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Early Christian Mystics
 Syriac Studies Library

97

Sériés Editors

Monica Blanchard

Cari Griffïn

Kristian Heal

George Anton Kiraz

David G.K. Taylor

The Syriac Studies Library brings back to active circulation major

reference works in the field of Syriac studies, including dictionaries,
grammars, text editions, manuscript catalogues, and monographs.
The books were reproduced from originals at The Catholic
University of America, one of the largest collections of Eastern
Christianity in North America. The project is a collaboration
between CUA, Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute, and Brigham
Young University.
Early Christian Mystics

Woodbrooke Studies 7

Edited and Translated by

Alphonse Mingana

2012
gorgias press
Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA
www.gorgiaspress.com
Copyright © 2012 by Gorgias Press LLC
Originally published in 1934
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the
prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC.

2012 -X.

%
ISBN 978-1-61719-196-1

Reprinted from the 1934 Cambridge edition.

Digitized by Brigham Young University. Printed in the United States of

America.
 Series Foreword

This series provides reference works in Syriac studies from original books
digitized at the ICOR library of The Catholic University of America under
the supervision of Monica Blanchard, ICOR's librarian. The project was
carried out by Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute and Brigham Young
University. About 675 books were digitized, most of which will appear in
this series.

Our aim is to present the volumes as they have been digitized, preserving
images of the covers, front matter, and back matter (if any). Marks by
patrons, which may shed some light on the history of the library and its
users, have been retained. In some cases, even inserts have been digitized
and appear here in the location where they were found.

The books digitized by Brigham Young University are in color, even when
the original text is not. These have been produced here in grayscale for
economic reasons. The grayscale images retain original colors in the form
of gray shades. The books digitized by Beth Mardutho and black on
white.

We are grateful to the head librarian at CUA, Adele R. Chwalek, who was
kind enough to permit this project. "We are custodians, not owners of this
collection," she generously said at a small gathering that celebrated the
completion of the project. We are also grateful to Sidney Griffith who
supported the project.
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

The present volume is the seventh in the series of the

Woodbrooke Studies, the contents of which are drawn from
manuscripts in my collection. The works which it exhibits and
reproduces in facsimile are culled from manuscript Mingana
Syriac 601, of which no other copy seems to exist in any European
library. As the first volume of the Catalogue of my collection,
embracing the Syriac and Garshuni manuscripts, was published
in 1933, all further references in the Woodbrooke Studies
concerning the above collection, will be to the pages of this
Catalogue.1
This volume contains early mystical works written by monks
or abbots of monasteries situated in Lower Mesopotamia, at the
time when their country was overrun by Arab tribes from the
yijaz, helped by Christian Arab tribes of South Syria and
Mesopotamia.
A point that can hardly be over-emphasised is that the
Islamic mysticism, which passes under the name of Sufism, is
wholly based on the teaching and practices of the Christian
monks and ascetes who inhabited the numerous monasteries
strewn in the way of Arab warriors, in their pursuit of the
defeated Byzantine and Persian armies after the battles of
Yarmuk and Kadislyah respectively. Indeed there is hardly
any important point in Islamic mysticism which has not been
borrowed from the main body of earlier Christian mystical
thought. Many aspects of this statement receive ample corro-
boration in the works found in the present volume. A thorough
comparative study of this subject is still a desideratum.
In the translation part of the book the works have not been
edited according to the order in which they are placed in the
manuscript, but according to their length and importance : the
1 Catalogue of the Mingana Collection of Manuscripts, Vol. I., Syriac and
Garshuni Manuscripts, pp. 1-1256.
v
VI INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Syriac texts, however, have been edited according to the order

in which they are found in the manuscript, and to facilitate the
task of the student, the corresponding numbers of the folios of
the manuscript have been placed on the margins of the translation.
It is once more my pleasing duty to express my gratitude to
Mr. Edward Cadbury, without whose generosity there would
have been no Woodbrooke Studies. A word of thanks is also due
to the Aberdeen University Press, for the excellence of their
work, shown in this as in previous volumes, and to my secre-
tary, Miss N. K . Garnett, for the pains she has taken in the
production of this volume.

A. MINGANA.
SELLY OAK COLLEGES LIBRARY,

BIRMINGHAM,

24th November, 1933.

 CONTENTS.
PAGES

Introductory Note . . . . . . . . . . v-vi

Medico-Mystical Work, by Simon ol' Taibutheh . . . . 1-69
Prefatory Note 1-9
Translation . . . . . . . . . . 10-69
Treatise on Solitude and Prayer, by Dadisho' Katraya . . . 70-143
Prefatory Note 70-76
Translation . . . . . . . . . . 76-143
Treatises on the Workings of the Grace, etc., by 'Abdisho' Hazzaya 145-175
Prefatory Note 145-148
Translation 148-175

Treatise on the Shortest P a t h that brings us near to God, by

Joseph Hazzaya . . . . . . . . 177-184
Prefatory Note 177
Translation . . . . . . . . . . 178-184
Treatise on Eremitism, by Abraham bar Dashandad . . . 185-197
Prefatory Note 185-186
Translation 186-197
Index of Proper Names found in the Text 199-200
Syriac Texts 201-320
Dadisho' Katraya 201-247
Abraham bar Dashandad 248-255
Joseph Hazzaya 256-261
'Abdisho' Hazzaya 262-281
Simon of Taibutheh 281-320

vii
 I.

MYSTICAL WORKS O F SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH.

PREFATORY NOTE.

I N the following pages I give the text and the translation of

a medico-mystical work by the East Syrian writer Simon
of Taibutheh. 1 All the sources for his life and his lost
works are analysed by Baumstark m his Geschichte der Syrischen
Literatur, pp. 209-210. Mingana, Syr. 601, 2 contains his only
works that have escaped the vicissitudes of the political upheavals
which, more than once, shook to its foundations the edifice of
Eastern Christianity. He lived in the time of the Patriarch
Henanlsho' I, and seems to have died about A.D. 680. No other
copy of the present work seems to be found in any European
library.
Special importance attaches to the author's mystical writings
from the fact that he was a physician, who endeavoured to
explain scientifically the different faculties of the soul in
their relation to the body and to the performance of the
various exercises of asceticism. His sayings on this subject
were quoted with respect by the mystical authors who fol-
lowed him, and his teaching exercised some indirect influence
on the development of Muslim Sufism, which, as shown by
Wensinck 3 and Margaret Smith, 4 closely imitated the mystical
1
T h i s epithet of " T a i b u t h e h " means " o f His grace." It was ap-
parently given to the author because he had emphasised in his work the importance
of the grace of God, and the fact that everything that he had acquired was by
" His grace." On p. 29, he says : " After all this burning through the labours,
one single small passion will melt us like wax, if grace does not keep us, as it is
by the grace of God that we are what we are."
2
For a description of this MS. see Catalogue of the Mingana Collection,
Vol. i, pp. 1146-1153.
3 4
Book °f the Dove, pp. xxii-cx. Studies in Early Mysticism.
1
2 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

development of the Eastern Churches, chiefly that of the Syrian

Church with its Monophysite, Diophysite and Monothelite
schools of thought. He was, to our knowledge, the only mystical
writer who had been brought up in the school of the old masters
of medical science, Hippocrates and Galen, and who had acquired
the knowledge of healing both the body and the soul.
T h e author divides knowledge in general into six parts, the
first of which he calls " first natural knowledge," which meant
the knowledge acquired by means of scientific investigations,
either in good or in evil things. 1 In the latter case it is called
" unnatural knowledge," and is what the Greek mystics called
" defective knowledge" and, by implication, " e r r o r " or
" ignorance " (ayvoia), as no true knowledge was believed to
deviate from the path of truth that led to God ; if it did, it ceased
to be true knowledge, and was consequently false knowledge,
or ignorance. T h e second division of knowledge is the one
called " second natural knowledge," which deals only with good
things, in a moral and ethical sphere. T h e third kind of knowledge
is the one which he styles " intelligible knowledge " or " theory,"
and it embraces the spiritual side of the corporeal natures. In
it we see all the material creatures in the light of the spiritual
function which they perform in the order of the creation. When
this knowledge embraces the functions performed by the un-
corporeal natures, it is called " spiritual theory," and it mostly
deals with the functions performed by the angels or the spiritual
beings of the creation. This constitutes the fourth knowledge ;
while the fifth knowledge is that which deals with the next world,
in which we contemplate the one nature of the Godhead with its
three Persons. T h e sixth division of knowledge is called " no-
knowledge," and implies a kind of super-knowledge, which by
becoming far advanced in its elevated and exalted state merges
in the grace and the knowledge of God, is swallowed up in it
and loses its identity.
In the mystical sphere, knowledge is divided by him, as by
all other Christian Neo-Platonists, into " theory " and " practice,"
and he illustrates the meaning of this division by a reference to
1
This knowledge is also called " second natural knowledge of learning,
a definition embracing both its character and the source from which it is derived.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 3
the two distinct parts of the greatest of all commandments—
" Love God," says he, is concerned with the theoretical knowledge,
and " Love thy neighbour " with the practical knowledge. These
two aspects of knowledge tend to the ultimate aim of all know-
ledge, which is the knowledge of God, in accordance with the
Hellenistic doctrine : " TOVTO ¡XOVOV aarnqpiov avOpto-rrq) ¿OTLV, R,

yvwms Tov deov. ' 1

According to the author, knowledge is acquired by the com-

bination of the senses of the body with the faculties of the soul.
T h e faculties of the soul by which knowledge is acquired are the
power of imagery, the memory and the intelligence. T h e seat of
the power of imagery is in the fore-part of the brain, that of the
intelligence in the middle part, and that of the memory in the
back part. As to the senses, they have their seat in the nerves
which come out of the brain, and which account for the move-
ments and the feelings of our body. T h e nerves contain also
the "animal s p i r i t " spoken of by the ancients. This spirit
embraces both the motor power and the sensory power which
we possess, and was, according to Galen, a refinement, by the
brain, of the " vital spirit " which was formed in the heart*
and which was itself a refinement of the " natural s p i r i t " which
arose in the liver. This spirit was in the form of a fluid,,
or more precisely a vapour that was carried with the venous
blood to the ventricles of the heart, where it received a process of
subtilisation or refinement and was sent in this state to the brain.
The function of the brain itself was to impart a further subtilisa-
tion to this vapour, and to send it through the nerves to all parts
of the body. In this way the delicate working of the natural
human soul was explained, and it was this natural human soul
that was the instrument of the natural human knowledge spoken
of above.
The order of the above faculties of the soul appears to have
been logical: first the image of the object of knowledge is formed
in the brain ; then the brain submits the image thus formed to
its natural function of understanding it and grasping its identity ;
lastly, the faculty of memory causes the image which has been

1 Reitzenstein, Hellenistische Mysterienreligionen, p. 113.

4 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

impressed on the brain and understood by it, to possess a lasting

effect.
The faculties of the soul were naturally believed to be capable
of receiving injury in the performance of their respective duties.
This happened, according to our author, through the thickness
and dullness of the natural and vital spirit that was formed in the
liver and in the heart, as a result of indigestion. When the vapour
of this spirit reached the brain in that thick and impure state,
it impaired the right function of the brain in its three different
workings of imagining, understanding and memorising. The
importance of the stomach for the clearness of the brain is often
emphasised. Two other causes of the bad working of the brain
are also mentioned, and are : concussion of, and a tumour in,
the brain.
According to him also, the organs of the will in man are the
nerves and the muscles ; the centre of the nerves is the brain,
while the centre of the arteries is the heart, and that of the veins
is the liver. This vital role given to the liver, as being the centre
of the veins, goes back to Galen.
The seats of the impulses, emotions or affections with which
our natural soul is endowed are given as follows : the seat of
feeling is in the brain, that of discernment in the heart, that of
passion in the stomach, that of desire in the kidneys, and that
of wrath in the liver.
The heart was credited with possessing more importance than
we are disposed to give to it m our days. Its physical composi-
tion is given fairly accurately : " The heart is composed of solid
flesh and nervous matter, and is the seat of the natural heat that
is in us, and from it heat emanates as from a fountain. It has
two ventricles, one on the right side and the other on the left.
The right ventricle receives the blood from the liver, purifies it
and sends it out so purified to the brain and to the rest of the body ;
while the left ventricle is the seat of the animal spirit, and it
subtilises that spirit and sends it to the lobes of the brain, where
rationality is created, together with memory and understanding."
In the mental and ethical spheres the heart was given as the seat
of the mind and of the discernment, and was credited with receiv-
ing " all the good and evil which the senses collect from outside " ;
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 5

it was believed that the heart was " not able to disregard what it
had received, but passed it to the mind and to the thoughts to
feed on, because the natural mind is the spring of the heart."
T h e author states also in this connection that the heart " stamps
the thoughts and the passions that come to it with comprehension,
as with its own seals, either for good or for evil." This is the
reason why the heart had to be guarded with great care : It
is from it that emanate life and death, according to the sentence
of our Lord : ' Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts . . . which
defile a man ' . " T h i s guard that had to be kept over the heart
is discussed fully by the Greek mystics, and is called by them
" Guard of the heart " (4>v^aKV Kap&ias), or " Guard of the
spirit" (6vXaK7) vo6s), as the heart and the spirit were inter-
changeable with them. 1
There is no need here to dilate on the mystical aspect of the
author's doctrine, as it is clearly set forth by him in his book.
Mysticism is an expansion of the human soul in which all men
interested in the spiritual side of the world often meet as on
common ground. Their aim, which is love of God and union
with Him, is identical, and the only difference which characterises
them is found in the performance of the various exercises, whether
spiritual or corporeal, which lead to that love and union. T h e
performance of these exercises assumes in our author some
aspects which are somewhat peculiar to him, although many of
them may be parallelled in the works of other mystics, whether
Eastern or Western.
It would be useful to remark that the author makes no men-
tion in his book of sacraments and of justification through them.
He often refers to the spiritual qualities inherent in the created
things, and to how these qualities are grasped by our intelligence
and perceived by our mind, through the " divinity that is in u s , "
but nowhere does he consider them as sacraments or sacred ob-
jects which, after the benediction of a priest, acquire in themselves
the power of imparting spiritual benefits to the soul.
The mystical development of a monk is divided by him into

1 See on this question Lot-Borodine, " Doctrine de la Deification dans

I'Eglise Grecque," in Revue de I'Histoire des Religions, 1933, pp. 8-55.
6 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

seven stages. The first is that of the novitiate, m which a blind

obedience is ordered to spiritual leaders, and the last is the state
of the contemplation of God in which one is " engulfed in the
divine love, and becomes conscious of the working of the grace
in him in a mysterious way that is above words." The inter-
mediate stages deal with the means to attain a perfect love of
God, and embrace both the mental and the bodily exercises
through which a monk was believed to proceed by degrees in
the work of his salvation.
The author devotes a special section to what he calls " the
ascents" of the spiritual exercises. These ascents, which
remind us of the Scala Paradisi of John Climacus, are three in
number, and are meant to apply to the condition of all pious
men in the pursuit of their goal. The first ascent is that of the
beginner, " who is in his first exodus from Egypt, and who
consequently follows a path that is broad and restful, and is not
conscious of the snares and pitfalls that lie before him." When
he sets out on his long journey, he becomes conscious of all these
snares and pitfalls, and not having made any preparations to
overcome them, he either " retraces his steps from fear, and is
devoured by wolves, or sits by the ford and looks and laughs
at those who have reached the second ascent." This second
ascent is that of those who are in the middle of the stream, where
the strong current tosses them hither and thither, and where, as
the author puts it, " they are met by mountains, sea, land, sultry
and freezing winds of all types, darkness, dejectedness and
grief." The last ascent is that of the " Illuminated " who
have reached the summit of the ladder and the harbour of peace
and security.
The author lays stress in many places on the fact that to
perform our spiritual exercises in a satisfactory way we are in
need of a sound soul in a sound body, or of the mens sana in corpora
sano of the mediaeval western mystics. " Without the true
balance of the body the true balance of the knowledge of the
soul cannot exist." " As the fruits are not protected without
the leaves, but both are in need of their mutual help, so also the
body is in need of the soul and the soul of the body." " When
your body has amended itself, give it with prudence a little rest,
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 7
lest it should harass you and disturb you, and you should fall
into perplexity."
In a memorable passage the author writes about the passions
and our deliverance from them, as follows : " The passions can-
not be overcome in their own domain. If we fight against them
without knowledge, they will harden themselves all the more
against us. We do not ask for the passions to be destroyed,
but only that we may be delivered from them." In another
passage he says : " Virtues as well as passions are born of the
desire. . . . Passions are changed into virtues and virtues into
passions by the will which receives them. '
The author warns his readers of the dangers that accompany
the intense and unbalanced concentration of the mind on spiritual
things: " The heart may, from its intense desire, either give
substance in its imagination to things which in reality have no
existence . . . or it may be intoxicated with self-esteem . . .
or it may fall into insanity, or be assailed by different diseases
of anaemia ; and its body will then become emaciated to no
purpose."
The author is emphatic that true perfection cannot exist
without a sincere love for our fellow-men ; " Any man who
abstains from food and wine, but in whom are hidden rancour
and evil thoughts against his neighbour, is the instrument of
Satan." " The soul which bears abundant clusters of fruit is
the one which has driven out of itself anything that says : ' This
man is good, and that man is bad ; this man is just, and that
man is a sinner.' . . . The barren soul is the one which judges
its neighbour as being good or evil." . . . "When the grace visits
us, the light of the love of our fellow-men, which is shed on the
mirror of our heart, is such that we do not see in the world any
sinners or evil men ; but when we are under the influence of
the demons, we are so much in the darkness of wrath that we
do not see a single good or upright man in the world. . . . When
the mind has completely shut its eyes not to notice the weak-
nesses of our neighbour, the heart is rejuvenated in God." . . .
" Do not believe that you have prayed in a pure way as long as
the young plant of wrathfulness, even in the remembrance of
one person, is found within you."
8 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

A few remarkable sayings of the author may be quoted

here:
" If you love the perfect solitude of the angelic exercise
(of monachism), beware of the vain aberrations of the thoughts,
which incite the soul to think too highly of itself ; because
it is the one who has tested himself who is wise.''
" Consider, 0 discerning man, that you are the image of
God and the bond of all the creation, both of the heavenly and
of the terrestrial beings, and whenever you bend your head
to worship and glorify God, all the creations, both heavenly
and terrestrial, bow their heads with you and in you, to worship
God ; and whenever you do not worship and glorify Him, all
the creations grieve over you and turn against you, and you
fall from grace."
" That man knows the truth who has tried it in himself
by experience, and has not acquired it from hearsay and reading."
" As the senses rejuvenate the heart, so also the realms
of the remembrances and the thoughts on which the mind feeds
. . . rejuvenate the brain for good or evil. A good shepherd
grazes his thoughts in the pastures of the Books and in the
meditation upon good things, in consequence of which the
soul is filled with perfect light and joy ; while the ignorant
shepherd grazes his thought in the remembrance of the wicked-
ness of his neighbour, in consequence of which the soul is
filled with envy, darkness and the maliciousness of anger."
" The desire of knowing the truth belongs to every soul,
including that of the publicans and harlots, because it is implanted
in the nature of creation."
" The food of the true knowledge is a voluntary freedom
which is divested of all fear and of all subjection to any forms
of error. It is born of self-con tempt, magnanimity, joy of heart,
peace of mind, universal love and affection to all without dis-
tinction."
" True learning is the door of the spiritual exercises, as it is
in the love of learning that the mind is intoxicated in the spiritual
theory and it is in the delight in reading that it goes deep down
into the meaning and collects itself away from distraction, and
thus burning with the love of knowledge, forgets itself, and is
 WORKS O F SIMON O F T A I B U T H E H 9

not even conscious whether it is hungry or satisfied. Learning

is the tutor of knowledge, and as the palate is never tired of changes
of taste, so the soul is never tired of the changes of the food of
theories."
" Prayer is the inner vision which is illuminated by the
Spirit, and which contemplates inwardly the good implanted
in the heart. Prayer is the quietness which sings incessant
glory in the language of the angels."
" The following is a true sign that the soul is making pro-
gress in our Lord : if divine sweetness waxes strong in the soul
even when bitter trials and tribulations . . . multiply to the
point of despair, in order to remove the virtues from the soul."
"All peace and consolation which a tongue is able to de-
scribe to others is imperfect: a mind learns and teaches another
mind in silence. . . . Let it be known to you that great un-
profitableness comes to the writers of the truth from their mental
attainments, if they are not induced to them by love."
It would be useful here to draw attention to the fact that
some statements found in the present work are erroneously
ascribed to Isaac of Nineveh. On p. 57, our author writes :
" There is no difference between the one who kills his son
with honey and the one who kills him with a knife." An identical
sentence is found in Isaac of Nineveh. 1 On p. 59 the author
narrates a story of a young man harassed by demons, who
sought the advice of Saint Rabban Sapor, the spiritual Father
of the author. The same anecdote is found in the works as-
cribed to Isaac, but in this case it is fathered on an unnamed
old man. 3 I have no doubt that in both cases our present author
is the source for the compiler of the works of Isaac. An ad-
ditional note on this point in the Prefatory Note to the next
treatise will corroborate the statement that the last part of the
works of Isaac, as edited by Bedjan, is a compilation of mystical
writings from various sources, about a fourth of which are
spurious, and alien to the ways of thinking of their supposed
author.
1
Mar Isaacus Ninivita, de Perfectione Religiosa (edit. Bedjan), p. 206. An
English translation of the major part of the works of Isaac as edited by Bedjan
was published in 1923 by A. J. Wensinck : Mystic Treatises by Isaac of Nineveh.
2
Ibid., pp. 387-388.
 10 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

TRANSLATION.
163a With the assistance of the Trinity, Lord of the worlds, I will
write (extracts) from the book of Mar Simon of Taibutheh,
the spiritual philosopher and the head of the theorists.1
First, on the Fact that the Labours of the Body and of the Soul
are of a Dual but United Character.
What is the aim of all our trouble in having prepared and in
preparing now a collection of adequate reasons, but to enable
the reader to think and to understand through all of them 2
that we are and have been created a dual but united nature ;
and that our spiritual exercise is also dual but united, since it
is performed by the senses of the body and by the faculties of
the soul, jointly and fully ? Indeed, as the leaves of labours
which unfold themselves joyfully are useless, apart from the
fruits of the knowledge of the Spirit of which the blessed Paul
wrote 3 ; and as the fruits are not protected without the leaves,
1636 but both of them are in need of their mutual help—so also the
body is in need of the soul and the soul of the body.
From Saint Dionysius,4 with a Commentary by the Author.
T h e knowledge of theory is implanted in nature, and is divided
according to the order or character of the things which it embraces.
A part of this knowledge is revealed by, and constituted of,
reasoning and the construction of logical sentences, and a part of
it is apprehended not by words 5 but through the inward silence
of the mind. A part of it extends towards visible natures, and an-
other part rises towards natures which are above the natural vision.
Indeed a part of it embraces the spiritual powers who accompany
the visible natures and make their influence felt in them, and
1
Men versed in " theory," which is defined by the author as " the intelligible
vision of the eyes of the soul," see p. 50. I shall maintain this technical word
throughout the book. I shall use also " intelligible " in the Neo-Platonic and
philosophical sense of " capable of being apprehended by the understanding
only, and not through the senses."
2 3
Text repeats " reasons." Gal. v. 22.
4
T h e Areopagite. This section is, however, more an original composition
by the author than a commentary on the Areopagite.
5
Join the two words in the text.
 WORKS O F S I M O N O F T A I B U T H E H 11

another part deals with the sciences which later reached from
without the natures of the rational beings, by their own will. A
part of it, like a rare flower, lifts itself up, according to the per-
mission given to it, and rises through all the circles which we have
described,1 towards the sublime ray of the hidden Godhead.
From this it follows that there are many kinds of spiritual
theories, which increase in number according to the different
beings which knowledge embraces. While the soul is instructed
through these theories in various ways, they themselves approach
one another, join with one another and ascend to the height.
The soul is moulded by them until it reaches the one and only
First Being, who is the end of all the varieties of knowledge. 164a
This latter becomes then no-knowledge, or rather a knowledge
that is higher than all knowledge, as it has reached the divine
Icnowledge of the hidden Godhead, 2 which is higher than all
understanding. In this way, after a man has comprehended the
power of all natures, he will have comprehended this one thing :
that the hidden Essence is incomprehensible.
The knowledge of these visible and material natures is called
by the Fathers " the first impulse of the natural free-will," and
the knowledge that follows it is called by them " the second natural
impulse " ; and because the former is gathered through the power
of these visible natures, sometimes they call it " learning," and
sometimes they consider it as belonging to various aspects of
knowledge, such as Geometry, Mathematics, 3 Astrology and
Astronomy. They call the knowledge of the essences of the
rational and spiritual beings, in a precise way, " spiritual theory
and " divine knowledge " ; and they apply the expression
" divine theory " to the inward vision of the mind which extends,
as much as it can, by grace, through an image—which in reality
is no true image—towards the incomprehensible ray of the
hidden Godhead ; but they call it also figuratively " divine
Word."

1
This evidently refers to an earlier chapter of the book of the author which
the copyist has omitted.
2
Note how ithutha means both essence, and Godhead.
3
T e x t Kaldáyütha which generally means " A s t r o l o g y " or the science
of the Chaldeans.
 12

of the revelation of His grace to us, because it is through the

Economy of His grace that He released us from the swaddling
clothes of the tangible darkness of the bodily covering of sub-
stances and natures, and brought us to the intelligible knowledge
1646 of the theory of the spiritual powers, which is hidden and works
in everything ; and we thus became high above the senses, and
perceivers of the hidden secrets of the mind. Our Lord calls
in His teaching this single theory of the Holy Trinity—from which
also emanates the knowledge of the Economy of our Redeemer—
Kingdom of God," when He says : " The Kingdom of God
is within y o u " and is not acquired through observances.
" Neither shall they say ' Lo, it is here,' or ' Lo, it is there,' " 1
that is to say, it is not above and circumscribed in any one place,
but is within you m the hidden image and intelligible likeness of
the mind, which is, as much as it can be, the intelligible image
and likeness of its Creator ; as it is in it that His Kingdom which
is within us is revealed and known, because of the high quality
of its purity and clearness, and of its eager and continual desire
for the love of its Maker.
The Kingdom of Heaven is, therefore, the knowledge of the
sublime spiritual theory of the intelligible natures of the
heavenly hosts. Even those (men) who are at the full height
of perfection, are called " poor in spirit," but they (the angels)
come down to the ignorant and the poor m knowledge, so that
they may raise them to the knowledge of the truth.
He 2 calls the holy angels " the intelligences and the minds
that are above Heaven " ; and the Providence of God for us,
which is implanted in us and which works in an uncircumscnbed
way in the nature of the whole creation, he calls " the divinity
that is in us." 3 And whenever he makes mention of the Highest
Divinity, 4 he refers to the hidden Essence which is higher than
165a all essences, natures, intelligences and minds ; the Oneness
that is higher than all intelligence and which can never be com-
prehended by any mind or intelligence, and which is high above
all words or sentences ; the Being who is in no way derived from
1 Luke xvii. 21. 2 T h e Areopagite.
3 Pat. Gr. iii, 956. 4 C/. Lat. summa deitas.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 13
any of the existing beings, and who, although He be the cause
of all existence, yet remains as He is, high above all natures,
words and faculties. May He rather speak of Himself in a
precise and intelligible way, through the sacred Books, as is
congruous to His grace, and may He grant us His grace in the
understandings1 and in the theory of the intermediums 2
through which the adorable Divinity is revealed !
Because of this, not only is that First Good 3 not associated
with created beings, but while it remains steadfastly as it is, its
rays that are high above other rays shine on each one of these
beings, as befits their goodness and in the measure of their limited
brightness. It draws upward every nature through the hidden
desire that is implanted in every nature, and draws still more the
rational beings to its incomprehensible knowledge and to the
participation in its image, in so far as such participation is possible ;
it draws even more especially the divine intelligences which ex-
pand towards the love of the limited light that fits their nature,
while enlightening them inwardly so that they may praise all the
heavenly essences in a humble silence, and while infusing them
with ardour so that they may expand and unite, as much as
possible, with the Principle of all principles, as it is in it that
" we live and move and have our being." 4
The holy Fathers have divided the intelligible life and the
spiritual exercise in God into two parts : the practical fulfilment
of the commandments, and the knowledge of the theory of every 1656
created being. The sentence : " Thou shalt love the Lord thy
God with all thy heart and with all thy soul " refers to the spiritual
theory, while the sentence : " and thy neighbour as thyself " 5
is meant to apply to the practical fulfilment of the commandments-
As to the exercises through which a man exerts himself, is in-
structed and rises gradually till he reaches a spiritual state, they
are three : passibility or impassibility, purification and holiness.
The first exercise consists in that a man should feel the stirring
of conscience within himself, turn away from the works of sin,
1 See on " Understanding " t h e special section on p. 50. It is defined as
the examiner of theory."
2 I.e., the existing bemgs. 3 Cf. Lat. summum bonum.

4 Acts xvii. 28. 5 Matt. xxii. 37, 39.

 14 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

and commence with penitence, beginning immediately and without

delay with sighs and bitter weeping over his past life and conduct.
The second consists in that a man should begin after this with the
labours of discernment 1 in the fulfilment of the commandments,
with energy and fervour; and after he has, by the help of the divine
grace, fulfilled the commandments and conquered the passions
in the measure of his power and his zeal, he will be in a state of
righteousness, power and holiness : righteousness of nature,
and power against the passions through the fulfilment of the
commandments. As to holiness, it is the purity which is sancti-
fied by the word of the Lord through the revelation of the Spirit.
From now he will begin to enter the spiritual theory which
is high above nature, through the purity of the soul and the re-
velation of the spiritual knowledge. Through the spiritual
theory he will see in his mind spiritually all the visible things
which are seen by others materially. And inwardly in his mind
166a and in his thoughts, he will survey all the present creation and
the worlds that have passed or are still standing ; the years of
the world with all the happenings that occurred in it, and the men
with their wealth and their power ; the revelations of the benefits
which were bestowed on the Fathers, and the retributory judg-
ments that took place generation after generation, together with
all the various vicissitudes which the affairs of the creation
undergo. All these things which a wise man (of the world)
sees materially, he strives to investigate in his mind spiritually,
through the spiritual theory. He does not see the different plants
like an agriculturalist, nor the medicinal roots like a physician,
but everything that he sees with his material eyes he secretly
contemplates in his mind through the spiritual theory. In
this way the mind is taught and instructed to look inwardly at
the spiritual natures, towards the secret power that is hidden
in everything and works in everything in an incomprehensible
way.
Through these teachings and exertions the mind is so much
exercised and illuminated that it is not able to see a material
object without immediately seeing, in its own 2 theory, the divine
1 2
See p. 24. Text " of the mind.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 15

Providence which is hidden in it and works secretly in it. T h e

mind is thus taught to meditate secretly and inwardly upon the
uncorporeal beings who are above, and to look, through its own 1
theory and in an immaterial way, at their hierarchies, their ranks,
their faculties, and the unspeakable modulations of their glorifica-
tions, and to imitate them by the help of God in the measure of
its power.
It is through the true knowledge and through the theory of the
divine teachings which are described in the sacred Books in dif-
ferent ways and by various appellations concerning the Godhead,
that a mind rises from its passibility m the earthly things and 1666
draws itself upwards. Immediately after the mind has been
illuminated and risen upwards, it becomes conscious of the rays
of impassibility, and desires all the more earnestly to be drawn
towards a divine light which has no image and towards a divine
knowledge which transcends all intelligence. Divine grace will
then dwell in that impassibility, and (the mind) will be con-
scious of the sublime and endless mysteries which are poured
out by the Father and Source of all the lights, which shine merci-
fully on us in the likeness of His hidden goodness ; and (the mind)
will be impressed by them, as much as it can bear, with the image
of the glory of goodness, in the measure of the eagerness of its
desire and of its growth in the spiritual exercises. It will then
avow immediately that it understands that everything is vanity
when compared with one thing : the Highest Divinity.
The divinity that is in us " of which this saint speaks 2
is the divine Providence which holds all, deifies all, perfects
all, illuminates all, and which by its perfect goodness pene-
trates all, sustains all, and infuses all with the desire of uniting
with the Highest Divinity ; it is higher than all, as it is above
and higher than all who delight in their association with it.
Indeed this divinity which is in us and which is the Providence
of the Highest Divinity towards us, is implanted in the foundation
of all creation and works in it in an infinite way, as it is written :
" In Him we live and move and have our being." A description
of Him is also disseminated dimly in the sacred Books and divine

1 Text " of the mind.' 2

Pat. Gr. in, 956.
 16 WOODBROOKE STUDIES
167a teachings. He was aware before the foundations of the world 1
of the appearance of our Redeemer, through which all the veils
of darkness that were spread over the corporeal heart of Israel
would be lifted, when He said : " The days will come when ye
shall neither in this mountain nor yet at Jerusalem worship the
Father, as the true worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit
and in truth ; because God is a Spirit, and they that worship
Him must worship Him in spirit " 2 and without the interven-
tion of any intermediary ; as our mouth towards God is our heart,
and our heart towards men is our word.
God is called m the sacred Books : good, love, knowledge,
wise, just, light, ray, brightness, word, life, etc., so that our name
may be joined with His and enhanced by His, and so that we may
desire the love of the One who loved us and came down from the
height of His goodness to the lowliness of our humility, in order
to raise us from earthliness to spirituality by uniting the divinity
that is in us with the Highest Divinity. He did this in order
that through His humility He might give us, by grace, confidence
to understand and know our deification, our formation in His
likeness, and the image of God in which we were created at the
beginning through the divinity that is in us, with regard to the
Highest and Essential Divinity which is hidden from, and higher
than, all mind. Indeed He implanted in every nature of intelli-
gible as well as visible and soulless beings something of that Good
which is higher than all good and higher than all essence, and
which is the Highest Divinity with regard to the divinity that is
1 6 7 6 i n us, 3 so that through the good that is implanted in every nature
we might desire and long for the love of the Good One who is
above all good, and so that through the ray emanating from Him
we might, through the desire that we possess towards the
Supreme Good, long for the Light that is above all light and
the Good that is above all good.
In the same way as this visible sun, in spite of the fact that
every nature is remote from it and all natures long for it, works
equally in everything without distinction, while far and remote
from everything ; and ripens, sweetens and illuminates every-
1 C/. Matt. XXV. 34, etc. 2 John iv. 21 -24.
3 Lit. " of the divinity that is in us."
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 17

thing, reaches everything and is desired by everything, even while

being at a distance from everything—so also and to a greater
degree the Good One who is above all good and the Highest
Divinity that is above the divinity that is in us, dwells m every-
thing in an uncircumscribed way and in a way that far transcends
words and thought, in spite of the fact that He is remote from
everything ; and every nature desires H i m and longs for H i m
through the goodness which works in it and which induces i t 1
to long for the Highest Divinity. Indeed, " Divinity " is only
applied to the Divine Essence, in which is hidden a mystery : that
of God and of the man from us, who is called (God) honori-
fically.2

On the Division of the Stages.3

The first struggle is that of the novitiate, and in it we have
to evince simple obedience in all that we are ordered to do. T h e
second is that of the change in our habits, qualities, manners and
ways of conduct, and the gradual progress from an undisciplined
nature to a disciplined nature. T h e third is that of the fight
against the passions through the fulfilment of the commandments,
so that the heart may be made contrite, humble and pure. T h e 168a
fourth consists in that a man should relinquish perplexity and
begin with the labours of discernment, so that together with the
bodily labours the mind should think and endeavour to under-
stand the hidden powers which work in the natures of the created
beings, and examine the meanings of the sacred Books, in order
that its eyes may be opened therefrom and become conscious of
the wisdom, providence and loving-care of God in all the creation.
The fifth consists in the mind thinking of the theory of the
high and uncorporeal (beings) ; the sixth consists in that the
mind should contemplate and be wonderstruck by the mystery
of the adorable Godhead ; while in the seventh the mind
becomes worthy of the working of the grace m a mysterious
way that is above words, and sometimes it is engulfed in the
divine love. Let it be known to you that we must be consumed
1
Read the pronoun m Masc.
2
This sentence is complicated, but its sense seems to be clear.
3
Of the spiritual life.
2
 18 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

with the love of every exercise which we undertake, as only after

having been consumed, with its ardour can we taste the pleasure
that is hidden in it. If we are not so consumed, we shall not
taste the sweetness hidden in it. F r o m this we understand that
we cannot free ourselves from any passion in which our heart
delights, and with the love of which it is bound, even with thous-
ands of stratagems of labours and tens of thousands of prayers
of tears. T h e same thing applies to our love of (spiritual)
exercises.
Gregory, the brother of Basil,' wrote that thoughts 2 spring
from our reins, where also passion has its source, and they rise
like vapour until they reach the heart which is the companion
of the brain. And it is the heart that stamps them with com-
prehension, as with its own seals, either for good or for evil. 3
L e t us therefore guard our heart with great care, as it is from it
that emanate life and death, according to the sentence of our
L o r d : " Out of the heart proceed," etc. 4
168i A zealous follower of our L o r d , who ate honey after having
endured his trials, 5 said : " What is the meaning of shedding,
with songs and hymns, pearls of tears on joyful leaves ? " What
is needed here is care and discernment in keeping a watch over
the defence 6 of the heart and the despoiling thoughts, to remove
the (bad) seals, to discern the evil things which are to come and
to destroy them in the peace (of your mind), and to keep without
injury the edifice of the heart which is the abode of Christ, 7 so
that perchance its blossom, which is the promise of the fruit,
may be seen in it.
If you love the perfect solitude of the angelic exercise, 8

1 Lit. " Gregory of Basil." T h e doctrine of Gregory Nyssen about the heart
is found in his De hominis opificio (Pat. Gr. xliv, 246-249).
2 " Thoughts " in this work often mean " evil thoughts.

3 Lit. " to the right or to the left." 4 Matt. xv. 19.

5 Note this verb, which is often used in the text in this sense.

6 With early mystics the heart had to be guarded with special care, and as

long as that care lasted it was called the " period of the guard." See the " Pre-
fatory note."
' G r e g o r y Nyssen, (Pat. Gr. xliv, 895) states that the heart is the abode
of God. This long sentence is not found verbatim in the printed works of
Gregory Nyssen. 8 Of monachism.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 19

beware of the vain aberrations of the thoughts which incite the

soul to think too highly of itself, because it is the one who has
tested himself who is wise. Indeed pride has caused many to
fall away from this exercise, and they have in this way been in-
jured in their mind. Beware especially of the evil exercises,'
which resemble the true exercises as tares resemble wheat.
If you love true knowledge, I will show you a way to i t : direct
your aim exclusively towards one object, and even if you live and
dwell with many, separate yourself from all and do not tie yourself
to a man or to a thing without necessity. D o not seek worldly
gains, and even spurn sometimes your coat and your tunic, and
your soul will then become like that of the Shunammite woman
spoken of by the Abbot Isaiah. T h e Fathers order u s not to
mix with many until we are thoroughly tinged with good, and
the power of solitude has dwelt in u s : " A n d T h o u , 0 L o r d ,
shalt make me live alone in solitude," 2 until the perplexity of 169a
dejectedness has passed away and the consolation of the grace
has reigned.
T h e sign of the coming of the grace is when the outer senses
and the inner passions are at rest, and the impulses of the spirit
are astir and the hidden consolation holds sway, and your eye is
too pure to look at evil, and you are able to eat of the fruits of
the trees of the paradise of the Church freely and without fear of
displeasure from the face of G o d . 3 Y o u will then become fully
the salt and the light spoken of in the Gospel to all those who
come in contact with you ; and the fruits of the Spirit of which
the blessed Apostle spoke will be seen in you ; and the angels
of light will now and then come near you and fill you with joy,
peace, consolation, and the revelations of the mysteries of know-
ledge. If, however, you have given room to negligence and
dejectedness, and if your fervour has cooled, sit alone with your-
self and your soul, collect your thoughts and consider deeply
the cause of your negligence, whence it started, and who is the
one who has made you to desist from your spiritual intercourse.
If there is room for amendment, amend with understanding ;

1 Lit. " exercises of the left.' 2 Ps. iv. 8 (Peshitta Version).

3 Gen. iii. 10 seq.
 20 WOODBROOKE STUDIES
and if there is need for cutting, cut immediately and pitilessly :
your salvation is at stake.
If you cannot advise yourself and there is no adviser at hand
from among the followers of our Lord, retrace your steps and
climb up to the beginning of the path from which you started.
Perform a second Passover with bitter herbs, and think of Mary
with her former fornication and of Israel with his former Jacobism. 1
Torment the rough man (in yourself) with bitter herbs, and give
him the Book upon which to meditate. Prescribe for him, with
16% the bitter herbs of the Passover, the canon of the prayers of Saint
Evagrius, and he will stir with fervour in a short time. You
will then become conscious of the truth, and you will ascend to
the exercise from which you fell; and you will see in your second
ascent the inns which you passed in your first ascent. But
alas ! if there is no foundation for the inner truth, that is to say,
if the heart inclines to evil. T h e Fathers give also the warning
that you must not have intercourse with those of your fellow-
monks who are not your co-workers in theory and in mind, in the
field of your thought, because they will hinder you from your
course, and your fervour will cool; and they will not be blamed
because they are walking towards Heaven in the same exercise,
but in a different path ; they will however impede you from
your own course, because of the change in your path.
If you are in need of knowledge, true knowledge is disseminated
in the Books, and the Books are to be read with understanding
and discernment. We know that if the eyes of our mind are
opened, every word contains a volume ; and if we meditate on
them with prayers, their meaning will be revealed to us. When
we read in the books of the Fathers, and find the place where
they write on the exercises of the knowledge of the truth, let us
not deceive ourselves and believe that in reading the words
alone we shall understand them through a natural knowledge, and
that we shall immediately penetrate the secrets of their spiritual
exercise. Indeed they had themselves endured tribulations
a long time previously; had crucified themselves with labours
170a for the sake of Christ; had purified their heart from all impurity

1
I.e., state of Jacob before his call, and before he was named Israel.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 21

of flesh and blood, and the joy-inspiring ray of the Spirit had shone
on them ; they had seen the holy of holies in which Christ dwells ;
had been united with Him in the fullness of hope, and had lived
with Him in the earnest of the beatitudes of the light which is
promised to the saints in the next world. Like merciful people
they wrote and left us the signs by means of which they walked
and discovered the treasure of life. And we, people afflicted with
dejectedness, when we read their books, make ourselves an image
that resembles theirs, from the letters and signs that we find in
them, and contend that this is the truth of what the Fathers say.1
The mysterious symbols of the prophets proclaimed and
announced the coming of Christ our Lord, His conception,
birth and growth; but when our Saviour appeared, all the Books,
the symbols and the signs, were seen in the light of the truth of
His divinity. If before the appearance of Christ a man had
spoken to the Scribes and the Pharisees—that is to say to those
among them who later accepted the Faith—of the full doctrine
of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, they would
have called him a madman and a pagan. In the same way, if
a man speaks to us—who are endowed only with a natural s o u l 2 —
of the treasure of life and of the hidden mysteries of the Fathers,
we will laugh at him and will with justice call him a madman and
a Messalian,3 who has fallen away from the truth, as the blessed
Apostle wrote also, as follows : " The natural man is not able to
receive the spiritual things, for they are foolishness unto him. 4
Woe unto us ! Of what grace have we deprived ourselves by our 1706
will !
When you have devoted yourself to repentance, the day in
which you do not encounter tribulation, do not consider it a
complete day ; and the day in which you do not sit for an hour
alone with yourself and your soul and examine the things in which
you have stumbled and fallen, and then amend yourself, do not
consider it as belonging to the number of the days of your life.
Woe unto the man who does not weep, is not assailed by affliction,
and does not wipe off his sins while there is yet time for repen-
tance, as in the next world he will have to wipe them off forcibly
1 Read in singular. 2 Cf. 1 Cor. xv. 44.
3 I.e., belonging to the ancient heresy of Messalianism. 1 1 Cor. ii. 14.
 22 WOODBROOKE STUDIES
with the billows of fire, until he has paid the last farthing, which
is the smallest imperfection !
Anyone who neglects prayer and believes that there is another
door to repentance, is a nest for the demons. Anyone who does
not persevere in the reading of the Books, and wanders in dis-
traction, will not even know when he sins. Anyone who abstains
from food and wine, but in whom are hidden rancour and evil
thoughts against his neighbour, is the instrument of Satan.
Consider well the verse : " Thou sittest and thinkest evil of thy
brother," 1 because this undermines all the edifice of the great
tower of perfection, even if you have reached in it the summit
of summits. Indeed the evil that is contemplated in the thought
hardens the heart, and a hard heart is an iron gate for the one who
is enduring trials, but a humble heart opens spontaneously by
grace, as it happened to Peter.
A freedom which is not preceded by the subjection of the
will is but a servitude to the passions. Anyone who does not
strive to subject the passions by his will, and who falls and
rises with them, will not become the master of his passions.
Anyone who at the beginning does not possess the fervour which
171a is without knowledge, will not attain the work of knowledge.
Anyone who at the beginning is not perturbed m his fervour
and is not scoffed at by the ignorant, will not attain this second
fervour. Anyone who does not become a child with regard to
the spiritual exercise, will not attain the fullness of a perfect
man in Christ. The Holy Spirit ordered and arranged these
stages in the growth of our inner man, m the same way as the
stages in the growth of our outer man. The former are attained
by will, and the latter by nature.
Anyone who possesses the great virtues of fast, vigil and
asceticism, but lacks a guard to his heart and his tongue, labours
in vain. Indeed if you put all the labours of penitence on one
side of the scale, the other side containing the above guard will
outweigh it, since Christ laid the axe of the commandments
unto the root 2 of the thoughts of the heart, and Moses unto
the root of outward works. If you guard your eyes and your ears

xPs. 1. 20. (Peshitta). 2 C/. Matt. iii. 10.

 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 23

so that foul water does not penetrate the purity of your soul,
you will not sin with your tongue.
He labours in vain who voluntarily keeps vigils in services
and prayers, while his thoughts are fixed on other affairs ; and
blessed is the one who is where he prays and performs his service.
Blessed is the one who has possessed the theory of the Books,
and has meditated upon them with understanding. Blessed
is the soul which has eaten the bread of the angels from the table
of God. Blessed is the one who continually does good to a
passible man, as from this the light of new life will shine upon
him. Woe unto the one who has times of ease, who panders 1716
to his body 1 and despises the exertions of penitence, as he will
weep when he wakes up, and will seek the times of ease and will
not find them. T h e manure and the water (for the growth)
of penitence are tribulations, afflictions and trials, while its death
is love of gain, of honour and of ease. Any passion into which
a discerning man has fallen and from which he has risen, if it
comes again to knock at his door, he will immediately recognise
the sound of its knock.
Consider, O discerning man, that you are the image of God
and the bond of all the creation, both of the heavenly and of the
terrestrial beings, and whenever you bend your head to worship
and glorify God, all the creations, both heavenly and terrestrial,
bow their heads with you and in you to worship God ; and
whenever you do not worship and glorify Him, all the creations
grieve over you and turn against you, and you fall from grace.
T h e master-key 2 that opens the door to all virtues is a con-
trite heart, broken by repentance ; it is born of the tribulations
of poverty, aloofness from acquaintances and non-reliance on
those who care for us ; and also of the fact that one is accused
and convicted of a thing of which he has no knowledge, and that
while in a position to exonerate himself from injustice, he re-
ceives this injustice readily and with a true joy. Then contrite
tears will flow abundantly in season and out of season, like a
rivulet. If you assume these things intelligibly in your mind
and meditate upon them in the time of your labours, your re- 172a

1 Lit. " whose body helps him.' 2 Note the use of this word.
 24 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

pentance and your sorrow, they will cause your tears to flow.1
Affluence is the iniquitous vice which implies lack of faith in
God, which destroys any remaining virtue, opens the door to sin
and nurtures vices. All the labours of virtues are not able to
place a monk where poverty, aloofness and voluntary humility
can place him.
The aim of the exercise of knowledge consists in that a monk
should know how to keep watch over his body and his exercise,
with discernment, so that he may not be handicapped, fall and be
deprived of the power to follow his companions. Anyone wishing
to begin with the mental exercise has first to weigh the measure,
the growth and the capability of the mind, and whether hei2 has
worked and prospered in the bodily exercises, and then begin ;
because you see clearly that the mental exercises are born of the
bodily exercises, that the inner pleasures are born of the outer
tribulations, and that the joy and comfort of the soul are born
of the tribulation and grief for the sake of God. In short, the
inner peace is born of the outward labours, and every inner joy
which does not emanate from labours is an illusion. If our
tongue does not cease from the recitation of the Psalms and the
Odes of the Spirit in season and out of season, the Evil One
will have no opportunity to throw his fiery darts 3 at us.
The soul which bears abundant clusters of fruit is the one
which has divested itself of anxiety, uncertainty and dejectedness
and put on calm, peace and joy in God ; has shut the door of
1726 perturbing thoughts, land opened the door of love to all men ;
has watched continually, night and day, at the door of its heart;
has driven out of itself anything that says : " This man is good
and that man is bad ; this man is just and that man is a sinner " ;
has sat on the high throne of its heart, and contemplated its
armies and its helpers who are the mind, the intelligence, the
intellect, the knowledge and the discernment; 4 and has ordered
and pacified them with meekness so that none of them should
snarl with wrath, envy or wickedness, and that the mind should
not be obscured by the thick clouds of perplexity. On the other
hand the barren soul is the one which is clad in rancour, anxiety,
1 2 3
Read in plural. Or : it. Cf. Eph. vi. 16.
4
Put in the text the letter Dalath at the beginning of " discernment."
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 25
perplexity, distress, dejectedness and perturbation, and which
judges its neighbour as being good or evil.
The foundation of all the exercise of monachism is the en-
durance of difficulties, as this endurance causes the exercise to
grow and reach the state of perfection, and sets before it the ladder
that leads up to Heaven.
If you fear distraction, cut off from yourself the thought that
has accumulated from the laxity of exercises, and close the avenues
of the senses which usher good and evil to the heart, as the heart
is the harbour of all the good and evil which the senses collect
from outside ; and it is not able to disregard what it has received,
but passes it to the mind and to the thoughts to feed on, because
the (natural) 1 mind is the spring of the heart, and cannot rest
from the usual distractions. If, therefore, you love the light of
the intelligence which emanates from the collecting of your
thoughts, first cut off from yourself evil thought, by the endurance 173a
of difficulties, and then exercise and accustom your mind for a
long time to the spiritual food, in the meditation of the Odes of
the Spirit, and in the contemplation of the hymns, the theory
and the understanding of the Books ; and bind it with the love
of spiritual teaching.
As long as you are in the state of watchfulness, instruct it in
the meditation upon divine things, so that when it flees against
its will from the routine of the recitation (of your prayers) it may
by necessity wander in the spiritual things in which it was trained.
Bonds to the soul, are the habits which a man has contracted
either for good or for evil. So far as the mind is concerned, it
is the temple of the Holy Trinity ; and as the latter is incompre-
hensible, so also is its temple. Indeed, the mind is keener and
sharper than lightning, and cannot be afflicted by the recitation
of the prayers ; it will surely remain continually with us in the
time of prayer, if it has matter for its food.
It is not a great thing to do for perfection, to be afflicted in
the recitation of our prayers ; a much greater thing for us is to
meditate always on divine and immaterial things and on the
spiritual powers which are hidden and work in this world, be-
1 I.e., not the intellectual or spiritual mind, but the mind that has its seat
in the heart.
 26 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

cause to think in the time of prayer of material things is unholy.

If you are in doubt concerning these things, when you are about
to fall asleep throw sweet spices of prayers, psalms and spiritual
theory on the censer of your heart, and meditate upon them
while you are half asleep. When you wake you will feel the
happiness that has wafted through your soul all the night: " Let
1736 my prayer be before Thee as incense " ; 1 and you will also be
freed from evil dreams.
An old man was asked : " T o what the monachism of the
ancients and ours might be likened " ; and he answered : " There
was a wealthy wise man who wished to possess valuable musk,
and not finding the true article of his choice, he traversed moun-
tains, sea and land, and repaired to China, and presented gifts
to the king of that country to persuade him ; and the king allowed
him to cut the musk with his own hands. And he returned
and gave it to his children who, little by little, introduced false
matter into it, adulterated it and handed it down to their des-
cendants, 2 until the false matter was left instead of the true
musk, in which no odour and no perfume was left. In this way
the ancient Fathers desired the truth, trod on life and death,
experienced all tribulations, endured all trials, delivered them-
selves to spiritual sacrifice, implored Christ with sorrow and
tears until they obtained the gift of the grace, were found worthy
of the spiritual knowledge, became the temple of God, wrought
miracles and became conscious of the mystery of the revelations.
T h e mystery, however, deteriorated 3 little by little in its trans-
mission, until we alone remained, who have only the name and
the garb."
T h e time for theory and for practice is not identical, although
these two accompany and help each other ; and there is a time
more fitting for theory and a time more convenient for practice.
In the same way as the thoughts of the summer, of the winter,
i74a of the autumn, of the spring, of the time of joy and of the time
of grief and restlessness, of the time of illness and of good health,
and of the time of abundance and plenty, etc., are not the same,
so also the benefits and the evils of this world and of our Lord's
1 Ps. cxli. 2. 2 Lit. " to one another."

3 Or * was handed down," if we read Ithyabbal.

 WORKS O F SIMON O F T A I B U T H E H 27

world are different. Those belonging to our Lord are bitter

and then sweet, dark and then bright, sad and then joyful, while
those belonging to the world are sweet and then bitter, bright
and then dark, joyful and then sad.
That man knows the truth who has tried it in himself by
experience, and has not acquired it from hearsay and reading. 1
Instead of roaming in search of what is outside you, enter and
see what is within you, and learn who is the one who receives
from you the thing which you hand to him, and to whom you
will return after years and ask it of him again, and he will immedi-
ately grant your request. Consider who is the one who will
receive, and who is the honest man who will return to you m
a twinkling of the eye, according to your wish, what you gave to
him ; and who is the one who will give and then demand back ;
and which are the archives to which your deposit is entrusted ;
and then glorify the Creator because knowledge is hidden from
us and in us in an incomprehensible way.
When the mind has been illuminated, it will, in the beginning,
dislike simple reading, and will cherish deep meanings, difficult
reading and questioning ; but when it becomes conscious of
serenity it will begin to pursue peace of heart, while seeking the
possessions of freedom, which are sincerity, simplicity of know-
ledge, and humility of mind. It will treat also with affection
simple reading ; and if at times it is compelled to leave what is
its own and affect crooked ways and knotty meanings, the soul 174/?
will be tormented by languor and dejectedness, and afflicted with
grief and sorrow.
On the Ascents of the Spiritual Exercises.
There are three ascents m this (spiritual) exercise, which is
so wonderful even to the holy angels, but the first and the last
ascents resemble each other in some ways. The last is that of
perfection, worthy of which is the Illuminated man 2 who has
1
Change the Dalath into Wáw.
2
Text Yadduthana, which literally means " expert," but in the language
of the mystics generally refers to that class of mystics called " Initiated," in
Arabic j y j U l and in Greek yvmsTiKoL. Cj. Wensinck's Book of the Dove.
p. 139.
 28 WOODBROOKE STUDIES
traversed mountains and hills, sea and land ; who has been tor-
mented by sultry and freezing winds ; who has reached the
harbour of peace, and rested on the plain of serenity. As to the
young novice, since it is his first exodus from Egypt, he follows the
path of the plain of Egypt, which is broad and restful ; and he
is not even conscious that exertions and trials, snares and pitfalls
of sea and land, lie before him. When he goes forward and
becomes conscious of all these, he either retraces his steps from
fear, and is devoured by wolves, or sits by the ford and looks and
laughs at those who have reached the middle of their ascent,
and who for the sake of the fear of God are tormented by severe
trials ; or else he stirs himself and joins them in their exertions.
When the giants who are devotedly labouring in exercises
reach the middle of their ascent, they are met by mountains, sea,
land, sultry and freezing winds of all types, darkness, dejectedness
and grief without comfort, together with the rest of the fourteen
impediments about which the Abbot Isaiah wrote, and which
face those who walk in the path of virtues. They very seldom
175alift their head and breathe a little the air of freedom, but never-
theless they receive enough comfort to begin again their labours
with joy. In them is fulfilled the sentence: " They mount
up to the Heaven and they go down again to the depths," 1
from the impetuosity of their fervour in divine things. When
they meet with the two other categories,2 they do not distinguish
between them, but throw blame equally on them and rebuke
and reprove them as if they were lazy, idle and feeble. They
do not understand the spiritual Man 3 who by grace has crossed
these billows and waves further than they have done, and reached
the harbour of peace ; who looks at them with the light of His
mind, and knows where they have reached, what they are about
to encounter after these billows, where they will be harassed,
and where they will rest; who judges whether they are labouring
rightly or heading in the wrong direction, to their perdition ;
and to whom everything on sea and land is clear. The majority
of them die here from the grief of joy, because the joy of the
natural 4 people is grief to them ; or they are tortured and con-
1 Ps. cvii. 26. 2 Those who are in the first and the last ascent.
3 Allusion to Christ. 4 Contrary to " spiritual," in the Biblical senses.
 WORKS O F S I M O N O F T A I B U T H E H 29

sumed by trials, and the angels carry them to the bosom of

Abraham ; or they give up the struggle, repent and retrace
their steps ; or they are left in one of the fertile islands which
are found in the course of this ascent. A few of them, however,
manage to extricate themselves with difficulty, if they humble
themselves and draw nigh to that spiritual Man who has passed
through all these impediments in person. The few of them who,
here and there and from generation to generation, have humbled
themselves and extricated themselves, are so much filled with
grace and illuminated with the revelations of the Spirit, like the
great Moses, that they do not see materially the material nature 1756
of this world, but they see only spiritually the power of their
Maker, which is hidden and works in them.
The Beatitudes of the Ascents.
Blessed is the one who has traversed the sea and the land of
labours, crossed (them) and reached the harbour of impassibility,
and penetrated the plains of serenity, because while still in this
world his soul dwells in the next.
Blessed is the one who, in going out of Egypt, was not afraid
of tribulations and trials, but headed straight for the harbour of
life, because, if he is saved, he will become a god among men,
and if he dies in his tribulations, the angels will conduct him to
the bosom of Abraham.
Blessed is the one who, in secluding himself in the furnace
of the cell, has not spared the fire and the wood of labours, and
has heated the clay until it has fallen to pieces and crumbled away,
and then having been moistened again has condensed and be-
come pottery. Do not forget, 0 reader, that there is no clay
that becomes pottery through the exercises of mortality, till
the general resurrection, because that clay is but earth ; and that
after all this burning through the labours, one single small passion
will melt us like wax, if grace does not keep us, as it is by the grace
of God that we are what we are.
Blessed is the one who has kindled within himself his own
lamp by the light of grace, and has seen spiritually his consort
shining by the sides of the house of his heart like a glorious vine,
and the thoughts, his children, round about the table of
 30 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

176a his h e a r t ; 1 who has ordered, with joy of heart, his mind, the
censer, to go and perfume them and pour upon them the per-
fumed oil of love, peace, joy and comfort, and if he has felt an
alien love trying to penetrate into him, he has chased it from the
heritage of the saints, the children of light, with a gentle rebuke ;
and who has been blessed with peace three times, and has glori-
fied three times without fear. 2 It is such a one in whom the
will of the Father has been done in earth as in Heaven.
Blessed is the mind which has become the beholder of the
spiritual hosts, who work in the natures and affairs of the creation.
Blessed is the one who has felt within himself the actions
and the workings of the grace upon him.
Blessed is the one who, although not having felt in his own
experience the happiness of this working, yet by knowledge,
theory and understanding which he has obtained from reading,
is able to search and learn about this working which affects
those who have been purified.

On the Withdrawal of Grace that comes to us from Error.

When a man falls away from the truth, at the beginning, and
sinks into negligence, and the grace wishes to raise him up,
the following things happen to him : the man despises himself
and becomes small in his own eyes, and his soul loses its self-
esteem ; and he becomes also perplexed, as if every one were
looking down on him. He will then lose the inner comfort,
thinking that even those who loved him, despise him, scorn
him and turn away from him. If, however, he becomes con-
176i scious of his negligence, rises up and amends himself, grace
will come upon him, and he will revert to his inner comfort;
but if he does not become conscious of his negligence, or if, when
he does become conscious, he tramples on his conscience in his
pride, the grace will little by little neglect him, and his stumbling
and the withdrawal of divine help from him will increase, until
he falls into despair. That will then happen to him in reality
which he had previously only thought would happen to him,

1 Ps. cxxviii. 3.
2 Allusion to the Trinity in the angelic hymn of the vision of Isaiah.
 WORKS O F S I M O N O F T A I B U T H E H 31

because he will lose both the inward and the outward comfort
through the above withdrawal of divine help.
Every slip that occurs to us has its origin either m our negli-
gence, or in our false suppositions, or in our scorning of our neigh-
bours, or in our love of glory, or in our envy, or in our desire to
assert our will, or in our natural inclination, or in our hatred.
In all these, however, the grace does not neglect us, and we do
not fall into reprehensible slips, unless we tread on the voice of
conscience and do not amend ourselves, as the Abbot Isaiah
wrote in his demonstration, which is : " Every slip has its origin
in error, and the withdrawal of the grace from us will be in the
measure of our negligence. Sometimes we are punished, terrified,
frightened, injured and left in darkness ; and sometimes grace,
progress, exhortations and inner comfort are bestowed upon us,
exactly as a nurse acts towards a child."
On the Taste of Heaven and of the Torment.
He who has of his own free will been tormented and afflicted
in the exercise, and has fallen and risen in his struggle against
the passions, and at the end mercy has come upon him, and he
has been found worthy, by grace, of a portion of the divine gift,
and has thus been slightly conscious of the air of freedom, and
has tasted divine sweetness in a mysterious way 1 —if it happens
that through the error of negligence this gift is taken from him,
and by divine grace he returns back to the servitude of the pas- I77a
sions, and to the scourge and severe afflictions of the observances ;
and if from the thrusts of his conscience he retraces his steps
with good will, and implores Christ with repentance, with tears
of grief, and with a prayer of contrition and sorrow, to return to
him, by His mercy, the gift which he has lost, like the blessed
David who lost in error and found in penitence—any man to
whom these things happen has tasted in his person, while still
in this world, the happiness of Heaven and the torment of Hell;
and until divine mercy comes upon Hell, 2 he will be tormented
without his knowledge.
1
Or " in mystery.
2
Evidently the author does not believe in the eternity of the torments of
Hell.
 32 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

The Remedy of Penitence.

If you have fallen away from the truth and become negligent,
and your zeal has cooled, subject your body, bring it to your
inner self, crush it with asceticism, cut off from it all vision of
passion, wean it from all hearing and speech, and force upon it
holy ejaculations and well-defined prayers ; estrange your soul
from all remembrances of thoughts, and never cease to meditate
upon the Books and to pray and accustom your body to sit in
pains and to perform its service and pray in darkness. If you
are wise it will, through repentance, return in a short time to
its former state. Woe unto you, however, if you have no strong
foundation for your inner truth ! And when it has amended
itself, give it with prudence a little rest, lest it should harass you
and disturb you, and you should fall into perplexity. Indeed
the peace of the soul and of the thoughts will not reign unless
the body is in a position to bear both the possession and the lack
of labours and rests, that is to say, both hunger and satiety, which
1776 is more than what nature desires.
Without the true balance of the body the true balance of the
knowledge of the soul cannot e x i s t ; 1 and the serenity of the
soul, complete freedom from the passions, the working of the
grace, and the continual remembrance of the next world which
is stamped on our heart, cannot exist with an over-healthy body
(as compared with the soul). 2
As a babe is fed with milk as long as it is young, and is not
given a full diet lest it should die ; and as after it has attained
healthily the different stages of its growth, and its senses and its
stomach have become accustomed to the full diet, it is not brought
back by any stratagem to the milk of its babyhood, lest it should
weaken and die of hunger—in this same way I understand the
spiritual exercise. If you become worthy, by grace, to tie the
chain of the virtues of your heart to the corners of the " simple
altar " 3 of Heaven, and if through the error of ignorance or
negligence and such like, a link of the chain of the virtues is broken
1
Cf. " Mens sana in corpore sano."
Gregory Nyssen also states that the obesity of the body impedes the normal
2

working of the soul (Pat. Gr. xlv, 51 and xlvi, 406-407).

3 About this altar see p. 41.
 WORKS O F SIMON O F T A I B U T H E H 33
in the middle, you will labour in vain until you return and place
yourself again in the right direction with regard to the truth.

On Habits and Passions.

The habits and the passions enter the soul with ease and readi-
ness, but they do not leave it except after exertions, troubles
and labour, because after a lapse of time they become second
nature to a man. T h e habit is the treasurer of the will and of 178a
nature, and keeps as a precious deposit anything that is handed
over to it, and defends its rights tenaciously ; and it will not lose
the deposit of the will even if that deposit has lost its meaning.
When the will strives to change the habit that has been firmly
fixed m the soul, it sometimes wins a victory and sometimes suffers
a defeat, while the passions and the habits strangle the soul
from one side and the reason and discernment from the other,
since each of them wants its own. Indeed, it seldom happens
that even the successful ones can break a peg with a peg. In
this way the passions also cannot be overcome in their own domain.
If we fight against them without knowledge, they will harden
themselves all the more against us.
We do not ask for the passions to be destroyed, but only that
we may be delivered from t h e m ; because when they harden
themselves greatly, we become like defeated people, and strive
in our turn to find means of placing ourselves above them. As
to resting completely from our fight against the passions, there is
no possibility for it as long as they are woven with our flesh and
blood. They can, however, become somewhat restful, and this
happens through the growth of the spiritual exercise, while we
pass with success from labour to labour, from exercise to exercise,
from evil things to good things, from knowledge to knowledge,
from theory to theory, and from understandings to higher and
loftier understandings. In this way it happens that the passions
and the thoughts may be partially pacified.
The door from which the passions enter into righteous men
is the perturbation of the imagination, and immediately after
the imagination, the mind also becomes perturbed, and then the
intelligence is clouded and the conscience blinded. And the 1786
passions penetrate the wretched soul, and give it to drink the
3
 34 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

dregs of anger 1 with which it becomes intoxicated. When it

has become intoxicated with passions, either it delights and
acquiesces in these passions, or it becomes morose and quarrel-
some, and prepares itself for anger ; and then the house of your
heart is obscured from the right understanding of the truth.
As long as the mind and the imagination are peaceful and well
guarded, the demons will have no opportunity to open the door
to the passions by their stratagems, and to disturb the serenity
of the soul. It is indeed written : " Keep watch perseveringly
over your imagination and you will not be troubled by tempta-
tion, but if you relinquish your watch you will have to endure the
consequences."
A Remedy for the Darkness of the Mind.
T h e darkness spread on the surface of the mind is driven
out by the intensity of the love of learning, and by the exercises.
T h e act of performing the commandments, together with fasts,
vigils and asceticism, pierce also the thickness of the stomach and
the dullness of the organs which transmit light from the brain
to the heart. When the body has thus been subjected by true
exercises, the grace will drive out the darkness that may have
lingered. T h e initiated man whose soul has been embittered
by the darkness, the dejectedness and the distraction of the mind
caused by the furnace of the stomach and the dullness of the
organs, will not only abstain from fully feeding the stomach, but
will also consume dry bread and salt sparingly, so that in addition
to the opening of the channels that transmit light from the mind
179a to the heart, the dust also which through the senses of the body
settles on the wings of the brain may be wiped off, according to
the word of the Fathers. We remove outward occurrences from
our senses in order that our inner faculties may be purified and
yield fruit to God, as it is by removing outward occurrences from
1
Some mystics define " anger " theoretically as the power which protects
a man from slackness and " corruption " in his exercises (Book of the Dove,
pp. cxxx-cxxxi), or practically the state in which such slackness and corruption
flourish. T h e first meaning denotes " zeal, fervour," and the second the
passion of " wrath." See below the section on " T h e Faculties of our Inner
Man," p. 45, and on " T h e Faculties of the Soul," p. 4 9 ; also Dadisho',
p. 114.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 35

our senses that the mind becomes a god-man to a heart that has
faith.
As the senses rejuvenate the heart, so also the realms of the
remembrances and the thoughts on which the mind feeds in its
different aspects, rejuvenate the brain for good or evil. A good
shepherd grazes his thoughts in the pastures of the Books and
in the meditation upon good things, in consequence of which
the soul is filled with perfect light and joy ; while the ignorant
shepherd grazes his thought in the remembrance of the wicked-
ness of his neighbour, in consequence of which the soul is filled
with envy, darkness and the maliciousness of anger. We learn the
truth of all these things from experience : when the grace visits
us, the light of the love of our fellow-men which is shed on the
mirror of our heart is such that we do not see in the world any
sinners or evil men ; but when we are under the influence of
the demons we are so much in the darkness 1 of wrath that we
do not see a single good and upright man in the world. When
we are intoxicated with suspicion, passions rise in us as from sleep,
to a c t ; but when the mind has completely shut its eyes not to
notice the weaknesses of our neighbour, the heart is rejuvenated
in God. A monk who crucifies himself to the world in the full
knowledge of favourable prospects, who secludes himself from
human intercourse, and is tormented in the furnace of the cell—17%
the Lord is his comforter and consoler ; and as long as he satisfies
his needs with the little things that are at hand, he will be served
by angels.

On the Fruits of Seclusion.

T h e more the pursuit of our spiritual exercises relaxes, the
more intense will become the heat of the furnace of the stomach,
which will require greater diversity of diet. And when
the channels of the stomach are filled up and the organs which
lead the light from the brain to the heart are blocked, the heart
will be overspread with darkness, all the house will be filled with
smoke, the limbs will suffer numbness, dejectedness will reign,
the mind will be perturbed, the soul will darken, the discernment
will become blind, knowledge will be hampered, judgment will
1 Correct text to hashktnan.
 36 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

be perplexed, (evil) thoughts will be set free, the remembrance

of good things will be deleted from the heart, and the passions—
the children of darkness— will receive fuel for their fire, will
dance with joy, and applaud.
Immediately the bonds of solitude fall on the senses through
seclusion, the heart will become contrite, the mind will humble
itself, the (evil) thoughts will evanesce, the stomach will con-
tract, the impetuosity of mental perplexity will be calmed, the
great pillar on which all the (worldly) house was leaning will
fall down, all the limbs will be pacified and will experience rest
from their disturbed state, and the mind will not be different
from that of the passengers of a ship that has set sail on a long
voyage, who have suddenly suffered a catastrophe and have de-
spaired of ever again doing any work or of seeing their beloved
ones.
In a man who has persevered a long time in seclusion and
experienced the fruits of solitude in abandoning every outward
remembrance, the intelligence will be renewed in divine things ;
J 80a the heart will expand ; the thoughts will experience peace ;
the mind and memory will be illuminated, the former in the
communion of prayer and the latter in the meditation of the Books ;
the soul will be filled with joy, and will jubilate with a new song ;
the natural inclination will be directed towards virtues ; the
imagination will tend towards good things ; knowledge will
be enlightened ; discernment will be enhanced ; fervour will
reign ; the sleep of the nights will evanesce ; the (evil) thoughts
will be destroyed ; the passions will be set at rest; the songs of
the Spirit will become sweeter, in season and out of season ; the
Evil One will be severely warned that henceforth happiness will
reign, whereupon he will begin to cause disturbance secretly
and maliciously ; but then the heart will be roused and the mind
will be stirred and will unconsciously steal away and resort to
prayer, in sorrow, humility and tears. Then the Evil One will
become bold, and the man also will become bold in his flight
towards Christ, and will, with silence, fix his vision, his hope and
his life on the Cross. And the Evil One will then change his
tactics with abjection, like a culprit; but the mind will notice
the snare of pride, and the heart will be contrite, and the streams
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 37

of tears will break forth ; and the Evil One will vanish, weaken
and become deaf and dumb, and the very remembrance of him
will quickly disappear and be swallowed up in the awe-inspiring
Judgment of the future ; and the man will implore divine grace
and help, and mercy will be poured on him immediately with
loving-kindness and pity, and sweet perfume will waft around
him ; his limbs will expand, and his heart will be renewed, com-
pletely changed and filled alternately with grief and joy, while
partaking of a diet the weakening character of which is lasting.
If the mind and the senses are well guarded, the heart will be
renewed and become a source of light.
On Watchfulness.
Allow me, I pray you, O discerning Brother, to give you some ]8G£
advice from my own experience : after you have left your solitude,
guard yourself from distraction lest your labour be in vain, as it
is only in the seven weeks following your solitude that the grace
will give you a foretaste of the happiness of the labours and
tribulations which you endured in it with so much self-exertion.
If you are watchful you will be grateful for this grace, but if you
are distracted it will be considered by you as of no account.
Let it be known also to you that if at the end of your seven weeks
you do not erect an enclosure against all external things, whether
good or bad, for the vineyard of your heart in which you worked
and laboured in the affliction of solitude with so intense a per-
plexity, you will not taste its fruit in the time of peace.
Remember that it is not during the time in which people work
in the vineyard that the latter yields the fruits of joy, but that
a long time elapses between these labours and their fruits. Im-
mediately the blossom appears in the vineyard, many keepers
watch over it, collect from it the tares of passions, prop it from
all sides, and constantly water it with the living water which
is the reading of light-giving (Books), the spiritual meditation
and the remembrance of divine things ; and set up a spiky
enclosure round it. And then little by little the soul grows in holy
knowledge, and the heart is confirmed with hope and inner con-
solation, and the faith is renewed in the Spirit, and the man pos-
sesses the confidence of children (in their father), and becomes
a new man in the renewal of his mind.
 38 WOODBROOKE STUDIES
0 discerning man, who have become worthy of mercy, acquire
longanimity and be not impatient, because although grace has
181a begun to give you its foretaste of mysteries and to attract you
to itself through the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, and although
the fruits of the Spirit have begun to burst forth and form in
your mind, yet this, according to the saying of the Fathers, is
only the consolation granted to those who are not initiated, 1
so that the mind should take courage and proceed speedily to-
wards the goal of the higher contemplation of Jesus Christ.
Remember that there is a considerable interval between the time
in which the fruits are seen and the time in which they ripen in
love and are perfected in the Spirit, and that the accidents to
them are numerous and varied. Lo, you received a long time
ago the earnest of the future benefits, and your faith in the
truth of the promises which our Lord gave in His gospel was
confirmed by deeds ; persevere, therefore, in your mind ; take
breath with hope, and contemplate with discernment the different
workings of the fine weather and the diseases suddenly coming
to you from right and left, till the fruit of your heart ripens in
the Spirit and is perfected in divine love. Watch, day and night,
at the door of your heart, and guard your deposit from robbers,
from sultry and freezing winds, from hail, from diseases and
from lack of self-confidence.2 Do not relax in your watchfulness,
lest you should lose your deposit and then repent. The enemies
are indeed numerous, and generally capture us under the pre-
text of virtues ; do not therefore expect, as some wise men
inconsiderately pretend, that a complete security is quickly
attained.
On the Spiritual Learning and How it is Acquired.
Fie upon that love of natural knowledge which adorns itself
with the desire for new inventions, and which in its eagerness
1816 for learning works and lives in happiness, and thus deceives even
the children of light, in advising them that we must, together with
the labours of penitence, the fulfilment of the commandments
Lit. " to the simple."
1

2On fol. 1876, the same Syriac expression which literally means " s e l f -
contempt " is used in a good sense.
 WORKS OF SIMON OF TAIBUTHEH 39
and the pursuit of the state of impassibility, exert ourselves
greatly in particular readings, which the spiritual exercises en-
courage, in order that we may, through the teaching of science,
reap help from the mysteries hidden in the books of the Fathers,
and in order that by means of the channel of learning we may move
from knowledge to knowledge ; but the knowledge which is
composed of, or falls under, letters and words, is the second
natural knowledge of learning, 1 used by the Greek philosophers
and wise men, and from the time of Solomon to that of Christ
no one has used it without passions, as the passions are the in-
strument of the wisdom of the world. Even the Books which
were written through the Spirit were not able to express with
ink the happiness that was infused in the heart of the prophets,
apostles and Fathers ; they rather expressed the mystery of the
fear of God which the above men received secretly through the
Spirit and handed down openly for the instruction of the world-
And then little by little the unsound teaching was changed by
the light of the healthy teaching of the gospel of the truth of
Christ, and the world was then renewed.
As the knowledge of honey draws us near the delight of
its taste, so also the knowledge of the teaching of the wisdom of
the world precedes the knowledge of the spiritual teaching of
the Books, which itself precedes the mysteries of the grace, and
each of them helps the other in the study and exertion of labours.
Indeed the knowledge which grows by study and diminishes by 182a
idleness, is the teaching of the (natural) soul, but it is the key
to the mysteries of God which are hidden in the universe. The
true knowledge is the mystery of the grace, and works more
effectively in the pure and does not fall under the construction
of letters and words, as it dwells in, and is extended and spread
over, the soul, and infuses a kind of happiness to the heart.
It is even more delightful to those who are half-asleep, 2 in whom
it works still more intensely as long as they persevere in prayer
and in the contemplation of divine things.
If it is contended that from a collection of words of the Books
a meaning is inferred in which it is found that the Books are self-

1 On this knowledge cf. above, p. 11. 2 Cf. p. 26.

 40 WOODBROOKE STUDIES

contradictory, it should be stated that the Divine Books are not

self-contradictory. Indeed some of their 1 words establish the
truth that is inherent in them, and some others confirm lofty
spiritual subjects, while others refute 2 the objections that are
raised against them. Some of them are written with the aim of
confuting something, and some others act as an introduction to
1826 what is about to be written later. It is for this reason that to
an unintelligent reader, who is not able to harmonise the sense
of the words, and to other ignorant people like him, the Books
appear to contradict and confute each other. This happens
also in the spiritual exercises ; if the man who is exerting himself
to acquire virtues is not able to harmonise his labours with his
goal, he beats the air like a physician whose aim is not to heal,
and who consequently brings not help but injury to the sick.
If you wish to compare the truth which we strive to attain
here with the truth of the next world, not only knowledge, but
also the spiritual exercises, will be hampered, because the flow
of the mind will be hindered and balked by repentance and in-
tense bewilderment. It is for this reason that it is written :
" Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to G o d
the things that are G o d ' s . " 3 T h e heart which loves learning ;
the desire of which has been swallowed up in the love of new
things ; the aim of which is good ; the conception of which has
been trained for a long time to graze against its will on the
mysteries of the Spirit which are hidden in the Books, and to
meditate upon the glories of God, the high attainments of the
saints and the life of the next world; the faith of which has
been kindled by the promises of Christ, and intoxicated with
joy and enraptured in lofty things ; to which the high mysteries
of knowledge are revealed ; which proceeds with long strides
towards sublime things—this heart becomes either too full of
lofty things to look down upon mean things, or experiences re-
pulsion in looking on the abject things of nature, and is only
intoxicated in the divine beauties that are hidden in them. T h e
above benefits may be accompanied by the following evils : the
183a heart may, from its intense desire, either give substance in its

3
1 Text repeats " of the Books." 2 Read sharoye. Matt. xx. 21.
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Dusk was falling the next afternoon when I stumbled upon the
British consulate. Here, at last, was a man. The dull natives with
their slipshod mental habits had given me far less information in four
days than I gained from a five-minute interview with this alert
Englishman. He was none the less certain than they, however, that
the overland journey was impossible at that season. Late reports
from the Waters of Meron announced the route utterly impassable.
The consul was a director of the Beirut-Damascus line. Railway
directors in Asia Minor have, evidently, special privileges. For the
Englishman assured me that a note over his signature would take
me back to the coast as readily as a ticket. The next day I spent
Christmas in a stuffy coach on the cogwheel railway over the
Lebanon and stepped out at Beirut, shortly after dark, to run directly
into the arms of Abdul Razac Bundak.
Our “company” was definitely dissolved on the afternoon of
December twenty-seventh and I set out for Sidon. Here, at least, I
could not lose my way, for I had but to follow the coast. Even Abdul,
however, did not know whether the ancient city was one or ten days
distant. A highway through an olive grove, where lean Bedouins
squatted on their hams, soon broke up into several diverging
footpaths. The one I chose led over undulating sand dunes where
the misfit shoes that I had picked up in a pawn shop of Beirut soon
filled to overflowing. I swung them over a shoulder and plodded on
barefooted. A roaring brook blocked the way. I crossed it by climbing
a willow on one bank and swinging into the branches of another
opposite, and plunged into another wilderness of sand.
Towards dusk I came upon a peasant’s cottage on a tiny plain and
halted for water. A youth in the Sultan’s crazy quilt, sitting on the
well curb, brought me a basinful. I had started on again when a
voice rang out behind me, “Hé! D’où est-ce que vous venez? Où est-
ce que vous allez?” In the doorway of the hovel stood a slatternly
woman of some fifty years of age. I mentioned my nationality.
“American?” cried the feminine scarecrow, this time in English, as
she rushed out upon me, “My God! You American? Me American,
too! My God!”
The assertion seemed scarcely credible, as she was decidedly Syrian,
both in dress and features.
“Yes, my God!” she went on, “I live six years in America, me! I go
back to America next month! I not see America for one year. Come
in house!”
I followed her into the cottage. It was the usual dwelling of the
peasant class—dirt floor, a kettle hanging over an open fire in one
corner, a few ears of corn and bunches of dried grapes suspended
from the ceiling. On one of the rough stone walls, looking strangely
out of place amid this Oriental squalor, was pinned a newspaper
portrait of McKinley.
“Oh, my God!” cried the woman, as I glanced towards the distortion,
“Me Republican, me. One time I see McKinley when I peddle by
Cleveland, Ohio. You know Cleveland? My man over there”—she
pointed away to the fertile slopes of the Lebanon—“My man go back
with me next month, vote one more time for Roosevelt.”
The patch-work youth poked his head in at the door.
“Taala hena, Maghmoód,” bawled the boisterous Republican. “This
American man! He no have to go for soldier fight long time for
greasy old Sultan. Not work all day to get bishleek, him! Get ten,
fifteen, twenty bishleek day! Bah! You no good, you! Why for you
not run away to America?”
The soldier listened to this more or less English with a silly smirk on
his face and shifted from one foot to the other with every fourth
word. The woman repeated the oration in her native tongue. The
youth continued to grin until the words “ashara, gkamsashar,
ashreen” turned his smirk to wide-eyed astonishment, and he
dropped on his haunches in the dirt, as if his legs had given way
under the weight of such untold wealth.
The woman ran a sort of lodging house in an adjoining stone hut
and insisted that I spend the night there. Her vociferous affection for
Americans would, no doubt, have forced her to cling to my coat-tails
had I attempted to escape. Chattering disconnectedly, she prepared
a supper of lentils, bread-sheets, olives, and crushed sugar cane,
and set out—to the horror of the Mohammedan youth—a bottle of
beet (native wine). The meal over, she lighted a narghileh, leaned
back in a home-made chair, and blew smoke at the ceiling with a far-
away look in her eyes.
“Oh, my God!” she cried suddenly, “You sing American song! I like
this no-good soldier hear good song. Then he sing Arab song for
you.”
I essayed the rôle of wandering minstrel with misgiving. At the first
lines of “The Swanee River” the conscript burst forth in a roar of
laughter that doubled him up in a paroxysm of mirth.
“You damn fool, you,” bellowed the female, shaking her fist at the
prostrate property of the Sultan. “You no know what song is!
American songs wonderful! Shut up! I split your head!”
This gentle hint, rendered into Arabic, convinced the youth of the
solemnity of the occasion, and he listened most attentively with set
teeth until the Occidental concert was ended.
When his turn came, he struck up a woeful monotone that sounded
not unlike the wailing of a lost soul, and sang for nearly an hour in
about three notes, shaking his head and rocking his body back and
forth in the emotional passages as his voice rose to an ear-splitting
yell.
The dirge was interrupted by a shout from the darkness outside. The
woman called back in answer, and two ragged, bespattered
Bedouins pushed into the hut. The howling and shouting that
ensued left me undecided whether murder or merely highway
robbery had been committed. The contention, however, subsided
after a half-hour of shaking of fists and alternate reduction to the
verge of tears, and my hostess took from the wall a huge key and
stepped out, followed by the Bedouins.
“You know what for we fight?” she demanded, as she returned
alone. “They Arabs. Want to sleep in my hotel. They want pay only
four coppers. I say must pay five coppers—one metleek. Bah! This
country no good.”
Four-fifths of a cent was, perhaps, as great a price as she should
have demanded from any lodger in the “hotel” to which she
conducted me a half-hour later.
All next day I followed a faintly-marked path that clung closely to the
coast, swerving far out on every headland as if fearful of losing itself
in the solitude of the moors. Here and there a woe-begone peasant
from a village in the hills was toiling in a tiny patch. Across a stump
or a gnarled tree trunk, always close at hand, leaned a long, rusty
gun, as primitive in appearance as the wooden plow which the tiny
oxen dragged back and forth across the fields. Those whose curiosity
got the better of them served as illustrations to the Biblical assertion,
“No man having put his hand to the plow and looking back is fit for
the kingdom of Heaven.” For the implement was sure to strike a root
or a rock, and the peasant who picked himself up out of the mire
could never have been admitted by the least fastidious St. Peter.
Nineteen showers flung their waters upon me during the day,
showers that were sometimes distinctly separated from each other
by periods of sunshine, showers that merged one into another
through a dreary drizzle.
A wind from off the Mediterranean put the leaden clouds to flight
late in the afternoon and the sun was smiling bravely when the path
turned into a well-kept road, winding through a forest of orange
trees where countless natives, in a garb that did not seem
particularly adapted to such occupation, were stripping the
overladen branches of their fruit. Her oranges and her tobacco give
livelihood—of a sort—to the ten thousand inhabitants of modern
Sidon. From the first shop in the outskirts to the drawbridge of the
ruined castle boldly facing the sea, the bazaar was one long, orange-
colored streak. The Sidonese who gathered round me in the market
would have buried me under their donations of the fruit—windfalls
that had split open—had I not waved them off and followed one of
their number, I knew not whither.

Women of Bethlehem going to the

Church of the Nativity

The most thickly settled portion of

Damascus is the graveyard. A picture
taken at risk of mobbing
He turned in at a gate that gave admittance to a large walled
inclosure. From the doors and down the outside stairways of a large
building in its center poured a multitude of boys and youths, in drab-
colored uniforms, shrieking words of welcome. A young man at the
head of the throng reached me first.
“They students,” he cried; “I am teacher. This American Mission
College. They always run to see white man because they study white
man’s language and country!”
Every class in the institution, evidently, had been dismissed that they
might attend an illustrated lecture on anthropology. The students
formed a circle about me, and the “teacher” marched round and
round me, discoursing on the various points of my person and dress
that differed from the native, as glibly as any medical failure over a
cadaver.
“Will you, kind sir,” he said, pausing for breath, “will you show to my
students the funny things with which the white man holds up his
stockings?”
I refused the request, indignantly, of course—the bare thought of
such immodesty! Besides, those important articles of my attire had
long since been gathered into the bag of a Marseilles rag-picker.
I moved towards the gate.
“Wait, sir,” cried the tutor, “very soon the American president of the
school comes. He will give you supper and bed.”
“I’ll pay my own,” I answered.
“What!” shouted the Syrian, “You got metleek? Thees man bring you
here because you sit in the market-place like you have no money.”
Some time later, as I emerged from an eating shop, a native sprang
forward with a wild shout and grasped me by the hand. Grinning
with self-complacency at his knowledge of the faranchee mode of
greeting, he fell to working my arm like a pump handle, yelping at
the same time an unbroken string of Arabic that rapidly brought
down upon us every lounger in the market-place. He was dressed in
the blanket-like cloak and the flowing headdress of the countryman.
His weather-beaten visage, at best reminiscent of a blue-ribbon
bulldog, was rendered hideous by a broken nose that had been
driven entirely out of its normal position and halfway into his left
cheek. Certainly he was no new acquaintance. For some moments I
struggled to recall where I had seen that wreck of a face before.
From the jumble that fell from his lips I caught a few words:
—“locanda, bnam, Beirut.” Then I remembered. He of the pump-
handle movement had occupied a bed beside my own during my
first days in Beirut and had turned the nights into purgatory by
wailing a native song in a never-changing monotone, while he rolled
and puffed at innumerable cigarettes.
When I had disengaged my aching arm I enquired for an inn. My
long-lost roommate nodded his head and led the way to the one
large building abutting on the street, a blank wall of sun-baked
bricks some forty feet in length, unbroken except for a door through
which the Arab pushed me before him. We found ourselves in a vast,
gloomy room, its walls the seamy side of the sun-baked bricks, its
floor trampled earth, and its flat roof supported by massive beams of
such wood as Hiram sent to Solomon for the temple on Mt. Moriah.
Save for a bit of space near the door, the room was crowded with
camels, donkeys, dogs, and men, and heaps of bundled
merchandise. It was the Sidon khan, a station for the caravan trains
that make their way up and down the coast. Across the room, above
the door, ran a wooden gallery, some ten feet wide. My companion
pushed me up the ladder before him, took two blankets—evidently
his own property—from a heap in the corner, and, spreading them
out in a space unoccupied by prostrate muleteers or camel drivers,
invited me to lie down.
The scene below us was a very pandemonium. Donkeys, large and
small, lying, standing, kicking, braying, broke away, now and then,
to lead their owners a merry chase in and out of the throng.
Reclining camels chewed their cud, and gazed at the chaos about
them with scornful dignity. Others of these phlegmatic beasts, newly
arrived, shrilly protested against kneeling until their cursing masters
could relieve them of their loads. Men and dogs were everywhere.
Gaunt curs glared about them like famished wolves. Men in coarse
cloaks, that resembled grain-sacks split up the front, were cudgeling
their beasts, quarreling over the sharing of a blanket, or shrieking at
the keeper who collected the khan dues. Among them, less excited
mortals squatted, singly or in groups, on blankets spread between a
camel and an ass, rolled out the stocking-like rags swinging over
their shoulders, and fell to munching their meager suppers. Here
and there a man stood barefooted on his cloak, deaf to every sound
about him, salaaming his reverences towards the south wall, beyond
which lay Mecca.
Before the first grey of dawn appeared, the mingling sounds that
had made an incessant murmur during the night increased to a roar.
There came the tinkling of bells on ass and dromedary, the braying
and cursing of the denizens of the desert. Men wrestled with
unwieldy cargoes, or cudgeled animals reluctant to take up their
burdens. At frequent intervals the door beneath our gallery creaked,
and one by one the caravans filed out into the breaking day.
The khan was almost empty when I descended the ladder. Late
risers were hurrying through their prayers or loading the few animals
that remained. The keeper, sitting crosslegged near the door, rolled
me a cigarette and demanded a bishleek for my lodging. I knew as
well as he that such a price was preposterous, and he was fully
aware of my knowledge. He had merely begun the skirmish that is
the preliminary of every financial transaction in the East. A little
experience with Oriental merchants imbues the faranchee traveler
with the spirit of haggling; when he learns, as soon he will, that
every tradesman who gets the better of him laughs at him for a fool,
self-respect comes to the rescue. For who would not spend a half-
hour of sluggish Eastern time to prove that the men of his nation are
no inferiors in astuteness to these suave followers of “Maghmoód,”
however small may be the amount under discussion?
By the time my cigarette was half finished I had reduced the price to
four metleeks. Before I tossed it away, the keeper of the khan had
accepted a mouth-organ that had somehow found its way into my
pack and about three reeds of which responded to the most
powerful pair of lungs; and he bade me good-bye with a much more
respectful opinion of faranchees than he would have done had I paid
the first amount demanded.
The wail of a leather-lunged muezzin echoed across the wilderness
as I set off again to the southward. A road that sallied forth from the
city stopped short at the edge of an inundated morass and left me to
lay my own course, guided by the booming of the Mediterranean.
The cheering prospect of a night out of doors lay before me; for, if
the map was to be trusted, the next village was fully two days
distant. Mile after mile the way led over slippery spurs of the
mountain chain and across marshes in which I sank halfway to my
knees, with here and there a muddy stream to be forded. Only an
occasional sea gull, circling over the waves, gave life to the dreary
landscape. A few isolated patches showed signs of cultivation, but
the cold, incessant downpour kept even the hardy peasants cooped
up in their villages among the hills to the eastward.
The utter solitude was broken but once by a human being, a ragged
muleteer splashing northward as fast as the clinging mud permitted.
On his face was the utter dejection of one who had been denied
admittance at St. Peter’s gate. At sight of me he struggled to
increase his pace and, pointing away through the storm, bawled
plaintively, “Homar, efendee? Shoof! Fee homar henak?” (Ass, sir?
Look! Is there an ass beyond?) When I shook my head he lifted up
his voice and wept in true Biblical fashion, and stumbled on across
the morass.
The gloomy day was waning when I plunged into a valley of rank
vegetation, where several massive stone ruins and a crumbling stone
bridge that humped its back over a wandering stream, suggested an
ancient center of civilization. I scanned the debris for a hole in which
to sleep. Shelter there was none, and a gnawing hunger protested
against a halt. From the top of the bridge an unhoped-for sight
caught my eye. Miles away, at the end of a low cape that ran far out
into the sea, rose a slender minaret, surrounded by a jumble of flat
buildings. I tore my way through the undergrowth with hope
renewed and struck out towards the unknown, perhaps unpeopled,
hamlet.
Dusk turned to utter darkness. For an interminable period I
staggered on through the mire, sprawling, now and then, in a
stinking slough. The lapping of waves sounded at last, and I struck a
solider footing of sloping sand. Far ahead twinkled a few lights, so
far out across the water that, had I not seen the village by day, I
had fancied them the illuminated portholes of a steamer at anchor.
The beach described a half-circle. The twinkling lights drew on
before like wills o’ the wisp. The flat sand gave way to rocks and
boulders—the ruins, apparently, of ancient buildings—against which
I barked my shins repeatedly.
I had all but given up in despair the pursuit of the fugitive
glowworms, when the baying of dogs fell on my ear. An unveiled
corner of the moon disclosed a faintly defined path up the sloping
beach, which, leading across the sand-dunes, brought up against a
fort-like building, pierced in the center by a gateway. Two flickering
lights under the archway cast weird shadows over a group of Arabs,
huddled in their blankets.
The arrival of any traveler at such an hour was an event to bring
astonishment; a mud-bespattered faranchee projected thus upon
them out of the blackness of the night brought them to their feet
with excited cries. I pushed through the group and plunged into a
maze of wretched, hovel-choked alleyways. Silence reigned in the
bazaars, but the keeper of one squalid shop was still dozing over his
pan of coals between a stack of aged bread-sheets and a simmering
kettle of sour-milk soup. I prodded him into semi-wakefulness and,
gathering in the gkebis, sat down in his place. He dipped up a bowl
of soup from force of habit, then catching sight of me for the first
time, generously distributed the jelly-like mixture over my
outstretched legs.
The second serving reached me in the orthodox manner. To the
nibbling Arabs who had ranged themselves on the edge of the circle
of light cast by the shop lamp, a bowl of soup was an ample meal
for one man. When I called for a second, they stared open-mouthed.
Again I sent the bowl back. The bystanders burst forth in a roar of
laughter which the deserted labyrinth echoed back to us a third and
a fourth time, and the boldest stepped forward to pat their stomachs
derisively.
I inquired for an inn as I finished. A ragged Sampson stepped into
the arc of light and crying “taala,” set off to the westward. Almost at
a trot, he led the way by cobbled streets, down the center of which
ran an open sewer, up hillocks and down, under vaulted bazaars and
narrow archways, by turns innumerable.
He stopped at last before a high garden wall, behind which, among
the trees, stood a large building of monasterial aspect.
“Italiano faranchee henak,” he said, raising the heavy iron knocker
over the gate and letting it fall with a boom that startled the dull ear
of night. Again and again he knocked. The muffled sound of an
opening door came from the distant building. A step fell on the
graveled walk, a step that advanced with slow and stately tread to
within a few feet of the gate; then a deep, reverberant voice called
out something in Arabic.
I replied in Italian; “I am a white man, looking for an inn.”
The voice that answered was trained to the chanting of masses. One
could almost fancy himself in some vast cathedral, listening to an
invocation from far back in the nave, as the words came, deep and
sharp-cut, one from another: “Non si riceveno qui pellegrini.” The
scrape of feet on the graveled walk grew fainter and fainter, a heavy
door slammed, and all was still.
The Arab put his ear to the keyhole of the gate, scratched his head
in perplexity, and with another “taala” dashed off once more. A no
less devious route brought us out on the water front of the back bay.
In a brightly lighted café sat a dozen convivial souls over narghilehs
and coffee. My cicerone paused some distance away and set up a
wailing chant in which the word “faranchee” was often repeated.
Plainly, the revelers gave small credence to this cry of Frank out of
the night. Calmly they continued smoking and chattering, peering
indifferently, now and then, into the outer darkness. The Arab drew
me into the circle of light. A roar went up from the carousers and
they tumbled pell-mell out upon us.
My guide was, evidently, a village butt, rarely permitted to appear
before his fellow-townsman in so important a rôle. Fame, at last,
was knocking at his door. His first words tripped over each other
distressingly, but his racial eloquence of phrase and gesture came to
the rescue, and he launched forth in a panegyric such as never
congressional candidate suffered at the hands of a rural chairman.
His zeal worked his undoing. From every dwelling within sound of his
trumpet-like voice poured forth half-dressed men who, crowding
closely around, raised a Babel that drowned out the orator before his
introductory premise had been half ended. An enemy suggested an
adjournment to the café and left the new Cicero—the penniless
being denied admittance—to deliver his maiden speech to the
unpeopled darkness.
The keeper, with his best company smile, placed a chair for me in
the center of the room; the elder men grouped themselves about me
on similar articles of furniture; and the younger squatted on their
haunches around the wall. The language of signs was proving a poor
means of communication, when a native, in more elaborate
costume, pushed into the circle and addressed me in French. With
an interpreter at hand, nothing short of my entire biography would
satisfy my hearers; and to avoid any semblance of partiality, I was
forced to swing round and round on my stool in the telling, despite
the fact that only one of the audience understood the queer
faranchee words. The proprietor, meanwhile, in a laudable endeavor
to make hay while the sun shone, made the circuit of the room at
frequent intervals, asking each with what he could serve him. Those
few who did not order were ruthlessly pushed into the street, where
a throng of boys and penniless men flitted back and forth on the
edge of the light, peering in upon us. Anxious to secure the good-
will of so unusual an attraction, the keeper ran forward each time
my whirling brought him within my field of vision to offer a cup of
thick coffee, a narghileh, or a native liquor.
I concluded my saga with the statement that I had left Sidon that
morning.
“Impossible!” shouted the interpreter. “No man can walk from Sidra
to Soor in one day.”
“Soor?” I cried, recognizing the native name for Tyre, and scarcely
believing my ears. “Is this Soor?”
“Is it possible,” gasped the native, “that you have not recognized the
ancient city of Tyre? Yes, indeed, my friend, this is Soor. But if you
have left Sidon this morning you have slept a night on the way
without knowing it.”
I turned the conversation by inquiring the identity of the worthies
about me. The interpreter introduced them one by one. The village
scribe, the village barber, the village carpenter, the village tailor, and
—even thus far from the land of chestnut trees—the village
blacksmith were all in evidence. Most striking of all the throng in
appearance was a young man of handsome, forceful face and sturdy,
well-poised figure, attired in a flowing, jet-black gown and almost as
black a fez. From time to time he rose to address his companions on
the all-important topic of faranchees. A gift of native eloquence of
which he seemed supremely unconscious, and the long sweep of his
gown over his left shoulder with which he ended every discourse,
recalled my visualization of Hamlet. I was surprised to find that he
was only a common sailor, and that in a land where the seaman is
regarded as the lowest of created beings.
“Hamlet” owed his position of authority on this occasion to a single
journey to Buenos Ayres. After long striving, I succeeded in
exchanging with him a few meager ideas in Spanish, much to the
discomfiture of the “regular” interpreter, who, posing as a man of
unexampled erudition, turned away with an angry shrug of the
shoulders and fell upon my unguarded knapsack. I swung round in
time to find him complacently turning the film-wind of my kodak and
clawing at the edges in an attempt to open it. If one would keep his
possessions intact in the East he must sit upon them, for not even
the apes of the jungle have the curiosity of the Oriental nor less
realization of the difference between mine and thine.
The city fathers of Tyre, in solemn conviviality assembled, resolved
unanimously that I could not be permitted to continue on foot. Some
days before, midway between Tyre and Acre, a white man had been
found, murdered by some blunt instrument and nailed to the ground
by a stake driven through his body. The tale was told, with the
fullness of detail doted on by our yellow journals, in French and
crippled Spanish; and innumerable versions in Arabic were followed
by an elaborate pantomime by the village carpenter, with Hamlet
and the scribe as the assassins, and the tube of a water-pipe as the
stake. Midnight had long since passed. I promised the good citizens
of Tyre to remain in their city for a day of reflection, and inquired for
a place to sleep.
Not a man among them, evidently, had thought of that problem. The
assemblage resolved itself into a committee of the whole and spent
a good half hour in weighty debate. Then the interpreter rose to
communicate to me the result of the deliberations. There was no
public inn in the city of Tyre—they thanked God for that. But its
inhabitants had ever been ready to treat royally the stranger within
their gates. The keeper of the café had a back room. In that back
room was a wooden bench. The keeper was moved to give me
permission to occupy that back room and that bench. Nay! Even
more! He was resolved to spread on that bench a rush mat, and
cover me over with what had once been the sail of his fishing-
smack. But first he must ask me one question. Aye! The citizens of
Tyre, there assembled, must demand an answer to that query and
the spokesman abjured me, by the beard of Allah, to answer
truthfully and deliberately.
I moved the previous question. The village elders hitched their stools
nearer, the squatters strained their necks to listen. The man of
learning gasped twice, nay, thrice, and broke the utter silence with a
tense whisper:—
“Are you, sir, a Jew?”
I denied the allegation.
“Because,” went on the speaker, “we are haters of the Jews and no
Jew could stop in this café over night, though the clouds rained
down boulders and water-jars on our city of Tyre.”
The keeper fulfilled his promise to the letter and, putting up the
shutters of the café, locked me in and marched away.

Tyre is now a miserable village connected

with the mainland by a wind-blown neck
of sand
 Agriculture in Palestine. There is not an
ounce of iron about the plow

The nephew of the village carpenter, a youth educated in the

American Mission School of Sidon, appointed himself my guide next
morning. The ancient city of Tyre is to-day a collection of stone and
mud hovels, covering less than a third of the sandy point that once
teemed with metropolitan life, and housing four thousand humble
humans, destitute alike of education, arts, and enterprise. Our
pilgrimage began at the narrow neck of wind-blown sand—all that
remains of the causeway of Alexander. To the south of the present
hamlet, once the site of rich dwellings, stretched rambling rows of
crude head-stones over Christian and Mohammedan graves, a dreary
spot above which circled and swooped a few sombre rooks. On the
eastern edge a knoll rose above the pathetic village wall, a rampart
that would not afford defense against a self-confident goat. Below
lay a broad playground, worn bare and smooth by the tramp of
many feet, peopled now by groups of romping children and here and
there an adult loafing under the rays of the December sun. Only a
few narrow chasms, from which peeped the top of a window or door,
served to remind the observer that he was not looking down upon
an open space, but on the flat housetops of the closely-packed city.
Further away rose an unsteady minaret, and beyond, the tree-
girdled dwelling of the Italian monks. To the north, in the wretched
roadstead, a few decrepit fishing smacks, sad remnants of the fleets
whose mariners once caroused and sang in the streets of Tyre, lay at
anchor. Down on the encircling beach, half buried under the drifting
sands and worn away by the lapping waves, lay the ruins of what
must long ago have been great business blocks. The Tyreans of to-
day, mere parasites, have borne away stone by stone these edifices
of a mightier generation to build their own humble habitations. Even
as we looked, a half dozen ragged Arabs were prying off the top of a
great pillar and loading the fragments into a dilapidated feluca.
A narrow street through the center of the town forms the boundary
between her two religions. To the north dwell Christians, to the
south Metawalies, Mohammedans of unorthodox superstitions. Their
women do not cover their faces, but tattoo their foreheads, cheeks,
and hands. To them the unpardonable sin is to touch, ever so
slightly, a being not of their faith. Ugly scowls greeted our passage
in all this section. I halted at a shop to buy oranges. A mangy old
crone tossed the fruit at me and, spreading a cloth over her hand,
stretched it out. I attempted to lay the coppers in her open palm.
She snatched her hand away with a snarl and a display of yellow
fangs less suggestive of a human than of a mongrel over a bone.
“Hold your hand above hers and drop the money,” said my
companion. “If you touch her, she is polluted.”
To a mere unbeliever the danger of pollution seemed reversed. But
mayhap it is not given to unbelievers to see clearly.
Once across the line of demarkation cheery greetings sounded from
every shop. Generations of intermarriage have welded this Christian
community into one great family. Often the youth halted to observe:
“Here lives my uncle; that man is my cousin; this shop belongs to
my sister’s husband; in that house dwells the brother-in-law of my
father.”
America was the promised land to every denizen of this section.
Hardly a man of them had given up hope of putting together money
enough to emigrate to the new world. The brother of my guide
voiced a prayer that I had often heard among the Christians of Asia
Minor.
“We hope more every day,” he said, “that America will some time
take this land away from the Turks, for the Turks are rascals and the
king rascal is the Sultan at Stamboul. Please, you, sir, get America to
do this when you come back.”
My cicerone was a true Syrian, in his horror of travel. His family had
been Christians—of the Greek faith—for generations, and Nazareth
and Jerusalem lay just beyond the ranges to the eastward; yet
neither he, his father, nor any ancestor, to his knowledge, had ever
journeyed further than to Sidon. His teachers had imbued him with
an almost American view of life, had instilled in him a code of
personal morals at utter variance with those of this land, in which
crimes ranging from bribery to murder are discussed in a spirit of
levity by all classes. But they had not given him the energy of the
West, nor convinced him that the education he had acquired was
something more than an added power for the amassing of metleeks.
Some day, when he had money enough, he would go to America to
turn his linguistic ability into more money. Meanwhile, he squatted
on his haunches in the filth of Tyre, waiting more patiently than
Micawber for something to “turn up.”
The highest ideal, to the people he represented, is the merchant—a
middle-man between work and responsibility who may drone out his
days in reposeful self-sufficiency. The round of the streets led us to
the liquor and fruit shop kept by his father, a flabby-skinned fellow
who stretched his derelict bulk on a divan and growled whenever a
client disturbed his day-dreams. To his son he was the most
fortunate being in Tyre.
“Why,” cried the youth in admiration, “he never has to do anything
but rest in his seat all day and put up his shutters and go home at
night! Would you not like to own a shop and never have to work
again all the days of your life?”
My answer that the dénouement of such a fate would probably be
the sighing of willows over a premature grave was lost upon him.
An unprecedented throng was gathered in the café when I reached
it in the evening. The proprietor danced blindly about the room, well
nigh frantic from an ambitious but vain endeavor to serve all comers.
“Hamlet,” done with his day’s fishing and his sea-going rags, was
again on hand to give unconscious entertainment. The village scribe,
if the bursts of laughter were as unforced as they seemed, had
brought with him a stock of witty tales less threadbare than those of
the night before; and the expression on the face of my guide, and
his repeated refusals to interpret them, suggested that the stories
were not of the jeune fille order.
The village carpenter was the leader of the opposition against my
departure on foot, and finding that his pantomime had not aroused
in me a becoming dread of the Bedouin-infected wilderness, he set
out on a new tack. A coasting steamer was due in a few days. He
proposed that the assembled Tyreans take up a collection to pay my
passage to the next port, and set the ball rolling by dropping a
bishleek into his empty coffee cup. A steady flow of metleeks had
already set in before my protests grew vociferous enough to check
it. Why I should refuse to accept whatever they proposed to give
was something very few of these simple fellows could understand.
The carpenter wiped out all my arguments in the ensuing debate by
summing up with that incontestable postulate of the Arab: “Sir,” he
cried, by interpreter, appealing to the others for confirmation, “if you
go to Acre on foot, you will get tired!”
I slept again on the rush mat. My guide and his uncle accompanied
me through the city gate next morning, still entreating me to
reconsider my rash decision. The older man gave up just outside the
village and with an “Allah m’akum’” (the Lord be with you) hurried
back, as if the unwonted experience of getting out of sight of his
workshop had filled him with unconquerable terror. The youth halted
beyond the wind-blown neck of sand, and, after entreating me to
send for him as soon as I returned to America, fled after his uncle.
From this distance the gloomy huddle of kennels behind recalled
even more readily than a closer view those lines of the wandering
bard:
“Dim is her glory, gone her fame,
Her boasted wealth has fled.
On her proud rock, alas, her shame,
The fisher’s net is spread.
The tyrean harp has slumbered long,
And Tyria’s mirth is low;
The timbrel, dulcimer, and song
Are hushed, or wake to woe.”

For the first few miles the way led along the hard sands of the
beach. Beyond, the “Ladder of Tyre,” a spur of the Lebanon falling
sharply off into the sea, presented a precipitous slope that I scaled
with many bruises. Few spots on the globe present a more desolate
prospect than the range after range of barren hills that stretch out
from the summit of the “Ladder.” Half climbing, half sliding, I
descended the southern slope and struggled on across a trackless
country in a never-ceasing downpour.
It was the hour of nightfall when the first habitation of man broke
the monotony of the lifeless waste. Half famished, I hurried towards
it. At a distance the hamlet presented the appearance of a low
fortress or blockhouse. The outer fringe of buildings—all these
peasant villages form a more or less perfect circle—were set so
closely together as to make an almost continuous wall, with never a
window nor door opening on the world outside. I circled half the
town before I found an entrance to its garden of miseries. The
hovels, partly of limestone, chiefly of baked mud, were packed like
stacks in a scanty barnyard. The spaces between them left meager
passages, and, being the village dumping ground and sewer as well
as the communal barn, reeked with every abomination of man and
beast. In cleanliness and picturesqueness the houses resembled the
streets. Here and there a human sty stood open and lazy smoke
curled upward from its low doorway; for the chimney is as yet
unknown in rural Asia Minor.
A complete circuit of the “city” disclosed no shops and I began a
canvass of the hovels, stooping to thrust my head through the
smoke-choked doorways, and shaking my handkerchief of coins in
the faces of the half asphyxiated occupants, with a cry of “gkebis.”
Wretched hags and half-naked children glared at me. My best
pulmonary efforts evoked no more than a snarl or a stolid stare.
Only once did I receive verbal reply. A peasant whose garb was one-
fourth cloth, one-fourth the skin of some other animal, and one-half
the accumulated filth of some two-score years, squatted in the
center of the last hut, eating from a stack of newly baked bread-
sheets. Having caught him with the goods, I bawled “gkebis”
commandingly. He turned to peer at me through the smoke with the
lack-luster eye of a dead haddock. Once more I demanded bread. A
diabolical leer overspread his features. He rose to a crouching
posture, a doubled sheet between his fangs, and, springing at me
half way across the hut, roared, “MA FEESH!”
Now there is no more forcible word in the Arabic language than “ma
feesh.” It is rich in meanings, among which “there is none!” “We
haven’t any!” “None left!” “Can’t be done!” and “Nothing doing!” are
but a few. The native can give it an articulation that would make the
most aggressive of bulldogs put his tail between his legs and
decamp. My eyes certainly had not deceived me. There was bread
and plenty of it. But somehow I felt no longing to tarry, near
nightfall, in a fanatical village far from the outskirts of civilization, to
wage debate with an Arab who could utter “ma feesh” in that tone
of voice. With never an audible reply, I fled to the encircling
wilderness.
The sun was settling to his bath in the Mediterranean. Across the
pulsating sea to the beach below the village stretched an undulating
ribbon of orange and red. Away to the eastward, in the valleys of the
Lebanon, darkness already lay. On the rugged peaks a few isolated
trees, swaying in a swift landward breeze, stood out against the
evening sky. Within hail of the hamlet a lonely shepherd guarded a
flock of fat-tailed sheep. Beyond him lay utter solitude. The level
plain soon changed to row after row of sand dunes, unmarked by a
single footprint, over which my virgin path rose and fell with the
regularity of a tossing ship.
The last arc of the blazing sun sank beneath the waves. The
prismatic ribbon quivered a moment longer, faded, and disappeared,
leaving only an unbroken expanse of black water. Advancing twilight
dimmed the outline of the swaying trees, the very peaks lost
individuality and blended into the darkening sky of evening. In the
trough of the sand dunes the night made mysterious gulfs in which
the eye could not distinguish where the descent ended and the
ascent began.
Invariably I stumbled half way up each succeeding slope. The
shifting sands muffled to silence my footsteps. On the summit of the
ridges sounded a low moaning of the wind, rising and falling like far-
off sobbing. A creative imagination might easily have peopled the
surrounding blackness with flitting forms of murderous nomads.
Somewhere among these never-ending ridges the “staked
faranchee” had been done to death.
Mile after mile the way led on, rising and falling as rhythmically as
though over and over the same sandy billow. Sunset had dispelled
the rain, but not a star broke through the overcast sky, and only the
hoarse-voiced boom of the breakers guided my steps. Now and then
I halted at the summit of a ridge to search for the glimmer of a
distant light and to strain my ears for some other sound than the
wailing of the wind and the muffled thunder of the ocean. But even
Napoleon was once forced to build a hill from which to sweep the
horizon before he could orientate himself in this billowy wilderness.
The surly peasant was long since forgotten when, descending a
ridge with my feet raised high at each step in anticipation of a
succeeding ascent, I plunged into a slough in which I sank almost to
my knees. From force of habit I plowed on. The booming of the
waves grew louder, as if the land receded, and the wind from off the
sea blew stronger and more chilling. Suddenly there sounded at my
feet the rush of waters. I moved forward cautiously and felt the
edge of what seemed to be a broad river, pouring seaward. It was
an obstacle not to be surmounted on a black night. I drew back from
the brink and, finding a spot that seemed to offer some resistance
beneath my feet, threw myself down.
But I sank inch by inch into the morass, and fearful of being buried
before morning, I rose and wandered towards the sea. On a slight
rise of ground I stumbled over a heap of cobblestones, piled up at
some earlier date by the peasants. I built a bed of stones under the
lee of the pile, tucked my kodak in a crevice, and pulling my coat
over my head, lay down. A patter of rain sounded on the coat, then
another and another, faster and faster, and in less than a minute
there began a downpour that abated not once during the night. The
heap afforded small protection against the piercing wind, and, being
short and semicircular in shape, compelled me to lie motionless on
my right side, for only my body protected the kodak and films
beneath. The rain quickly soaked through my clothing and ran in
rivulets along my skin. The wind turned colder and whistled through
the chinks of the pile. The sea boomed incessantly, and in the
surrounding marshes colonies of unwearying frogs croaked a dismal
refrain. Thus, on the fringe of the Mediterranean, I watched out the
old year, and, though not a change in the roar of the sea, the tattoo
of the storm, nor the note of a frog, marked the hour, I was certainly
awake at the waning.
An Oriental proverb tells us that “He who goes not to bed will be
early up.” He who goes to bed on a rock pile will also be up betimes
—though with difficulty. The new year was peering over the Lebanon
when I rose to my feet. My left leg, though creaking like a rusty
armor, sustained me; but I had no sooner shifted my weight to the
right than it gave way like a thing of straw and let me down with
disconcerting suddenness in the mud. By dint of long massaging, I
recovered the use of the limb; but even then an attempt to walk in a
straight line sent me round in a circle from left to right. Daylight
showed the river to be lined with quicksands. It was broad and swift,
but not deep, and some distance up the stream I effected a crossing
without sinking below my armpits. Far off to the southeast lay a
small forest. A village, perhaps, was hidden in its shade, and I
dashed eagerly forward through a sea of mud.
The forest turned out to be a large orange grove, surrounded by a
high hedge and a turgid, moat-like stream. There was not a human
habitation in sight. The trees were heavily laden with yellow fruit. I
cast the contents of my knapsack on the ground, plunged through
moat and hedge, and tore savagely at the tempting fare. With half-
filled bag I regained the plain, caught up my scattered belongings,
and struck southward, peeling an orange. The skin was close to an
inch thick, the fruit inside would have aroused the dormant appetite
of an Epicurean. Greedily I stuffed a generous quarter into my
mouth—and stopped stock-still with a sensation as of a sudden blow
in the back of the neck. The orange was as green as the Emerald
Isle, its juice more acrid than a half-and-half of vinegar and gall! I
peeled another and another. Each was more sour and bitter than its
forerunner. Tearfully I dumped the treasure trove in the mire and
stumbled on.
Two hours later, under a blazing sun—so great is the contrast in this
hungry land between night and unclouded day—I entered a native
village, more wretched if possible than that of the night before.
Scowls and snarls greeted me in almost every hut; but one hideously
tattooed female pushed away the proffered coins and thrust into my
hands two bread-sheets the ragged edge of which showed the
marks of infant teeth. They were as tender as a sea boot, as
palatable as a bath towel, and satisfied my hunger as a peanut
would have satisfied that of an elephant. But no amount of
vociferation could induce the villagers to part with another morsel,
and, thankful for small favors, I trudged on.
A well-marked path, inundated here and there and peopled by bands
of natives, turned westward beyond an ancient aqueduct, and at
noonday I passed through the fortified gate of Acre. The power of
faranchee appetites was the absorbing topic of conversation in the
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