CHAPTER VIII.
THE MENDELSSOHN EPOCH.
Renaissance of the Jewish Race—Moses Mendelssohn—His Youth—Improves Hebrew Style—Lessing and Mendelssohn—Mendelssohn's Writings—The Bonnet-Lavater Controversy—Kölbele—The Burial Question—Reimarus—Anonymous Publication of his Work—Lessing's "Nathan the Wise"—Mendelssohn in "Nathan"—Mendelssohn's Pentateuch—Opposition to it—The "Berlin Religion"—Montesquieu—Voltaire—Portuguese Marranos in Bordeaux—Isaac Pinto—His Defense of Portuguese Jews—Dohm and Mendelssohn—Joseph II of Austria—Michaelis—Mendelssohn's "Jerusalem"—Wessely: his Circular Letter—Mendelssohn's Death.
1750–1786 C. E.
Can "a nation be born at once"—or can a people be regenerated? If the laboriously constructed organism of a nation has lost vitality, if the bonds connecting the individual parts are weakened, and internal dissolution has set in, even the despotic will which keeps the members in a mechanical union being wanting; in short, if death comes upon a commonalty in its corporate state, and it has been entombed, can it be resuscitated and undergo a revival? This doom has overtaken many nationalities of ancient and modern times. But if in such a people a new birth should take place, i.e., a resurrection from death and apparent decomposition, and if this should occur in a race long past its youthful vigor, whose history has spread over thousands of years,—then such a miracle deserves the most attentive consideration from every man who does not stolidly overlook what is marvelous.
The Jewish race has displayed miraculous phenomena, not only in ancient days, the age of miracles, but also in this matter-of-fact epoch. A community which was an object of mockery not merely to the malicious and ignorant, but almost more to benevolent and cultured men; despicable in its own eyes; admirable only by reason of its domestic virtues and ancient memories, both, however, disfigured beyond recognition by trivial observances; scourging itself with bitter irony; of which a representative member could justly remark, "My nation has become so estranged from culture, that the possibility of improvement is doubtful"—this community nevertheless raised itself from the dust! It revived with marvelous rapidity from its abjection, as if a prophet had called unto it, "Shake thyself from the dust; arise ... loose thyself from the bands of thy neck, O captive daughter of Zion!" And who caused this revival? One man, Moses Mendelssohn, who may be considered the incarnation of his race—stunted in form, awkward, timid, stuttering, ugly, and repulsive in appearance. But within this race-deformity breathed a thoughtful spirit, which only when misled pursued chimeras, and lost its self-esteem only when proscribed. No sooner did it understand that it was the exponent of the truth, than it dismissed its visionary fancies, its spirit transfigured the body, and raised the bent form erect, the hateful characteristics disappeared, and the scornful nickname of "Jew" was changed almost into a title of honor.
This rejuvenescence or renaissance of the Jewish race, which may be unhesitatingly ascribed to Mendelssohn, is noteworthy, inasmuch as the originator of this great work neither intended nor suspected it; in fact, as already remarked, he almost doubted the capacity for rejuvenescence in his brethren. He produced this altogether unpremeditated glorious result not by means of his profession or his public position. He was not a preacher in the wilderness, who urged the lost sons of Israel to a change of mind; all his life he shrank from direct exercise of influence. Even when sought after, he avoided leadership of every kind with the oft-repeated confession, that he was in no way fitted for the office. Mendelssohn played an influential part without either knowing or desiring it: involuntarily, he aroused the slumbering genius of the Jewish race, which only required an impulse to free itself from its constrained position and develop. The story of his life is interesting, because it typifies the history of the Jews in recent times, when they raised themselves from lowliness and contempt to greatness and self-consciousness.
Moses Mendelssohn (born at Dessau, August, 1728, died in Berlin, January 4, 1786) was as insignificant and wretched an object as almost all poor Jewish children. At this time even infants seemed to possess a servile appearance. For quick-witted boys there was no period of youth; they were early made to shiver and shake by the icy breath of rough life. They were thus prematurely awakened to think, and hardened for their struggle with unlovely reality. One day Mendelssohn, a weakly, deformed lad in his fourteenth year, knocked at the door in one of the gates of Berlin. A Jewish watchman, a sort of police officer, the terror of immigrant Jews, who was ordered to refuse admission to those without means of subsistence, harshly addressed the pale, crippled boy seeking admission. Fortunately, he managed bashfully to stammer out that he desired to enroll himself among the Talmudical pupils of the new rabbi of Berlin. This was a kind of recommendation, and enabled him to dispense with a full purse. Mendelssohn was admitted, and directed his steps towards the house of the rabbi, David Fränkel, his countryman and teacher, who had shortly before been called from Dessau to the rabbinate of Berlin.
He took an interest in the shy youth, allowed him to attend his rabbinical lectures, provided for his maintenance, and employed him in copying his Commentary to the Jerusalem Talmud, because Mendelssohn had inherited a beautiful handwriting as his only legacy from his father, a writer of scrolls of the Law. Even if Mendelssohn learnt from Fränkel nothing besides the Talmud, yet the latter exerted a favorable influence upon the mind of his disciple, because his method, exercising itself upon virgin soil, the Jerusalem Talmud, was not so distorted, hair-splitting, and perverse as that of most expounders of the Talmud, who made the crooked straight, and the straight crooked. Mendelssohn's innate honesty and yearning for truth were not suppressed or hindered by his first teacher, and this was of value.
Like the majority of Talmud disciples (Bachurim) Mendelssohn led the life of poverty which the Talmud in a measure makes a stipulation for study:—
"Eat bread with salt, drink water by measure, sleep upon the hard earth, live a life of privations, and busy thyself with the Law."
His ideal at this time was to perfect himself in the knowledge of the Talmud. Was it chance that implanted in Berlin the seed destined to produce such luxuriant fruit? Or would the result have been the same, if he had remained with Fränkel in Dessau, or if the latter had been called to Halberstadt, or Fürth, or Metz, or Frankfort? It is highly improbable. Retired though Mendelssohn's life was, yet a fresh breeze was wafted from the Prussian capital into the narrow chambers of his Rabbinical studies. With the accession of Frederick the Great, who besides war cultivated the Muses (though in a French garb), literary dilettanteism, French customs, and contempt for religion began to grow into fashion among Berlin Jews. Although their condition under Frederick was restricted, yet, because several became wealthy, the new spirit did not pass over them without leaving an impression, however inadequate and superficial. An impulse towards culture, the spirit of innovation, and imitation of Christian habits began to manifest themselves.
A Pole first introduced Mendelssohn to the philosophical work of Maimuni, which for him and through him became a "Guide of the Perplexed." The spirit of the great Jewish thinker, whose ashes had lain in Palestine for more than five hundred years, came upon young Mendelssohn, inspired him with fresh thoughts, and made him, as it were, his Elisha. What signified to Mendelssohn the long interval of many centuries? He listened to the words of Maimuni as if sitting at his feet, and imbibed his wise instruction in deep draughts. He read this book again and again, until he became bent by constant perusal of its pages. From the Pole, Israel Zamosc, he also learned mathematics and logic, and from Aaron Solomon Gumpertz a liking for good literature. Mendelssohn learned to spell and to philosophize at the same time, and received only desultory assistance in both. He principally taught and educated himself. He cultivated firmness of character, tamed his passions, and accustomed himself, even before he knew what wisdom was, to live according to her rules. In this respect also Maimuni was his instructor. By nature Mendelssohn was violent and hot-tempered; but he taught himself such complete self-mastery that, a second Hillel, he became distinguished for meekness and gentleness.
As if Mendelssohn divined it to be his mission to purify the morals and elevate the minds of his brethren, he, still a youth, contributed to a Hebrew newspaper, started by associates in sympathy with him for the purpose of ennobling the Jews. The firstlings of his intellect are like succulent grass in the early spring. He abandoned the ossified, distorted, over-embellished Hebrew style of his contemporaries, which had debased the Hebrew language into the mere mumbling of a decrepit tongue. Fresh and clear as a mountain-stream the Hebrew outpourings of Mendelssohn welled forth. Philosophical-religious views pervaded these early works, not only where he desired to depict trust in God and the inefficacy of evil, but also the rejuvenescence of nature in her spring vesture, and the delight of the pure mind of man at this beautiful change. The school of suffering through which he had passed for so many years, instead of dragging him down, had awakened, elevated, and ennobled his spirit. His struggles for a livelihood ceased when he obtained the situation as tutor in a rich family (that of Isaac Bernard), which, though not over-lucrative, sufficed for his frugal habits. His journeyman days were, however, not yet at an end. The old and the new, tradition and original views agitated his mind; clearness and self-consciousness were to flow into it from another source.
To the great minds which Germany produced in the eighteenth century belongs Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. He was the first free-thinking man in Germany, probably more so than the royal hero Frederick, who had indeed liberated himself from bigotry, but still had idols to whom he sacrificed. With his gigantic mind, Lessing burst through all bounds and regulations which depraved taste, dry-as-dust science, haughty orthodoxy, and pedantry of every kind had desired to set up and perpetuate. The freedom that Lessing brought to the Germans was more solid and permanent than that which Voltaire aroused in depraved French society with his biting sarcasm; for, his purpose was to ennoble, and his wit was only a means to this end. Lessing wished to exalt the theatre to a pulpit, and art to a religion. Voltaire degraded philosophy into light gossip for the drawing-room.
It was an important moment for the history of the Jews, when these two young men, Mendelssohn and Lessing, became acquainted. It is related that a passionate lover of chess, named Isaac Hess, brought them together at the chess-board (1754). The royal game united two monarchs in the kingdom of thought. Lessing, the son of a pastor, was of a democratic nature: he sought the society of outcasts, and those despised by public opinion. As shortly before he had mixed with actors in Leipsic, and as afterwards he associated with soldiers in Breslau, so now he was not ashamed to converse in Berlin with despised Jews. He had before this dedicated the first-fruits of his art, which to him appeared the highest art, to the pariah nation. By his drama, "The Jews," he desired to show that a Jew can be unselfish and noble, and he thereby aroused the displeasure of cultivated Christian circles. The ideal of a noble Jew which Lessing had in mind while composing this drama, he saw realized in Mendelssohn, and it must have pleased him to find that he was not mistaken in his portraiture, and that reality did not disprove his dream.
As soon as Lessing and Mendelssohn became acquainted, they learned to respect and love each other. The latter admired in his Christian friend his ability and unconstraint, his courage and perfect culture, his overflowing spirit, and the vigor which enabled him to bear a new world upon his broad shoulders; and Lessing admired in Mendelssohn nobility of thought, a yearning for truth, and firmness of character based upon a moral nature. They were both so imbued with lofty nobility of mind that the one prized in the other whatever perfection he could not attain to equally with his friend. Lessing suspected in his Jewish friend "a second Spinoza, who would do honor to his nation." Mendelssohn was completely enchanted by Lessing's friendship. A friendly look from him, he confessed, had such power over his mind that it banished all grief. They exerted perceptible influence upon each other. Lessing, at that time a mere "Schöngeist," as it was termed, aroused in Mendelssohn an interest for noble forms, æsthetic culture, poetry, and art; the latter in return stimulated Lessing to philosophical thought. Thus they reciprocally gave and received, the true relationship in a worthy friendship. The bond of amity became so strong, and united the two friends so sincerely, that it lasted beyond the grave.
The stimulus that Mendelssohn received from his friend was extraordinarily fruitful both for him and for the Jews. It maybe said without exaggeration that Lessing's influence was greater in ennobling the Jewish race than in elevating the German people, due to the fact that the Jews were more eager for study and more susceptible to culture. All that Mendelssohn gained by intercourse with his friend benefited Judaism. Through his friend, who by reason of a genial, sympathetic nature exerted great attraction upon talented men, Mendelssohn was introduced into his circle, learned the forms of society, and threw off the awkwardness which was the stamp of the Ghetto. He now devoted himself zealously to the acquisition of an attractive German style—a difficult task, as the German language was strange to him, and the German vocabulary in use among Jews was antiquated and misleading. Nor had he any pattern to follow; for, before Lessing enriched German style with his genius, it was unwieldy, rugged, and ungraceful. But Mendelssohn overcame all difficulties. He withdrew, as he expressed it, "a portion of his love from the worthy matron (philosophy), to bestow it upon a wanton maiden (the so-called belles-lettres.)" Before a year's intimacy with Lessing elapsed, he was able to compose in excellent form his "Philosophical Conversations" (the beginning of 1755), in which he, the Jew, blamed the Germans, because, misapprehending the depth of their own genius, they bore the yoke of French taste: "Will, then, the Germans never recognize their own worth? Will they always exchange their gold for the tinsel of their neighbors?" This rebuke was applicable even to the philosophical monarch Frederick II, who could not sufficiently scorn native talent, nor sufficiently admire that of foreign lands. The Jew was more German than most of the Germans of his time.
His patriotic feelings for Judaism did not suffer diminution thereby; they were united in his heart with love for German ideals. Although he could never overcome his dislike to Spinoza's revolutionary system, yet in his first work he strove to save the latter's birthright in the new metaphysics. The "Philosophical Conversations" Mendelssohn handed to his friend, with the jesting remark that he could produce something like Shaftesbury, the Englishman. Without his knowledge Lessing had them printed, and thus contributed the first leaves to his friend's crown of laurel. Through Lessing's zeal to advance him in every way, Mendelssohn became known in the learned circle in Berlin. When a "Coffee-house of the Learned," for an association of about one hundred men of science, was established in the Prussian capital, hitherto deficient in literary interests, the founders did not pass over the young Jewish philosopher, but invited him to join them. Every month some member delivered a discourse upon a scientific subject. Mendelssohn, however, was prevented from reading in public by modesty and an imperfection of speech; he presented his contribution in writing. His essay was called an "Inquiry into Probability," which must replace certainty in the limited sphere of human knowledge. While it was being read aloud, he was recognized as the author, and was applauded by the critical audience. Thus Mendelssohn was made a citizen in the republic of literature, took an active part in the literary productions of the day, and contributed to the "Library of the Fine Arts," which had been founded by his friend Nicolai. His taste became more refined every day, his style grew nobler, and his thoughts more lucid. His method of presentation was the more attractive because he seasoned it with incisive wit.
That which the Jews had lost through the abasement of thousand years of slavery, Mendelssohn now recovered for them in a short space of time. Almost all, with the exception of a few Portuguese and Italian Jews, had lost pure speech, the first medium of intellectual intercourse, and a childish jargon had been substituted, which, a true companion of their misfortunes, appeared unwilling to forsake them. Mendelssohn felt disgust at the utter neglect of language. He saw that the Jewish corrupt speech contributed not a little to the "immorality of the average man," and he hoped for good results from the attention beginning to be paid to pure language. It was one of the consequences of the debasement of language, that the German and Polish Jews had lost all sense of form, taste for artistic beauty, and æsthetic feeling. Oppression from without and their onerous duties, which had reduced them to veritable slaves, had banished from their midst these, together with many other, ennobling influences. Mendelssohn recovered these lost treasures for his brethren. He acquired so remarkable a sense for the beautiful, that he was afterwards recognized by the Germans as a judge in questions of taste. The perverse course of study pursued by the Jews since the fourteenth century had blunted their minds to simplicity. They had grown so accustomed to all that was artificial, distorted, super-cunningly wrought, and to subtleties, that the simple, unadorned truth became worthless, if not childish and ridiculous, in their eyes. Their train of thought was mostly perverted, uncultivated, and defiant of logical discipline. He who in a short time was to restore their youthful strength, so schooled himself that twisted methods and thoughts became repugnant to him. With his refined appreciation for the simple, the beautiful, and the true, he acquired a profound understanding of biblical literature, whose essence is simplicity and truth. Through the close layers of musty rubbish, with which commentaries and super-commentaries had encumbered it, he penetrated to the innermost core, and was able to cleanse the beautiful picture from dust, and to understand and render comprehensible the ancient Revelation as if it were a new one. Though not gifted with the ability of expressing his thoughts poetically or rhythmically, he had a delicate perception of the poetic beauties of every literature, especially of those in the holy language. And what formed the crowning-point of these attainments was, that his moral views were characterized by extreme delicacy; he was painfully conscientious and truthful, as if there flowed through his veins the blood of a long series of noble ancestors, who had chosen for their life's task all that is honorable and worthy. Almost childlike modesty adorned him, modesty quite remote however from self-despising subservience. He combined in himself so many innate and hardly acquired qualities, that he formed a striking contrast to the caricatures which German and Polish Jews of the time presented. There was but one feeling wanting in Mendelssohn—and this deficiency was detrimental to the near future of Judaism. He lacked an appreciation for history, for things petty on close view, but great in perspective, for the comic and tragic course of the human race during the progress of time. "What do I know of history!" he observed, in half-apologetic, half-scornful tones; "whatever is called history, political history, history of philosophers, I cannot understand." He shared this deficiency with his prototype Maimuni, and infected his surroundings with it.
Some of his brilliant qualities shone out from Mendelssohn's eyes and features, and won him more hearts than if he had striven to gain them. Curiosity about "this Jew" began to be aroused even at the court of Frederick the Great. He was considered the embodiment of wisdom. The dauntless Lessing infused such courage into him, that he ventured to criticise in a periodical the poetical works of the Prussian sovereign, and gently hint at their faults (1760). Frederick the Great, who regarded verse-making as poetry, and dogmatism as philosophy, worshiped the Muse in the court language of the day, thoroughly despised the German tongue, at this time pregnant with real poetry, and mocked at intellectual treasures sacred to solid thinkers. Mendelssohn, the Jew, felt hurt at the king's hatred of German, as well as by his superficial judgments. However, as one dare not tell the truth to monarchs, he cleverly, through the trumpet of praise, emitted a soft note of blame, clear enough to the acute reader.
Skillfully as Mendelssohn had concealed his censure of the king, yet a malicious courtier, the preacher Justi, discovered it, and also the name of the fault-finder, and denounced him, "a Jew, who had thrown aside all reverence for the most sacred person of His Majesty in insolent criticism of his poetry." Suddenly, Mendelssohn received a harsh command to appear on a Saturday at Sans-Souci; an act in accordance with the coarseness of the age. Full of dread, Mendelssohn made his way to Potsdam to the royal castle, was examined, and asked whether he was the author of the disrespectful criticism. He admitted his offense, and excused himself with the observation, that "he who makes verses, plays at nine-pins, and he who plays at nine-pins, be he monarch or peasant, must be satisfied with the judgment of the boy who has charge of the bowls as to the merit of his playing." Frederick was no doubt ashamed to punish the Jewish reviewer for his subtle criticism in the presence of the French cynics of his court, and thus Mendelssohn escaped untouched.
Fortune was extraordinarily favorable to this man, unwittingly the chief herald of the future. It gave him warm friends, who found true delight in exalting him, though a Jew, in public opinion. It secured for him a not brilliant, yet fairly independent situation as book-keeper in the house where he had hitherto held the toilsome position of resident tutor. It bestowed on him a trusty, tender, and simple life companion, who surrounded him with tokens of devoted love. Fortune soon procured a great triumph for him. The Berlin Academy had offered a prize for an essay upon the subject, "Are philosophical (metaphysical) truths susceptible of mathematical demonstration?" Modestly Mendelssohn set to work to solve this problem. He did not belong to the guild of the learned, had not learnt his alphabet until grown up, at an age when conventionally educated youths have their heads crammed with Latin. When he became aware that his friend, the young, highly-promising scholar Thomas Abt, was also a competitor, he almost lost courage, and desired to withdraw. Still his work gained the prize (June, 1763), not alone over Abt, but even over Kant, whose essay received only honorable mention. Mendelssohn obtained the prize of fifty ducats and the medal. The Jew, the tradesman, had defeated his rivals of the learned guild. Kant's disquisition went deeper into the question, but that of Mendelssohn had the advantage of clearness and comprehensibility. "He had torn the thorns from the roses of philosophy." Compelled to acquire each item of his knowledge by great labor, and having only with difficulty become conversant with the barbarous dialect of the schools, he did not content himself with dry formulæ, but exerted himself to render intelligible, both for himself and others, metaphysical conceptions and truths. This circumstance gained him the victory over his much profounder opponent. His essay, which together with that of Kant was translated into French and Latin at the expense of the Academy, earned for him assured renown in the learned world, which was enhanced by the fact that the prize-winner was a Jew.
In the same year (October, 1763), he received a distinction from King Frederick, characteristic of the low condition of the Jews in Prussia. This honor was the privilege of being a protected Jew (Schutz-Jude), i. e., the assurance that he would not some fine day be expelled from Berlin. Hitherto, he had been tolerated in Berlin only as a retainer of his employer. The philosophical King Frederick sympathized with the antipathy of his illustrious enemy Maria Theresa to the Jews, and issued anti-Jewish laws worthy of the Middle Ages rather than of the eighteenth century, so boastful of its humanity. He wished to see the Jews of his dominions diminished in number, rather than increased. Frederick's "general privilege" for the Jews was an insult to the age. Marquis d'Argent, one of Frederick's French courtiers, who in his naïveté could not conceive that a wise and learned man like Mendelssohn might any day become liable to be driven out of Berlin by the brutal police, urged Mendelssohn to sue for the privilege of protection, and the king to grant it. However, a long time elapsed before the dry official document granting it reached him. At last Mendelssohn became a Prussian "Schutz-Jude."
The philosophical "Schutz-Jude" of Berlin now won great success with a work, which met with almost rapturous admiration from his contemporaries in all classes of society. Two decades later this production was already obsolete, and at the present day has only literary value. Nevertheless, when it appeared, it justly attained great importance. Mendelssohn had hit upon the exact moment to bring it forward, and he became one of the celebrities of the eighteenth century. For almost sixteen centuries Christianity had educated the nations of Europe, governed them, and almost surfeited them with belief in the supernatural. It had employed all available means to effect its ends, and finally, when the thinkers awakened from their slumber induced by its lullabies, to inquire into the certainty secured by this announcement of salvation which promised so much, serious people said with regret—whilst sceptics chuckled with brutal delight—that it offered delusive fancies in the place of truth.
In serious compositions, or in satires, the French thinkers of the eighteenth century—the whole body of Materialists—had revealed the hollowness of the doctrine, in which the so-called civilized peoples had found comfort and tranquillity for many centuries. The world was deprived of a God, the heavens were enshrouded in mist; all that had hitherto seemed firm and incapable of being displaced was turned topsy-turvy. The doctrine of Jesus had lost its power of attraction, and become degraded in the eyes of the earnest and thoughtful to the level of childish fables. Infidelity had become a fashion. With the undeifying of Jesus appeared to go hand-in-hand the dethronement of God, and doubt of the important dogma of the immortality of the soul, which Christian theology had borrowed from Greek philosophy and, as always, adorning itself with strange feathers, had claimed as its original creation. Thereupon depended not merely the confidence of mankind in a future existence, but also the practical morals of the present.
If the soul is mortal and transient, they thought in the eighteenth century, then the acts of man are of no consequence! Whether he be good or evil, virtuous or criminal, on the other side of the grave there was no retribution. Thus, after the long dream of many centuries, the civilized portion of mankind again fell into the despondency prevalent in the Roman society of the empire; they were without God, without support, without moral freedom, without stimulus to a virtuous life. Man had been degraded to a complicated machine.
Mendelssohn was also biased by the prejudice that the dignity of man stands and falls with the question of the immortality of the soul. He therefore undertook to restore this belief to the cultured world, to discover again the lost truth, to establish it so firmly and ward off materialistic attacks upon it so decisively, that the dying man should calmly look forward to a blissful future and to felicity in the after-life. He composed a dialogue called "Phædon, or the Immortality of the Soul." It was to be a popular book, a new doctrine of salvation for the unbelieving or sceptical world. Therefore he gave to his dialogue an easily comprehensible, attractive style, after the pattern of Plato's dialogue of the same name, from which he copied also the external form. But Plato supplied him with the mere form. Mendelssohn caused his Socrates to give utterance to the philosophy of the eighteenth century through the mouth of his pupil, Phædon.
His starting-point, in proving the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, is the fact of the existence of God, of which he has the highest possible certainty. The soul is the work of God, just as the body is; the body does not actually perish after dissolution, but is transformed into other elements; much less, then, can the soul, a simple essence, be decomposed, and perish. Further, God has acquainted the soul with the idea of immortality, has implanted it in the soul. Can He, the Benevolent and True One, practice deception?
"If our soul were mortal, then reason would be a dream, which Jupiter has sent us that we may forget our misery; and we would be created like the beasts, only to seek food and die."
Every thought inborn in man must for that reason be true and real.
In demonstrating the doctrine of immortality, Mendelssohn had another noble purpose in view. He thought to counteract the malady of talented youths of the day, the Jerusalem-Werthers, who, without a goal for their endeavors, excluded from political and elevating public activity, lost in whimsical sentimentality and self-created pain, sank to thoughts of suicide, which they carried out, unless courage, too, was sicklied over. Mendelssohn, therefore, in his "Phædon" sought to inculcate the conviction, that man, with his immortal soul, is a possession of God, and has no manner of right to decide arbitrarily about himself and his life, or about the separation of his soul from his body—feeble argumentation, but sufficient for that weakly, effeminate generation.
With his "Phædon," Mendelssohn attained more than he had intended and expected, viz., "conviction of the heart, warmth of feeling," in favor of the doctrine of immortality. "Phædon" was the most popular book of its time, and was perused with heart and soul. In two years it ran through three editions, and was immediately translated into all the European languages, also into Hebrew. Theologians, philosophers, artists, poets,