient for the censor to find a hidden allusion to the Vatican or the Pope, and to alter the nomenclature, so that the Roman swore by the capital of Persia, or by the God of Babylon. This substitution of inappropriate names rendered many passages obscure, and this is one of the chief reasons why the Talmud has been repeatedly condemned as an unintelligible and nonsensical production. The great majority, however, of modern scholars, theologians, and orientalists read the Talmud, not to refute it, but rather to bring to light the vast store of knowledge hidden therein. And yet, in spite of the many allusions there are to it in theology, in Biblical lore, and in sacred geography, it still is to the majority of students a sealed book. The object of this essay is therefore to sketch in outline its essence and character, and to give some idea of its subject-matter.
The year 70 of the common era was a most disastrous one for the Jews. After having bravely struggled against the formidable armies of Vespasian and Titus for their national independence, they had finally to submit to their conqueror. The holy Temple of Jerusalem, in which their religious, political, and civil life was centred, was reduced to a heap of ashes before their very eyes, and from that time forth their nationality was destroyed, and they remained without a king and without a fatherland. Other nations, whose vitality was less prominent, might in such circumstances have disappeared from the face of the earth. Not so the Jews. When the time for their national dispersion arrived, they abandoned the sword for the pen. In the seclusion of the new homes they had made for themselves in Persia and Syria, they devoted all their energies to the study of their literature. Their leaders founded there colleges and schools, in which the sacred flame of learning was kept aglow in the midst of the darkness of the times. The Bible was still in their hands, that sacred treasure which gave them solace for the tribulations of the past, and patience and hope for the uncertainties of the future. From that time forth it remained the centre of their mental activity. In spite of the fact that the Romans had fixed the penalty of death as a punishment for any one that imparted instruction in the Bible, teachers were not wanting who taught its doctrines publicly to large numbers of pupils. One of them, Rabbi Akiba by name, being asked by a friend why he continued to expound the law publicly at the peril of his life, replied in the following parable:—“Once upon a time a fox was walking along the river side, when he saw the fish swimming to and fro in great consternation. He asked them what was the matter, and what they were afraid of, whereupon they pointed to the nets, which were spread out to catch them. Thereupon the fox advised them to come to live with him on dry land, and be safe.” But the fish replied: “Thou wilt never persuade us to follow thy advice, for if in our element, the water, we have good cause for fear, surely, when we depart from this element, the danger will be even greater.” “So it is with us” (said Rabbi Akiba); “if our life is imperilled while our mind remains fixed on the study of the Bible, which is the soul of our existence, how much greater must our danger be, when we leave our element and cease to study.”
At this time, the mental activity of the Rabbis was confined to the exposition and investigation of the text of the Scriptures, which they called the “written law.” But a little later their attention was also directed to the study of the “unwritten law,” or oral traditions, to which reference is sometimes made in the Pentateuch. Thus a new sphere of activity was opened to them, which soon begot a science, embracing diverse branches of study, and rising by degrees to very large proportions. The mode of teaching adopted by these masters was somewhat similar to that employed by Socrates. Questions were put and answered, and the decisions of the teachers were committed to memory by the pupils. This method, however, had the disadvantage attendant upon constant migration. Rabbi Jehuda, surnamed “the Prince,” thereupon, towards the early part of the third century of the common era, collected all the floating dicta of the sages, together with the large mass of law and rulings, and recorded them for the first time in writing. In this way a code was drawn up, the materials of which the editor divided into six sections. The first section is named “Seeds,” and treats principally of agrarian laws. The second, called “Feasts,” contains the ordinances relating to the Sabbath and festivals. The third, entitled “Women,” deals chiefly with marriage and divorce. The fourth, called “Damages,” discusses civil and criminal law. The fifth is named “Holiness,” and treats of sacred things, such as the Temple, sacrifices, &c. The last section, entitled “Purification,” deals with various Levitical and sanitary laws. The whole collection was then called Mishna (from shannah, “to study”), which means “learning or teaching.” As in process of time a great many new traditions sprang up, the Mishna formed the materials for a new compilation which is called the Talmud, sometimes also the Gemara. Both names have the same signification—study and learning; the only difference between them is, that the word Talmud is derived from the Hebrew, and Gemara from the Syrian language. There are two Talmuds—the Jerusalem and the Babylonian. The first was compiled at the beginning of the fourth century of the common era, from the decisions of the colleges in Palestine, and the second from those of the Academy of Sora in Babylonia.
Rabbi Ashe, who lived at the end of the fifth century A. D., is mentioned as the editor of the Babylonian Talmud. This is the Talmud par excellence, and is about four times as large as that of Jerusalem. It covers 5,154 folio pages in twelve folio volumes. This gigantic work became the bed-rock of Jewish literature for many centuries, and was at the same time the link that kept the Jewish community together during the years of their persecution in various countries. A few characteristics of this most important work may be mentioned. The Talmud is, as the late Emanuel Deutsch has it, a microcosm, embracing, as even the Bible does, heaven and earth. It is a republic of literature, and a library in itself. It treats of law, history, medicine, astronomy, mathematics, legend, social life, theosophy, and metaphysics. It passes from myth to morality, from legend to logic, from grave to gay, from lively to severe topics. The Talmud is a product of those centuries when the Jews were considered beyond the pale of the law, and it tells the story of the stormy life of thirty generations. Though at first sight it might appear to be written without method and system, it will soon be seen that it is composed of two elements—the legal and the legendary, or prose and poetry. The first is called Halacha or legal decisions, and the second Agada or moral maxims and legends. As regards the Halacha, it is obvious that its laws, its spirit, and its details, cannot be adequately analysed within the limits of a short essay. We therefore propose to make some observations merely on the two highly important subjects of education and capital punishment. Basing their argument on the ordinance found in the Bible that every parent is obliged to have his children properly trained, the masters laid down the rule that education should be compulsory. If a child, they say, is idle, and does not wish to study, he is not to be chastised too severely; but he is to remain sitting among those children who are industrious and attentive, that he may follow their good example. The chastisement of children in schools was unknown in the Talmud. The principal maxim of these masters was as follows: “Above all things study. Whether for the sake of learning, or for any other reason, study; for whatever the motive that may impel you at first, you will very soon love study for its own sake.”
Respecting the criminal legislation of the Talmud, it may be observed that nowhere in its pages are any traces to be found of the use of the rack or of any other kind of torture to compel the accused to implicate himself. The judges were obliged, according to the Talmud, to search for innocence rather than for guilt. To judge a man charged with a capital crime, no less than twenty judges had to be selected from among the most eminent doctors of law; so extreme was the care taken of human life. The examination of witnesses in such a case was so rigorous that a sentence of capital punishment became almost impossible. The Talmud goes even so far as to declare that the tribunal which imposes the penalty of death once in seven or even seventy years, is a court of murderers. Thus it will be seen that the severity of the Mosaic code had been modified by the influence of these oral conditions, which tell us also that “paying measure for measure” is in God's hands only, and that he who has sustained any bodily injuries must rest satisfied with an indemnification of money.
Equally interesting, and much more entertaining, is the second portion of the Talmud—the Agada. It is, as already stated, the poetry of the Talmud. It contains fairy tales and words of wisdom, plays of fancy and jests, parables and legends. The patriarchs and some of the kings and prophets of the Bible were mostly the characters from whom the allegories of the Agada were derived. So, for example, of Solomon, a favourite hero of the Agada, the following pleasant little story is told: “This monarch was once visited by Queen Sheba, who wished to ascertain in person whether all was true that was said about him. So she appeared one day before him in his palace, holding in each hand a bouquet of flowers. And though one was natural and the other artificial, their resemblance to each other was so great that it was impossible to tell from a distance which was the production of nature, and which of art. This, however, Solomon had to decide. Observing, by chance, a swarm of bees hovering about outside, he ordered the windows to be opened, and as soon as this was done, the bees rushed in, and at once fixed on the natural flowers. Queen Sheba was satisfied with the genuine wisdom of the Jewish monarch.” From this story, says one of the humorous Agadaists, a good moral lesson can be derived, if applied to ladies generally, namely, that the bee only rests on the natural beauties, and never fixes on the painted ones[[52-1]].
The Agada tells another story about King Solomon. He had the reputation of understanding every language in existence, including that of the animal world, and once heard a bird talking to his mate that was sitting on the dome of the Temple. “If,” he said, “I were to stamp my foot hard, the whole Temple would collapse in a moment.” Hearing this grandiloquent remark, King Solomon called the male bird, and assuming an angry look, asked him what he meant by such language. Trembling with fear, the bird excused himself, saying that he merely wished to tell his mate how strong he was. After being cautioned not to be so boastful in future, the bird returned to his wife, who was anxiously awaiting his return. And on her asking him what the great king wanted of him, he answered and said: “King Solomon urgently implored me not to destroy his beautiful Temple.”