The Maccabaean

As a leader—this I may be permitted to say—he proved a success within the limits that he found, and which he strictly refrained from extending, much less from breaking asunder. He did not wish to introduce any new ideas into Zionism; there was no need for that, according to his opinion. The traditional ideas were sufficient to provide him with the greatest, most fertile and most difficult problems. What he wanted was to preserve what had already been created, to develop what had been begun, to endow the organization with a secure material foundation, and, if possible, to modify or even to eliminate altogether the differences that were becoming more and more marked within the Zionist community—I detest the word “party” as applied to the constituent parts of our organization. That was his program, upon which it is not my intention here to pass judgment; he acted in accordance with it and happily realized most of its points or at least brought them nearer to realization. That is an achievement which secures him an imperishable name in the history of Zionism.

But in my opinion the man stands higher than his achievements. He was genuine through and through. There was no pretence about him, no deception aiming at external splendor. Wherever one knocked one heard the clear ring of the full weighted noble metal. He had become what he was through his own efforts. He owed nothing to the favore of chance, but everything to his own ability, perseverance and honor. But I do not go so far as to say that he did not bring anything with him into life from his own home. He certainly found no earthly treasures at his birth; he had to earn every penny himself and yet he rejoiced in a rich legacy—the inherited qualities that were bequeathed to him by his ancestors as a secure possession. He was a proud son of our noble race. He was a magnificent Jew. He had been able to acquire only

little school learning, but his lucid intelligence, his sagacity, his quick and sure judgment filled the gaps in his formal education, and the book-lore, of which he could have made no use, was replaced by his own native wisdom. He had grown up in the simplest environment, but in his innate tact, his natural delicacy and his constant consciousness of his personal dignity, he found that self-confident bearing and noble demeanor which secured him his proper place in the most distinguished salons and enabled him to associate with men of the highest rank in the political and social world as a gentleman with gentlemen.

But the finest and most touching thing about him was his heart—his Jewish heart. He could not see any suffering without feeling it too; no misfortune, without wishing to alleviate it. His philanthropy was not the conventional activity of the cool-minded rich, who always dispense their gifts with open hand, but without any mark of sympathy. The most precious of his gifts was the warmth, the real brotherly cordiality with which he gave. He clung to his wife with touching affection; his pure and noble domestic life reminded one of the domestic idylis of the patriarchs. To his friends he was the surest and most reliable friend. And to his people he was devoted with passionate attachment. He considered nothing so important as the honor of his people. He longed for nothing so ardently as the happiness of his people. He believed in nothing so ardently and so firmly as in the future of his people. This faith gave him a firm moral backbone and endowed his life with a significance far exceeding that of the individual existence.

That he could become so completely absorbed on the cause of Judaism raised the simple man high above himself, developed his personality in untold ways and secured for his name the permanent remembrance of his people.

How long, oh God, how long, I askWill be our sad and dismal taskTo number days, to count the yearsBy streams of blood, and floods of tears!How can I on this day rejoice,When round I hear a thundering voice:“By cruel hand, by gruesome deedThy brothers fall, thy brothers bleed,Thy brothers suffer wrong and woeTo fight the battles of their foe. . . . .”

The trumpet blows, the trumpet calls, The sun is set, the evening falls. In vain I search the Star of Hope. . . . . A thousand graves around me ope; A thousand ghosts emerge and cry: “We fought and died—but tell us, why?

There is no land for which in strifeWe die to give our children life.Nor wife, nor child, nor home, nor friend,Could we with blood and life defend.Where tempests rage and oceans foamThere is our wandering people's home;—Their bed—the sod, their roof—the sky,We fought and died—but tell us why?”

The trumpet blows, the trumpet calls, The sun is set, the evening falls. I hear the cry, I see the graves. Oh year of blood! oh fate of slaves! Oh blackest Fate, oh reddest year, In Time’s deep ocean disappear, And drown our grief, and woe, and pain— And never swim ashore apain.