It is certain that the grand and lofty Hebrew revelation of the One God was modified and debased by its contact with the Magian teaching. It has been well remarked that wherever any approximation had been made to this sublime truth of the existence of the one great First Cause, either “awful religious reverence” or “philosophic abstraction” had removed the Creative Power absolutely out of the range of human sense, and supposed that the intercourse of the Divinity with man, the moral government, and even the actual creative work, had been carried on by the intermediate agency of, in Oriental phrase, an Emanation, or, in Platonic language, of the “Wisdom,” “Reason,” or “Intelligence” of the Supreme. The Jews, under the influence of their intercourse with the Persians, adopted that conception, and, departing from the path laid down for them by Revelation, interposed one or more intermediate beings as the channels of communication between God and man. The Apostle seizes on the popular fancy, and endeavours to restore from it the original truth, when he tells his readers that the “Word” of which they spoke so vaguely and presumptuously was none other than God Himself,—the Son of God, but equal with the Father,—the brightness of His glory and the express image of His person. He showed them that the mediation between the lofty spiritual nature of God and the intellectual and moral being of Man was not to be accomplished through any independent agency, but by the revelation of God Himself in the person and presence of His beloved Son. That this, the essential and central truth of Christianity, was one which the unassisted human intellect could never have developed we know, from the fact that it is found in no creed of admittedly human origin, and that it is never clearly set forth even in any religious system which has borrowed from Christianity.

We can imagine the ability of man to shape out for himself an idea of some awful Power, some mighty First Cause, which created and ordered the universe, and controlled and shaped its destinies. Looking around upon creation, he might, perhaps, without any severe intellectual effort, attain to the thought of a Creator. This conception once realised, he might in due time come to believe that the Creator could be pleased or angered by the doings of His creatures; and that the anger of One so powerful would be something to dread and avoid. But the idea of this grand and terrible Creator sending from Heaven His own Son to take upon Himself humanity, and thereby save the creature from the just wrath it had provoked, and the dread retribution it had deserved,—an idea, so glorious and consoling, could never, we believe, have been grasped by the loftiest human intellect, unless aided by a revelation from above.

The exact relation of Zarathustrianism to Christianity it is somewhat difficult to define, because a cloud of doubt and uncertainty hangs over the compilation of the later portions of the Zendavesta. While the great antiquity of the Gâthas cannot be disputed, while there is clear evidence that they contain much of the original teaching of Zarathustra,—teaching nobler and more exalted than that of his followers,—it seems not less certain that the doctrines of the Resurrection and the Future Life were borrowed from the Hebrews. What then is left to justify a comparison with Christianity? The keynote of its scheme is intellectual pride; that of the Christian religion, spiritual abasement. The former urges on its disciples the necessity of good thoughts, words, and deeds in order to please Ahura-Mazda; the latter, as a proof of faith in the mission of its Founder. The former teaches an excellent code of morals, so far as relates to the individual; the latter lays down one golden rule, “Do unto others as thou wouldest they should do unto thee.” The former enforces the law of self-control; the latter of self-renunciation. It is impossible to pretend that Magianism shows the same insight into man’s wants, failings, passions, temptations, as Christianity shows; or provides a system so capable of adaptation to every age, and rank, and character.

We see no reason to doubt the authenticity and antiquity of the Zendavesta; but it is somewhat surprising that scholars who make haste to accept it as genuine, should show so much scepticism in reference to the Christian Scriptures. Surely, as regards the latter, the evidence of genuineness is infinitely stronger than as regards the former. We know that they were implicitly accepted by men who lived almost in the very time of those who recorded them; on the other hand, of Zarathustra and his contemporaries or successors we know absolutely nothing. Some authorities represent him to have flourished as early as 2200 B.C.; others as late as 500 B.C. Some consider him to have been the founder of a dynasty; others invest him with a supernatural personality. But at the best he remains nominis umbra; as indistinct and shadowy, as in his teaching he is cold and clear. Of the authenticity of his writings the principal proofs are those derivable from the writings themselves. But if we allow that such proofs are admissible, what shall we say of those to be found in the Gospels and Epistles? As their morality is so much more elevated than that of the Zendavesta, so is the certainty of their Divine origin infinitely more assured. The class of testimony which asserts the authenticity of the one not less convincingly affirms the genuineness of the other. And if the Gospels are all that they purport to be, how can we avoid the conclusion that they are truthful also in the witness they bear to the life and character of Christ?

We may point to a remarkable contrast between Magianism and Christianity,—that the former has undergone an almost complete revolution of meaning and doctrine, while, in spite of sectarian glosses, the latter remains virtually unaltered. The faith once for all delivered to the saints is held by believers to-day in all its original purity. We repeat the Creed just as it fell from the rapt lips of martyrs, saints and confessors. But the monotheism of Zarathustra has been broken up into a curious Dualism; and upon the religious system of the Gâthas has been accumulated such a burden of ritual, of novel teaching, of borrowed dogmas, and alien mysteries, that the acutest students are almost baffled in their endeavours to distinguish the false from the true, and the new from the old. It is almost impossible to determine what belongs to the Zarathustrian original, and what to perversions or adaptations from the Jewish Scriptures.

It is an indisputable testimony to the living force and divine genius of Christianity, that it occupies a void which no one of the primitive religions has ever been able to fill. We find it difficult to conceive that any man who has once been a Christian could voluntarily embrace Zarathustrianism or Buddhism, and attempt to satisfy his soul with it, any more than with the philosophy of the Stoics. We are tempted to ask, indeed, whether either could at any time have satisfied the cravings of humanity. We know that all their ethical schemes could not lift the sages of Greece and Rome out of the deep, the intense sadness which possessed them, nor respond to their yearnings after a something they could neither describe nor define. Their state of thought and feeling has been expressed by a modern poet, Matthew Arnold, with what seems to us a wonderful fidelity:—

“Nor only in the intent
To attach blame elsewhere,
Do we at will invent
Stern powers who make their care
To embitter human life, malignant deities.

“But next, we would reverse
The scheme ourselves have spun,
And what we made to curse
We now would lean upon,
And feign kind gods who perfect what man vainly tries....

“We pause, we hush our heart,
And then address the gods:
‘The world hath failed to impart
The joy our youth forebodes,
Failed to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear!’”

Their principles of thought were pure, but they felt that there existed a purity which was beyond their reach; their standard of conduct was high, but they were inwardly conscious that it ought to be higher. On that golden “ladder of sunbeams” which rises from earth to the angel-guarded battlements of heaven, they had ascended a few timid steps, but above and beyond they could see a glory to which it was not given them to rise. Hence it has often been said, and justly, that the men were greater than their system; and such, so far as Magianism was concerned, may well have been the case with the loftier minds of Bactria and Persia. But it can never be pretended that the Christian is greater than Christianity. Let him be ever so holy in his living, ever so exalted in his aspirations, he will not seek for something beyond and out of Christianity, because he feels and knows that he cannot exhaust all its capabilities; that it soars far higher than he can ever soar. It has truths which the profoundest psychologist cannot fathom; it opens up visions which the boldest imagination cannot comprehend; it contains a wealth of emotion and sympathy which the most passionate soul can never exhaust. After we have said and done all we can, after we have mastered all that has been said and done by other men, we still find in the life and character of Christ that which may well engage, and yet never weary our attention. And here we touch upon a feature which no human system of religion or morality has ever matched. Strip the Zendavesta, if you will, of all its later and less worthy adjuncts, and yet it cannot, any more than the Rig-Veda, present us with the divine beauty of the Man of Sorrows. But this it is which fills, soothes, blesses, inspires the aching, restless, craving human heart. When it can no longer satisfy itself with the cold moralities of philosophy, when it pines for a deeper and a warmer life, when it is weary with problems which it cannot solve, and disappointed in hopes which it has seen fade away like dreams of the night, it turns to the Cross and is comforted. The mysteries which perplexed it vanish in the light that emanates from the Divine history of the Son of God. The awe with which it regards the passionless abstraction of a great First Cause, a supreme entity of Power and Wisdom without Love, passes into reverent admiration and joyous thanksgiving when it looks up into the face of the Good Shepherd, and reposes in the shadow of the Vine, and learns how that He Who was with the Father before the beginning, has suffered even as we suffer, has borne the heavy burden of the flesh even as we have borne it, and now sits on the right hand of God,—not an idea, not a principle, not a Spirit, but a Person, bidding all who believe to come unto Him and be at rest.

This, indeed, is the cardinal merit of Christianity,—it has given us Christ.

God forbid that we should deny a certain value even to the “unconscious prophecies of heathendom,” or refuse to see something of the spirit of Christ in the teaching of the ancient sages and philosophers; but when an attempt is made to raise Magianism to an equal rank with Christianity, and the cold intellectual utterances of the Zendavesta to rank with the living voices of Holy Writ, it is essential to point out how vast, how impassable is the gulf between them; how little Magianism did or could do to elevate man’s spiritual nature; and how largely Christianity surpasses it, in and through the manifestation of the Divine love in the mystery of God made Man.

CHAPTER III.

Deutsch, an enthusiast in his attachment to the land and religion of his forefathers, put it forward as a wondrous treasure, the real value of which had been wholly overlooked. It contained, he seemed to say, a complete corpus juris; and, as an encyclopædia of law, should be compared with the corresponding collections of Roman or of English law, with the Pandects of Justinian and the Commentaries of Blackstone. Herein lies the excuse for rules that have been considered unduly subtle, or in other ways offensive to modern taste. But it contains something more than a body of law; it is also a collection of Jewish poetry and legend, of Jewish science, and Jewish metaphysical speculation. The Mishna is a development of the laws contained in the Pentateuch. The members of the Sanhedrim, who were chiefly concerned in the formation of this law, were obliged (so argues Deutsch) to be accomplished men. It was necessary that they should possess some knowledge of physical science, or at least of zoology, botany, and geography in their then condition. It was necessary also that they should be good linguists, having some acquaintance with Latin and Greek, as well as with Aramaic, Syriac, and Hebrew. Disreputable men were kept out, and all were compelled to be married men and fathers of families. “The origin of the Talmud,” he says, “is coeval with the return from the Babylonish captivity.” And though it is the glory of Christianity to have carried into the heart of humanity at large the golden germs of thought previously hidden in the schools of the learned, yet numerous precepts, supposed to be purely Christian, lie enshrined in the pages of the Talmud. It would be difficult to find a penal legislation more distinctly humane. As for its myths, its allegories, its apparent absurdities, they should be read in the spirit in which Christians read Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress.” The Talmud insists upon the pre-existence of the soul, on the dogmas of Immortality and the Resurrection, it denies the doctrine of everlasting damnation; it excludes no human being from the world to come. And as the Talmud, continues Deutsch, although redacted at a later period, is, in point of time, prior to the New Testament, the beautiful maxims of the former cannot have been borrowed from the latter. In a word, it is a collection which took nearly a thousand years to form, and has been commented upon for a thousand years since. It breathes charity to all men. If we except a few items of coarseness, such as must occur in every legal code, it is all good; at least, it is never bad; it deserves all possible respect and even reverence. Such, in a condensed form, is the account of the Talmud which Deutsch asks us to accept.

But it cannot be admitted that the defects of the Talmud are trivial, any more than that the spirit of the Rabbins towards Christianity was tolerant. Nor can it be admitted that the Talmud owes nothing to the Christian Scriptures.

On the first point hear what Professor Hurwitz says:—“The Talmud contains many things which every enlightened, nay, every pious Jew, must sincerely wish had never appeared there, or should at least long ago have been expunged from its pages. Some of these Agadatha are objectionable per se; others, indeed, are susceptible of explanations, but without them are calculated to produce false and erroneous impressions.” So much may be said, we think, of the legends in the Talmud; such as the size of Leviathan and the way in which he is to be killed and cooked for the chosen people, and the marriage of Adam with Lilith before the creation of Eve, with the diabolic progeny which sprang from them.

Another point to be considered is the influence of the Alexandrian books, commonly known by us as the Apocrypha. Of these the Books of Wisdom and Ecclesiasticus at any rate exhibit the reflections of singularly devout and thoughtful minds, which had exercised themselves in the contemplation of the writings of Moses and the prophets in combination with no inconsiderable tincture of Greek philosophy. It would be a question of great interest to see how far ideas suggested in those very remarkable compositions have found their way into the Talmud.

As regards the sentiments of the Rabbins towards Christianity: in the reign of Domitian, (that is, about A.D. 90,) the Sanhedrim took measures against the Minim, that is to say, the degenerated; for so they called the Jews who had been converted to Christianity. The Rabbi Tarphon said:—“The Gospels and all the books of the Minim deserve to be burnt, for Paganism is less dangerous: the Pagans misunderstand the truths of Judaism from ignorance, the Minim deny them with full knowledge of the case. Better to seek an asylum in a Pagan temple than in the synagogues of the Minim.” The Sanhedrim of Jamnia and other similar bodies adopted the like tone. And it was men like these who helped to form the Talmud.

Not the less it remains true, that every powerful movement which has occurred in the world’s history has shown a part of its power in the way it has influenced opponents. The Reformation, as the Ultramontane De Maistre is compelled to admit, wrought a very perceptible change even among Roman Catholics. The French Revolution of 1793 did not leave Legitimists in the position they had occupied before its outbreak. Now Christianity is the greatest movement the world has ever seen. Dean Merivale in his excellent “History of the Romans under the Empire,” states with no less eloquence than truth the immense indirect influence which it had begun to exercise on heathen thought by the end even of the first century. We can trace it in Pagan literature. But Deutsch and similar Talmudophilists would have us believe that it had no influence whatever upon the Talmud, and that whenever we find kindred thoughts in the teaching of Christianity, and in the teaching of their favourite work, it is the Gospel which is indebted to the Talmud and not the Talmud to the Gospel.

But for our part we wholly dissent from this extraordinary theory, which, indeed, cannot be supported by any chronological evidence. There are occasions, of course, in which dates become of comparatively trifling importance. A man feels troubled, for example, with the enigmas of life, and finds light and consolation in reading the book of Job; that most beautiful book—quel bellissimo libro, as the Italian poet Giusti called it. Some friend, finding him thus engaged, begins to argue in favour of Bishop Warburton’s view, that it is a composition of comparatively late date, perhaps of the age of Jeremiah, and not (as used to be generally supposed) as early as the time of Moses. In such a case a man may well reply, that without any wish to discourage critical inquiry in its proper place, he is content for the present to go on reading for his soul’s health, to accept the words before him as a message from above, and to feel sure that whenever God gave it, it was given at the time when it was most needed. But in the case of the Talmud dates are of real and living importance, though we own that it is difficult to fix them with accuracy. We believe, however, with one of Deutsch’s critics, that Christian elements have found their way into the Talmud, though doubtless, pre-Christian ideas, similar to those which are met with in the Books of Wisdom and Ecclesiasticus, are also to be found there. Is it not true that the Mishna was brought into its present form by Rabbi Jehudah, surnamed the Holy, about A.D. 200, and that the Gemara was not completed until A.D. 500? Deutsch, indeed, appeals to the article in the “Novellæ Constitutiones” (or Novels, as they are commonly called) of Justinian against the Talmud. The reference is correct enough, but the Novels belong to the later parts of Justinian’s reign, and were not promulgated before the year 534.

It is well known that at the present time there are three parties among the Jews who differ widely as to the amount of respect which ought to be paid to the legislation contained within the pages of the Talmud. Two out of these parties would greatly modify it, or actually sweep it away. We believe that its influence upon practice is not destined to endure; and that though there is a book which will continue so to influence life, that book is not the Talmud, but the Bible. The Talmud has its curiosities and even beauties, as well as its gross absurdities and defects; but, after all, it will be found, we believe, that it often reflects but too truly the mind of those of whom it was said, “Ye have made the commandment of God of none effect by your traditions.”

With these preliminary observations, we pass on to a more particular description of the Talmud.

There are two Talmuds, the one called the Talmud of the Occidentals, or the “Jerusalem” Talmud, and the other the “Babylonian” Talmud. The former of these originally included the whole of the first five Sedarim (or portions,) but now consists of only thirty-nine treatises. Its final redaction is supposed to have taken place towards the close of the fourth Christian century, but the authorities engaged in the work cannot now be determined. But it is certainly distinguished by more accuracy of expression and precision of statement than the second or Babylonian, or “our” Talmud, which makes use of its predecessor, and was not completed for a century later. Its editor is generally considered to be Rabbi Ashi, president of the Academy of Syro in Babylon (A.D. 365-427.) Both the Mishna, though revised in A.D. 219, and the “Palestine” Gemara, had become greatly corrupted through the interpolation of gross traditions and the critical judgments of different schools, when Rabbi Ashi, with the assistance of his friend and disciple, Abina, undertook the labour of sifting the old from the new, and introducing order into chaos.

Ashi was appointed to the headship of the school of Sora at the age of twenty-three, and under his rule Sora became the head-quarters of Rabbinism in the East. When he entered on the redaction of the Mishna and Gemara, he began by assembling yearly at the great feasts the most learned Hebrews, and examining them with respect to their traditional practices and expositions. He then called together his disciples every spring, and gave out to them a particular treatise of the Mishna; in the autumn they again came before him with all the information relative to it they had collected in the interval. This he personally investigated, and reduced into shape. The Mishna being composed of sixty-three treatises, he was thus engaged for upwards of thirty years. The final revision occupied him twenty-two years. At the time of his death (in his seventy-fifth year) the work was all but completed; the last touches were given by his friend, Rabbi Abina.

The Mosaic is the written law of the Jews; the Mishna, the oral. The latter is the very basis of Judaism, is its civil, religious, and juridico-political code,—an explanation and amplification of the Mosaic. It was developed out of the authoritative decisions of the schools and of certain distinct and well-authenticated traditions which were traced back to Sinai itself. Thus there were two chief sections, or parts: Halacoth, the rabbinical decisions, and Haggadah, the traditional narratives and popular illustrations. Of the great bulk of the former the reputed author is Hillel, the head of the Sanhedrim in the early part of Herod the Great’s reign, but, probably, he only collected them. Maimonides arranges them under five heads:—

The Haggadic narratives are generally of a light and amusing character, though occasionally a deep significance underlies them, converting them into allegories and fables and parables well worthy the attention of the student, though he may not think so highly of them as Frankel, who exclaims: “They are as vivid flashes: or as those spirits of light in Jewish myth, that flow forth in daily myriads from God’s throne, and then vanish to make way for others.”

The Halacoth and Haggadoth accumulated rapidly after the Captivity, representing in due time “a body of traditional exposition of high authority, which increased rapidly, and required the life-long study of a numerous body of Sopherim, or Scribes, to digest and hand on without loss to succeeding generations.” Soon it outgrew the grasp of even the strongest memory and the profoundest application, and it became evident that, unless put upon record, all that was valuable would perish, and only that be preserved which chanced to be in accordance with popular sentiment. To the digest made by Hillel, Simon ben Gamaliel added the worthiest of the later material; and his son, Jehudah the Holy, entered on a complete redaction and revision, which he published in A.D. 219. Hillel, grandfather of the Gamaliel at whose feet S. Paul sat, had arranged the traditional Halacoth under eighteen heads; Jehudah re-arranged them into six Sedarim, or sections:—

We now see that, about A.D. 221 Jehudah the Holy created the Mishna, we have already seen that three centuries later, the same exhaustive work of redaction and revision was done for the Gemara,—the two forming what is now known as the Talmud. The two “editors” received each his peculiar title of honour; Jehudah was styled Rabbina, Ashi Rabban.

Of the language of the Babylon Talmud it is said that it is debased with foreign and barbarous terms and grammatical solecisms to a much greater extent than the “Jerusalem Talmud.” Mr. Blunt asserts that “the Haggadic narratives resemble more closely the vernacular Aramaic, showing their origin in ordinary folk lore. The Halacoth are in Mishnic Hebrew, carrying evidence of higher date. The style is so exceedingly concise as to make the sense that it contains a microscopic study. The difficulties indeed of the Gemara are so great, that no one need think to master them thoroughly who has not drawn in Gemara with his mother’s milk. The study of the Talmud presumes a thorough knowledge also of the Hebrew Bible, a single word often indicating an entire passage. The wonderful moral confusion of the Talmud, the mixed character of which may be detected in every page, is nowhere more strikingly exemplified than in the prayer put by the Gemarist into the mouth of Rabbi Nechoniah ben Hakakana, on entering the school, or Beth Midrash, and quitting it again in the evening.”

The morning prayer was as follows:—

“I beseech Thee that no scandal may occur through fault of mine, and that I err not in matters of Halacah, so as to cause my colleagues to exult. May I not call impurity pure, or purity impure; and may my colleagues not blunder in matters of Halacah, that I may have no cause to triumph over them.”

The spirit of this prayer, in its meekness and modesty, is truly commendable, and presents a striking contrast to that of the evening prayer:—

“I thank Thee that Thou hast given me my portion among those who have a seat in the Beth Midrash, and that Thou hast not cast my lot among those who sit in the corner. I early rise, and they early rise; but I rise to the service of the law, they to vanity. I labour, and they also labour, but I labour and receive a recompense; they labour, but receive nothing. I hasten, and they also hasten; but I hasten in the direction of the world to come, they hasten towards the pit of destruction.”

It is impossible to believe that both these prayers come from the same source; “sweet waters and bitter” do not alike flow from the fountain of Marah.

With respect to the general character of the Talmud, with all its weakness and strength, its beauty and deformity, its poetry and commonplace, its tender wisdom and glaring absurdity, we cannot do better than quote the moderate opinion of the writer already cited, as infinitely more trustworthy than the dithyrambic utterances of Deutsch and his imitators. He says:—

“In its origin it was the result of an almost necessary development. Starting with the axiom that the law of Moses is binding on the children of Abraham in every generation, its precepts have been applied to the changing habits and customs of the Jews in different ages and under various climates, by a literal interpretation when possible, otherwise on the ci-près principle, rarely by giving a new direction to its enactments, as instanced under the Hillel régime. It is this application of the Law to the needs of Jewish Society, by a process slow and gradual, that has made each successive stage of development, in Jewish opinion, more valuable than its predecessors. Thus if the Law has been likened to water, the Mishna, which gives a later direction to its precepts, is as wine; and the Gemara, declaring as it does the sense in which the Mishnic Hilkoth are to be taken, is as hippocras. It is not that the Law is less, or that the traditional decisions and expository matter are more sacred, but the latest phase of judicial interpretation is the most binding; and where the rule of action is clear and decisive, no antecedent utterance need trouble the inquirer. Yet the Talmud has always been antiquated. It has never known the sunshine of youth. It has still been the mouldering, moss-grown ruin. In its origin it presupposed vital action where there was nothing but death; Temple service with the Temple hopelessly in ruins, ‘not one stone upon another;’ sacrificial rites that were impossible without an altar, and for which certain prayers were substituted, carefully numbered out, and made binding on the individual in lieu of public offering.... Nothing can be more completely out of place than strict Talmudism amid the complications of modern society; it is impossible to make its precepts consist with the social and political duties of the highly educated Jew. Our Lord, Who came not to destroy the Law, but to fulfil it, has pointed out those modes of dealing with the Law in its higher and more spiritual bearings, that in the end must be accepted by Israel as his truest wisdom.”

Mr. Deutsch gives the following account of the six sections of the Mishna:—

“Section I. Seeds: of Agrarian laws, commencing with a chapter on Prayers. In this section the various tithes and donations due to the Priests, the Levites, and the poor, from the products of the lands, and further the Sabbatical year, and the prohibited mixtures in plants, animals, and garments, are treated of.

“Section II. Feasts: of Sabbaths, Feast and Fast days, the work prohibited, the ceremonies ordained, the sacrifices to be offered, on them. Special chapters are devoted to the Feast of the Exodus from Egypt, to the New Year’s Day, to the Day of Atonement (one of the most impressive portions of the whole book,) to the Feast of Tabernacles, and to that of Haman.

“Section III. Women: of betrothal, marriage, divorce, &c.; also of vows.

“Section IV. Damages: including a great part of the civil and criminal law. It treats of a law of trades, of buying and selling, and the ordinary monetary transactions. Further, of the greatest crime known to the law, viz., idolatry. Next of witnesses, of oaths, of legal punishments, and of the Sanhedrim itself. This section concludes with the so-called ‘Sentences of the Fathers,’ containing some of the sublimest ethical dicta known in the history of religious philosophy.

“Section V. Sacred Things: of sacrifices, the first-born, &c.; also of the measurements of the Temple (Middoth).

“Section VI. Purifications: of the various Levitical and other Hygienic laws, of impure things and persons, their purification, &c.”[22]

In defence of the Haggadah, with all its incongruities, puerilities, and absurdities, it is only just to hear what Deutsch, its enthusiastic apostle, has to say. And first he applies to it the rhyming apology which Bunyan put forward on behalf of his great allegory,—which, by the way, Mr. Deutsch surely misrepresents and misunderstands when he speaks of it as Haggadistic:—

“... Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy?
Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly?
Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation?
Or else be drownèd in thy contemplation?
Dost thou love picking meat? Or wouldst thou see
A man in the clouds, and hear him speak to thee?
Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep?
Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep?
Wouldst lose thyself, and catch no harm?
And find thyself again without a charm?
Wouldst read thyself, and read thou know’st not what
And yet know whether thou art blest or not
By reading the same lines? O then come hither,
And lay this book, thy head and heart together.”

Mr. Deutsch thus seeks to disarm antagonists by a skilful concession. He does not wonder—not he—that the so-called “Rabbinical stories,” submitted at intervals to the English public, should have met with an unflattering reception. The Talmud, which has always at hand a drastic word, says of their collectors:—“They dived into an ocean, and brought up a potsherd.” But then, he says, these follies form only a small item in the vast mass of allegories, parables, and the like, that compose the Haggadah. And, besides, they are partly ill-chosen, partly ill-translated, and partly did not even belong to the Talmud, but to some recent Jewish story books. Herder—to name the most famous critic of the “Poetry of Peoples”—has spoken most eulogistically of what he saw of the genuine specimens. And, indeed, “not only is the entire world of pious biblical legend which Islam has said and sung in its many tongues to the delight of the wise and simple for twelve centuries, now to be found either in embryo or fully developed in the Haggadah, but much that is familiar among ourselves in the circles of mediæval sagas, in Dante, in Boccaccio, in Cervantes, in Milton, in Bunyan, has consciously or unconsciously flowed out of this wondrous realm, the Haggadah. That much of it is overstrained, even according to Eastern notions, we do not deny. But,” argues Mr. Deutsch, “there are feeble passages even in Homer and Shakespeare.” To this it may be replied, that in Homer and Shakespeare such passages are rare, and do not form the bulk of their writings; and, moreover, that for the Iliad or for Hamlet we do not claim the position of authority which is claimed for the Talmud.

Let us glance briefly at the cosmogony of the Talmud. It assumes that the universe has been developed by means of a series of cataclysms; that world was destroyed after world, until God made “this world, and saw that it was very good.” It assumes also that the kosmos was wrought out of some original substance, itself created by God. “One or three things were before this world,—Water, Fire, and Wind; Water begat the darkness, Fire begat light, and Wind begat the spirit of Wisdom.”

“The how of the creation was not mere matter of speculation. The co-operation of angels, whose existence was warranted by Scripture, and a whole hierarchy of whom had been built up under Persian influences, was distinctly denied. In a discussion about the day of their creation, it is agreed on all hands that there were no angels at first, lest men might say, ‘Michael spanned out the firmament on the south, and Gabriel to the north.’” There is a distinct foreshadowing of the Gnostic Demiurgos—that antique link between the Divine Spirit and the world of matter—to be found in the Talmud. What with Plato were the Ideas, with Philo the Logos, with the Kabbalists the “World of Aziluth,” what the Gnostics called more emphatically the wisdom (σοφία), or power (δύναμις), and Plotinus the νοῦς, that the Talmudical authors call Metation. There is a good deal, in the post-captivity Talmud, about the Angels, borrowed from the Persian. The Archangels or Angelic princes are seven in number, and their Hebrew names and functions correspond almost exactly to those of their Persian prototypes. There are also hosts of ministering angels, the Persian Yazatas, whose functions, besides that of being messengers, were twofold,—to praise God, and to be guardians of man. In their first capacity they are daily created by God’s breath out of a stream of fire that rolls its waves under the supernal throne. In their second, two of them accompany every man, and for every new good deed man acquires a new guardian angel, who always watches over his steps. When a righteous man dies, three hosts of angels descend from the celestial battlements to meet him. One says, (in the words of Scripture,) “He shall go in peace;” the second takes up the strain and says, “Who has walked in righteousness;” and the third concludes, “Let him come in peace and rest upon his bed.” In like manner, when the wicked man passes away, three hosts of wicked angels are ready to escort him, but their address is not couched in any spirit of consolation or encouragement.

There are various indications in the Talmud of a belief in the resurrection and immortality of the soul. The resurrection, it teaches, is to be brought about by the mystic influence of the “Dew of life” in Jerusalem. It does not uphold the dogma of everlasting damnation, though it allows that the punishment of apostates, idolaters, and traitors will endure for “generations upon generations.”

In conclusion, it is but fair that we should present the brighter and better aspect of this extraordinary book, its ethical side, and afford some illustrations of the moral and religious philosophy which pervades it,—which is its salt, and preserves its savour. The following sayings have been translated by Deutsch.[23] Many of them bear a striking resemblance to the great and glorious sayings of the Gospels; and to us it seems impossible to doubt that they evidence the influence of the former. It is true that the Talmud as a whole preceded the New Testament, but as its redaction took place at a much later period, we see nothing absurd in the hypothesis that its redactors had felt the spell of the Christian teaching, and occasionally introduced some of its rare and precious threads of purest silk into the coarse woof woven by traditionalists, scholiasts, and commentators:—

The house that does not open to the poor shall open to the physician; even the birds in the air despise the miser. He who gives charity in secret is greater than Moses himself. Honour the sons of the poor, it is they who bring science into splendour.

Let the honour of thy neighbour be to thee like thine own. Rather be thrown into a fiery furnace than bring any one to public shame.

Hospitality is the most important part of divine worship. There are three crowns: of the law, the priesthood, the kingship; but the crown of a good name is greater than they all.

Iron breaks the stone, fire melts iron, water extinguishes fire, the clouds drink up the water, a storm drives away the clouds, man withstands the storm, fear unmans man, wine dispels fear, sleep drives away wine, and death sweeps all away—even sleep. But Solomon the Wise says, Charity saves from death.

The dog sticks to you on account of the crumbs in your pocket.

The camel wanted to have horns, and they took away his ears.

The soldiers fight, and the kings are the heroes.

He in whose family there has been one hanged should not say to his neighbour, Pray hang this little fish up for me.

The cock and the owl both await the daylight. The light, says the cock, brings delight to me; but what are you waiting for?

When the thief has no opportunity for stealing, he considers himself an honest man.

If thy friends agree in calling thee an ass, go and get a halter round thee.

Fools are no proof.

One eats, another says grace.

He who is ashamed will not easily commit sin. There is a great difference between him who is ashamed before his own self, and him who is only ashamed before others. It is a good sign in man to be capable of being ashamed. One contrition in man’s heart is better than many flagellations.

How can you escape sin? Think of three things,—whence thou camest, whither thou goest, and to whom thou wilt have to account for all thy deeds,—even to the King of kings, the All-holy, praised be He.

Love your wife like yourself, honour her more than yourself. Whosoever lives unmarried lives without joy, without comfort, without blessing. Descend a step in choosing a wife. If thy wife is small, bend down to her and whisper into her ear. He who forsakes the love of his youth, God’s altar weeps for him. He who sees his wife die before him, has, as it were, been present at the destruction of the sanctuary itself, around him the world grows dark. It is woman alone through whom God’s blessings are vouchsafed to a house. She teaches the children, speeds the husband to the place of worship and instruction, welcomes him when he returns, keeps the house godly and pure, and God’s blessings rest upon all these things. He who marries for money, his children shall be a curse to him.

After the thief runs the theft; after the beggar, poverty.

While thy foot is shod, smash the thorn.

When the ox is down, many are the butchers.

Luck makes rich, luck makes wise.

If you wish to hang yourself, choose a big tree.

When the pitcher falls upon the stone, woe unto the pitcher; when the stone falls upon the pitcher, woe unto the pitcher; whatever befalls, woe unto the pitcher.

Youth is a garland of roses, age a crown of thorns.

Be thou the cursed, not he who curses. Be of them that are persecuted, not of them that persecute. Look at Scripture, there is not a single bird more persecuted than the dove, yet God has chosen her to be offered up on His altar. The bull is hunted by the lion, the sheep by the wolf, the goat by the tiger. And God said, “Bring Me a sacrifice not from them that persecute, but from them that are persecuted.”

“Hath God pleasure in the meat and blood of sacrifices?” asks the prophet. No; He has not so much ordained as permitted them. It is for yourselves, He says, not for Me that you offer, Like a king, who sees his son carousing daily with all manner of evil companions: You shall henceforth eat and drink entirely at your will at my own table, he says. They offered sacrifices to demons and devils, for they loved sacrificing, and would not do without it. And the Lord said, “Bring your offerings to Me, you shall then at least offer to the true God.”

Even when the gates of heaven are shut to prayer, they are open to tears.

The reward of good works is like dates, sweet and late to ripen.

Life is a passing shadow, says the Scripture. Is it the shadow of a tower, of a tree? A shadow that prevails for a while? No, it is the shadow of a bird in his flight,—away speeds the bird, and there is neither bird nor shadow.

Repent one day before thy death. There was a king who bade all his servants to a great repast, but did not indicate the hour; some went home and put on their best garments, and stood at the door of the palace; others said, There is ample time, the king will let us know beforehand. But the king summoned them of a sudden; and those that came in their best garments were well received, but the foolish ones, who came in their slovenliness, were turned away in disgrace. Repent to-day, lest to-morrow you might be called.

He who has more learning than good works is like a tree with many branches but few roots, which the first wind throws on its face; whilst he whose works are greater than his knowledge, is like a tree with many roots but fewer branches, but which all the winds of heaven cannot uproot.

CHAPTER IV.

These Abraiaman are idolaters; and they give greater heed to signs and omens than any people that exist. I will mention one of their customs as an example. To every day of the week they assign a special augury. Suppose some purchase is on foot; he who proposes to become the buyer takes note, when he rises in the morning, of his shadow in the sun, which ought, he says, on that day to be of such and such a length; and should his shadow be of the proper length for that day he completes his purchase; if it be not, he will on no account do so, but waits till his shadow reaches the prescribed measurement. For there is a certain length fixed for every day in the week; and the merchant will not complete any business unless he finds his shadow of the length set down for that particular day. Also to each day in the week they assign one hour as unlucky, which they term Choiach. For example, on Monday the hour of Half-tierce (7 to 8 a.m.), on Tuesday that of Tierce, (9 to 10 a.m.), on Wednesday Nones (12 to 1 p.m.), and so on.

Again, if one of them be in the house, and, while meditating a purchase, should see a tarantula (such as is very common in that country) on the wall, provided that it advance from a quarter which he deems lucky, he will complete his purchase at once; but if it come from a quarter which he considers unlucky, he will not do so on any inducement. Moreover, if, on going forth, he hear any one sneeze, he will proceed if he consider it a good omen; but, if the reverse, he will straightway sit down in his place for as long as he thinks it well to tarry. Or if, in travelling along the road, he see a swallow fly past, should its direction be lucky he will proceed, but, if not, he will turn back again: in fact, they are worse, in these vagaries, than so many Patarins! (i.e. heretics.)

These Abraiaman are very long-lived, owing to their extreme abstinence in eating. And they never allow themselves to let blood in any part of the body. They have capital teeth, which is due to a certain herb they chew; it greatly improves their appearance, and is also very good for the health.

There is another class of people called Chugi [Jogi], who are indeed properly Abraiaman, but they form a religious order devoted to the Idols. They are extremely long-lived, every man of them living to 150 or 200 years. They eat very little, but what they do eat is good; rice and milk chiefly. And these people make use of a very strange beverage; for they brew a potion of mixed sulphur and quicksilver, and drink it twice every month. This, they say, gives them long life; and they are used to take it from their childhood.

Certain members of this Order lead the most ascetic life imaginable, going completely naked; they worship the Ox. Most of them wear a small image of an ox, in brass, pewter, or gold, tied over the forehead. Moreover, they take cow-dung, and burn it, and make a powder of it; and then they make it into an ointment, with which they daub themselves as devoutly as Christians use holy water. Further, if they meet any person who treats them well, they daub a little of this powder on the middle of his forehead.

They do not eat from bowls or trenchers, but place their food on leaves of the Apple of Paradise and other large leaves; these, however, they use dry, never green. For they say the green leaves have a soul in them, and so it would be a sin. And they would rather die than do what their Law pronounces to be sin. If any one ask how it comes that they are not ashamed to go about in their nudity, they say:—“We go naked because naked we came into the world, and we desire to have nothing about us that is of this world. Moreover, we have no sin of the flesh to be conscious of, and therefore we are not ashamed of our nakedness, any more than you are to show your hand or your face. You who are conscious of the sins of the flesh do well to be ashamed, and to cover your nakedness.”

On no account would they kill an animal, not even a fly, or a flea, or a louse, or anything in fact that has life; for they say all these have souls, and it would be sinful to do so. They eat no vegetables in a green state, only when they are dry. And they sleep on the ground, naked, without a rag of clothing over them or under them; so that it is a marvel they do not all die, instead of living so long as I have told you. They fast every day in the year, and drink nothing but water. And when a novice has to be received among them they keep him awhile in their convent, and make him follow their rule of life.

They are such cruel and perfidious idolaters that it is very devilry! They say that they burn the bodies of the dead, because if they were not burnt, worms would generate and consume them; and when no more food remained for them, they would die, and the souls belonging to those bodies would bear the sin and the punishment of their death.

In another part of his immortal work, Marco Polo speaks of the fish-charmers of Ceylon as Brahmans (or Abraiaman.) The pearl-fishers, he says, pay one twentieth part of all that they take to these men, who charm the great fishes, and prevent them from injuring the divers whilst engaged in seeking pearls under water. Their charm holds good only for the day; at night they dissolve it, so that the fishes can work mischief at their will. These Abraiaman, he adds, know also how to charm beasts and birds and every living thing.

Commenting on this statement, Colonel Yule observes that the modern snake-charmers do not seem entitled to the distinctive appellation of Abraiaman, or Brahmans, though they may have been so in former days. At the diamond-mines of the Northern Circars Brahmans are employed in the similar task of propitiating the tutelary genii. The snake-charmers are called in Tamul Kadal-kalti, “Sea-binders,” and in Hindustani, Haibanda, or “Shark-binders.” At Aripo they belong to one family, supposed to enjoy monopoly of the charm. The chief operator is (or was, not many years ago) paid by Government, and he also received two oysters from each boat daily during the fishery. Turnoub, on his visit, found the incumbent of the office to be a Roman Catholic Christian, but that did not seem to affect the exercise or the validity of his practices. It is remarkable that when Turnoub wrote, not more than one authenticated accident from sharks had taken place, during the whole period of the British occupation.

Among the shepherds, or hillmen, in the neighbourhood of Rampore (or “City of Rama,”)—the Paharis, as they are called,—a curious custom lingers, which resembles the strange old Highland ceremony of the sunwise turn, or Deisul, round any particular object, partly for luck, partly as a survival of the sun-worship of the men of old. Sometimes the villagers gather their flocks into one great herd, and, walking at the head, lead them slowly round the village, following the solar course. Gradually they quicken their pace to a run, and in this fashion perambulate the village thrice or even oftener.

This sunwise turn is practised in other cases, as in sickness or accident. Sheep and goats are solemnly paraded round the sufferer; after which they lose their heads. If the sufferer be wealthy, the number so sacrificed to the demons is often considerable. But the Paharis very firmly hold that though the lesser spirits may be thus propitiated, no sacrifice is acceptable to the Supreme Deity; that all He claims is devout worship.

They believe in the existence of three and thirty millions of good and evil spirits, but their special adoration seems to be reserved for the spirit which watches over their particular village, and in their temples they reserve for him a kind of ark or shrine, wherein his veiled image is carefully preserved. Every day this ark is slung upon long poles, and taken out for an airing; and once a year it is borne through the country side in solemn procession, and the people assemble and dance before it, as the Israelites of old danced before the tabernacle. The said ark is gaily decorated with bright-coloured hangings, and upon it is set a brazen head, with four or more faces, overshadowed by yaks’ tails, like huge plumes of dark or scarlet wool. Sometimes the whole structure is adorned with faces of polished metal, which gleam and reflect like mirrors in the sun. Moreover, it is usually draped all around with a deep fringe of silky white yaks’ tails, depending almost to the ground, and concealing the bodies of the bearers, so that the tabernacle seems to crawl along upon its own feet.

To the service of the temple certain people are set apart in every village. In the morning they sound an alarm in honour of the god with bell, and conch, and cymbal, and again in the evening with a similar din they announce the close of day. Ablutions are ignored by the villagers in their own case, but they will have their goddess washed and dressed daily. They burn incense before her, and serve her with offerings of leaves of wild mint.

Occasionally, all the tribes assemble at a religious festival, and each village sends forth its ark, with the men and women attired in their brightest colours, and glittering with all their jewels. The various processions, with dance and song and gambol, proceed towards the appointed rendezvous; one of their little temples, of rudely carved cedar-wood, situated in the calm shade of a group of forest-trees. Near this temple is usually prepared a neatly-levelled space, covered with green turf, or, perhaps, paved; and here the Khudas, or arks, are solemnly deposited. For three days the festivities are kept up, and the sound of singing and dancing seems continuous. Every now and then each village-company raises its Khuda from the ground, and carries it in a little circle, sunwise, while the nodding plumes seem to keep time to the rude chant of the simple worshippers, and an outer ring of men, joining hands, follow the rhythm in fantastic dance. Then the idol is set down; the people prepare their homage; the dance goes on; and the women, in a long undulating chain, sunwise revolve around the mystic Khuda.

Each woman, throwing one arm around her neighbour’s waist, keeps the other free, and waves a plume-like chowni or yak’s tail, as she bows to the Khuda. They do not all wave simultaneously, but in swift succession, so as to produce the effect of a continuous graceful motion. If one of the women retire, from fatigue, another slips into her place: sometimes the men form the circle, then both men and women join, always carrying on the same evolutions, the same circular motion. At nightfall the huge fires are kindled, and the lurid gleams of pine-wood torches flicker athwart the darkness, while the echoes ring incessantly with the monotonous clang of great trumpet-shells and tomtoms.

When they have expended all their energies the revellers bring the festival to a close, and each village-company bears back its patron-goddess to her own little sanctuary.

Whether, as some surmise, this ceremony is associated with any tradition of Noah’s Ark, we cannot pretend to determine. But it is certain that some legends of the Flood still linger among the hillmen. There is a popular myth which tells of a mighty ship built by Manu and the Seven Sages, in which they stored the seed of all kinds of life, and of its being rescued by Brahma when the Deluge overwhelmed the primitive earth. Brahma, it says, drew the great vessel for many days until he reached a high peak of the Himalayas, where he moored it securely. In memory whereof, the peak has ever since borne the name of Naubandhana.

Mr. W. Simpson, who has seen much of India and the Indians, describes an Ark-festival which he witnessed in a Himalayan valley. After indulging in the usual ceremonial ablutions, the people of the district assembled at the village of Coatee to do honour to its patron-goddess. The Khuda was brought out, and with dance and music, conducted in noisy procession through the deep shades of the forest and its lonesome glens, until they reached a certain grove, in which a small temple was situated. The Khuda was then deposited on the paved space in front; and an aged priest washed all the brazen faces with mint leaves and water previous to offering up incense, flowers, fruit, and bread.

A number of playful young kids were next brought forward. The priest sprinkled them with water. On the ground lay a large flat brazen dish, and one of the villagers stood beside it with a sacred hatchet, rudely ornamented. At a single blow he struck off the head of a kid. The priest’s assistant raised the head, and muttering certain words, presented it to the Khuda. Dipping his finger into the blood, he flicked some drops upon the carven image, and placed the head with the other offerings. Meanwhile, the kid’s body had been so disposed that all its blood dripped into the brazen vessel; and when two or three animals had been sacrificed and the dish was full, one of the men lifted it up, and, first presenting it to the Khuda, turned round, and swang the body against the whitewashed wall of the temple, so as to empty it of blood. This ceremony was thrice repeated.

The festival is known as the Akrot-ka-pooja, or Walnut Festival, from the pastime that follows the sacrificial scene. The priest, with a few companions, takes his place in the balcony of the temple, and all the young men present pelt them liberally with walnuts and green pine-cones, which the group in the balcony rapidly collect and return in plentiful volleys. For about half-an-hour this severe encounter lasts, when the assailed descend, and once more mingle with the crowd.

By this time the sacrificial kids have been cooked, and the people seating themselves on the paved space in front of the Khuda, cakes and flesh are served out among them. In opposition to the usual Eastern custom, the women are helped before the men. It is now time for the homeward journey, but the mysterious oscillation of the Khuda is understood to signify its desire to visit the neighbouring village of Cheenee; and thither the multitude at once proceed, dancing, singing, shouting, while the forest glades resound with the trumpets and the tomtoms, and a few of the nimbler-footed speed ahead to give notice to the authorities at Cheenee of the honour in store for them. When near the latter village, the procession is met by the goddess of Cheenee, with her retinue, and an exchange of courtesies takes place. Next morning, the goddess of Kothi, or Coatee, returns to her own charge.

Shamanism: Devil-Dancing.

In many parts of Central and Southern India the rite of Devil-Dancing is practised, and Bishop Caldwell gives a striking description of it as it exists among the Shawars of Tinnevelly:[24]

“When the preparations are completed and the devil-dance is about to commence, the music is at first comparatively slow; the dancer seems impassive and sullen, and he either stands still or moves about in gloomy silence. Gradually, as the music becomes quicker and louder, his excitement begins to rise. Sometimes, to help him to work himself up into a frenzy, he uses medicated draughts, cuts and lacerates himself till the blood flows, lashes himself with a huge whip, presses a burning torch to his breast, drinks the blood which flows from his own wounds, or drains the blood of the sacrifice, putting the throat of the decapitated goat to his mouth. Then, as if he had acquired new life, he begins to brandish his staff of bells, and to dance with a quick but wild unsteady step. Suddenly the afflatus descends; there is no mistaking that glare, or those frantic leaps. He snorts, he swears, he gyrates. The demon has now taken bodily possession of him, and though he retains the power of utterance and motion, both are under the demon’s control, and his separate consciousness is in abeyance. The bystanders signalize the event by raising a long shout, attended with a peculiar vibratory noise, caused by the motion of the hand and tongue, or the tongue alone. The devil-dancer is now worshipped as a present deity, and every bystander consults him respecting his diseases, his wants, the welfare of his absent relatives, the offerings to be made for the accomplishment of his wishes, and, in short, everything for which superhuman knowledge is supposed to be available.”

Before we quit this subject, it may be for the interest and convenience of the reader, if we offer a brief account of the doctrines and rites of Brahmism. This movement against the old Hindu faith, initiated by Rammohun Roy, and developed by Babu Keshub Chunda Sen, owes its origin, however unconsciously, to the influence of Christianity, which the Hindu mind, on awaking from its long sleep of centuries, found, as it were, by its side, and the pure and elevated character of which it could not but recognise.

Rammohun Roy was born in the district of Moorshadabad in 1772, and was upwards of forty years of age when he undertook the part of a religious reformer. A man of considerable natural powers, he had cultivated them carefully, acquired a thorough knowledge of Sanskrit and Arabic, and accompanied his meditations on the Sastras, or Hindu religious books, with a close study of the English Scriptures. Removing to Calcutta in 1814, he endeavoured to engage his friends in the same pursuits, and as this effort led him naturally to new inquiries, he soon came to abandon his belief in traditional Hinduism. A cry of ‘infidel!’ was immediately raised against him; he became the subject of an incessant hostility; was on one occasion mobbed in the streets of Calcutta; and owed his life to the protection of the British Government. Persecution, however, could not quench his thirst after knowledge. He applied himself to the study of Greek and Hebrew, that by reading the Bible in its original languages, he might penetrate more thoroughly into the spirit of Hebrew and Christian devotion.

Having dismissed the authority of the Puranas, he rested his faith on the Vedas, the oldest of the Hindu sacred books, in the conviction (an erroneous one) that the old creed of Hinduism was monotheistic, and the belief (a justifiable one) that the Puranas represented the degeneracy of a later age. Strange to say, he did not detect the Pantheism that overflows the Vedas: in the Upanishads or treatises attached to them, he fancied that he saw a pure Deism, and to diffuse this among his countrymen, he published numerous translations and organised a society of believers, who recited texts from the Vedas, and chanted Christian hymns. In 1830 he went further; founding a prayer-meeting, which proved the seed of what is now known as the Brahma Samáj. The building erected for the purpose of holding the meetings was, according to the trust deed, to be open to people of all sorts and conditions, “who shall behave and conduct themselves in an orderly, sober, religious, and devout manner, for the worship and adoration of the Eternal, Unsearchable, and Immutable Being, who is the Author and Preserver of the Universe, but not under and by any other name, designation, or title, peculiarly used for and applied to any particular Being or Beings by any man or set of men whatsoever.” It provided also, in direct opposition to the practices of Hinduism, that no graven image, sculpture, carving, picture, painting, portrait, or likeness of anything, should “be admitted within the walls of this building;” that no animal sacrifices should take place there; that no eating or drinking, feasting or rioting, should be permitted; that evil speaking against the beliefs of men should be prohibited; and that no prayer, or sermon, or teaching should be allowed, unless it had “a tendency to the contemplation of the Author and Preserver of the Universe, or to the promotion of charity, morality, piety, benevolence, virtue, and the strengthening of the bonds of union between men of all religious persuasions and creeds.”

Here we have a distinct advance on Brahmanism and even on Buddhism, but the religious system indicated in the closing sentence is nevertheless as vague as it is cold; and lacks that vital element which Christianity derives from its recognition of God the Father and Christ the Saviour. However, Rammohun Roy, in his fashion, was a sincere “seeker after God;” and in his vague endeavour to grasp the truth he persevered in the face of an intolerant opposition. He still continued to give a foremost place to the Vedas as channels of religious instruction, but he introduced the Psalms of David; and as time wore on, he separated himself more and more completely from the traditions of orthodox Hinduism. Even his faith in the Vedas came to be much shaken; and finding himself at last in that state of isolation which is the suffering and martyrdom of the man in advance of his age, he quitted India and went to live in England. At Bristol he resided, much esteemed, until his death in 1833.

For awhile the torch which he had lighted flickered ominously near to extinction, until, in 1841, it passed into the hands of Babu Debendronath Tagore. By him it was again lighted up; and as much had happened since Rammohun Roy’s departure, as education had gradually weakened the old traditional prejudices, it became the rallying-point of a crowd of earnest inquirers. Debendronath Tagore devoted himself with eager unselfishness, giving unsparingly of his time, his money, and his talents. His work derived no inconsiderable moral support from his unblemished personal character. He provided the Samáj with a printing-press, expended much money in fitting up their place of worship, and collected a valuable library of the Hindu sacred books, besides providing for the support of poor but promising students, sent to Benares to prosecute their studies.

A remarkable change, however, soon came over the faith and teaching of the Samáj. Hitherto, as we have seen, they had been based upon the Vedas, as the authorized rule of Hindu theology; but inquiry and criticism had gradually disclosed their Pantheistic character, and their consequent incompatibility with the creed of the Samáj. Thus it came to pass that about 1850 the Vedas had to go; and the members of the Samáj no longer called themselves Vedantists but Brahmoists, or Brahmists (from Brahm, or Brahma, the Supreme Being.) In other words, they openly became Theists.

A religious sect, brought together by a common monotheism and accepting a common covenant, was naturally impelled towards an expansion of their creed. But this expansion in the case of the Brahma Samáj, was probably hastened by the number of branch Samájes that sprang up in the neighbourhood of the metropolis and in some of the larger towns of the Bengal presidency. These branches, constantly increasing in number through the accessions of educated young men from the colleges and zillah schools, naturally looked to the parent Samáj to define and establish their creed; and what must be regarded as an authoritative exposition of it was published in 1868. The following is a summary of it:—