A baraita cited in both the Palestinian and the Babylonian Talmud (pKetubot 12:3, 34d-35a = pKil'aim 9:4, 32a-b; bKetubot 103a-b) describes Rabbi's dying testament to his sons. In the Babylonian version, Rabbi designates his elder son, Gamaliel, as his successor, and his younger son, Shimeon, as the next hakham. In its analysis of this part of the testament, the BT interprets Rabbi's declaration, which begins, curiously, with the younger son and the lesser position, as concessive: although the younger son is wise, the elder shall be the patriarch. In the continuation of this discussion, the Talmud manifests its concern over Gamaliel's appointment: Gamaliel does not “fill his forefathers' place in wisdom.” This problem is so great, according to the BT, that it would negate the elder son's claim to the dynastic position were it not that Gamaliel has another quality, “fear of sin,” with respect to which he does, in fact, “fill his forefathers' place.”

It is fashionable to imagine a great dichotomy between the feudal monarchies in the West and the brittle, particularistic entity of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation. To Voltaire's mean-spirited gibe that the latter was neither holy, Roman, nor an Empire might be added that it was also not really German, since millions of Netherlanders, Italians, and Slavs, as well as Provencals and Savoyards, lived within its territorial limits. France and England, the stereotype goes, had achieved a precocious unity, at least in the thirteenth century. Nothing could be clearer, one might conclude, than the contrast between the great kingdoms of the West and the so-called Empire. The fashionable cliche even affects our understanding of Jewish life in the Middle Ages. Fritz Backhaus put the commonplace this way: “The territorial division (Zersplitterung) of Germany prevented a comprehensive expulsion [of the Jews] as could be carried out in England, France, and Spain.” This neat dichotomy is inadequate. At best it makes sense in a comparison between England and Germany. Only in England, a few exceptions aside, were the claims of a paramount lord, the king, to the control and exploitation of the Jews more or less uncontested by other secular authorities or by ecclesiastics in the role of secular lords.

To gauge the breadth of the topic, it should be said at the outset that music occupied a central place in the thought of Leon Modena and that Modena was not just another rabbi in early seventeenth-century Venice, but, among Italian Jews, perhaps the most remarkable figure of his generation. His authority as a spokesman for his people rests on his vast learning, amassed from a multitude of sources, ancient, modern, Jewish, and Christian. He put his knowledge to use in an impressive series of over forty writings. They comprise often-encyclopedic disquisitions on subjects as diverse as Hebrew language and grammar, lexicography, Jewish rites and customs, Kabbalah, alchemy, and gambling, to which one might add various plays, prefaces, rabbinic authorizations, translations, editions, at least four hundred poems (among them epitaphs), a highly personal autobiography, and numerous rabbinical responsa. Of his responsa, two concern music, the earlier of the two amounting to an extended essay on its kinds and functions.

Professor Meir Benayahu's collection of documents includes a contractual agreement between some Jewish merchants in Aleppo and a hakham by the name of Yeshaya Attia. In it, Attia undertakes to go to the city of Manchester in England to serve as the spiritual leader of a colony of Aleppine merchants there. The document is very important because it enables us to fix, with a high degree of probability, the date of the founding of the Aleppine community in Manchester, the first of many communities of Jews from Aleppo in the West. The document also sheds light on the reasons why Jews emigrated from Aleppo to Manchester and the way in which they organized into a community in their new home. This article traces the background of Jewish emigration from Aleppo to Manchester and the model that the mother community of Aleppine Jewry adopted in dealing with communities made up of emigrants from Aleppo.

At the end of his short treatise Understanding the Sick and the Healthy, Franz Rosenzweig predicated the restoration of what he called healthy consciousness upon the recognition of death7apos;s sovereignty. “[One] must direct [one's] life to no other goal but death,” he wrote. “A healthy man has the strength to continue towards the grave. The sick man invokes death and lets himself be carried away in mortal fear.” Rosenzweig juxtaposed the Grim Reaper with weary life. The healthy understanding knows that death will dash life to the ground. Yet it takes comfort from knowing that death will accept it with open arms. In the end, eloquent life falls silent as the eternally taciturn one speaks, “Do you finally recognize me? I am your brother.”In his notes to the English translation, Nahum Glatzer remarks with shock, “This concluding chapter–on death–stands in a striking contrast to the final passage of The Star of Redemption.” As if to offset our text's more mordant tone, Glatzer then quotes verbatim the seemingly life-affirming paragraphs that conclude Rosenzweig's magnum opus. Glatzer is not the only commentator to emphasize the importance of life in Rosenzweig's system. Indeed, Else-Rahel Freund notes that The Star of Redemption begins with the phrase “from death” and concludes with the words “into life.”

Abraham Miguel Cardoso was born to a crypto-Jewish family living in Rio Seco, Spain, in the year 1626. He left Spain with with his older brother Isaac in 1648. Abraham Cardoso has usually been discussed within the larger context of the Sabbatian movement, which he served as one of its major theoreticians. Until his death in 1706, Cardoso found himself almost constantly under attack by the rabbinical authorities in the cities where he tried to settle with his family, although he sometimes found local non-Jewish authorities who would offer him protection. He served for some time as the personal physician to the bey of Tripoli and later to the local potentate in Tunis. In the last decades of his life, after the death of Sabbatai Zebi, he engaged in bitter debates with other leading Sabbatians about the divinity of the Messiah. Cardoso rejected wholeheartedly what he saw as their adoption of a Christian messialogy. Gershom Scholem's analysis of Cardoso's theology as Gnostic has remained fundamentally unchallenged. Scholem saw in Cardoso's thinking the crystallization of what he believed was the latent antinomian Gnosticism within Kabbalah and especially within the later strata of the Zohar, and he pointed to Cardoso's likely acquaintance with Gnostic ideas, filtered through the Church Fathers (read during theological studies in Spain), as the most significant factor in precipitating this crystallization (see expecially Scholem 1980, pp. 333–334; Scholem 1971a, pp. 65–74; Scholem 1971c, pp. 104–107).