A Reader in Syriac Based on the

Entertaining Stories of Gregory Bar

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 ̈
‫ܡܓܚܟܢܐ‬ ̈
‫ܕܬܘܢܝܐ‬ ‫ܟܬܒܐ‬

A READER IN SYRIAC
BASED ON THE

ENTERTAINING STORIES
OF GREGORY BAR ʿEBRĀYĀ
 Gorgias Handbooks

57

Gorgias Handbooks provides students and scholars with reference books, textbooks
and introductions to different topics or fields of study. In this series, Gorgias
welcomes books that are able to communicate information, ideas and concepts
effectively and concisely, with useful reference bibliographies for further study.
 ̈
‫ܡܓܚܟܢܐ‬ ̈
‫ܕܬܘܢܝܐ‬ ‫ܟܬܒܐ‬

A READER IN SYRIAC
BASED ON THE

ENTERTAINING STORIES
OF GREGORY BAR ʿEBRĀYĀ

John Hayes

gp
2023
Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA
www.gorgiaspress.com
Copyright © 2022 by Gorgias Press LLC
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.

2023 ‫ܒ‬
1

ISBN 978-1-4632-4489-7 ISSN 1935-6838

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A Cataloging-in-Publication Record is available from the

Library of Congress.
Printed in the United States of America
 PREFACE
The purpose of this modest volume is to aid beginning students of Syriac in
acquiring facility in reading the language. It contains thirty short reading selections
with an analysis of the grammar and vocabulary of those texts. The stories are all
taken from the Book of Entertaining Stories of Gregory Bar ʿEbrāyā (1226–1286).
The idea for this book grew out of my experience in teaching the language. I
started teaching with Wheeler Thackston’s Introduction to Syriac, and then at his
Lesson 8 I began to supplement Thackston with John Healey’s Leshono Suryoyo. I
continued using both until the end of the academic year. However, I felt that the
students would enjoy more “real” Syriac, so at Lesson 9 of Thackston we began to
read some of the stories from Bar ʿEbrāyā’s work, taken from the edition of Budge
(1897). These stories are both self-contained and amusing, and the students enjoyed
them. Some of them have been used in previous anthologies of Syriac, going as far
back as 1784.
For this Reader, I have selected thirty of Bar ʿEbrāyā’s stories, chosen on the basis
of grammar and human interest. I assume that students have a basic level of Syriac
grammar, principally the strong verb in the perfect and imperfect, and also a
rudimentary knowledge of Syriac vocabulary. The first selections are fairly heavily
glossed. I have particularly focused on the syntax of Syriac, since this is difficult to
study from the teaching grammars, and because it is the syntax that makes Syriac
particularly challenging and interesting. I have written the volume for students
working on their own, without a teacher, and so have tried to anticipate such
students’ questions.
Each Text follows the same format. First comes a list of vocabulary. This is meant
to expand upon the information presented in elementary textbooks. Then comes the
text in Estrangela. This is followed by a word-by-word analysis of the more
problematic forms in the text. After this comes a discussion of the story itself; an
examination of the larger linguistic issues raised in the text; and lastly some
comparative language notes, talking about cognates in Hebrew and in Arabic and
about loanwords. After every five Texts comes a review of some larger issues of Syriac
morphology and syntax. The first ten Texts use a fair amount of transcription; after
that, transcription appears less frequently. When it is particularly useful to focus on
the pronunciation, Syriac forms are placed within slashes. After these Texts comes

v
vi A READER IN SYRIAC

translations of the Texts; an index of the vocabulary; and lastly a concordance of the
Texts.
As mentioned above, this work arose out of my teaching of Syriac. I would like
to especially thank the following four individuals for their intellectual camaraderie
over the last three years: Leah Macinskas-Le, Kaveh Niazi, Harley Jay Siskin, and
Terri Tanaka.
I would also like to thank both the British Library and the Special Collections
Department of the University of Leeds for graciously providing eminently readable
scans of all the stories. I would also like to thank Delio Proverbio for pointing me to
the on-line version of the Vatican manuscript.
Lastly, may I also express my gratitude to Melonie Schmierer-Lee of Gorgias
Press, who most professionally has helped shepherd me through the publication
process.
Leeds Syr Ms. 3. Page containing the first Entertaining Story.
Used with the permission of Leeds University Library.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
̈
‫ܡܓܚܟܢܐ‬ ̈ ‫ܟܬܒܐ‬
‫ܕܬܘܢܝܐ‬
Introduction 1

‫ܬ‬
‫ܐ‬ Text 1 Wisdom from the mouth of Socrates 7
‫ܒ‬ Text 2 The Persian ruler Khusraw bad-mouths the Kurds 17
‫ܓ‬ Text 3 A lunatic body-shames a noble 23
‫ܕ‬ Text 4 Men make all the rules 31
‫ܗ‬ Text 5 A good day for a thief 39
Review Lesson One Roots 43
States 44

‫ܬ‬
‫ܘ‬ Text 6 Another thief 47
‫ܙ‬ Text 7 Words of wisdom from a teacher 49
‫ܚ‬ Text 8 A philosopher makes a profound statement 55
‫ܛ‬ Text 9 Never boast about killing a prophet 59
‫ܝ‬ Text 10 Another philosopher makes a sexist comment 69
Review Lesson Two Conjugations 73
Quadriradicals 74

‫ܬ‬
‫ܝܐ‬ Text 11 Frying up some dung 77
‫ܝܒ‬ Text 12 A goat taunts a wolf 81
‫ܝܓ‬ Text 13 No more teachers, no more books 85
ix
x A READER IN SYRIAC

‫ܝܕ‬ Text 14 Saint Ammon rejects marriage 89

‫ܝܗ‬ Text 15 A Byzantine king threatens an Arab king 97
Review Lesson Three Participles with enclitic pronouns 103

‫ܬ‬
‫ܝܘ‬ Text 16 Be careful what you advise the king 107
‫ܝܙ‬ Text 17 How many lunatics are there in Emesa? 117
‫ܝܚ‬ Text 18 Can a child be born to a 70-year-old man? 121
‫ܝܛ‬ Text 19 The King of Farters gives a boast 123
‫ܟܟ‬ Text 20 Don’t make fun of a woman with disheveled hair 127
Review Lesson Four Nominal sentences 133

‫ܬ‬
‫ܟܐ‬ Text 21 Be careful who you throw stones at 135
‫ܟܒ‬ Text 22 A traveler narrates a coincidence 139
‫ܟܓ‬ Text 23 A royal councilor interprets a dream wisely 151
‫ܟܕ‬ Text 24 Short people have rights, too 157
‫ܟܗ‬ Text 25 Weavers have a bad press 161
Review Lesson Five Verbs with object pronouns 167

‫ܬ‬
‫ܟܘ‬ Text 26 An Abbess struggles against fornication 171
‫ܟܙ‬ Text 27 A merchant travels to China 175
‫ܟܚ‬ Text 28 When your number is up, your number is up 187
‫ܟܛ‬ Text 29 Listen carefully to your doctor 191
‫ܠ‬ Text 30 Watch out for ravens! 195

‫ܬ‬
Translations of texts 199
Vocabulary index 205
Concordance of texts 219
 INTRODUCTION
Gregory Bar ʿEbrāyā ‫ ܓܪܝܓܘܪܝܘܤ ܒܪ ܥܒܪܝܐ‬was one of the most prolific of
all writers in Syriac. He was born in 1226, in a small village named ʿEbrā, located in
modern-day eastern Turkey, close to the important city of Melitene. Earlier
scholarship thought that his name meant “Son of the Jewish man,” and that he came
from a Jewish family, his father apparently having converted to Christianity. Modern
scholarship says that his name simply means that his family came from ʿEbrā. His
baptismal name was apparently “John,” but at the time of his ordination as bishop
he adopted the name “Gregory.” In English, he has traditionally been referred to by
a Latinized form of his name, “Bar Hebraeus” or “Barhebraeus.” While this form of
his name is still used by some scholars, others prefer to use a more closely Syriacal
form of his name, “Bar ʿEbrāyā” or “Bar ʿEbrōyō”; “Bar ʿEbrāyā” is used here. In the
course of his long priestly career, he ended up as “Maphrian of the East
‫ܡܦܪܝܢܐ‬
‫ܕܡܕܢܚܐ‬,” that is, second-in-command of the Syrian Orthodox Church. He died in
1286, in Iran.
Bar ʿEbrāyā wrote extensively, on history, grammar, theology, Biblical exegesis,
the sciences, and other subjects. Because his writings are so voluminous, and they
treat so many diverse topics, he is sometimes said to have ushered in a “Syriac
Renaissance.” One of his most well-known compositions bears the title ‫ܟܬܒܐ‬
̈ ̈
‫ܕܬܘܢܝܐ ܡܓܚܟܢܐ‬, The Book of Entertaining Stories. These are short pieces that Bar
ʿEbrāyā assembled from many different sources and translated into Syriac. A few are
re-workings of texts that were originally written in Syriac. Many are actual “stories,”
but his book also includes such genres as sayings of Indian sages and the relationship
of external bodily characteristics to mental characteristics. Some stories and sayings
are anchored to particular individuals and places, but most are the type of folk story
or folk wisdom that circulates in many cultures.
Bar ʿEbrāyā put the collection together towards the end of his life, when he had
intimations of his mortality. He says that the stories will be a way “to wash away
grief from the heart” as a “consolation to those who are sad.” This work of his is
probably the only piece of Syriac literature that might be known to non-specialists.
It has been translated into many languages, including such diverse languages as
Czech, Ukrainian, and Malayalam.

1
2 A READER IN SYRIAC

These stories were edited by E. A. Wallis Budge in 1897, in The Laughable Stories
Collected by Mâr Gregory John Bar-Hebraeus. Budge based his work on two
manuscripts. One manuscript, containing all of the stories, was previously held by
the India Office and is now in the British Library (Syriac 9). This is in an East Syriac
hand, with many vowel marks and diacritics. The other manuscript, which is missing
a number of the stories, was originally in Budge’s private possession. It is now at the
University of Leeds (Syriac 3). This is in a West Syriac hand, with a smattering of
vowel marks, some of which were added by a later scribe. Budge also translated the
stories into English (except for some stories that Budge felt were prurient and so he
had them translated into Latin by one of his colleagues). This work, however, does
not represent the best of Budge’s scholarship. Budge occasionally mixed up the two
manuscripts in his notes and did not always cite the variants. There are a fair number
of typos.
A third manuscript, containing all the stories, is held in the Vatican Library
(Vat.sir 173). This is in rather an ugly West Syriac hand, with the usual smattering
of vowel marks. Excerpts were published by Moralez in 1886. Budge was aware of
this manuscript, but was not able to use it for his publication.
This Reader is not a re-editing of the stories. However, all the stories have been
checked against the three manuscripts. Complete scans of the British Library
manuscript and the Leeds manuscript were provided by those institutions. The
Vatican manuscript is available on-line, in the form of scans of a microfilm of the
original. Budge used the Leeds manuscript as his base text, even though it is incom-
plete. I have been more ecletic in the text, and so the resultant version differs at
times from that in Budge.
The texts are presented in the Estrangela script, using fonts developed by Beth
Mardutho, specifically the “Estrangela-Talada” font. Words occurring in the voca-
bulary lists and elsewhere are provided with West Syriac vowel marks. These are far
easier for beginning students than are East Syriac vowel marks. The linea occultans
and the syāmē dots have been consistently supplied.
The transcription of Syriac used here differs in some details from that commonly
in use. Because students of Syriac may be interested in Semitic linguistics,
etymological short /u/ is differentiated from etymological long /ū/. Thus “com-
mandment” ‫ ܦܘܩܕܢܐ‬appears as puqdānā, but “virgin” ‫ ܒܬܘܠܬܐ‬as btūltā. Short /i/
and long /ī/ are similarly differentiated. Spirantization of the bgdkpt letters, although
largely predictable, tends to cause problems for students for a long time, so it is
consistently marked in transcription, by underlining. The transcription as a whole
reflects what might be called the “American Academic Pronunciation” of Syriac,
which more closely approaches East Syriac than West Syriac. How close this pronun-
 INTRODUCTION 3

ciation is to that of a speaker living in Edessa in the thirteenth century, or one living
in the ninth century, is hard to say.
The language of the Stories can be described as good Classical Syriac. Bar ʿEbrāyā
spoke what might be called a late form of Syriac as his native language. He also
spoke Arabic fluently and composed some of his works in Arabic. He also knew
Persian and apparently Armenian. At the time when Bar ʿEbrāyā translated the
stories into Syriac, however, Syriac had largely been displaced by Arabic as a spoken
language. Scholars argue today about the size of the native Syriac-speaking
community during his lifetime, and about the degree to which that language differed
from Classical Syriac. To some degree the language of Bar ʿEbrāyā is a written
register only, not a spoken one. But Bar ʿEbrāyā certainly knew his craft well; his
reputation as a grammarian of Syriac attests to this. There is nothing in the syntax
of the stories that would cause a speaker of Syriac from the eighth century to take
umbrage. There are a few forms that deviate somewhat from the norm, but this is
sometimes due to the almost conversational register of some of the stories; at other
times these forms may be used for conscious rhetorical affect.
It is assumed here that a reader will have access to a decent grammar of Syriac.
There are four pedagogical grammars of Syriac in current use. When a question about
grammar arises, it often helps to check each. These are Thackston (1999); Coakley-
Robinson (sixth edition 2013); Healey (2005); and Muraoka (second edition 2013).
Thackston is a classic teaching grammar: the Syriac verb is introduced in the very
first chapter. Many long reading passages in Syriac are given. There is also a key to
the voluminous exercises. This key, however, which was not done by Thackston, is
rife with errors and will only serve to confuse students. Coakley is a re-working of a
textbook that was originally written by Robinson in 1915. It presents the grammar
topic-by-topic; the verb first appears in Chapter 8. It can serve as a very useful review
for those who have worked through Thackston and who would like to see the
grammar presented in a very structured way. Healey is somewhat in-between. Some
of the first illustrative sentences involve rather difficult syntax and might scare away
beginning students. But it has the advantage that the exercises are recorded on CD,
so that one can actually listen to Syriac; no other grammar does this. A fourth
grammar is Muraoka. It is expressly designed “for Hebraists.” It would be difficult
for total beginners to use. It has some short reading passages, nicely glossed.
The standard reference grammar of Syriac is that by Nöldeke (2001). This is an
English translation of a work originally published in German in 1880, and translated
into English in 1904, with supplementary material. It is not for beginners, nor is it
designed to be read page-by-page. It is written in rather an old-fashioned style, with
4 A READER IN SYRIAC

English wording that now seems quaint. It also suffers from the lack of an index. But
it has numerous illustrative examples, citing many many Syriac texts.
A work of different scope is Kiraz (2010). This is a collection of verbal paradigms.
It is more thorough than those in the other grammars and is quite useful. The print,
unfortunaterly, is quite small in size. The forms registered in Kiraz sometimes differ
from those registered in Thackston, in particular verb forms with attached object
pronouns. Those in Kiraz are more accurate.
There are now three Syriac-to-English dictionaries. The oldest is Payne Smith
(1903); it is frequently reprinted. It is based on a larger Syriac-to-Latin dictionary
assembled by her father. It is user friendly, meant, as she says, “chiefly for begin-
ners.” Under ‫ܐܓܘܪ‬, for example, it helpfully points out that this can represent the
first-person singular imperfect of the root {ʾ-g-r} or the root {g-w-r} or the root {g-
r-r}. This kind of information can be very helpful for a beginning student. Sokoloff
(2008) is a translation from the Latin and a thorough revision of an earlier Syriac-
to-Latin dictionary. Unlike Payne Smith, it offers illustrative examples of the
vocabulary, based upon the latest editions of Syriac texts. It includes far more
etymological information than does Payne Smith, and that information is also much
more accurate. Because a great deal of the print-space of Sokoloff is devoted to
citations and to etymology, there are actually more definitions in Payne Smith. She
also cites more idiomatic expressions than does Sokoloff. For most run-of-the-mill
Syriac texts, Payne Smith is perfectly serviceable. But for more technical texts, such
as philosophical tractates, or for specialized vocabulary, including words for plants
and minerals, Sokoloff is absolutely necessary. And for anyone interested in
etymological matters, Sokoloff is the only choice. Going beyond these English-to-
Syriac dictionaries means going to the native Syriac dictionaries, usually Syriac-to-
Syriac, and this is a specialized field in itself, and not for the faint-of-heart.
The most recent dictionary is that by Brock and Kiraz (2017). This is expressly
designed as a handy paperback, one that can easily be lugged around. It has the
advantage that it also includes vocabulary from Modern Literary Syriac, which
neither Payne Smith or Sokoloff do.
The most recent edition or printing of these works is listed here:

Brock, Sebastian P. and George A. Kiraz. 2017. Pocket Gorgias Syriac-

English Dictionary. Piscatawy, NJ: Gorgias Press. Gorgias Handbooks.
Coakley, J.F. 2013. Robinson’s Paradigms and Exercises in Syriac Grammar.
Sixth edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. This is usually cited
as “Coakley-Robinson.”
 INTRODUCTION 5

Healey, John F. 2005. Leshono Suryoyo: first studies in Syriac. Piscatawy,

NJ: Gorgias Press.
Kiraz, George Anton. 2010. Verbal Paradigms in Syriac. Piscatawy, NJ:
Gorgias Press. Gorgias Handbooks 16.
Muraoka, Takamitsu. 2013. Classical Syriac for Hebraists. Second edition.
Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Subsidia et Instrumenta Linguarum
Orientis 6.
Nöldeke, Theodor. 2001. Compendious Syriac Grammar. Winona Lake, IN:
Eisenbrauns.
Payne Smith, Jessie. 1999. A Compendious Syriac Dictionary. Eugene, OR:
Wipf and Stock.
Sokoloff, Michael. 2008. A Syriac Lexicon. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns
and Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press.
Thackston, Wheeler M. 1999. Introduction to Syriac. Bethesda, MD: IBEX
Publishers.

In 1992, an institution called “The Syriac Institute” in English and “Beth

Mardutho” in Syriac (‫ܡܪܕܘܬܐ‬ ‫“ ܒܝܬ‬House of Learning”) was founded in New
Jersey. It has as its goal “the establishment of a Syriac studies center affiliated with
leading universities that globalizes Syriac studies through the Internet.” One of its
on-going projects is an on-line searchable thesaurus of Syriac. This is currently at
simtho.bethmardutho.org. As more and more corpora are added to this thesaurus, it
will become of inestimable worth for the study of Syriac syntax and style.
 ̈
‫ܡܓܚܟܢܐ‬ ̈ ‫ܟܬܒܐ‬
‫ܕܬܘܢܝܐ‬

THE BOOK OF ENTERTAINING STORIES

‫ ܐ‬TEXT THE FIRST ‫ܐ‬

The beginning section of the Book is entitled “Useful sayings of the Greek
philosophers.” The first five stories invoke Socrates. This is Story 1 in Budge.

Vocabulary
ܳ
‫ܣܘܩܪ ܺܛܝܤ‬
̣ Sūqrāṭīs ‘Socrates’. This is the most common spelling of the name in
Syriac. Foreign proper names are often spelled in a variety of ways.
ܰ ‫ܶܢ‬
‫ܐܡܪ ܁ ܶܐ ܰܡܪ‬ ʾemar nēmar ‘to say’, from the root {ʾ-m-r}, a first-ʾālap root. The
ܰ ܶ
ܶ ܳ ܶ
passive ‫ ܐܬܐܡܪ‬ʾetemar ‘to be said’ occurs in Text 3. A ‫ ܡܐܡܪܐ‬mēmrā, ‘memra’
in English, is a genre of homily in verse.

‫ܐ ܳܢ ܳܫܐ‬
̄ nāšā ‘human being, person; someone’. ‫ܐ ܳܢ ܳܫܐ‬
̄ was originally pronounced
something like /ʾenāšā/ in Syriac, but the segment /ʾe/ dropped away early on, so
ܳ ̄
that in Classical Syriac the word was pronounced /nāšā/. It is written ‫ܐܢ ܳܫܐ‬, with a
ܳ ̄
linea occultans over the ʾālap to mark the loss of the segment /ʾe/. ‫ ܐܢ ܳܫܐ‬does not
derive from a verbal root. Such nouns are called “non-derived”; they are discussed
at Review Lesson One.

‫ܝܕܐ‬ ܺ ‫ܰܬ‬
ܳ ‫ܠܡ‬ talmīdā ‘follower, disciple’, a loanword from Akkadian talmīdu
ܳ ̇ ܶ ܺ
‘apprentice’. For the more basic ‘pupil’ or ‘student’, ‫ ܳܝܠܘܦܐ‬yālōpā (from ‫ ܝܠܦ‬ʾīlep ‘to
learn’, Text 7) is used.

‫ܝܟ ܳܢܐ‬
ܰ ‫ܰܐ‬ ʾaykannā ‘how, how come, how is it that’, an interrogative. Many inter-
rogatives, demonstratives, and prepositions in Syriac and the other Semitic languages

7
8 A READER IN SYRIAC

ܰ
are composed of smaller particles, including /ʾay/, /k/, and /n/. ‫ ܐܝܟ‬ʾak is ‘like’;
ܳ ‫ ܰܐ‬ʾaykā is ‘where’; ‫ܝܟ ܳܢܐ‬
‫ܝܟܐ‬ ܰ ‫ ܰܐ‬ʾaykannā is ‘how’.

‫ܚܙܐ‬ ܶ ‫ܶܢ‬
ܳ ‫ܚܙܐ ܁‬ ḥzā neḥzē ‘to see’, from {ḥ-z-y}, a last-weak root.
ܳ ‫ ܶܚ‬ḥezwā is
‫ܙܘܐ‬
‘appearance, form’ (Text 22). The passive form
ܺ ‫ ܶܐ‬ʾetḥzī ‘to be seen’ occurs in
‫ܬܚܙܝ‬
ܳ ܳ ‫ܬܚ‬
Text 30; ‫ܙܝܢܐ‬
ܶ
ܰ ‫ ܡ‬metḥazyānā ‘visible’ in Text 15.
ܳ
‫ ܳܐܬܐ‬ʾātā ‘sign, mark; miracle’ (fem). Most likely, this is a non-derived noun. The
ܳ ̈ܳ ܳ
plural ‫ ܐ ܬܐ‬ʾātwātā can mean ‘description’ (Text 22 and Text 27).
‫ܬܘ‬
ܳ ܳ
‫ܥܩܬܐ‬ ʿāqtā ‘sadness, sorrow’, from {ʿ-w-q}, a middle-weak root. The plural is
ܳ ܳܳ
‫ܥ ̈ܩܬܐ‬ ʿāqātā. The verb is not common in the pʿal. It is frequent in the ʾetpʿel:
ܺ
‫ ܶܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬ʾettʿīq ‘to be grieved’; this occurs a few lines below.
ܺ
‫ܢܦ ܶܢܐ ܁ ܰܦܢܝ‬
ܰ ܳ
pannī npannē ‘to reply’, from {p-n-y}, in the paʿʿel. The pʿal ‫ ܦܢܐ‬pnā
ܳ
means ‘to return’. ‫ܦܘܢ ܳܝܐ‬
̣ punnāyā is the noun ‘answer, reply’ (Text 7).
‫ܒܗܝ ܕ‬̇ b-hay d ‘because’, a conjunction. It is made up of ‫ܒ‬, ‫ ̇ܗܝ‬, and ‫ܕ‬.
‫ ܶܡ ܶܕܡ‬meddem ‘something, anything’, an indefinite noun and pronoun. It does not
occur in the emphatic state. ‫ ܠܐ ܡܕܡ‬means ‘nothing at all’; ‫ܡܕܡ‬ ‫ ܡܕܡ‬means ‘all
kinds of things’. ‫ ܡܕܡ‬is a most quintessentially Syriac word; it does not appear in
the other Semitic languages. Its etymology is unsure.

‫ܩܢܐ‬ ܶ ‫ܶܢ‬
ܳ ‫ܩܢܐ ܁‬ qnā neqnē ‘to acquire, possess’, from {q-n-y}. The collective noun
‫ܢܝ ܳܢܐ‬
ܳ ‫ ܶܩ‬qenyānā means ‘possessions’.
ܳ ‫ ܰܐ‬ʾaynā ‘which’, an interrogative.
‫ܝܢܐ‬
ܺ
‫ܬܬܥܝܩ‬ ܺ
‫ܬܬܥܝܩ ܁ ܶܐ‬ ‫ ܶܢ‬ʾettʿīq nettʿīq ‘to be grieved’.
‫ ܰܟܕ‬kad ‘when, while’, a conjunction.
ܰ ‫ ܶܢ‬ʾebad nēbad ‘to perish, get lost, disappear’, from {ʾ-b-d}. ‫ܒܕ ܳܢܐ‬
‫ܐܒܕ ܁ ܶܐ ܰܒܕ‬ ܳ ‫ܐ‬ܰ
ʾabdānā means ‘destruction’. In the Peshiṭta to John 17:12, Jesus refers to Judas as
ܶ
‫ܐܒܕ ܳܢܐ‬
ܳ ‫ܒܪܗ ܰܕ‬ breh d-abdānā, ‘son of destruction’, that is, someone ‘lost’. The adjec-
ܳ ܺ ܰ
tive ‫ ܐܒܝܕܐ‬ʾabbīdā is ‘lost’. ‫ܗܘܢܐ‬
ܳ ܰ ‫ ܰܐ ܺܒܝܕ‬ʾabbīd hawnā, a construct phrase, means
ܶ ܰ
‘lost of mind’, that is, ‘insane’. The ʾapʿel, ‫ ܐܘܒܕ‬ʾawbed, is transitive: ‘to lose some-
thing; to make perish’ (Text 22 and Text 30).
 TEXT THE FIRST 9

‫ܐܢܐ‬̄ ‫ ܕܐܝܟܢܐ ܠܐ ̇ܚܙܐ‬.‫ܬܠܡܝܕܘܗܝ‬

̄ ‫ܐܢܫ ܡܢ‬ ̄ ‫ܣܘܩܪܛܝܤ ̣ܐܡܪ ܠܗ‬
̄ ‫ܒܗܝ ܕܠܐ ܡܕܡ ܩܢܐ‬ ̇
‫ ̇ܗܘ ܐܝܢܐ‬.‫ܐܢܐ‬ ̇ .‫ܘܗܘ ܦܢܝ‬
̣ .‫ܒܟ ܐܬܐ ܕܥܩܬܐ‬
‫ܕܐܬܬܥܝܩ ܠܗ ܟܕ ܢܐܒܕ‬
Analysis

1 Syriac manuscripts regularly mark the beginning of a new section of a text by

using red ink for the first word or words. This practice makes it easy for a reader to
scan through a manuscript to search for some section or other. Modern-day editors
of Syriac texts do not use color, because it is too expensive to print. Instead, editors
often use overlining; this is what Budge did. Here, a bold font is used.
The Stories open in a number of different ways. Here the first word ‫ܣܘܩܪܛܝܤ‬
is a heading that does not have a direct syntactic connection with the following sen-
tence. A literal translation might be: “Socrates. One of his followers said to him…”
This is a common way to open the stories.
‫ܐ ܳܢܫ‬
̄ nāš ‫ܐ ܳܢ ܳܫܐ‬
is a noun in the absolute state. In the emphatic,
̄ nāšā means
ܳ ̄ ܳ ̄
“human being,” but ‫ ܐܢܫ‬means “one; an individual.” ‫ ܠܐ ܐܢܫ‬is “no one” and ‫ܟܠ‬
ܳ‫ܐܢܫ‬
̄ is “everyone.” ‫ ܡܢ‬often has the meaning “belonging to the class of.” The sense
then is “one of his followers.” The Stories have several ways to say “one of.” In Text
2, ‫ ܚܕ ܡܢ‬is used.
̄ ‫ܝܕ‬
‫ܘܗܝ‬ ܺ ‫ ܰܬ‬is /talmīdaw/, “his followers.” The writing -waw-hē-yod for the third-
ܰ ‫ܠܡ‬
person masculine singular possessive pronoun on a plural noun represents an archaic
pronunciation. In Imperial Aramaic this would have been pronounced /talmīdōhi/.
By the time of Classical Syriac, the ending was pronounced /aw/, while the spelling
reflects the earlier pronunciation. A linea is written over the hē to mark both it and
̄ ܰ ܺ ܰ
the following yod as unpronounced: ‫ܬܠܡܝܕܘܗܝ‬.
The overall syntax is (1) verb (‫ܐܡܪ‬̣ ); (2) prepositional phrase (‫( ;)ܠܗ‬3) subject
ܳ ̄
(...‫)ܐܢܫ‬. This is classic Syriac syntax. The short prepositional phrase comes
immediately after its governing verb, putting the subject at the end of the sentence.
. is a “phrasal” dot. These are not the same as our periods, which mark the end
of a sentence. Phrasal dots are used, in rather a willy-nilly fashion, to mark the major
syntactic components of a sentence or passage. Here the dot helps to demarcate the
following direct speech.
The particle ‫ ܕ‬has many functions. Here it is used to mark the beginning of direct
speech. Like English quotation marks, this use of ‫ܕ‬ only occurs in the written
language; it would not have been used in speech. Unfortunately, Syriac has no word
that marks the end of direct speech. This can sometimes lead to confusion.
The following word is the interrogative ‫ܝܟ ܳܢܐ‬
ܰ ‫ ܰܐ‬ʾaykannā, here meaning “How
come?” The word-initial glottal stop of /ʾaykannā/ drops and its vowel /a/ moves to
10 A READER IN SYRIAC

the /d/, producing a pronunciation /daykannā/. The vowel mark for /a/ is written
ܳܰ
above the dālat: ‫ܕܐܝܟܢܐ‬.
ܰ
ܳܶ ̇
‫ ܚܙܐ‬ḥāzē is an active participle from a last-weak root. Last-weak roots are the
most common of all weak roots, so they merit extra study.
The superlinear dot above the ‫ ܚ‬is the “active participle” dot. This is a type of
“disambiguation dot,” of which Syriac has many. It serves to distinguish the active
participle from the perfect: the consonantal shape of both is ‫ܚܙܐ‬. The perfect,
however, usually bears a sublinear dot: ‫ ̣ܚܙܐ‬. The active participle dot is, then,
somewhat redundant, but it can be helpful to a reader. It is more often written than
not. It typically occurs over the first root consonant.
̄ ‫̇ ܳܚ ܶܙܐ‬
‫ܐ ܳܢܐ‬ ḥāzē-nā illustrates the most common way to indicate present tense in
Syriac: the active participle in the absolute state followed by the enclitic form of a
pronoun. The enclitic form of /ʾenā/ is /nā/, written
̄ , with
‫ܐܢܐ‬ a linea over the
ʾālap. This is all made negative by ‫ܠܐ‬. The construction active participle + enclitic
copula can have either a right-now sense (“I see you now”) or a general sense (“I see
you all the time”). To capture the general sense here, English might throw in a
“never”: “How come I neverܳ see in you.”
ܳ ܳ ̇
2 The ‫ܕ‬ in ‫ܕܥܩܬܐ‬ ‫ܳܐܬܐ‬ ʾātā d-ʿāqtā is used to express a genitive, “sign of
sorrow.” This is the most common formulation of a genitive. The construct state is
used for nouns that are closely bound, such as “hand of the man” or “door of the
house.” Even in most such cases, however, the construct state can be replaced by ‫ܕ‬.
As is the case with English “of,” ‫ ܕ‬can express many different kinds of logical relation-
ship: “book of the man,” “idea of freedom,” “sign of sorrow,” and so on.
The dot on top of the ‫̇ܬ‬ is another disambiguation dot. Here it is used to
ܳ ܳ ܳ ܶ
distinguish the noun ‫“ ܐܬܐ‬sign” from the verb ‫“ ܐܬܐ‬to arrive,” even though the
two words are hardly likely to be confused in texts: one is a noun and the other a
verb. Other pairs of words use this dot for the same purpose. The word for “king”
̇
malkā can be written with a dot above: ‫ܡܠܟܐ‬, and the word “advice” melkā with a
dot below: ‫ ̣ܡܠܟܐ‬. In general, this use of the disambiguation dot seems quite
random. Here, for example, it is present in the Leeds manuscript but not in the British
Library manuscript or the Vatican manuscript. The placement of this disambiguation
dot within a word can vary widely. Here it is written over the middle letter of the
̇
word, ‫̇ܬ‬.
The independent pronoun “he” /hū/ is written ‫ ̣ܗܘ‬with a dot below. The demon-
̇
strative pronoun and adjective “that” /haw/ is written ‫ ܗܘ‬with a dot above. Because
“he” and “that” can easily be confused in texts, this particular disambiguation dot is
used quite regularly.
 TEXT THE FIRST 11

̄ ‫ ̇ܚܙܐ‬. In
‫ ܐܬܐ ܕܥܩܬܐ‬is the unmarked direct object of the participle ‫ܐܢܐ‬
general, indefinite direct objects in Syriac are not marked in any way. Definite direct
objects tend to use the marker ‫ ܠ‬when the object precedes the verb; otherwise it
would be easy to mix up the subject and object functions. When the definite object
follows the verb, the use of ‫ ܠ‬is optional.
This is followed by a phrasal dot, helping to mark the end of the direct speech.
The initial ‫ ܘ‬in ‫ܘܗܘ‬̣ strikes most native speakers of English as unnecessary. But
Syriac prefers to link sentences with a conjunction of some kind. ‫ ܘ‬is the most neutral
conjunction, used essentially by default. The following ‫ ̣ܗܘ‬explicitly marks a change
of subject, back to Socrates.
ܺ
‫ܰܦܢܝ‬ is a verb in the paʿʿel. In the perfect of last-weak verbs, the third-person
masculine singular in the pʿal ends in /ā/: /pnā/, written with ʾālap: ‫ܦܢܐ‬. In the
paʿʿel, they end in /ī/, written with yod: ‫ ܦܢܝ‬/pannī/. This makes the pʿal and the
paʿʿel of last-weak verbs unambiguous in the perfect.
The perfect pʿal is usually marked by a sublinear disambiguation dot. This dot is
not normally used with the paʿʿel (or any conjugation other than the pʿal) because
paʿʿel active participles begin with /m/, and so can’t be confused with the perfect.
And because of the difference in meaning, a paʿʿel perfect cannot usually be confused
with a pʿal perfect (assuming that the reader knows his or her Syriac vocabulary
well). Occasionally, however, a writer or editor will add the sublinear dot to a paʿʿel
form.
The phrase ‫ܘܗܘ ܦܢܝ‬
̣ occurs throughout the Stories, sometimes followed by a
phrasal dot, other times not.
Direct speech is most often introduced in Syriac by ‫ܕ‬. However, ‫ ܕ‬can also be
omitted, as here. The use of the verb ‫ ܦܢܝ‬signals up-coming direct speech.
̇ is a common conjunction that means “because.” ‫ ܕ‬by itself can also have
‫ܒܗܝ ܕ‬
this meaning. Syriac writers, however, tend to prefer longer constructions over shorter
ones.
Syriac-to-English dictionaries do not have the print-space to register all the pos-
sible translations for such complex conjunctions and other linking words and
phrases. It helps to build up a list of these on one’s own. I keep my own list on the
back inside cover of Payne Smith.
3 The particle ‫ ܠܐ‬can be used to negate verbs, nouns, and adjectives. ‫ ܡܕܡ‬is a
very common word for “something,” and so ‫ ܠܐ ܡܕܡ‬means “nothing.” From the
ܳ ܳ ܰ
root {š-m-ʿ} “to hear” comes the nice long noun ‫ܢܘܬܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܶܡܫܬܡܥ‬meštamʿānūtā “obe-
dience.” ‫ ܠܐ ܡܫܬܡܥܢܘܬܐ‬is “disobedience.”
‫ܩܢܐ‬ܶ qnē is the passive participle from ‫ܩܢܐ‬ܳ qnā “to acquire.” Syriac has a few
̄ ܶ
passive participles that have acquired an active sense. ‫ ܩܢܐ ܐܢܐ‬means “I possess.”
12 A READER IN SYRIAC

ܺ
In some cases it is easy to see how this development happened. ‫ ܪܟܝܒ‬rkīb first meant
“mounted” on an animal, then “riding” an animal. ‫ ܰܐ ܺܚܝܕ‬ʾaḥīd “holding” occurs in
Text 9. This originated from a reciprocal sense: “being held” > “holding.” Something
ܶ
similar probably happened with ‫ܩܢܐ‬. In Text 29, a man is described as “possessing”
(‫ܗܘܐ‬
ܶ ) stomach cramps.
ܳ ̄ ‫ܩܢܐ‬
A passive participle can be followed by the enclitic copula, exactly like the active
̄ ܶ ̄ ܶ ܳ
participle: ‫ ܩܢܐ ܐܢܐ‬qnē-nā is parallel to ‫ ̇ܚܙܐ ܐܢܐ‬ḥāzē-nā.
‫“ ܠܐ ܡܕܡ‬nothing” functions as the direct object of the participle, preceding it.
This is good syntax; it puts a little extra focus on ‫ܠܐ ܡܕܡ‬. The meaning is “I possess
nothing.” English, however, prefers to put the negative with the verb: “I don’t possess
anything.”
. is another phrasal dot. Here it helps us to see the two main parts of a rather
long sentence.
ܳ ‫ ܰܐ‬ʾaynā is an interrogative meaning “which.” Most interrogatives in Syriac
‫ܝܢܐ‬
̇
can be followed by ‫ܕ‬, turning them into relative adverbs. ‫ ܗܘ ܐܝܢܐ ܕ‬haw ʾaynā d
loosely means “for the sake of which.”
ܺ
‫ܬܬܥܝܩ‬ ‫ ܶܐ‬ʾettʿīq is from the root {ʿ-w-q}, the same root seen in the noun
‫ܥܩܬܐ‬. The verb is in the ʾetpʿel stem. Because this is a middle-weak root, it behaves
differently than a strong root. The ‫ ܐ‬marks the first-person imperfect. This is
followed by ‫ ܬ‬written twice. This is the mark of the ʾetpʿel of a middle-weak verb.
The sequence ‫ ܬܬ‬is pronounced as a long stop: /tt/.
Rather distressingly, the first-person imperfect looks exactly like the third-person
perfect:
ܺ
‫ܬܬܥܝܩ‬ ‫ ܶܐ‬. This is generally the case with verbs with an infixed /t/. Thus
ܶ ܶ
‫ ܐܬܩܛܠ‬ʾetqṭel can represent both “he got killed” and “I will be killed.” In theory,
it can also represent the imperative “get killed!” but fortunately passive imperatives
hardly ever occur.
Some Syriac grammars state that the ʾetpʿel of middle-weak verbs does not exist:
it has been replaced by the ʾettapʿal. Thus the glossary in Thackston labels ‫ܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬
as ʾettapʿal. It is easier, however, to understand the two forms (ʾetpʿel and ʾettapʿal) as
originally different. But, by historic Syriac, due to sundry phonetic contractions and
assimilations, in middle-weak verbs they had fallen together in shape and meaning.
Payne Smith and Sokoloff label ‫ ܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬as ʾetpʿel. Another example of such a
ܺ ܶ
middle-weak verb is ‫ ܐܬܬܢܝܚ‬ʾettnīḥ “to rest,” from the root {n-w-ḥ}.
ܺ
The sequence ‫ ܕܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬is pronounced /dettʿīq/, vocalized ‫ܕܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬. This
ܶ
ܳ ܰ
is similar to the writing ‫ܕܐܝܟܢܐ‬.
ܰ
‫ ܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬is the main clause verb, preceding a temporal clause in ‫ܟܕ‬. It is more
common to put a clause with ‫ ܟܕ‬in front of its main clause. Here the ‫ܟܕ‬-clause is at
the end for rhetorical effect.
 TEXT THE FIRST 13

ܶ
‫ ܠܗ‬leh is “for which,” referring back to ‫ܡܕܡ‬.
ܰ
In narrative prose ‫ ܟܕ‬most commonly means “when,” introducing a past-tense
verb in a temporal clause. It can also be followed by an imperfect, as here. In such
cases, it ranges from “when” to “if.” The use of ‫“ ܟܕ‬when” instead of explicitly ‫ܐܢ‬
ܶ
“if” suggests that everything will, in fact, get lost.
In the imperfect of verbs whose first root consonant is a glottal stop (such as
‫ )ܐܒܕ‬the glottal stop drops and the short /e/ lengthens to /ē/. If the second root
consonant is a bgdkpt consonant, this consonant is spirantized. Thus /neʾbad/ >
ܶ
ܰ ‫ܢ‬. The ‫ ܐ‬is now a vowel letter that marks /ē/. Such writings
/nēbad/, written ‫ܐܒܕ‬
have the advantage that the root structure is preserved: all three root consonants
show on the surface. If Syriac were written more phonetically, without the now silent
‫ܐ‬, this root structure would no longer be evident.
The story

This is a typical “entertaining story,” with a somewhat clever remark attributed

to Socrates. Whether or not Socrates actually said such a thing, it is impossible to
say. As said above, the first five stories in this collection invoke Socrates. Bar ʿEbrāyā
presumably put these particular stories at the beginning of his collection because of
the prestige that the Greek philosophers had in Syrian culture. Socrates’ words in the
story, however, do not seem particularly Socratic in their wisdom. The moral of the
story is a commonplace. One thinks of “I’ve got plenty of nuttin’” from the American
opera Porgy and Bess or “Who steals my purse steals trash” from Othello. One
wonders where the story comes from. Bar ʿEbrāyā is never specific about his sources.

The language

The morphology and syntax of the story are straightforward. The story begins
with the name “Socrates,” syntactically unconnected to what follows, serving as a
heading. The verb forms illustrate the typical Syriac use of tenses. The perfect is used
to narrate an action in the past (‫ܐܡܪ‬
̣ ). The participle followed by an enclitic
pronoun is used for ongoing present action (‫ܐܢܐ‬
̄ ‫) ̇ܚܙܐ‬. The imperfect is used for
future action (‫)ܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬. Lastly, the particle ‫ ܕ‬is used in several different ways: to
introduce direct speech (‫ ;)ܕܐܝܟܢܐ‬to mark a genitive (‫ܕܥܩܬܐ‬ ‫ ;)ܐܬܐ‬and as a
̇
component of a complex conjunction (‫)ܒܗܝ ܕ‬.
This text also illustrates the varied uses of the disambiguation dot. It can be used
to differentiate an active participle from a perfect: ‫̇ܚܙܐ‬ ~
‫ ̣ܚܙܐ‬. That is, it
̇
differentiates two different verbal forms from one root. In the case of ‫ ܡܠܟܐ‬malkā
~ ‫ܡܠܟܐ‬ ̣ melkā, it differentiates two nouns from the same root. But in the case of
̇
‫“ ܐܬܐ‬sign” ~ ‫“ ̣ܐܬܐ‬to come,” it differentiates two unrelated words that just
happen to be written the same. So why bother? In other texts, however, and
14 A READER IN SYRIAC

especially in poetry, which can have much variation in syntax, this particular use of
the dot can be helpful. In general, the presence or absence of disambiguation dots,
and many other diacritical marks in Syriac, depends on the whim of the gods or on
the whim of a modern-day editor. A useful principle is that a reader should never
expect to find any particular dot, but to be grateful when one appears. Similarly, it is
sometimes easy to understand why a phrasal dot is present, but it would be difficult
to predict whether one would be used or not. Different manuscripts of one text can
differ wildly in their use of this dot.
In earlier Aramaic, a nominal phrase such as “sign of sorrow” would have been
expressed as a construct phrase. But one of the characteristic features of Syriac is
that the construct state has become much reduced in scope, becoming replaced by a
phrase in ‫ܕ‬. In origin, this ‫ ܕ‬was a demonstrative: “sign of sorrow” was literally “sign,
that of sorrow.”
The trickiest bit of morphology here is the imperfect ʾetpʿel/ʾettapʿal form
‫ܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬. In the singular, the forms are:
1 common ‫ܐܬܬܥܝܩ‬ /ʾettʿīq/
2 masc ‫ܬܬܥܝܩ‬ /tettʿīq/
2 fem ‫ܬܬܥܝܩܝܢ‬ /tettʿīqīn/
3 masc ‫ܢܬܬܥܝܩ‬ /nettʿīq/
3 fem ‫ܬܬܥܝܩ‬ /tettʿīq/

In theory, the 2m, 2f, and 3f forms should begin with a sequence of three ‫ܬ‬s: the
first ‫ ܬ‬marking the person, and the next two built into the conjugation. This would
produce, for example, ‫ܬܬܬܥܝܩ‬. This sequence, although quite amusing, seems
never to be written.
The other somewhat unexpected bit of morphology is the passive participle ‫ܩܢܐ‬
ܶ
qnē with an active sense. This use of
ܶ is not uncommon. The nominal phrase
‫ܩܢܐ‬
ܳ
‫ܐܪܥܐ‬ ‫ܫܡ ܳܝܐ ܰܘ‬
ܰ ‫ܩܢܐ‬ܶ qnē šmayyā warʿā describes God as “Possessing Heaven and
ܶ ܳ̇
Earth.” The active participle ‫ ܩܢܐ‬qānē means “being in the process of acquiring.”

Manuscripts

As stated above, the Leeds manuscript (hereafter, LeedsMS) of the Stories is

written in the West Syriac ductus and the British Library manuscript (BLMS) in the
East Syriac ductus. The Vatican manuscript (VatMS), not used by Budge, is also in
the West Syriac ductus. Budge transcribed his text into Estrangela. I also chose to use
Estrangela for the Reader. There are several reasons for preferring Estrangela over
West Syriac or East Syriac. Historically, Estrangela is the oldest. Graphically, the
letters are (subjectively) easier to read. Doctrinally, Estrangela existed before the
 TEXT THE FIRST 15

schism between the Western and Eastern churches. Choosing West Syriac or East
Syriac can be interpreted as a theological preference. Choosing Estrangela nicely
avoids this issue. Many editions of Syriac texts have been and continue to be printed
in Estrangela.
The LeedsMS is the base manuscript used by Budge. The Frontispiece is a
reproduction of the page of the LeedsMS that contains this first story. Even though
the LeedsMS is in the West Syriac ductus, it uses a certain number of East Syriac
vowel marks, alongside scattered West Syriac vowel marks. It is not uncommon to
find this combination in manuscripts.
An editor of a Syriac text, particularly one that exists in multiple manuscripts,
has to make several editorial decisions. What if one manuscript uses a dot or a linea,
but the others don’t? Mentioning such variation in a textual apparatus is hardly
worth the effort or the print space. Some editors routinely add all the expected marks.
This is basically what I have done here. Other editors routinely omit them. Other
editors follow their base manuscript. Some editors do not explicitly state their
editorial principles. A similar question arises with vowel marks. Should an editor
bother indicating any of them? Budge used the West Syriac LeedsMS as his base. This
has a scattering of vowel and other marks, some of which were done by a later hand
than the hand that penned the manuscript. The East Syriac BLMS has far more vowel
marking. Budge decided to basically reproduce the West Syriac LeedsMS notation of
vowels, even though the East Syriac BLMS is far more complete in its notation of
vowels. Here, I have omitted all these vowel marks.

Manuscript variation

In this story the LeedsMS and the VatMS use the conjunction ‫ܕ‬ ‫ܒܗܝ‬. The BLMS
uses just ‫ܕ‬. Both formulations are good Syriac. Such variation shows us that different
constructions have the same meaning. The question of whether to use one or the
other is a matter of individual style in Syriac, not of grammar.

Cognates

The two Semitic languages that a student of Syriac are most likely to have studied
are Hebrew and Arabic. Both Syriac and Hebrew are North-West Semitic languages,
and so they share much vocabulary that they inherited from an earlier stage of
Semitic. However, there are also some striking lexical differences between the two
languages, where the two use different words for the same concept. Arabic is a little
further removed from Syriac, but also has much vocabulary in common with it.
Sometimes one root or word has the exact same meaning in all three languages. In
other cases, each language goes its own way.
16 A READER IN SYRIAC

‫ ܶܐ ܰܡܪ‬in Syriac and ‫ ָא ַמר‬ʾāmar in Hebrew both mean “to say.” In Arabic,
َ�َ � �‫أ‬
ʾamara means “to give an order.”
ܳ in Syriac is the unmarked, normal verb for “to see.” In Biblical Hebrew, ‫ָחזָ ה‬
‫ܚܙܐ‬
ḥāzā is only used in poetic and other specialized contexts. The unmarked verb for
“to see” is ‫ ָר ָאה‬rāʾā, which does not occur at all in Syriac. Arabic also uses ‫ ر َأ� ى‬raʾā.
‫ ܳܐܬܐ‬in Syriac corresponds to ‫ אוֹת‬ʾōt in Hebrew and ‫ آيَة‬ʾāya in Arabic. The latter
ܳ
makes its way into English in the noun ayatollah, a Shii religious title meaning “sign
of God.” The “ultimate” etymology of ‫ ܐܬܐ‬and its cognates is unsure.
ܺ ܳ
‫ ܰܦܢܝ‬is the usual Syriac verb for “to reply.” Hebrew uses ‫ ָﬠנָ ה‬ʿānā instead. ‫ܥܢܐ‬
ܺܰ
in Syriac also can mean “to reply,” but it is less common than ‫ܦܢܝ‬.
ܳ
Syriac ‫ ܩܢܐ‬corresponds to Hebrew ‫ ָקנָ ה‬qānā. In Hebrew, the verb also has the
meaning “to create,” used only of God; God is called the “Creator” (‫ קוֹנֶ ה‬qōnē). In
Arabic, ‫ قَنَا‬qanā is “to acquire.”
ܰ ܶ
Syriac ‫ ܐܒܕ‬corresponds to Hebrew ‫ ָא ַבד‬ʾābad. The verb spans the same meanings
as Syriac, ranging from “getting lost” to “perishing.” In Arabic, َ �َ� �‫ أ‬ʾabada is “to roam
in a state of wildness.” For whatever reason, the noun �َ � �‫ أ‬ʾabad is “eternity.” In the
adverbial accusative, ‫ أ� �َ� ًا‬ʾabadan is “never.”

Loanwords

Syriac absorbed words from many languages. In the following Stories, words from
Akkadian, Arabic, Greek, Hebrew, Iranian/Persian, and Sumerian will occur. In other
Syriac texts, loanwords from such diverse languages as Armenian and Turkish are
found. These words entered into Syriac at different times. Many words passed from
Akkadian into Imperial Aramaic several centuries before Christ, and from there into
the Aramaic dialect that emerged as Syriac. Others, particularly the Arabic and
Iranian/Persian words, entered Syriac directly. These are all called “loanwords,”
even if the Sumerian and Akkadian words had become a part of Syriac centuries
before Syriac emerged as a language in its own right.
A root {l-m-d} meaning “to study” does not exist in Syriac. This tells us that
ܺ ‫“ ܰܬ‬follower, disciple” is a loanword from Akkadian, via Imperial Aramaic.
ܳ ‫ܠܡ‬
‫ܝܕܐ‬
ܳ ܺ ܰ
Words such as ‫ ܬܠܡܝܕܐ‬became such a part-and-parcel of Syriac that they generated
ܶ ܰ
verbal forms. ‫ ܬܠܡܕ‬talmed is “to instruct; to make a disciple” and ‫ܐܬܬܠܡܕ‬
ܰ ܰ ܶ
ʾettalmad is “to become a disciple.” These verbal formations are treated in Review
Lesson Two.
ܺ ‫ ܰܬ‬also passed from Aramaic into Biblical Hebrew, where it is attested
ܳ ‫ܠܡ‬
‫ܝܕܐ‬
exactly once: ‫למיד‬
ִ ‫ ַתּ‬talmīd. However, it is widely used in Modern Hebrew. In Arabic,
‫ تِ��ِيذ‬tilmīd, also a loan from Aramaic, today means “apprentice” or “pupil.”
 ‫ ܒ‬TEXT THE SECOND ‫ܒ‬
Story 95, from a section of the Book entitled “Useful sayings of the Persian sages.”
This story invokes the Sassanian shah Khusraw II, who ruled from 590 until 628 in
the ancient city of Ctesiphon. Khusraw is also the protagonist of Text 24.

Vocabulary
ܳ
‫ܟܘܣܪܘ‬
̣ Kusrāw ‘Khusraw’, a Persian name. The name is spelled in English in a
bewildering number of ways.

‫ܢܫ ܶܐܠ ܁ ܰܫ ܶܐܠ‬

ܰ ܶ
šaʾʾel nšaʾʾel ‘to ask questions, enquire’. In the pʿal, ‫ ܫܐܠ‬šel is usually
ܳ ܳ ܳܳ ܰ
‘to ask for something’. ‫ܫܘܐܠܐ‬̣ šuʾʾālā is ‘question’ (Text 7). ‫ ܡܫܐܠܢܐ‬mšaʾʾlānā is
‘interrogator’.
ܳ ‫ܰܚ ܺܟ‬
‫ܝܡܐ‬ ḥakkīmā ‘wise’, from {ḥ-k-m}. This is an adjective of the paʿʿīl pattern,
the most common pattern used for adjectives. As with most adjectives, ‫ ܚܟܝܡܐ‬can
be used as a noun, ‘wise person’. In courtly contexts such as Text 2, the sense is
ܳ ܰ
‘advisor’ or ‘councilor’. ‫ ܶܚܟܡܬܐ‬ḥekmtā is ‘wisdom’. In the pʿal, the verb ‫ ܚܟܡ‬ḥkam
means ‘to know; to become wise’. It can also mean ‘to have sex’. At Matthew 1:25, it
̇ ܳ
says that Joseph ‫ ܠܐ ܰܚܟܡܗ‬lā ḥakmāh, “did not have sex with her”.
ܳ ܰ̈
‫ ܒܪܐ‬brā ‘son’. The plural is ‫ܒܢ ܳܝܐ‬ bnayyā, in /ā/. Such plurals are discussed at
Review Lesson One. Oddly, the singular has the consonant /r/ but the plural has the
consonant /n/. To judge from comparative data, the /n/ is more original. The
ܳ ܳ ̈ܳ
feminine ‘daughter’ is ‫ܰܒܪܬܐ‬ bartā. Its plural is ‫ܒܢܬܐ‬ bnātā, with the same
distribution of /r/ in the singular and /n/ in the plural.
ܰ̈
ܳ ‫ܒܢ‬ ܳ
‫ܝܢ ܳܫܐ‬ bnaynāšā ‘people’.
ܰ
‫ܒܢܝ‬ bnay is the construct plural of ‫ܒܪܐ‬ brā ‘son’.
̈ is grammatically a plural. Its syāmē dots can appear almost anywhere.
‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬
ܳ ‫ܰܣ ܺܓ‬
‫ܝܐܐ‬ saggīʾā ‘many, numerous’, an adjective of the paʿʿīl pattern from the root
{s-g-ʾ}. The original glottal stop disappears in many forms, even in intervocalic
position. In most native reading traditions of Syriac, the adjective is pronounced
/saggīyā/. The glottal stop is usually retained in the American Academic Pronuncia-
tion of Syriac, and so is kept here in transcription. The verb ‘to become numerous’

17
18 A READER IN SYRIAC

appears in the perfect as both ‫ܣܓܐ‬ ܺ . ‫ ܰܣ ܺܓܝܐܘ ܳܬܐ‬saggīʾūtā ‘multitude’

ܳ and ‫ܣܓܝ‬ ̣
occurs in Text 17.

‫ ܰܐܘ‬ʾaw ‘or’, a very common particle.

‫ܐܕܐ‬ܳ ‫ܶܫ‬ šēdā ‘demon’, a loanword from Akkadian šēdu. It is used in this text in
rather a non-specific sense. The ʾālap in ‫ ܫܐܕܐ‬is a vowel letter, marking the /ē/.
This use of ʾālap arose from such spellings as ‫ ܢܐܒܕ‬nēbad, discussed at Text 1.

‫ ܶܐܢ‬ʾen ‘if’, a common conjunction.

ܳ ‫ ܟܘ‬kurdāyā ‘Kurd, Kurdish’. It is occasionally spelled ‫ܩܘܪܕܝܐ‬.
‫ܪܕ ܳܝܐ‬ ̣
‫ܫܘ ܳܩܐ‬ ̣ šūqā ‘market place’, a non-derived noun.
‫ܫܘ ܳܩ ܳܝܐ‬
̣ šūqāyā This adjective derives from ‫ܫܘܩܐ‬, but it takes on a pejorative
sense. Payne Smith glosses it as ‘huckster, petty trader’. Sokoloff prefers ‘unbridled
person’. Budge translates the plural here as ‘common folk of the bazaars’. It is
translated here as ‘market riffraff’.

‫ܚܫܒ‬ܰ ‫ܚܫܘܒ ܁‬̇ ‫ ܶܢ‬ḥšab neḥšob ‘to count, reckon, consider’, from {ḥ-š-b}. In Modern
ܳ ̇
Literary Syriac, ‫ ܳܚܫܘܒܬܐ‬ḥāšōbtā is ‘calculator’ and ‘computer’. The passive verb is
ܶ ‫ ܶܐ‬ʾetḥšeb ‘to be reckoned’ (Text 6). ‫ܬܚ ܰܫܒ‬
‫ܬܚܫܒ‬ ܰ ‫ ܶܐ‬ʾetḥaššab is ‘to think, plan, plot’
(Text 16).

‫ܕܒܢܝܢܫܐ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ ܐܢܘܢ ܐܘ‬̈ ̄

‫ܡܘܗܝ܂‬ ̈
‫ܚܟܝ‬ ‫ܟܘܣܪܘ ܫܐܠ ܠܚܕ ܡܢ‬
̄ ̈ ̈ ̣ ‫̈ܫܐܕܐ܂‬
‫ܘܗܘ ܦܢܝ܂ ܕܐܢ ܠܟܘ̈ܪܕܝܐ ܘܠܫܘܩܝܐ ܒܒܢܝܢܫܐ ̇ܚܫܒ ܐܢܬ܂‬
̈
‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ‬
Analysis

1 The first word ‫ ܟܘܣܪܘ‬is the subject of the following verb ‫ܫܐܠ‬
ܶ
ܰ . In some stories,
such as Text 1, the first word in the story is not connected syntactically to what
follows. In other stories, such as this one, it functions as a subject.
ܶ
ܰ takes a direct object as its complement, here with ‫ܠ‬, even though
The verb ‫ܫܐܠ‬
‫ ܚܕ‬is indefinite.
Text 1 used ‫ܡܢ‬
̄ ; Text 2 uses ‫ܚܕ ܡܢ‬. Both uses are quite common.
‫ܐܢܫ‬
After a phrasal dot, ‫ ܕ‬introduces direct speech. This takes the form of a nominal
̈
sentence: ‫ ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬is the subject and ‫ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ‬the predicate.
‫ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ‬is a masculine plural adjective in the absolute state. The most common
use of the absolute state is to mark the predicate, as here. When used as predicate,
 TEXT THE SECOND 19

such masculine adjectives do not use the syāmē dots. ‫ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ‬is directly followed
̇ ܶ
by the third-person enclitic pronoun ‫ ܐܢܘܢ‬ʾennōn, functioning as usual as a copula.
As will be seen throughout this Reader, Syriac offers much variety in syntax. In
a declarative sentence, it is more common to put the adjectival predicate first. Thus,
̈ ‫ܣܓܝܐܝܢ ܐܢܘܢ‬. In a question, however, the noun often comes first.
‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬
Syriac does not have any special marker for the comparative or the superlative.
Here it is the context that tells us that ‫ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ‬means “more numerous” and not
simply “numerous.”
̈ .
‫ ܰܐܘ‬links ‫ ̈ܫܐܕܐ‬to ‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬
2 The answer to Khusraw’s question takes the form of a conditional sentence. Con-
ditional sentences come in many varieties in Syriac. Here the protasis is marked by
‫“ ܐܢ‬if.” The apodosis, consisting of a nominal sentence, is unmarked, that is, not
̄ ܳ
introduced by any particle. The verb in the protasis is ‫ ̇ܚ ܶܫܒ ܰܐܢܬ‬ḥāšeb-ʾatt. This is
another example of an active participle, complete with superlinear dot, followed by
̄ ܰ
an enclitic pronoun, here that of the second-person masculine: ‫ܐܢܬ‬.
The ‫ ܠ‬in front of both ‫ܟܘ̈ܪܕܝܐ‬
̈
̣ marks them as direct objects of ‫̇ܚܫܒ‬
̣ and ‫ܫܘܩܝܐ‬ ܶ ܳ
̄ ̈
‫ ܰܐܢܬ‬. The preposition ‫ܒ‬ before ‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬ means “in the category of”: “Do you
consider X and Y to be in the category of Z?”
The protasis starts with the particle ‫ܐܢ‬, the two direct objects come next, then
the prepositional complement, then the participle. This word order puts some focus
on the Kurds and the market riffraff.
3 The (unmarked) apodosis is the equational sentence
̈ .
‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ ܣܓܝܐܝܢ‬ This
replicates the question that Khusraw asked, but without using the enclitic copula.
This is for rhetorical flourish, ending the text in the predicate adjective. A writer in
Syriac can vary the syntax in many ways. Observing such variation is one of the
pleasures we get in reading Syriac.

The story

This story seems like a gratuitous insult to the Kurds. Khusraw was at home in
the royal court, in an urban setting. Kurds were by-and-large tribal and nomadic.
Throughout much of pre-modern Middle Eastern history, it was not uncommon for
city dwellers to consider nomads to be uncouth barbarians, whereas nomads
considered urban folk to be effete and cowardly. Bar ʿEbrāyā was the product of an
urban setting. He undoubtedly found this story amusing, which is why he included
it in his collection. It is too bad that we do not know the source of such an
entertaining (?) story.
ܳ
‫ܫܘ ̈ܩ ܶܝܐ‬
Similary, the ̣ are ܳ portrayed in a negative light. In Story 236, a Muslim
ܳ ܺ ܰ ܶ ̈ ̣ as ‫ܝܛܝܢ‬
sage (‫ )ܚܟܝܡܐ‬labels the ‫ܫܘܩܝܐ‬
ܺ ‫ ܺܫ‬šīṭīn, “contemptible.”
20 A READER IN SYRIAC

The language

In Text 1, the first word, a proper name, is syntactically unconnected to what

follows. Here however the first word, also a proper name, serves as the subject of a
following verb.
ܳ
The construct singular of ‫ ܒܪܐ‬brā “son” is ‫ ܰܒܪ‬bar. This is used in the formation
ܳ ܳ ܰ
of many compounds. ‫ܠܘܬܐ‬ ̣ ‫ ܒܪ ܓ‬bar gālūtā “son of exile” means “an exiled person.”
ܳܳ ܰ
As was mentioned at Text 1, ‫ ܰܒܪ ܐܒܕܢܐ‬bar ʾabdānā “son of destruction” means
ܶ ܳ ܰ
someone who is “lost” or “hopeless.” In Text 14, ‫ܫܥܬܗ‬ ‫ ܒܪ‬bar šāʿteh, “son of its
hour,” is an adverb meaning “immediately.”
From
̈ Syriac has created the handsome verbs ‫ܪܢܫ‬
‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬ ܰ ‫“ ܰܒ‬to incarnate” and
ܰ ‫ܬܒ‬
‫ܪܢܫ‬ ܰ ‫“ ܶܐ‬to become incarnate”: ‫ܪܢܫ‬ ܰ ‫ܬܒ ܰܣܪ ܰܘܐܠ ܳ ܳܗܐ ܶܐ‬
ܰ ‫ܬܒ‬ ܰ ‫ܠܬܐ ܶܐ‬ ܳ ܶ
‫“ ܡ‬The word
became flesh and God became man.”
ܶ
“To ask” in the pʿal is ‫ ܫܐܠ‬/šel/, going back to /šʾel/. The glottal stop is totally
elided, but the ‫ ܐ‬continues to be written. In the paʿʿel, the glottal stop is long and so
ܶ
ܰ /šaʾʾel/.
stays: ‫ܫܐܠ‬
The conjunction ‫ ܰܟܕ‬kad “when” appeared in Text 1. Text 2 uses the conjunction
‫ ܶܐܢ‬ʾen. This implies “maybe yes, maybe no.” Text 3 uses ‫ܠܘ‬
̣ ‫ ܶܐ‬ʾellū. This is used in
counterfactual conditions, that is, conditions that are manifestly not true.
Conditional sentences occur all the time. The one here is typical. The protasis is
ܶ
introduced by ‫ܐܢ‬, while the apodosis is unmarked. The lack of an apodosis-marker
can lead to confusion in long sentences.

Manuscript variation
̈
In the first line, the BLMS reads ‫ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬
‫ܣܓܝܐܝܢ ܐܢܘܢ‬. The LeedsMS and the
̈
VatMS read ‫ܣܓܝܐܝܢ ܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬, without ‫ܐܢܘܢ‬. The first usage is somewhat more
common, but both are good Syriac.
Also in the first line, the LeedsMS reads
‫“ ܐܘ‬or,” but the BLMS and the VatMS
read ‫ ܐܢ‬. It is rare for a solitary ‫ ܐܢ‬to mean “or”; ‫ ܐܘ‬is almost always used. But
‫ ܐܢ‬... ‫ ܐܢ‬can mean “either...or,” deriving from “if...if.” The use of a solitary ‫ܐܢ‬
derives from this.

Cognates

‫ ܰܫ ܶܐܠ‬has cognates in Hebrew ‫ ָשׁ ַאל‬šāʾal and Arabic ‫ سَأ� َل‬saʾala, both of which
mean “to ask.” But only in Syriac is there a regular distinction between the pʿal “to
ask for something” and the paʿʿel “to ask about something.”
The root “to be wise” {ḥ-k-m}, seen in
ܳ ‫ ܰܚ ܺܟ‬ḥakkīmā is common to Syriac,
‫ܝܡܐ‬
Hebrew, and Arabic. The adjective “wise” takes the pattern paʿʿīl in Syriac but pāʿāl
in Hebrew: ‫ ָח ָכם‬ḥākām. Arabic uses the pattern faʿīl, ��ِ‫ �َك‬ḥakīm.
 TEXT THE SECOND 21

While ‫ܒܪܐ‬ “son” in Syriac (and Aramaic in general) shows an /r/, in both
Hebrew and Arabic it has /n/: ‫ ֵבּן‬ben and ‫ ا� ْن‬ʾibn. Somewhat similarly, the word for
ܶ
“two” is ‫ܬܪܝܢ‬ trēn in Syriac and in Aramaic in general, but the other Semitic
languages show /n/: Hebrew ‫ ְשׁנַ יִ ם‬šnayim and Arabic ‫ إث ْنَان‬ʾitnān. When a pheno-
menon only occurs in two words, it is almost impossible to figure out why it hap-
pened. There is still no satisfactory answer why the original /n/ shows up as /r/ in
Aramaic.
Syriac
ܳ ‫ ܰܣ ܺܓ‬is a very common word; it is used in all varieties of Aramaic.
‫ܝܐܐ‬
Forms from the root {s-g-ʾ} appear in Biblical Hebrew, but only in the book of Job.
This is a hint that the words there are Aramaisms, that is, they are direct borrowings
from Aramaic, or they are Hebrew words influenced by Aramaic. For words meaning
“many,” Hebrew uses the root {r-b-y}. Arabic uses an entirely unrelated word, ��ِ ‫كَث‬
katīr.
‫ܫܘ ܳܩܐ‬
̣ has its cognate in Hebrew ‫ שׁוּק‬šūq, which is rare and only occurs in late
books. Arabic ‫ سُوق‬sūq is quite common, and works its way into English as “souq.” It
has been suggested that the Hebrew, Aramaic, and Arabic words are all borrowings
from Akkadian sūqu, which usually means “street.” But there is no obvious way to
show this. Some scholars are more wont to see Akkadian loanwords in the various
Semitic languages than are other scholars. But in the absence of definitive evidence,
including irregular sound correspondences and unusual shifts in meaning, it is best
to assume that the Akkadian words are cognates to the Syriac words, not their
ancestors.

Loanwords
ܺ ‫“ ܰܬ‬follower,” a loanword from Akkadian, occurred in Text 1. In Text 2,
ܳ ‫ܠܡ‬
‫ܝܕܐ‬
ܳ ܶ
another borrowing from Akkadian appears, ‫ ܫܐܕܐ‬šēdā “demon.” In Akkadian, šēdu
is a particular kind of demon. The Chicago Assyrian Dictionary glosses it as “a spirit
or demon representing the individual’s vital force,” whatever that means. In Syriac
‫ܐܕܐ‬ܳ ‫ ܶܫ‬often has rather a generic sense, as in Text 2. Other times it is more specific.
ܳ ܳ ܳ
In Text 26, one Mother Sarah in Libya battles against ‫ܢܝܘܬܐ‬̣ ‫ ܶܫܐܕܐ ܕܙ‬šēdā d-zānyūtā
the “demon of fornication” for seven years before she defeats him. The ultimate
origin of the Akkadian word šēdu is not known. It does not look Sumerian, but no
Semitic etymology appears likely.
The word appears twice in the Hebrew Scriptures, as ‫ ֵשׁד‬šēd. At Deuteronomy
32:17, Moses rails away about the Israelites making sacrifices to such demons. Since
the word is so rare, it is hard to say what it means exactly.
 ‫ ܓ‬TEXT THE THIRD ‫ܓ‬
Story 621, from a different section of the Book, entitled “Stories of crazy people and
lunatics.” There are a surprising number of such stories.

Vocabulary
ܰ ‫ܐܡܪ ܁ ܶܐ ܶܬ‬
‫ܐܡܪ‬ ܰ ‫ܶܢ ܶܬ‬ ʾetemar netemar ‘to be said’, the ʾetpʿel of ‫ ܶܐ ܰܡܪ‬, used to
express the passive. The expected form is /ʾetʾmar/. But with all first-ʾālap verbs, the
glottal stop drops and a compensatory /e/ appears, resulting in /ʾetemar/ with three
short vowels. The ʾālap, however, continues to be written. This writing keeps the root
structure visible. The same phonetic change happens with the masculine participle.
ܰ ܶ ܶ
An expected /metʾmar/ becomes /metemar/ ‫ܡܬܐܡܪ‬. The feminine, which has a
ܳ ܰ ܶ
slightly different vocalic structure, is /metamrā/ ‫ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬.
ܳ ‫ܰܕ‬
‫ܝܘܐ‬ daywā ‘demon, evil spirit’, a loanword from Old Persian. Beelzebub is said
ܶ ̈ܰ ܳ ‫ ܶܪ‬rēšā d-daywē ‘the Prince of Demons’.
to be ‫ܝܫܐ ܕܕܝܘܐ‬

‫ܝܘ ܳܢܐ‬
ܳ ‫ܰܕ‬ daywānā ‘lunatic’. Formations in /-ān/ are discussed below. People whom
we would consider today to be suffering from some form of mental illness were
thought to be possessed by sundry kinds of demons. ‫ ܕܝܘܢܐ‬is often translated as
ܳ ܳ ܰ
‘demoniac’, a word hardly used in English outside of Biblical contexts. ‫ܢܘܬܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܕܝܘ‬
daywānūtā is ‘madness’.
ܳ ‫ܶܪ‬
‫ܝܫ ܳܢܐ‬ rēšānā ‘noble’, with a range of meanings, including ‘chief’, ‘prince’, and
‘ruler’. This derives from the word for ‘head’ /rēšā/. This latter is a non-derived noun.
It can be written both with a yod ܳ ‫ ܶܪ‬or without a yod ‫ ܶܪ ܳܫܐ‬. Similarly, /rēšānā/
‫ܝܫܐ‬
often appears without the yod, as in Text 3. In manuscripts and many printed works,
it can be difficult to determine if a beginning stroke represents a yod or the initial
tick of a shīn.
/rēš/ ‘head’ derives from /riʾš/. At an early stage of Aramaic, the glottal stop
became totally elided and so is not written. In the writings that use yod, the yod is a
vowel letter for /ē/.
ܳ ‫ܰܫ ܺܡ‬
‫ܝܢܐ‬ šammīnā ‘fat’, another adjective of the paʿʿīl pattern, from {š-m-n}.
ܳ ‫ ܫܘ‬šumnā is ‘body fat’. The verb ‫ܫܡܢ‬
‫ܡܢܐ‬ ܶ šmen is ‘to become fat, ripen’.
̣

23
24 A READER IN SYRIAC

̇
‫ܐܘ‬ ʾō This is an interjection that introduces a vocative. But it can also express
astonishment, grief, or reproach, all depending on context. Another example occurs
at Text 20.
ܳ ܳ
‫ܕܡܘܬܐ‬
̣ dmūtā ‘image, form, likeness’, from {d-m-w}. The verb ‫ ܕܡܐ‬dmā means
ܳ ‫ܕܘ‬
‘to be like’. ‫ܡܝܐ‬ ̣ ‫ܠܐ ܶܐܬܚܙܝ‬
ܳ ‫ܕܘ‬
̣ dumyā is the ‘likeness’ of something. ‫ܡܝܐ‬ ܺ lā
ʾetḥzī dumyā means ‘the like of it has not been seen’.
ܳ ܺ ܳ ܺ
‫ܚܙܝܪܐ‬ ‫ܚܙܝܪ ܳܝܐ‬
ḥzīrā ‘pig’. This can mean a male ‘boar’ or a ‘pig’ of either gender.
ḥzīrāyā is ‘gluttonous’. At Matthew 7:6, Jesus says: “Do not throw your pearls” ‫ܩܕܡ‬
ܳ
ܶ ܺ
‫“ ܚܙܝ̈ܪܐ‬before pigs.”
̣ ‫ܶܐ‬
‫ܠܘ‬ ʾellū ‘if’, a conditional particle that is used in counterfactual situations.
Depending on the context, this can mean situations that are manifestly not true in
the present or situations that were not true in the past. ‫ ܐܠܘ‬contrasts with ‫( ܐܢ‬Text
2), which is neutral: ‘maybe it’s the case, maybe not’.
ܳ ‫ܰܙ‬
‫ܒܢܐ‬ zabnā ‘time’. Its etymology is uncertain. In addition to its use as a full noun,
ܰ
it occurs in several adverbial expressions. ‫ܙܒܢ‬‫ܙܒܢ‬ܰ is ‘frequently’; ‫ܒܟܠܙܒܢ‬
ܰ is ‘always’.

‫ܝܚܐ‬ ܺ mšīḥā ‘Messiah’. This is the passive participle from ‫ܡܫܚ‬

ܳ ‫ܡܫ‬ ܰ mšaḥ ‘to anoint’.
The adjective ‫ܝܚ ܳܝܐ‬
ܺ
ܳ ‫ ܡܫ‬mšīḥāyā means ‘Christian’.

‫ ܳܣܟ‬sāk ‘at all, ever’, an adverb. In origin, it is a noun in the absolute state: ‫ܳܣ ܳܟܐ‬
ܳ
is ‘end, limit’. This derives from the middle-weak verb ‫‘ ܣܟ‬to come to an end’.

‫ܫܒܩ‬ ܰ ‫ܫܒܘܩ ܁‬̇ ‫ ܶܢ‬šbaq nešboq ‘to leave’. This can shade into ‘to abandon’. ‫ܟܬ ܳܒܐ‬ ܳ
‫ܒܩ ܳܢܐ‬ܳ ‫ܕܫܘ‬
̣ ktābā d-šubqānā is a ‘writ of divorce’.
̇ ‫ܶܢ‬
‫ܥܘܠ ܁ ܥܰܠ‬ ʿal neʿʿol ‘to enter’, from {ʿ-l-l}. This is the paradigmatic geminate
ܶ ܰ
verb. The ʾapʿel ‫ ܐܥܠ‬ʾaʿʿel is ‘to bring in’ (Text 22). The name of the city of Maloula
in Syria, where, it is claimed, “they speak the language of Jesus,” derives from this
root. The name is written today ‫ܡܥܠܘܠܐ‬. This means a mountain ‘entrance’ or ‘pass’
in the local variety of Western Neo-Aramaic. The Classical Syriac equivalent is
ܳ
‫ ܰܡܥܠ ܳܢܐ‬maʿʿlānā.

‫ܘܐܡܪ ܠܗ܂‬ ̈
̄ ‫ܕܝܘܢܐ܂ ܚܙܐ ܪܫܢܐ‬
̣ ‫ܐܢܫ ܫܡܝܢܐ܂‬ ̣ ‫ܡܬܐܡܪܐ ܕܚܕ ܡܢ‬
̄ ̄ ̄ ̇
‫ܕܐܘ ܐܢܬ ܕܒܕܡܘܬ ܚܙܝܪܐ ܫܡܝܢ ܐܢܬ܂ ܐܠܘ ܕܝܘܐ ܕܒܝ ܒܙܒܢܐ ܗܘܐ‬
‫ܕܡܫܝܚܐ܂ ܠܐ ܣܟ ܫܒܩܟ ̄ܗܘܐ ܘܒܝ ܥܠ‬
 TEXT THE THIRD 25

Analysis
ܳ ܰ ܶ
1 This story opens differently than do the first two stories. ‫ ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬metamrā is
the feminine ʾetpʿel participle from ‫“ ܶܐ ܰܡܪ‬to say.” The ʾetpʿel, as usual, expresses a
passive voice. The passive voice is used when the identity of the subject is either
unknown or not important. Here ‫ ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬is used impersonally, that is, with no
explicit noun or pronoun as subject. It can be translated into English with a passive,
“it is said.” English can also use a third-person plural, “they say” where “they” does
not refer to any specific persons. “People say” would also work. The feminine
participle is used because in general Syriac uses the feminine in “neutral” contexts.
The use of the participle instead of a finite verb in the perfect implies that the
story is still being told today. Several of the stories begin in similar ways. Texts 9 and
14 also start with ‫ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬.
‫ ܕ‬introduces the complement to ‫ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬: “It is said that...”
̈
The phrasal dot after ‫ ܕܝܘܢܐ‬separates the subject from its verb ‫ ̣ܚܙܐ‬.
‫ܐܢܫ‬̄ follows the noun ‫ܪܫܢܐ‬, standing in apposition to it. This usage is not
uncommon, particularly in the later phases of Classical Syriac. Several of the Stories
ܳ ܰ
use ‫ܐ ܳܢܫ‬
̄ ‫ܒܪܐ‬ ̄ can also follow a feminine noun. For example, Text
‫“ ܓ‬a man.” ‫ܐܢܫ‬
̄ ܳ ̄ ܰ ̄
20 writes ‫“ ܐܢܬܬܐ ܐܢܫ‬a woman.” ‫ ܐܢܫ‬functions almost like an indefinite article,
helping to make it clear that we are not talking about some specific nobleman who
̄
had previously been mentioned. In this sense, ‫ ܐܢܫ‬is only used with animate nouns.
ܶ ܶ ܶ ܶ ܳ ܳ
For inanimate nouns, ‫ ܡܕܡ‬is used instead. Text 7 has ‫ܫܘܐܠܐ ܡܕܡ‬
̣ šuʾʾālā meddem,
“some question or other.”
‫ܐܢܫ‬̄ here comes between the noun ‫ ܪܫܢܐ‬and its adjective ‫ܫܡܝܢܐ‬. One might
̄
have expected to find ‫ ܐܢܫ‬following the noun-adjective. While that construction is
̄
possible, ‫ ܐܢܫ‬tends to occur as close to its noun as possible. In the case of a construct
̄ ܳ ܰ
phrase, however, ‫ ܐܢܫ‬tends to come after the entire phrase. Story 337 has ‫ܰܒܪ ܡܠܟܐ‬
ܳ‫ܐܢܫ‬
̄ bar malkā nāš, “some prince or other.”
̇
2 ‫ ܕ‬introduces direct speech. It is followed by the interjection ‫ܐܘ‬. When ‫ ܕ‬is fol-
lowed by a word beginning with a glottal stop, the glottal stop usually drops, and its
vowel moves forward to the ‫ܕ‬: ‫ܕܐܡܪ‬ ̣ “that he said” is pronounced /demar/,
ܰ ܶ ̇
vocalized ‫ܕܐܡܪ‬. The vocative particle ‫ܐܘ‬, however, has a lot of oomph, and so
̇ is read /d-ʾō/.
‫ܕܐܘ‬
This is then followed by a complicated nominal phrase: “You who are fat, in the
likeness of a pig,” that is, “You who are as fat as a pig.” The basic phrase is “you who
̄
are fat.” ‫ܐܢܬ‬ is the subject pronoun. ‫ܕ‬ introduces a relative clause. ‫ܫܡܝܢ‬, an
adjective in the absolute state, functions as predicate. This is followed by the enclitic
̄
pronoun ‫ܐܢܬ‬, copying the initial pronoun. The end of the phrase is pronounced
/šammīn-ʾatt/. This is all interrupted by “in the likeness of a pig.”
26 A READER IN SYRIAC

“In the likeness of a pig” is expressed by a construct state. This is common with
‫ܕܡܘܬܐ‬. It is also possible to use ‫ܕ‬. Text 30 has demons appearing “in the likeness
̈
of men,” ‫ܒܕܡܘܬܐ ܕܒܢܝܢܫܐ‬, that is, “looking like men.”
“Likeness (of)” is /dmūt/. Preceded by the preposition /b/, this produces
/badmūt/. Preceded by the relative /d/, the result is /dbadmūt/. It takes much prac-
tice to produce such sequences fluidly when reading Syriac.
̄
The phrasal dot after the second ‫ܐܢܬ‬ is useful, because the initial vocative
phrase is so long.
‫ ܐܠܘ‬introduces a contrary-to-fact conditional sentence in the past: “If the demon
had lived…he would not have left.” The protasis is a rather long phrase ‫ܕܝܘܐ ܕܒܝ‬
‫ܒܙܒܢܐ ܗܘܐ ܕܡܫܝܚܐ‬. The subject is ‫ܕܝܘܐ‬. The predicate is, essentially, ‫ ̄ܗܘܐ‬. As
̄
̄
is often the case, ‫ ܗܘܐ‬means more than simple “was.” “Had lived” would be a good
̄
translation here. ‫ ܗܘܐ‬is still the enclitic form, not the full form ‫ܗܘܐ‬. The full form
is usually used to mean “to become” or sometimes “to take place.”
‫ܕܝܘܐ‬ is modified by the relative clause ‫ܕܒܝ‬, about as minimalist a relative
clause as one can get: “the devil that is in me.” In English, it is possible to delete a
relative pronoun. We can say “the devil that is in me” or “the devil in me.” In the
latter case, the prepositional phrase functions essentially as an adjective modifying
a noun. In Syriac, this is not possible; a complete relative clause has to be expressed:
“the devil that is in me.”
“At the time of the Messiah” is expressed as ‫ܕܡܫܝܚܐ‬ ‫ܒܙܒܢܐ‬, the usual way of
expressing the genitive. Here the genitive, in good Syriac fashion, is interrupted by
the enclitic ‫ ̄ܗܘܐ‬. It is not uncommon to find genitive phrases interrupted by all
kinds of things.
Lastly, when ‫ ܐܠܘ‬is used for conditional sentences in the past, it is common to
find the perfect tense in both the protasis and the apodosis.
A phrasal dot is used after ‫ ܡܫܝܚܐ‬because the protasis is lengthy. The dot helps
to introduce the apodosis “He would not have left you.”
3 As was mentioned in Text 2, Syriac typically does not mark the apodosis of a
conditional sentence. The apodosis here begins with the particle ‫ܠܐ‬, which negates
the following verb. ‫ ܠܐ‬and its verb are interrupted by the emphatic adverb ‫ܣܟ‬. The
sense of such adverbs depends on the context; here ‫ ܣܟ‬means “at all, ever.” This is
ܳ ‫ ܰܫ‬, which is continued by the enclitic form of
followed by a verb in the perfect ‫ܒܩܟ‬
̄
“to be,” ‫ ܗܘܐ‬-wā. In non-conditional sentences, forms such as ‫ ܫܒܩ ̄ܗܘܐ‬šbaq-wā
usually have the sense of an English present perfect, “has left.” Conditional clauses
in ‫ܐܠܘ‬, including that here, also like to use this construction.
“He left” is ܰ /šbaq/. Here the verb has an object pronoun, “He left you,”
‫ܫܒܩ‬
ܳ ‫ ܰܫ‬/šabqāk/. Verb forms with attached object pronouns occur all the time in
‫ܒܩܟ‬
 TEXT THE THIRD 27

Syriac. In general, it is relatively easy to recognize such forms. It is, however, much
more difficult to produce the correct vocalization. The presence of the pronoun entails
changes in the vocalic structure of the verb, often bringing the verb back to an older
form. Here the form is /šabqāk/, which goes back to a more original /šabaqak/.
ܶܰ /šabqeh/.
Similarly, “he left him” is ‫ܫܒܩܗ‬
The object pronouns are probably the most difficult forms in Syriac to master.
They can occur on any verb form: all the active conjugations; strong and weak roots;
perfect, imperfect, and imperative; any person, number, and gender. Many forms
have two (or more) variants. The discussion of such pronouns occupies fifteen pages
in Nöldeke’s grammar.
The second verb in the apodosis is ‫ ܥܠ‬ʿal, a geminate verb from {ʿ-l-l}. This
particular verb is the most common geminate verb, so it is easy to recognize in texts.
In the case of unvocalized unfamiliar verbs, however, it can be easy to mix up
geminate verbs with middle-weak verbs, such as ‫ ܩܡ‬qām.
̄
Since ‫ ܗܘܐ‬was already used with ‫ܫܒܩܟ‬, there is no need to repeat it after ‫ܥܠ‬.
English can say “entered me” or “entered into me”; Syriac uses ‫ܒ‬. This is a
common use with verbs of motion. Once something reaches a place, it is then in that
place.

The story

Today we would label this story as “body-shaming”: a lunatic pokes fun at a fat
nobleman. Would he have insulted a fat commoner, if any existed at the time? What
is interesting is the self-referentiality: the ‫ ܕܝܘܢܐ‬recognizes that he is possessed of a
‫ܕܝܘܐ‬. And he cleverly makes allusion to a biblical story, a story that any reader of
Bar ʿEbrāyā would instantly recognize.

The language

One of the formations that Syriac uses to create new nouns and adjectives is a
suffix /-ān/. In this Text, ܳ ‫ ܶܪ‬rēšānā “noble” derives from the word for “head,”
‫ܝܫ ܳܢܐ‬
ܶ
ܳ ‫ ܪ‬rēšā. /-ān/ is also used to derive ‫ ܕܝܘܢܐ‬daywānā “lunatic” from ‫ ܕܝܘܐ‬daywā
‫ܝܫܐ‬
ܰ
“devil,” a loanword. It can also form nouns from verbal roots. From ‫“ ܦܪܩ‬to redeem”
comes ‫ܪܩܢܐ‬
ܳ ܳ ‫ ܦܘ‬purqānā “salvation.” A nice adjective is ‫ܫܡ ܳܝ ܳܢܐ‬ ܰ šmayyānā
̣
“heavenly.” A further use of this /-ān/ will be discussed at Text 7.
Syriac is traditionally described as not having a definite or indefinite article. But
this text shows how Syriac is starting to bend the rules. Both ‫ ܚܕ‬in ‫ܡܢ‬ ‫ ܚܕ‬and ‫ܐܢܫ‬ ̄
̄
in ‫ ܪܫܢܐ ܐܢܫ‬are certainly approaching the function of indefinite articles. A few such
cases already occur in Biblical Aramaic. In Story 420, “a king” is expressed as ‫ܐܢܫ‬
̄
‫ܠܟܐ‬ܳ ‫ ܰܡ‬. In Story 421, “a king” is ‫ܡܠܟܐ ܡܕܡ‬. And in Story 422, as ‫ܐܢܫ‬ ̄ ‫ܡܠܟܐ‬. It
is impossible to see any difference in meaning.
28 A READER IN SYRIAC

As said above, Syriac cannot use a prepositional phrase as an adjective. English

can say “the man who is in the house” or “the man in the house.” In Syriac, this has
to be expressed as a relative clause in ‫ܕ‬. In Text 16, “fear of you” is worded as “fear
which is from you,” ‫ܕܡܢܟ‬.
Syriac has several types of impersonal construction, typically using a participle
or an adjective. This story begins with the participle ‫ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬, followed by a
clause in ‫ܕ‬. One way to analyze this construction is to understand ‫ ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬as the
predicate of the sentence, while the subject of the sentence is the clause that follows
‫ܕ‬: “That a lunatic saw...is being said.” The clue to recognizing an impersonal
construction is to find a participle or adjective at the beginning of a sentence, with
no obvious nominal or pronominal subject, followed by ‫ܕ‬.
̄
After the vocative particle ‫ܐܘ‬, the nominal phrase begins with ‫ ܐܢܬ‬and ends
̄
with ‫ܐܢܬ‬. This is good Syriac syntax.
This Text introduces the conditional particle ‫ܐܠܘ‬. Conditional sentences in
Syriac come in rather a bewildering variety of types, as they do in many languages
of the world. The one seen here is a counterfactual condition set in the past. This is
expressed by the conditional particle ‫ ;ܐܠܘ‬a protasis with a verb in the perfect ‫;ܗܘܐ‬
̄
̄
an apodosis with a verb in the perfect ‫ ܫܒܩܟ‬followed by ‫ܗܘܐ‬. This is a common
type of conditional sentence. In Story 472, a weaver is asked by some random people
‫ܗܘܝܬ‬ܰ ‫ܠܟܐ‬ ܳ ‫ܐܠܘ ܰܡ‬, “If you were king (what would you want).” Another instance
of ‫ ܐܠܘ‬occurs in Text 11, but in a present tense context: “If I had...”
Verb forms with object pronouns, such as ‫ܫܒܩܟ‬, cause much pain to students
of Syriac. It is impossible to learn too many of them at one time; trying to do so only
produces anger. They will be treated in some detail in Review Lesson Five. It helps to
first memorize the forms with third-person masculine verbs in the perfect, since these
are the most common forms to occur in texts. The other forms can be looked up as
they occur, and hopefully put into memory. It is useful to study such forms from the
root {k-t-b} because all three root consonants are bgdkpt letters, and all possible
“problems” show on the surface. This does have the disadvantage that some of the
predicted forms are nonsensical. What would “He wrote you,” where “you” is a direct
object, mean? The simplest forms are:

He wrote it ‫ܬܒܗ‬ ܶ ‫ܰܟ‬ /katbeh/

He wrote it ‫ܬܒ ̇ܗ‬ܳ ‫ܰܟ‬ /katbāh/
He wrote you ‫ܬܒܟ‬ ܳ ‫ܰܟ‬ /katbāk/
He wrote you ̄ ‫ܰܟܬܒ‬
‫ܟܝ‬ ܶ /katbek/
He wrote me ‫ܢܝ‬ ܰ ‫ܰܟ‬
̄ ‫ܬܒ‬ /katban/
 TEXT THE THIRD 29

The third root consonant, /b/, is read as a stop. Thackston, however, reads it as
a spirant: katbeh. This reading is less common than the reading as a stop.
The forms in the imperfect will be introduced in Text 16.

ܶ In Syriac
ܰ
it is also possible to use ‫ ܠ‬+ pronoun, instead of the object pronoun:
ܶ ‫ ܰܫ‬. Both constructions are equally common. It is also
‫ ܫܒܩ ܠܗ‬instead of ‫ܒܩܗ‬ ܶ
possible to use both constructions at the same time: ‫ܫܒܩܗ ܠܗ‬
ܶ ܰ . This is a typical
Syriac formulation. As was mentioned earlier, Syriac writers prefer longer con-
structions over shorter ones.

Manuscript variation

‫ ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬at the beginning of the story is the reading of the LeedsMS. The
ܺ
‫ ܳܐܡܪܝܢ‬, the active participle in the plural. The VatMS is not
BLMS begins with
legible. Both forms mean the same thing: “it is said” ~ “they say.” The choice of one
construction or the other is a matter of style, not grammar. In the Stories, ‫ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬
ܺ
ܳ
is the more common opening, but Text 30 uses ‫ܐܡܪܝܢ‬.
̇
For the initial vocative phrase, the LeedsMS reads ‫ ;ܕܐܘ‬the BLMS and the VatMS
̇ ̇
simply ‫ܐܘ‬. The presence of the vocative participle ‫ ܐܘ‬makes the marker of direct
speech ‫ ܕ‬unnecessary. This is a common type of variation.

Cognates
ܶ
The word for “head” in some Semitic languages, including Syriac ‫ܪܝܫܐ‬, is built
from a base /riʾš/. In other Semitic languages, it is built from a base /raʾš/. Arabic,
for example, has ‫ ر َأ� س‬raʾs. In Proto-Hebrew, an original /raʾš/ lost the glottal stop,
becoming /rāš/, which by normal rule became /rōš/, although the ʾalep is still
written: ‫רֹאשׁ‬. It is hard to say why two different bases for “head” existed, /raʾš/ and
/riʾš/. Were they dialectal variants in Proto-Semitic?
The root {š-m-n} “to be fat,” seen in
‫ܝܢܐ‬ܳ ‫ ܰܫ ܺܡ‬, occurs in Syriac, Hebrew, and
̣ šumnā in Syriac, ‫ ֶשׁ ֶמן‬šemen in Hebrew, and ‫ �َم ْن‬samn
ܳ
Arabic. “Body fat” is ‫ܫܘܡܢܐ‬
in Arabic.
The original Semitic word for “pig” may have been something like /ḫinzīr/, with
a nūn. The “ultimate” origin of words for many animals is unknown; where and in
how many different places were pigs first domesticated? It appears in Syriac as
‫ ܚܙܝܪܐ‬ḥzīrā and in Hebrew as ‫ ֲחזִ יר‬ḥazīr. Arabic preserves the nūn: ��ِ �ْ ��ِ ḫinzīr. In the
oldest Akkadian it appears as ḫuzīru, but this became replaced by šaḫû, a loan-word
from Sumerian šaḫ.
ܳ
The etymology of ‫ ܰܙܒܢܐ‬is unsure. Some derive it from Persian and others derive
it from Akkadian. Biblical Hebrew has a a handful of cases of ‫ זְ ָמן‬zmān, but only in
late books, so it is probably a loanword from Aramaic. It already shows up in Biblical
30 A READER IN SYRIAC

Aramaic. It is also a loanword in Arabic, where it takes the forms ‫ زَم َن‬zaman and
‫ زَم َان‬zamān.
Syriac
ܰ
‫ܡܫܚ‬ mšaḥ “to anoint,” seen here in the noun ‫ܝܚܐ‬ ܺ ,
ܳ ‫ܡܫ‬ has its exact
cognates in Hebrew ‫ ָמ ַשׁח‬māšaḥ and Arabic ‫ح‬
َ َ‫ مَس‬masaḥa.
ܳ ܳ ܳ ܳ
The noun ‫ܣܟܐ‬, the adverb ‫ܣܟ‬, and verbal forms from ‫ ܣܟ‬are not uncommon
in Syriac, but their cognates in Hebrew and Arabic are not clear.
ܰ “to leave” has no cognate in Hebrew. For “to abandon,” Hebrew uses a
‫ܫܒܩ‬
root {ʿ-z-b} instead. At Matthew 27:46, when Jesus cries out from the Cross, he says
in Aramaic λεμα σαβαχθανι, “Why have you abandoned me?” The Hebrew original
in Psalm 22 has ‫ ַﬠזַ ְב ָתנִ י‬ʿazabtānī. The Greek reproduces a local Galilean Aramaic verb
form from the root {š-b-q}. Since Greek lacked both a /š/ and a /q/, it could only
inadequately reproduce the Aramaic.
Suffixed object pronouns are common in the Semitic languages. In Arabic, rather
a conservative Semitic language, they are alive and well. “I saw him” is ُ ‫ر َأ� ي ْت ُه‬
raʾaytuhū. In the earliest layers of Biblical Hebrew, they are also used: “I saw him” is
ִ ‫ ְר ִא‬rʾītīhū. But by the time of mainstream Biblical Hebrew, they are replaced by
‫יתיהוּ‬
independent object pronouns. “I saw him” is now ‫יתי אוֹתוֹ‬
ִ ‫ ָר ִא‬rāʾītī ʾōtō. These
independent pronouns are the only forms to occur in modern Hebrew.

Loanwords

As noted above, ‫ ܕܝܘܐ‬is a loanword from Old Persian. A few such words entered
into Imperial Aramaic and then eventually into Syriac. ‫ ܕܝܘܐ‬appears to be one of
these early borrowings. Others entered directly into Syriac from various Iranian
languages that were spoken contemporaneously with Syriac.
ܳܳ ܰ ܰ ܰ ܶ
From ‫ܕܝܘܢܐ‬, Syriac produced the useful verb ‫ ܐܬܕܝܘܢ‬ʾetdaywan, “to suffer from
demoniacal possession.” This is a “quadriradical” verb, that is, one formed from four
root consonants. Such verbs are discussed in depth at Review Lesson Two.
 ‫ ܕ‬TEXT THE FOURTH ‫ܕ‬
Story 515, from a section of the Book dealing mostly with ‘jokesters’. The Syriac word
is ‫ ܡܝܡܣܐ‬mīmsā, from Greek μῖμος. In Syriac its meanings range from ‘actor’ to
‘buffoon’ to ‘idler’.

Vocabulary
ܶ ̄
‫ܐܚܪ ܳܢܐ‬ ḥrēnā ‘other’. The word was originally /ʾaḥrēnā/, from {ʾ-ḥ-r}, but the
glottal stop and its vowel dropped in pronunciation, producing /ḥrēnā/. The loss of
̄
the glottal stop is marked by a linea over the ʾālap: ‫ܐܚܪܢܐ‬. This is similar to the case
ܳ ̄ ܳ ܶ ̄
of ‫ܐܢ ܳܫܐ‬, seen in Text 1. ‫ ܐܚܪܢܐ‬is the masculine singular emphatic. The feminine
ܳܶ ̄
is ‫( ܐܚܪܬܐ‬Text 22).
ܶ
‫ ܶܢ ̈ܫܐ‬neššē ‘women’. This non-derived noun serves as the plural for ‫ܬܬܐ‬
ܳ ̄ ܰ
‫ ܐܢ‬ʾatttā
‘woman’, discussed below. This is apparently the only noun in Syriac whose singular
and plural come from unrelated bases. Most Semitic languages have a few cases like
ܶ̈ ܶ
this. ‫ ܢܫܐ‬ends in /ē/, not the expected /ātā/. From this plural comes the adjective
‫ ܶܢ ܳܫ ܳܝܐ‬neššāyā ‘feminine’.
‫ܫܒ ܳܒܐ‬
ܳ šbābā ‘neighbor’. The etymology is unsure, perhaps from Akkadian.
ܳ
‘Neighborhood’ is ‫ܒܘܬܐ‬ ܳ šbābūtā.
̣ ‫ܫܒ‬
‫ܶܡ ܽܛܠ‬ meṭṭūl ‘concerning; because of’, a preposition. In the oldest Syriac it is
written ‫ܡܛܘܠ‬, but by Classical Syriac times it is almost always written without the
‫ܘ‬. ‫ ܡܛܠ‬is a quintessentially Syriac word. Like ‫ ܶܡ ܶܕܡ‬it does not appear in the other
Semitic languages. Its etymology is quite dubious. Some try to connect it with the
root {ṭ-l-l} ‘to cover’. ‫ ܡܛܠ ܡܢܐ‬meṭṭūl mānā ‘because of what’ is an interrogative,
‘why’. ‫ ܡܛܠ ܕ‬is a conjunction, ‘because’.
ܳ
‫ܰܓܒܪܐ‬ gabrā ‘man; husband’. This is the most neutral word for ‘man’, but it also
ܳ
can have the connotation of ‘strong, virile man’. ̣ ‫ܰܓ‬
‫ܒܪܘܬܐ‬ gabrūtā means
‘manliness, vigor, power’.
ܳ ܺ ‫ܰܫܠ‬
‫ܝܛܐ‬
ܰ ܰ ܰ
ܶ
šallīṭā ‘permitted, lawful’. ‫ ܫܠܛ‬šlaṭ is ‘to have authority, rule’. ‫ܐܫܬܠܛ‬
ܺܳ ܰ ܳ ܳ
ʾeštallaṭ is ‘to gain rule over’. Used as a noun, ‫ ܫܠܝܛܐ‬means ‘ruler’. ‫ܫܘܠܛܢܐ‬
̣ šulṭānā
is ‘authority’.

31
32 A READER IN SYRIAC

‫ܙܒܢ‬ ܶ ‫ܶܢ‬
ܰ ‫ܙܒܢ ܁‬ zban nezben ‘to buy’. This is one of only two strong verbs in Syriac whose
ܰ ʿbad ‘to do’, with the imperfect ‫ ܢܥܒܕ‬neʿbed.
imperfect vowel is /e/. The other is ‫ܥܒܕ‬
ܶ ܶ
The paʿʿel ‫ ܰܙ ܶܒܢ‬zabben is ‘to sell’ (Text 27). It is surprisingly difficult to remember
which Syriac verb means ‘to buy’ and which means ‘to sell’.
The verb ‫ܙܒܢ‬ ܳ ‫‘ ܰܙ‬time’, seen in the previous
ܰ ‘to buy’ has nothing to do with ‫ܒܢܐ‬
ܳ
Text. {z-b-n} ‘to buy’ has Semitic cognates. The etymology of ‫ ܰܙܒܢܐ‬is unsure.
ܳ
‫ܰܐܡܬܐ‬ ʾamtā ‘handmaiden, maidservant, slave girl’, a non-derived noun. It is
difficult to find an adequate translation into English. It basically means a slave girl
who besides doing chores is used for sex. In Story 419, a merchant purchases an
ܳ ܳ
‫ܰܐܡܬܐ‬ for 60,000 (!) pieces of silver. The plural is ‫ܰܐ ̈ܡ ܳܗܬܐ‬ ʾamhātā. This
represents a common tendency in the Semitic languages for non-derived nouns with
only two consonants to receive an extra consonant in their plural.

‫ܕܡܟ‬ ܰ ‫ܶܢ‬
ܶ ‫ܕܡܟ ܁‬ dmek nedmak ‘to sleep’. This can have sexual connotations. At
ܰ ܰ
̄ ‫ ܕܡܟ ܥ‬dmak ʿam, “sleep
Genesis 39:7, Potiphar’s wife gives an order to Joseph: ‫ܡܝ‬
with me.” In Modern Literary Syriac, ‫ܕܡܟܐ‬
ܳ ܳ ‫ ܶܒܝܬ‬bēt dmākā is a ‘hotel’.
‫ܥܒܕ‬ ܶ ‫ܶܢ‬
ܰ ‫ܥܒܕ ܁‬ ʿbad neʿbed ‘to do, make, work’. In this text it is used in a very physical
ܳ ܰ
sense. ‫ ܥܒܕܐ‬ʿabdā is ‘slave’ (Text 13).

‫ܠܡܐ‬ܳ ‫ ܽܟ‬kullmā ‘everything; whatever’, written ‫ ܟܠܡܐ‬and ‫ܟܠ ܡܐ‬.

ܳ ‫ܨܒܐ ܁‬
‫ܨܒܐ‬ ܶ ‫ ܶܢ‬ṣbā neṣbē ‘to like, want’. ‫ܒܝ ܳܢܐ‬
ܳ ‫ ܶܨ‬ṣebyānā is ‘will, volition’ (Text 27).
ܳ ̄
‫ ܰܐܢܬܬܐ‬ʾatttā ‘woman; wife’. The Syriac base for this non-derived noun is /ʾant/,
going back to an older /ʾant/. The nūn of the base has assimilated into the /t/ of the
base. This assimilation is marked by the linea over the nūn. This is then followed by
the feminine ending /tā/: /ʾant-tā/ > /ʾatttā/.
ܳ ܰ‫ܥ‬
‫ܝܢܐ‬ ʿaynā ‘eye’, a non-derived noun. It also means a ‘spring’ of water. As with
most parts of the body that come in natural pairs, it is feminine. The denominative
ܶܰ ܳܳ ܰ
verb ‫ ܥܝܢ‬ʿayyen is ‘to look at’. The adjective ‫ ܥܝܢܢܐ‬ʿaynānā is ‘having large eyes’.
ܳ ܶ ܺ
‫ܶܢܓܠܐ ܁ ܓܠܐ‬ glā neḡlē ‘to reveal, show’. The passive ‫ܶܐܬܓܠܝ‬ ʾetglī is ‘to be
ܳ ܳ ‫ ܶܓ‬gelyānā is ‘revelation’. The last book of the Greek Scrip-
revealed’ (Text 16). ‫ܠܝܢܐ‬
ܰ ̇ ܳ ܳ ‫ ܶܓ‬Gelyānā d-Yōḥannan.
tures is known in Syriac as ‫ܠܝܢܐ ܕܝܘ ܰܚܢܢ‬

‫ܠܟܐ‬ܳ ‫ ܰܡ‬malkā ‘king’, from {m-l-k}. ‘Queen’ is ‫ܠܟܬܐ‬ ܳ ܰ

‫ ܡ‬malktā. ‫ܠܟܘܬܐ‬
ܳ
̣ ‫ ܰܡ‬malkūtā
is ‘kingdom’ (Text 19). The root {m-l-k} contains the ideas of ‘to rule’ and ‘to advise’.
ܰ ܰ ܰ ܶ
Text 16 uses the verb ‫ ܡܠܟ‬mlak in the sense ‘to advise’ and the verb ‫ܬܡܠܟ‬ ‫ܐ‬
ʾetmallak ‘to seek advice’.
 TEXT THE FOURTH 33

‫ܰܕ ܳܝ ܳܢܐ‬ ܳ
dayyānā ‘judge’, from {d-w-n}. ‘To judge’ is ‫ ܕܢ‬dān. Other nouns from the
ܳ ̄
ܳ ܺ ܺ
root include ‫ ܕܝܢܐ‬dīnā ‘judgment’ (Text 6) and ‫ ܡܕܝܢܬܐ‬mdittā ‘city’ (Text 10). This
latter originally meant a place in which justice was administered.
ܺ
‫ܢܣܝܡ ܁ ܳܣܡ‬ sām nsīm ‘to place, put’. This forms its imperfect in /ī/ not /ū/. It is
the only common middle-weak verb to do so. Payne Smith registers the verb under
{s-w-m}; Sokoloff under {s-y-m}.
ܶ ̈ܳ
The noun ‫ ܣܝܡܐ‬syāmē, meaning the two superlinear dots that mark plurals of
nouns and of some verbal forms, originally meant ‘placements (of the dots)’, but then
came to mean the dots themselves.
̇ ‫ ܳܢ‬nāmōsā ‘law’, a very old loanword from Greek νόμος.
‫ܡܘ ܳܣܐ‬
̇ ‫ ܰܒ‬badgōn ‘therefore, and so’, an adverb. The etymology is unsure.
‫ܕܓܘܢ‬
ܳ ‫ ܰܢ‬napšā ‘soul, self, breath of life’ (fem). ‫ܦܫܐ‬
‫ܦܫܐ‬ ܳ ‫ ܺܐܝܬ ܶܒܗ ܰܢ‬ʾīt beh napšā means
ܳ
‘he still lives’. Most commonly the plural is ‫ ܰܢ ̈ܦ ܳܫܬܐ‬, but ‫ܰܢ ̈ܦ ܶܫܐ‬ also occurs. The
derivation of
ܰ
‫ ܢܦܫܐ‬is unsure. Does it derive from a verbal root {n-p-š}, seen in ‫ܢܦܫ‬
npaš ‘to breathe’, or does the verb derive from the noun?
ܳ ܶ
‫ܐܓܪܘܬܐ‬
̣ ‫ܣܢ‬ snēgrūtā ‘advocacy, defense’, from Greek. συνήγορος ‘advocate,
defender’ appears in Syriac as
ܶ . The ʾālap is purely a vowel letter. /-ūt/
‫ܣܢܐܓܪܐ‬
is the marker of “abstract nouns,” discussed at Text 7.
ܰ ̇ ‫ܶܢ‬ ܳ ̇ ܳ
‫ܛܠܘܡ ܁ ܛܠܡ‬ ṭlam neṭlom ‘to oppress, do wrong to’. ‫ܛܠܘܡܐ‬, on the pattern pāʿōl,
ܶ ܶ
is a ‘tyrant’. The passive ‫ ܐܬܛܠܡ‬ʾeṭṭlem is ‘to be wronged’ (Text 24).

‫ ܕܡܛܠ ܡܢܐ ܓܒܪܐ ܫܠܝܛ‬.‫ܠܫܒܒܬܗ‬ ̇ ‫ܫܐܠܬ‬

̣ ̈ ‫̄ܐܚܪܢܐ ܚܕܐ ܡܢ‬
‫ܢܫܐ‬
.‫ܕܨܒܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܥܡܗ ܘܢܥܒܕ ܟܠܡܐ‬̇ ‫ܠܗ ܕܢܙܒܢ ܠܗ ܐܡܬܐ ܘܢܕܡܟ‬
‫ܘܗܝ‬
̣ .‫ܠܗ ܕܬܥܒܕ ܡܕܡ ܡܢ ܗܠܝܢ ܥܝܢ ܒܓܠܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܘܐܢ̄ܬܬܐ ܠܐ ܫܠܝܛ‬
.‫ܘܣܝܡܝ ܢܡܘܣܐ ܓܒ̈ܪܐ ̄ܗ ̣ܘܘ‬̈ ̈
̈ ‫ܕܡܠܟܐ‬
‫ܘܕܝܢܐ‬ ̇ ‫ܐܡܪܬ‬
‫ ܡܛܠ‬.‫ܠܗ‬ ̣
̄‫ܘܠܢܫܐ ܛܠܡܘ‬
̈ ̄
‫ܒܕܓܘܢ ܠܢܦܫܗܘܢ ܥܒܕܘ ܣܢܐܓܪܘܬܐ‬
Analysis

1
̄
The bolded word ‫ ܐܚܪܢܐ‬is “other,” in the masculine singular emphatic. Many
̄
of the Stories begin with ‫ܐܚܪܢܐ‬, used in a variety of ways. Here the sense is “some
other jokester” has related the following story; over a dozen stories in this section of
the book begin exactly this way. As in the case of Text 1, this first word does not
have any syntactic connection with what follows.
34 A READER IN SYRIAC

‫ ܚܕܐ‬introduces the subject. Text 3 began with ‫ܚܕ ܡܢ‬, using the masculine ‫ܚܕ‬.
Here the feminine ‫ܡܢ‬
̈ .
‫ ܚܕܐ‬is used, because of the following ‫ܢܫܐ‬
ܰ ܰ
‫ ܫܐܠ ̣ܬ‬šaʾʾlat is “she asked.” The dot underneath the ‫ ܬ‬is used in Estrangela to
mark the third-person feminine perfect. Sometimes it is present; sometimes not. Texts
in East Syriac script use two dots instead of one: ‫ ; ݀ܬ‬this is sometimes found in
Estrangela texts. West Syriac texts often combine the sublinear dot with a dot slightly
to the left of the ‫ܬ‬: ‫ ̣ ݀ܬ‬.
“Neighbor” in the masculine is /šbābā/. The feminine is /šbābtā/. “Her neigh-
bor” is /šbābtāh/. The particle ‫ܠ‬ needs a helping vowel before the consonantal
cluster, producing /lašbābtāh/.
The direct speech marker ‫ ܕ‬introduces a long interrogative sentence.
‫“ ܓܒܪܐ‬man” stands in extraposition at the beginning of the sentence. It is then
resumed by ‫ܠܗ‬. Literally, this is: “a man: it is permitted to him that…” This type of
extraposition happens all the time in Syriac. Here it puts focus on the word “man.”
There are many names for this construction, including extraposition, fronting, and
topicalization.
2 The adjective ‫ ܫܠܝܛ‬is used here impersonally, that is, without an explicit noun
or pronoun as subject. Unlike ‫ ܡܬܐܡܪܐ‬in Text 3, which is grammatically femi-
nine, ‫ ܫܠܝܛ‬is most often used in the masculine. The grammatical subject of ‫ܫܠܝܛ‬
is the sentence that begins ‫ܕܢܙܒܢ‬. ‫ܫܠܝܛ‬, in the absolute state, is the predicate: “that
he buy is permitted.” Impersonal forms such as ‫ ܫܠܝܛ‬are typically continued by ‫ܕ‬
and an imperfect verb. English can also use an infinitive: “It is permitted for him to
buy.”
The ‫ ܠܗ‬after ‫ ܕܢܙܒܢ‬is “for his use.”
‫ ܟܠܡܐ‬functions as a relative pronoun, “whatever,” and so is followed by ‫ܕ‬.
As the superlinear dot shows, ‫ ̇ܨܒܐ‬is an active participle: “whatever he wants.”
The participle here expresses a timeless sense. As usual in the third-person, it is not
followed by the enclitic pronoun.
̄
3 ‫ ܐܢܬܬܐ‬now takes the place of ‫ܓܒܪܐ‬, and the sentence uses the same syntax
̄
as above, but with the negative ‫ܠܐ‬. The use of ‫ ܘ‬before ‫ ܐܢܬܬܐ‬strikes native
English speakers as a little weak; we would probably translate it here by an
adversative, such as “but.” In Syriac, however, ‫ ܘ‬can have all sorts of uses; translation
depends on context.
ܶ
‫ ܥܶܝܢ ܰܒܓܠܐ‬is an adverbial complement, not directly connectedܶ syntactically
ܶ
with the previous phrase. ‫“ ܥܝܢ‬eye” is in the absolute state. ‫ ܓܠܐ‬is the passive
ܳ
participle of ‫ܓܠܐ‬, and is also in the absolute state. The literal meaning is “an eye
being in a state of having been opened.” Taken together, this means “in plain sight,”
“in public,” a common enough expression. Does this mean that she can get away
 TEXT THE FOURTH 35

with such acts if they are done away from the public eye? This particular phrase can
ܶ ܶ
appear in various guises, including ‫ ܰܒܓܠܐ ܥܝܢ‬, with the order of the two elements
ܶ b-ḡelyā.
ܳ ‫ܒܓ‬
reversed. A simpler way to say it is ‫ܠܝܐ‬
4 ‫ܘܗܝ‬ ̣ switches the subject, back to the neighbor. No direct speech marker is used.
‫ ܡܛܠ ܕ‬functions as a conjunction meaning “because,” followed by a nominal
sentence. English might throw in a dummy subject, “It’s because.”
The subject of the nominal sentence consists of two simple nouns
̈
‫ܡܠܟܐ‬ and
̈ ܰ ̈ ܳ ܰ ̈
‫ ܕܝܢܐ‬followed by a construct phrase ‫“ ܣܝܡܝ ܢܡܘܣܐ‬placers of law.” ‫ ܣܝܡܝ‬sāymay ܳ
̈
is the construct of the plural active participle ‫ ܣܝܡܝܢ‬sāymīn, from the middle-weak
ܳ
verb ‫ ܣܡ‬sām “to place.” In construct with ‫ܢܡܘܣܐ‬, this produces “lawgivers.” The
ܶ ܳ
singular is ‫ܣܐܡ ܢܡܘܣܐ‬. This is a not uncommon expression.
̄
Now comes the predicate of the nominal sentence, ‫ ܓܒ̈ܪܐ ܗ ̣ܘܘ‬gabrē-waw.
‫ ܓܒ̈ܪܐ‬is in the emphatic state. In general, adjectives functioning as predicates are
in the absolute state, as in ‫ ܫܠܝܛ‬above. Nouns functioning as predicates are in the
̄
emphatic state, as here. ‫ ܓܒ̈ܪܐ‬is then followed by the enclitic ‫ܗ ̣ܘܘ‬.
5 ‫ܦܫܐ‬
ܰ ܰ
ܳ ‫ ܢ‬is often used to form a reflexive pronoun. In ‫ ܠܢܦܫܗܘܢ‬the noun is singular
but the pronoun is plural. This is because each individual has one ‫ܢܦܫܐ‬.
̄
The sense of ‫ ܥܒܕܘ‬here is “they have made advocacy for themselves,” that is,
“they have rationalized their acts.”
The ‫ܠ‬ in front of ‫ܢܦܫܗܘܢ‬ expresses an indirect object. In front of
̈
‫ܢܫܐ‬ it
expresses a direct object.

The story

This story seems quite contemporary, even though Bar ʿEbrāyā put it to writing
in the thirteenth century. Perhaps “timeless” would be a better way to describe it.
One wonders where the story came from.

The language

‫ ܫܠܝܛ‬is vocalized here as /šallīṭ/, on the pattern paʿʿīl. In the case of adjectives
written
‫ܦܥܝܠ‬, that is, with a yod after the second radical, it is not always easy to
tell if the word should be vocalized as paʿʿīl (the most common adjectival formation
in Syriac) or as pʿīl (usually the passive participle of the pʿal, but also the pattern of
a few simple adjectives). Thus Thackston vocalizes ‫ܫܠܝܛ‬ in its meaning as
“permitted” as šlīṭ. It can be difficult to determine which reading is to be preferred,
because Syriac-to-English dictionaries often do not list passive participles, since their
form and their meaning are predictable from the verb. Payne Smith labels the two
uses of pʿīl as a “passive participle” and a “participial adjective,” while paʿʿīl is a
“verbal adjective.” She is not always consistent with these labels, however.
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graceful lines of a mountain, or even the crystal curves in a fountain,
without dwelling on that form which, of all created, is undeniably the
most beautiful without any of its associations, and dwelling on it, too,
with somewhat other feelings than those expressed by the Italian
priest when he remarked, in a tone of reproof, to a friend who wished
to call his attention to a fair lady at an assembly—
“Una bella creatura di Dio!”

Thus I do think that if this celibacy is to be continued, it would be a

great improvement to enjoin the study of pure mathematics on
college Fellows, with examinations at intervals to prove that their
time is only taken up in contemplating the affinities of triangles, and
the love of the angles (not of the angels). The whole series of classical
literature ought to be forbidden them for the time; ditto all galleries,
pictures, and statues, all music and poetry; and they ought, as a final
measure, to be relegated to that monastery mentioned by Mr Curzon,
somewhere in the Acroceraunian mountains, where there were some
Greek monks who had never seen a female face, and had even
forgotten their mothers. One of them asked him whether women
were like the Madonna. The poor fellow had better not have seen that
Madonna. Even now, some men in their undergraduate life grow
tired of the exclusively masculine aspect of the University, and some
very good lines on that subject, of which I only recollect the end,
were written by a now eminent poet, when he was an undergraduate
—
“As I am one who feels the full divinity
Of a fair face in woman, I protest
I’m sick of this unvaried regularity
Of whiskered cheeks and chins of black barbarity.”

And one painful consequence of the present system is, the violation
of the good old adage, “Happy’s the wooing that’s not long a-doing:”
the notorious evil of long engagements becomes, in this case,
exaggerated to a painful degree. There being no absolute, but only a
conditional prohibition, and the prospect of a living, certain though
distant, appearing to justify the formation of such ties, engagements
are formed in early life, the ratification of which seems ever near, but
never actually comes, till both parties have passed their meridian,
and the fulfilment takes place, if it is thought worth while that it
should take place at all, rather as a matter of course, than because
the parties really now desire it. The hope deferred which “maketh the
heart sick,” embitters the masculine temper, and withers the
feminine frame, even before their natural bloom would have
disappeared. The courage which, in earlier life, would have taken a
bold step, and dared the world to do its worst, becomes irresolution
and timidity; and as it often happens that those who have been kept
without food too long, only know the sensation of hunger through a
general faintness of the system, so the vacuum of the affections too
long kept up by circumstances, becomes at last a chronic disease,
which, to the end of life, remains irremediable. At the same time, the
life of the common-room, and the extreme ease with which material
wants are provided for, acts on the mind as opium acts on the
system, till at last it ceases to care for anything but the drug which
has become a habit. It may be with some of those who have felt the
enduring influence of this soporific regime, as with the lotos-eaters
of Tennyson; they even come to dread a change, and cling to the
indolence from which at first they would have fled:
“Our island home
Is far beyond the sea, we will no longer roam.”

But, on the other hand, it may be urged that the immediate

happiness of those concerned is not so much contemplated in the
foundations as their usefulness, and that they must be content to cull
the flowers which grow beside the path of duty. This may be
answered by urging that, in certain cases, a man’s usefulness is
diminished instead of being increased by his being denied certain
sources of happiness. The best workman is ever the man who is best
fed and clothed, and made most generally comfortable; even so in
the great work of human life is that individual most efficient whose
legitimate wants, both of body and soul, are satisfied. The motives
which actuated the founders of the Roman Catholic colleges were no
doubt, as most human motives are, of a mixed nature. On the one
hand, they wished their money to fructify and do as much good as
possible; on the other hand, they wished it to fructify in such a way
as to redeem their own souls from purgatory, by providing a
succession of those who should sing masses for them for all time; at
the same time, it was the prevailing notion in these times, and is
now, among Romanists, that celibacy, if not the happiest, is the
holiest state of man.[4] If there be any truth in this, even to the most
limited extent, there is something to be said for the system; but if the
poor founders have been cheated out of their masses, and may
remain, for all the present generation care, boiling and broiling in
purgatory to the end of time, it seems purely hypocritical to lean on a
notion which has no better foundation than the ruling opinions of
founders. All the great and imposing faith is gone which would
support a heavy burden with the supernatural sinews of religion, and
the burden remains still to be borne as it best may by human muscle
alone. But it may be also said, the fellowships of colleges are in
themselves eleemosynary institutions, and poverty was in most cases
made a condition of the enjoyment of them; and just as, under the
new poor-law system, we imagine that a man, though he has a right
to existence, has no right to encumbrances which others must
support, so some would argue that the charity of the founders ought
to be thankfully accepted under all its conditions. But in the first
place, the question may be asked, whether apparent necessity, rather
than humanity, did not suggest the new poor-law system? In the next
place, whether that can strictly be called eleemosynary of which
merit is made a condition? We give to a beggar sometimes, although
we know him to be utterly worthless, merely because he is destitute;
and even the utterly worthless have a certain claim, in right of their
Maker’s image; but we give to a good man as a tribute to his virtue,
and the application of these foundations to proficiency in knowledge
is to those who accept them usually accounted peculiarly honourable,
just as a national pension is to the wounded soldier. Besides, it might
be said that all bequests are in a manner eleemosynary, because the
legacy is not a payment for labour in most cases, but a free gift from
the testator to the legatee; nor is its character materially altered by
the fact of its having been given under conditions. It appears to some
that the college property is as much real property to those who have
the use of it, as any property bequeathed subject to conditions; such
as, for instance, the law of entail in England. Indeed, a case has been
mentioned, in which, for some peculiar reason, a very rich man
inherited his estates subject to this very condition of celibacy. And
eleemosynary institutions, strictly so called, are commonly
administered by trustees, not by those who reap the benefits of them,
as is the case with college fellowships. I think I have now, as well as I
can, stated the arguments, both pro and con, though perhaps it is
easy for you to see to which side I lean. I confess that I should regard
the repeal of celibacy as a conservative change, because it would give
individuals a more enduring interest in their University. I dread
innovation, and especially from profane hands; at the same time, I
feel the necessity of such wholesome repairs in the constitution of
Alma Mater as shall secure for her, as far as possible, a perpetuity of
youth, or at least a green old age. How other changes, such as the
admission of Dissenters, can be brought about without ignoring the
entire history, associations, and character of the University, I do not
well see. If Dissenters are admitted at all, Roman Catholics must be
admitted with the rest; and they may perhaps lay claim to a
participation in the good things of the University, seeing that the
ancient foundations were undoubtedly made in their favour; and if
this participation be allowed, the rights of the foundation will be
again disturbed; and they may push their claim to the entire
exclusion of all other communities, for, unless there be a reason for
disfranchising them, they will ask why others should share
advantages originally intended for them alone. They are not like the
Jews, a sect who keep to themselves, and seek not to domineer over
others; but universal dominion is as much the policy of pontifical as
of imperial Rome. Thus they will be sure to take every advantage.
Thus there is a primâ facie danger in mooting any integral question
concerning the constitution of the University, lest an opening should
be unwarily made which would destroy everything on which its
existence depends; and this is, in my opinion, the most plausible
argument in favour of continuing the celibacy of Fellows. But averse
as all well-wishers to Oxford would be to any change in the way of
subtraction or diminution of her privileges, no such one could look
with coldness on any proposed additions to her area of efficiency,
and especially on extensions which seem suggested by her natural
aptitudes. As Cambridge seems to possess the soil in which
everything connected, however remotely, with science, is destined
especially to thrive, such as natural history in its various branches, so
does Oxford appear to be that University which should assume a
prominently artistic character. The foundations of a new museum
have been laid, which is to be built on a grand and imposing scale. Is
its chief attraction, when completed, to consist in a collection of
dried beetles and stuffed humming-birds, or even a complete
skeleton of the megatherium, if such a thing is to be had; or is an
attempt to be made to bring together, by every possible means, a
collection of works of art which would really do credit to the
University? It must be remembered that we have in England no
national gallery worthy of the name; not that the pictures composing
the collection in Trafalgar Square are to be despised—far from it; but
the building which contains them shows them to so little advantage,
and is altogether so inadequate, that it presents few temptations to
large additions, either by purchase, gift, or bequest. The very
atmosphere of London is an argument against building a new
national gallery in the neighbourhood of any of the centres of
metropolitan life. Trees may be blackened, but flourish under the
soot; but the purity of the marble, and the freshness of the canvass,
are liable to be permanently discoloured by the constant action of an
air impregnated with smoke, in a manner far other than that in
which they receive the mere mellowness of age. This would be
conclusive against a central situation, and if such a building is to be
placed in the suburb, to arrive at it would cost a sacrifice of time and
effort little short of that necessary to arrive at a site at a moderate
railroad distance from the metropolis. As it is, Oxford is a great point
of attraction to all strangers, and no Englishman who had not seen it,
could pretend to an average knowledge of his own country. It is even
placed within reach of the working-classes of London by excursion-
trains, who are thus led in the pursuit of pure air to a place full of
associations, which are in every way likely to do them good. It seems
to me that it is worth considering whether the national gallery of
England might not with advantage be placed at Oxford, and
combined in some way with the scheme of the new museum. A
school of art would probably spring up around it, to which the
University would naturally present many advantages, and to which it
might well extend peculiar privileges. The present is not the worst
time to consider this matter, when the existence of a great war
postpones the execution of all plans of subordinate importance. It is
quite certain that everything cannot be concentrated in London; and
this being the case, it is well to consider what other places are
calculated, in their own way, to become capital cities. Oxford has
already received some of the Muses as its inmates, and it is
abundantly spacious to receive them all. With respect to the natural
scenery of its environs, very much might be said in favour of its being
suited as a residence for an artist. The banks of its rivers are
especially fertile in subjects for the brush, and though its upland
scenery is generally stamped with that mediocrity which seems
peculiar to the central counties of England, there are spots here and
there which, from their wildness or woodiness, are well adapted for
the sketcher. I am sorry to see many of the wild places round Oxford
either already enclosed, or in course of enclosure; but what I saw
with most regret was, that Bagley Wood had been surrounded with a
fence, and placed under a most rigorous taboo to the public in
general. Now, there is some excuse for bringing land into cultivation
which may be made available for the wants of the community, and
can only become so if enclosed; but when the better preservation of
game is the only object, to exclude the public from a place where they
have been accustomed for years to expatiate and “recreate
themselves,” and an intelligent public, such as that of the University;
—to exclude them from one of the spots which Arnold mentioned as
giving him especial delight on his return to Oxford, and as being one
of its chief glories,—this, though perfectly justifiable according to
law, is scarcely consistent with that Aristotelian equity which ought
to be above law, especially in the neighbourhood of those brought up
in his precepts, and whose philanthropy might naturally be expected
to be more expansive than that of other men. It appears, however,
that this mischief has been done for some time; and the only
compensation the public gain is that a fine wide road has been made,
which certainly makes the walk round the wood complete—a poor
consolation, indeed, to those who, like myself, look upon walking
along a road as one of the dreariest duties imaginable, and have an
irreclaimable vein of the savage in their composition. Why, to me the
sight of the stiff hedges and mathematical drains of Bagley Wood
would spoil half the pleasure of shooting there; but, of course, those
who have that privilege may say that the grapes are sour. I may
mention that on the walk which crosses the railway, and cuts across
into the Abingdon road, which leads through Bagley Wood, a large
reservoir has lately been made, which in one place is crossed by a
bridge, that seems as if it had been put there on purpose to give the
best near view of the city. The best distant views I consider to be
those about the Hinksey fields, near the spot where Turner, with
singular ignorance of the customs of the University, painted
gownsmen in their academicals among the haycocks; and at a place
near Elstree, called Stow Wood, well known as a fox-cover. But
perhaps the most characteristic view of all is that of the towers of
Oxford, seen reflected in the flooded surface of Christchurch meadow
under a red sky. This view is suggestive of Venice, especially if the
boats are magnified by a slight effort of the imagination into sea-
going ships, or softened into gondolas. I have mentioned the
advantages which an artist might derive from residence in Oxford,
alike from the models that might be placed there, the architectural
beauties of the place, and the natural scenery. To the second of these
advantages would belong the excellent studies of interiors that some
of the rooms present. The rooms of one of my friends, which were
those at first intended for the Head of the College, are quite a gem in
the profuseness of decoration, especially as applied to the ceiling.
The halls of many of the colleges are also remarkably fine, as
presenting studies of interiors of peculiar magnificence. Occasionally
the internal decoration of the rooms themselves, in which individual
taste has perhaps taken a wider range than in any other place I know,
would assist a painter in his composition. Pictures and engravings,
profuse in quantity, if not always good in quality, decorate the rooms
of most of the junior members, and a marked improvement has of
late years taken place in this matter, engravings from good masters,
and really good original pictures by modern artists, having taken the
place of trumpery hunting-prints and portraits of the nymphs of the
ballet. Other rooms are hung round “with pikes, and guns, and
bows,” now obsolete, and seemingly made, at the time of their
construction, for this ulterior object of ornamenting a room, which
they fulfil so much better than any modern invention. But perhaps
the most extraordinary rooms of all are those of a friend of mine, in
one of the most picturesque colleges. The whole centre of his room is
taken up by a kind of immense Christmas tree, formed by his own
labour and ingenuity, on which is hung every imaginable article that
would be chosen in an old curiosity-shop from mere oddness in form
or nature. It is a rare collection of what the French call specimens of
“bêtises,” ironically, as I suppose, considering the extreme cleverness
which imagined them all. There are, if I rightly remember, gods from
the Sandwich Islands and fetishes from Africa, clubs from New
Zealand and bows from Tartary, stuffed birds, pipes of all kinds and
sizes, skins of snakes and crocodiles, skulls of men and animals, and
everything, in fact, that ever entered into a skull to devise. The walls
are papered with engravings, and engravings are hung from the
ceiling because there is no room for them on the walls. There is a
collection of divers plants, native or exotic, flourishing in stands or
trailing over the windows, in each of which is a kind of caravanserai
for wild birds (not aviary), for the amiable proprietor does not detain
them there longer than they wish to stay, but invites them in by
abundant proffers of their peculiar kinds of food; and as he sits or
reclines by his fire (for he has abundant facilities for assuming either
position) by the motionless silence which he purposely observes—has
constant opportunities of watching their flittings and hearing their
twitterings, and studying their little habits with the gusto of a
naturalist. That such an inventory, which entirely passes my memory
to describe, should have been amassed in a single room by any
amount of time and trouble, is a marvel to me, only to be explained
by the perfect and lotos-eating repose of a college life. Long may our
friend enjoy his quaint and instructive rooms! Travellers see strange
things, but few can say that they have seen stranger than those that
are enshrined in the colleges of Oxford.
You see that I have carefully abstained in what I have said from
making invidious comparisons between Oxford and the sister
university; nor have I spoken of the universities of the north, with
which I am but little acquainted, but which I should imagine to hold
an intermediate place between the English and the German system.
On the whole, it appears to me that the function of education,
comprising theology, philosophy, science, and belles lettres, is to
impress upon the mind images of Beauty and Truth, and to enable
the mind which has received these impressions to act in like manner
through life. If education cannot make a man’s actions truthful and
beautiful, he remains to the end a savage, or rather, I should say, the
scion of a vulgar civilisation, even if he knows all the poets by heart,
or can discourse with the acumen of an Erasmus or a Crichton. That
Beauty and Truth are one and the same in that perfect sunlight which
our eyes cannot see, and from which all lesser lights proceed, few will
deny. But here on earth they may be considered as in a measure
apart, and as exciting, each for good in its way, separate influences
on the moral life of man. Men incline to one or the other light
according to their natural bent or the bias of their education. It
seems to me that if a distinction is to be made between our
universities, the tendency of Oxford studies is to look at Truth
through Beauty, while that of Cambridge studies is to look at Beauty
through Truth. It is therefore that I have laid so much stress on the
capabilities of Oxford as a school of Art. I confess that I am anxious
to gain a closer insight into the nature and life of your German
universities. Probably they are with us but imperfectly and unfairly
understood. If it be true that the Bursch preserves, under his
outwardly rough exterior, any remains of that antique chivalry of
thought which is so fast dying out in this country, he preserves a
treasure which is of inestimable value, and which ought to be secured
to him at any price. At the same time, I think you will allow that our
system has certain superiorities of its own, which deserve at least
careful study, if not active imitation. We, at least, are successful in
affixing an ineffaceable stamp to the character of the great majority,
while you seem only to succeed in permanently impressing the
nature of a few, and impressing only a limited part of that nature.
May you live and lecture many years, Herr Professor; and may your
brimming Rhine flow on for ever, free and German as of yore; and
may the vine-blight spare the clusters that yield that molten gold
which, unlike the morbid production of Australia and California,
brings nothing but innocent joy to the soul of your Fatherland. Vale!
and believe me,

Your loving friend,

Tlepolemus.
 THE ANCIENT COINS OF GREECE.[5]

Father Hardouin, a learned French Jesuit of the seventeenth

century, lived to the venerable age of eighty-three years, and died, as
he had lived, in the full persuasion that the only authentic
monuments which we possess of classical antiquity are comprised in
coins, a few Greek and Latin inscriptions, with the Georgics of Virgil,
the Satires and Epistles of Horace, and the writings of Pliny and
Cicero. Out of these materials he held that certain ingenious
“falsarii,” in the thirteenth century, whom he styles the “architects of
annals,” compiled those multifarious productions of poetry and
prose which we have been accustomed to regard as a most precious
legacy bequeathed to us by ancient Greece and Rome. This fact we
mention to our readers, not with any view to shake them in their old
and orthodox convictions upon the subject, but simply to show them
what a vast amount of matériel this learned Father had discovered in
the study of ancient numismatics. A coin indubitably presents,
within the smallest compass, the fullest view of ancient times that we
possess. Though silent, it is always waiting to communicate
knowledge; though small, it is always ready to teach great things.
“Inest sua gratia parvis,” is the motto of the Cabinet. It would be
difficult, indeed, to say what department of ancient lore—whether in
mythology, or economics, or politics, or chronology, or geography—
may not be elucidated and explained by the study of coins. A series of
coins are, in fact, a series of illustrative engravings, of
contemporaneous date with the literary works of Greece and Rome,
and of the noblest school of art. We may realise much of what we
read by turning to designs executed by artists who lived in those very
countries, and at that very period. The lordly oak is uprooted by the
tempest, the lowly willow is spared. While the temples of the gods
and their concomitant myriads of statues have been reduced to
unintelligible fragments, those coins which formed the medium of
ordinary traffic—the tetrobolus, the soldier’s daily pay—the drachma,
that of the mariner—and the tetradrachmon, which, by virtue of the
archaic visage of Pallas, with her rigid smile, passed current among
merchants of every state and province,—these have remained safe in
their hiding-places under the soil, and may be found in nearly the
same condition in which the Greeks handled them more than two
thousand years ago.
Cities have been built with the express intent of perpetuating the
glory of a founder, and after all the founder’s intent is achieved, not
by the enduring testimony of edifices and streets of marble, but by
that of its coins. Thus the Emperor Augustus thought to immortalise
the fame of his victory over Antony and Cleopatra at Actium, by
erecting a city on the shores of the Ambracian Gulf, which city he
called by the appropriate name of Nicopolis. It was supplied with the
usual complement of public edifices; a gymnasium and a stadium
were built in a sacred grove in the suburb; another sanctuary stood
on the sacred hill of Apollo, which surmounted the city. It was
admitted by the Emperor’s desire into the Amphictyonic council, and
was made a Roman colony. Sacred games were instituted,
accompanied by a sacrifice and a festival, equal in dignity to the four
great games of Greece. Coins of the city were struck: and in
commemoration of a favourable omen which had presented itself on
the morning of the day of battle, a group of bronze statues,
representing an ass and his driver,[6] were placed, among other
dedications, in the temple of Apollo Actius.
Such were the forward-looking expedients of the conqueror to
perpetuate his fame;—and what has been the result?
“Look, where the second Cæsar’s trophies rose,
Now,—like the hands that made them, withering.”[7]

A long succession of ruined edifices, in one part converted into a

sheep-pen. In fact, before four centuries had elapsed, a
contemporaneous author tells us that the town of Nicopolis had
fallen into lamentable decay. The palaces of the nobles were rent; the
aqueducts crushed; everything was smothered with dust and
rubbish.—The bronze statues of Eutyches and Nicon, after being
removed first to Rome, and then to adorn the Hippodrome at
Constantinople, were at last melted down by the barbarous Latins on
their capture of the city in A.D. 1204. All is gone of Nicopolis except
the coins. The coins may be seen in the cabinet of the numismatist,
by time as yet uninjured; and we find upon one of them the head of
Augustus himself with the description of Κτίστης or founder, and the
appropriate figure of Victory holding a garland in her extended right
hand.
In connection with this city of Nicopolis, we may mention the fact
that one of the most important transactions in Colonel Leake s
diplomatic career—namely, a conference with the celebrated
Albanian Vezír, Ali Pasha, which led to the ratification of a peace
with the Porte in 1808—took place on the sea-beach, near the ruins
of the ancient aqueduct of the city, on a stormy night in the winter of
1807. The crafty Vezír, in order to throw dust into the eyes of the
French consul, who was watching the proceedings with much
jealousy, had previously got up a sort of scene in his presence,—
receiving an English messenger, whom he had himself instructed to
ask for permission to purchase provisions, with affected sternness,—
haughtily refusing to grant his request,—and declaring that the two
nations were still at war;—although he had already made with
Colonel Leake a private arrangement to give him the meeting that
same evening on the beach. As the day declined, the weather became
so threatening that the captain of Colonel Leake’s ship was afraid to
anchor off the coast; and so dark was the night, that had not Ali
himself caused muskets to be discharged, the appointed place of
rendezvous on the beach could not have been discovered. At length
the boat neared the land, and the Vezír was found seated under a
little cliff attended by one or two of his suite, and a few guards. Dr
Johnson might seem to have anticipated this scene, in his tragedy of
Irene, where he describes an interview between the Greek Demetrius
and the Vezír Cali in these words:—
“He led me to the shore where Cali sate,
Pensive, and listening to the beating surge.
There, in soft hints and in ambiguous phrase,
With all the diffidence of long experience,
That oft had practised fraud, and oft detected,
The veteran courtier half revealed his project.”[8]

During the two hours the conference between Colonel Leake and
the Vezír lasted, the surf rose considerably; and it was not without a
good drenching from the rain and the sea, and some difficulty also in
finding the ship, which they could hardly have done without the aid
of the lightning, that the boat returned on board. The ship then stood
away from the coast.[9]
But to return to our subject. Every one who feels a thirst for
knowledge, must value coins as the medium of acquiring knowledge:
every one who has an eye for grace and beauty, must value them as
presenting unrivalled specimens of grace and beauty: every one who
is susceptible of the charms of fancy, must love to study the hidden
meaning of those imaginative devices, which sometimes, as Addison
says, contain as much poetry as a canto of Spenser. Let not the study
be condemned as dry and crabbed, for Petrarch was a numismatist.
Let it not be condemned as connected with only a bygone and
obsolete school of art, for Raffaelle and Rubens, Canova, Flaxman,
Thorwaldsen, and Chantrey, delighted to refresh their powers by it.
Condemn it not as beneath the notice of the philosopher, for Newton
and Clarendon were among its votaries. Say not that men of active
pursuits can find no time for it, when you hear of the collections of
Wren, Mead, and Hunter.
There were numismatists among the ancient Romans. Admirers
and collectors, as they were, of the other productions of Greek art, we
should conclude that they were admirers and collectors of Greek
coins also, even if we had no direct evidence upon the subject.
Suetonius, however, expressly informs us that the Emperor Augustus
was accustomed—probably at the Saturnalia—to distribute among
his guests a variety of valuable and interesting gifts, and, among the
rest, pieces of money—not modern money, but of ancient date—not
Roman, but foreign; and some of it the coin of ancient kings. May we
not recognise in this description the beautiful coins of Greece and
her colonies—the coins of Syracuse and of Tarentum—of the
Seleucidæ and other Asiatic kings—of the kings of Macedonia,
Epirus, and Thrace? A facetious friend of ours professes to enrol
Horace also in the list of numismatists; and we have often smiled at
the mock solemnity with which he argues his point. He holds, for
instance, that the passage,
“Nullus argento color est avaris
Abdito terris”—
refers, not as we have been taught to interpret it, to the unwrought
silver lying hidden as yet in the mine, but to those choice productions
of ancient art—Syracusan medallions, for instance, or the rarer
tetradrachms of the Seleucidæ—which blush unseen in their
subterranean lurking-places, and are kept out of our cabinets by that
churlish miser the earth. And he holds that the poet very
consistently, in the same ode, assigns the regal diadem, and the
laurel crown of virtue, not to the man who is simply master enough
of himself not to covet his neighbour’s money-bags,
“Quisquis ingentes oculo irretorto
Spectat acervos,”

but rather to the noble self-denial of that numismatist, who can pass
from the contemplation of the well-stored cabinet of his rival without
one sidelong glance of envy.
And in that well-known passage where Horace says, in a rather
boastful strain, that the fame of his lyric poetry will be more durable
than bronze, our friend observes that if the poet alluded to the
statues of bronze which met his eye at every turn in the city of Rome,
it did not follow that his lyric fame would be of any long duration; for
of all articles of bronze the statue was doomed to the earliest
destruction, and but few, in comparison with the number of marble
statues, have come down to our time. Many a graceful figure which
Horace had seen and admired in the palace of Mecænas, for instance,
ere many centuries had elapsed was melted down by greedy
plunderers, and played its part a second time in the brazen caldron
of the housewife. But the medal of bronze survives the wear and tear
of centuries full a score. The medal it is,
“Quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens
Possit diruere, aut innumerabilis
Annorum series, et fuga temporum.”

Our observation has been drawn by some modern writers to the

supposed existence of a sacred character or quality in the coin of the
ancients. It is the opinion of the most experienced numismatists that
the Greek coin was invested with a character of sanctity, arising from
the head, or figure, or symbol of some deity which it usually bore;
that the ἐικών or image upon it was really and truly an idol. We
believe that such a notion prevailed, to a certain extent, both among
the Greeks and the Romans. Not that we regard the worship of Juno
Moneta as a case in point. We think that the worship of Juno Moneta
was the worship of a deity who was supposed to have admonished
the Romans that there are other things in the world much better
worth attending to than money, and that money would not be
wanting to them, so long as the weapons they fought with were the
arms of justice. At the same time, there was indubitably a reverence
paid to the coin, even down to the Roman times, for the sake of its
religious symbol or device. The people of Aspendus, in Pamphylia,
professed to hold in such reverence the effigy of the Emperor
Tiberius upon his coin, that they found a certain fellow-citizen guilty
of impiety, simply on the ground of his having administered a little
wholesome chastisement to a refractory slave who happened to have
at the time one such coin in his pocket.
It has been thought that the practice which prevailed among the
Greeks, of placing a piece of coin in the mouth of the corpse,
originated in this notion of its sanctity, inasmuch as it was supposed
to insure the protection of the deity, whoever it might be, to whom
the coin was attached by the symbol it bore. But we must confess
that, for our own part, we still cling to the old story of the fee
required by the Stygian ferryman. Hercules informs Bacchus, in the
Ranæ of Aristophanes, when he is meditating a visit to the shades
below, that he will arrive at a wide unfathomable lake, and that an
old man who attends for the purpose will ferry him and his
companion across it, on receiving the fee of two oboli. Lucian, too,
has a joke about Charon’s complaining that, in consequence of the
slackness of his trade, he cannot raise money enough to supply the
necessary repairs for his boat. The mouth was so commonly used as a
purse by the Greek in his lifetime, that we can scarcely wonder at this
method being adopted for his carrying money into the other world
with him when dead. Colonel Leake mentions the discovery of a coin
of Motya in the mouth of a skeleton in the island of Ithaca, in a tomb
of the first century before Christ.
At the same time, although we believe that the myth of Charon was
more closely connected with this practice in the minds of the
common people than any other consideration, we doubt not that the
sanctity of the coin was also taken into account. We find that notion
of sanctity prevailing, not only among the Greeks and Romans, but
among other nations, to a considerable extent. The Mohammedan
coin bears invariably a passage from the Koran, or some other
religious text, quite sufficient to insure its reverential treatment by
the faithful Mussulman; and we read in Marsden’s Numismata
Orientalia of a certain class of very rare gold coins of ancient date, to
which the Hindoos avowedly paid religious worship. Of this coin the
Rajah of Tanjore was so fortunate as to possess two specimens.
Whether the sect of gold-worshippers is yet extinct is a question
which we must leave moralists to settle among themselves. It has
been remarked by an accomplished scholar and excellent
numismatist,[10] that “gold has been worshipped in all ages without
hypocrisy.” That there were many in ancient times who held the coin
in reverence for the sake of an indwelling sanctity connected with the
symbolic representations which it bore, we fully believe; and that
there may be some in modern times who hold it in reverence,—
ἀισχρου κέρδους χάριν,—we are by no means disposed to deny.
There is no doubt that pieces of antique coin have been frequently
carried in the purse or in the pocket as a sort of charm or amulet; but
we question whether this notion of their supernatural power has any
connection with the supposed sanctity of the legends or symbols with
which they are impressed. We should ascribe it rather to the same
feeling which induces some old women, and young ones too, to carry
a crooked sixpence in their purse—the charm being supposed to
reside, not in any device or legend of the coin, but simply in its
curvilinear shape. So in the cases we have just alluded to, the charm
lies in the mystery of the coin’s unknown and ancient origin—“omne
ignotum pro magnifico est.” Stukeley tells us that, in the
neighbourhood of one of the ancient Roman sites which he visited in
his “Iter Curiosum,” Roman coins were known among the peasantry
by the appellation of “swine pennies,” from the fact of their being
often turned up by that indefatigable excavator in his search after
something more succulent. To the mighty Cæsars this was truly a
degradation. But at Dorchester he found the same coins known by
the name, assigned with more semblance of respect, of “Dorn
pennies,” after some mythical king Dor, whom tradition states to
have once resided there. The rustic antiquary is wont to labour under
a sad confusion of ideas. The Roman he confounds perpetually with
the Roman Catholic. We remember ourselves—after visiting a sort of
bi-linguar monument near Hadleigh in Suffolk, which marks the spot
of the martyrdom of Dr Rowland Taylor, under Queen Mary—to have
asked a passer-by whether a certain antiquated mansion by the road-
side had ever been inhabited within his recollection; to which we
received the oracular reply that, to the best of our rustic friend’s
belief, it had never been inhabited since the Romans occupied it, in
the days of Dr Taylor!
This, however, is rather a digression. We learn from Trebellius
Pollio that, in the fourth century, the coins of Alexander the Great
were supposed to insure prosperity to any person who was prudent
enough to carry one of them constantly about his person; and we find
this, and all other such notions, strongly condemned by Chrysostom.
An Italian traveller tells us that, in 1599, the silver coins found in the
fields in a certain district in the island of Crete were called by the
people after the name of St Helen; and that the story went that this
saint, being in want of money, had made a number of coins of brass,
endowing them, at the same time, with such miraculous properties,
that the brass, in passing into the hands of another person, was at
once changed into silver; and, moreover, that any such silver coin
being held fast in the hand, will cure the falling-sickness. Mr Pashley,
who visited Crete in 1830, found that the possession of an ancient
coin is looked upon as a sovereign charm against maladies of the
eyes. In the year 1366, the discovery made by some children at play
of a number of ancient coins, at Tourves, near Marseilles, threw the
whole community of the district into a state of alarm and
consternation. The coins were some that had been struck at
Marseilles at that early period when, under the name of Massalia, it
ranked among the most thriving colonies of ancient Greece. They
bore on the one side a head of Apollo, and on the other a circle
divided into quadrants. In the chronicles of Provence, where this
discovery is recorded, they are described as bearing on the one side a
Saracen’s head, and on the other side a cross. This was interpreted
as bearing some portentous allusion to the Crusades. And the devout
writer intimates that, while one part of the community look upon it
as an omen of good, and the other part as an omen of evil, Heaven
only knows how it will turn out.
 We believe that some persons, sedulously devoted to other
branches of the study of classical antiquity, are deterred from
availing themselves of the aid of coins, by a fear of being imposed
upon by forgeries. This is an easy, but an idle mode of putting aside
that which we have not courage to investigate. We shall add a few
remarks upon the subject.
In the first place, we shall venture to ask these anti-numismatic
sceptics, whether they think we ought to cease to read and to admire
the dramas of Shakespeare, because it is questionable whether one or
two of those which pass under his name were really of his
composition?—or, whether we shall shut our eyes before all pictures
which pass under the names of the Old Masters, because spurious
ones have been palmed off upon the self-dubbed connoisseur?—or
whether all autographs of illustrious men are to be condemned as
trash, because Ireland attempted to impose upon the public with
some that were not genuine?—or whether all currency is to come to
an end, because clever knaves have succeeded in counterfeiting it?
Everything, in short, which is valuable, offers, in proportion to its
value, a temptation to ingenious and unscrupulous men to show
their cleverness by imposing upon the world with an imitation of it.
The Holy Scripture itself has not escaped.
And after all, in regard to coins as well as in regard to the other
subjects which we have mentioned, although forgers may be clever,
detectors are clever also. The numismatic phalanx of investigators
are more than a match for the “falsarii.” The skill of Cavino,
Gambello, and Cellini, has been met with equal skill on the part of
the numismatist. The eye that has been accustomed to wander over a
well-selected cabinet acquires a power of ready discrimination,—a
power difficult to teach by theory, but not so difficult to gain by
practice. Solitary instances may occur of a solitary numismatist
fondly persuading himself that some clever forgery which he
possesses is a genuine coin, but we would not give much for his
chance of beguiling others into the same belief. Unwilling he may be
to have the “gratissimus error” extracted from his own mind, but he
never will succeed in engrafting it upon others. Never does the eye of
man exert so much jealous vigilance as when it is employed upon the
coin of a rival numismatist claiming to be genuine upon insufficient
grounds, The House of Lords sitting upon a claim of some peerage in
abeyance is nothing to it. We apprehend that scarcely an instance is
on record of a forged coin having enjoyed for any length of time,
unquestioned, the honours of a genuine one. Nor do we think that
there are many instances of a forger’s attempting to falsify history.
He generally aims at making his invention tally with historical fact as
closely as he can. And if his inventive powers are not at all brought
into exercise, but he simply produces a coin which is a fac-simile or
reproduction of a genuine one, for purposes of study that fac-simile
will be equally available with the genuine coin, and no further harm
is done than the abstraction of a few shillings more than its value
from the pocket of the unwitting purchaser.
At the same time we would not let the forger go unpunished.
Though the evil actually done be small, the intention is bad. We
would have him tried by a jury of numismatists. Or if the offence
should have been committed in a country where the power of
punishing the offence resides in one magistrate, we should say that
that one magistrate ought to be a numismatist. It is said that a
distinguished archæologist who possessed this power in virtue of his
office as Her Majesty’s consul at Bagdad, very recently exercised it by
directing that a Jew “falsarius” should be bastinadoed. We applaud
his Excellency’s most righteous judgment. The man who had
counterfeited the famous sequins of Venice, and had aggravated his
crime by doing it badly,—
“Che male aggiusto ’l conio di Vinegia,”

is represented by Dante as worthy of an especial notice among those

sinners against laws divine and moral with whom he has peopled the
shades of his Inferno.
Seriously, however, we think that any clever work of art is worthy
of being preserved, and none the less for its having taken in some
who set themselves up as judges. Even in Pliny’s time a counterfeit
denarius of superior workmanship was sometimes thought cheap at
the price of sundry genuine denarii. The tasteful device of Cellini, or
of some cunning artist of Padua, must not be thrown to the dogs,
merely because it was produced with the intention of rivalling the
work of ancient artists, and of testing the acumen of the cognoscenti.
Those figures of Cellini, for instance, which some one brought and
exhibited to the artist himself as antiques, and respecting which the
nobleman who was their proprietor declared, when he saw a smile
playing upon the conscious visage of Cellini, that there had not lived
a man for these thousand years who could have wrought such;—
would not those figures have been worth preserving? And in like
manner a coin which, by the excellence of its workmanship, has
raised a doubt whether it may not have been really of ancient origin,
ought by no means to be treated with contempt, even though it
proves to be modern.
The learned work of Colonel Leake, now before us, has supplied a
desideratum in the archæological literature of our country. It is the
first work of the kind upon Greek coins which has been published by
an Englishman, and those of our readers who are acquainted with his
character will agree that no Englishman could have been found to do
it so well as Colonel Leake. The vast amount of knowledge which he
has been laying up for more than half a century, in regard to the
literature, the mythology, the political and social history, and the
geography of ancient Greece, supplies an infinity of streams which
flow over the pages of his work in the form of notes. No longer shall
we blush under the well-grounded reproach that all the standard
works upon Greek coinage are written by foreigners. Already, indeed,
we observe that Professor L. Müller, in his Numismatique
d’Alexandre, just published at Copenhagen, has made ample use of
Colonel Leake’s volume, which must necessarily become a text-book
in this branch of Greek archæology. For the convenience of those
who may consult it, not only is every ordinary variety of index
supplied to the coins themselves, but we observe that, in an
appendix, an index is added to the valuable information contained in
the notes. We observe, also, in the appendix, a very interesting and
learned dissertation upon the weights of Greek coins, in which
Colonel Leake traces the Attic didrachmon—which seems to have
been a sort of standard or unit in the monetary scales of Persia and
Lydia, as well as of the cities and colonies of Greece—to Phœnicia,
and from Phœnicia to Egypt. It would scarcely be in accordance with
our usual practice to enter into the more erudite part of this
important subject, and we shall therefore conclude our remarks by
making one reference to the work, in order to show how successful
its author has been in availing himself of the light which a coin may
throw upon the more obscure portions of ancient geography.