A

CRITICAL AND EXEGETICAL
COMMENTARY

ON

GENESIS

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ABBREVIATIONS.¹

1. SOURCES (see pages xxxiv ff.), TEXTS, AND VERSIONS.

2. COMMENTARIES.

3. WORKS OF REFERENCE AND GENERAL LITERATURE.

4. PERIODICALS, ETC.

5. OTHER SIGNS AND CONTRACTIONS.

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INTRODUCTION.

§ 1. Introductory: Canonical position of the book—its general scope—and title.

The Book of Genesis (on the title see at the end of this §) forms the opening section of a comprehensive historical work which, in the Hebrew Bible, extends from the creation of the world to the middle of the Babylonian Exile (2 Kings 25³⁰). The tripartite division of the Jewish Canon has severed the later portion of this work (Joshua‒Kings), under the title of the “Former Prophets” (הנביאים הראשונים), from the earlier portion (Genesis‒Deuteronomy), which constitutes the Law (התורה),—a seemingly artificial bisection which results from the Tôrāh having attained canonical authority soon after its completion in the time of Ezra and Nehemiah, while the canonicity of the Prophetical scriptures was not recognised till some centuries later.¹ How soon the division of the Tôrāh into its five books (חמשה חומשי התורה: ‘the five fifths of the Law’) was introduced we do not know for certain; but it is undoubtedly ancient, and in all probability is due to the final redactors of the Pentateuch.² In the case of Genesis, at all events, the division is obviously appropriate. Four centuries of complete silence lie between its close and the beginning of Exodus, where we enter on the history of a nation as contrasted with that of a family; and its prevailing character of individual biography suggests that its traditions are of a different quality, and have a different origin, from the national traditions preserved in Exodus and the succeeding books. Be that as it may, Genesis is a unique and well-rounded whole; and there is no book of the Pentateuch, except Deuteronomy, which so readily lends itself to monographic treatment.

Genesis may thus be described as the Book of Hebrew Origins. It is a peculiarity of the Pentateuch that it is Law-book and history in one: while its main purpose is legislative, the laws are set in a framework of narrative, and so, as it were, are woven into the texture of the nation’s life. Genesis contains a minimum of legislation; but its narrative is the indispensable prelude to that account of Israel’s formative period in which the fundamental institutions of the theocracy are embedded. It is a collection of traditions regarding the immediate ancestors of the Hebrew nation (chapters 12‒50), showing how they were gradually isolated from other nations and became a separate people; and at the same time how they were related to those tribes and races most nearly connected with them. But this is preceded (in chapters 1‒11) by an account of the origin of the world, the beginnings of human history and civilisation, and the distribution of the various races of mankind. The whole thus converges steadily on the line of descent from which Israel sprang, and which determined its providential position among the nations of the world. It is significant, as already observed, that the narrative stops short just at the point where family history ceases with the death of Joseph, to give place after a long interval to the history of the nation.

The Title.—The name ‘Genesis’ comes to us through the Vulgate from the LXX, where the usual superscription is simply Γένεσις (LXX^{EM, most cursives}), rarely ἡ γένεσις (LXX⁷²), a contraction of Γένεσις κόσμου (LXX^{A, 121}). An interesting variation in one cursives. (129)—ἡ βίβλος τῶν γενέσεων (compare 2⁴ 5¹)¹—might tempt one to fancy that the scribe had in view the series of Tôlĕdôth (see page xxxiv), and regarded the book as the book of origins in the wide sense expressed above. But there is no doubt that the current Greek title is derived from the opening theme of the book, the creation of the world.²—So also in Syriac (sephrå dabrīthå), Theodore of Mopsuestia (ἡ κτίσις), and occasionally among the Rabbis (ספר יצירה).—The common Jewish designation is בראשית, after the first word of the book (Origen, in Eusebius Church History, vi. 25; Jerome, Prologus Galeatus, and Questions on Genesis); less usual is חומש ראשון, ‘the first fifth.’—Only a curious interest attaches to the unofficial appellation ספר הישר (based on 2 Samuel 1¹⁸) or ס׳ הישרים (the patriarchs) see Carpzov, Introductio in libros canonicos bibliorum Veteris Testamenti page 55; Delitzsch, 10.

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§ 4. Historical value of the tradition.

It has already been remarked (page vii) that there are three chief ways in which an oral, and therefore legendary, tradition may yield solid historical results: first, through the retention in the popular memory of the impression caused by real events and personalities; secondly, by the recovery of historic (mainly ethnographic) material from the biographic form of the tradition; and thirdly, through the confirmation of contemporary ‘archæological’ evidence. It will be convenient to start with the last of these, and consider what is known about—

1. The historical background of the patriarchal traditions.—The period covered by the patriarchal narratives¹ may be defined very roughly as the first half of the second millennium (2000‒1500) B.C. The upper limit depends on the generally accepted assumption, based (somewhat insecurely, as it seems to us) on chapter 14, that Abraham was contemporary with Ḫammurabi, the 6th king of the first Babylonian dynasty. The date of Ḫammurabi is probably circa 2100 B.C.² The lower limit is determined by the Exodus, which is usually assigned (as it must be if Exodus 1¹¹ is genuine) to the reign of Merneptah of the Nineteenth Egyptian dynasty (circa 1234‒1214 B.C.). Allowing a sufficient period for the sojourn of Israel in Egypt, we come back to about the middle of the millennium as the approximate time when the family left Palestine for that country. The Hebrew chronology assigns nearly the same date as above to Abraham, but a much earlier one for the Exodus (circa 1490), and reduces the residence of the patriarchs in Canaan to 215 years; since, however, the chronological system rests on artificial calculations (see pages 135 f., 234), we cannot restrict our survey to the narrow limits which it assigns to the patriarchal period in Palestine. Indeed, the chronological uncertainties are so numerous that it is desirable to embrace an even wider field than the five centuries mentioned above.³

In the opinion of a growing and influential school of writers, this period of history has been so illumined by recent discoveries that it is no longer possible to doubt the essential historicity of the patriarchal tradition.¹ It is admitted that no external evidence has come to light of the existence of such persons as Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, or even (with the partial exception of Joseph) of men playing parts at all corresponding to theirs. But it is maintained that contemporary documents reveal a set of conditions into which the patriarchal narratives fit perfectly, and which are so different from those prevailing under the monarchy that the situation could not possibly have been imagined by an Israelite of that later age. Now, that recent archæology has thrown a flood of light on the period in question, is beyond all doubt. It has proved that Palestinian culture and religion were saturated by Babylonian influences long before the supposed date of Abraham; that from that date downwards intercourse with Egypt was frequent and easy; and that the country was more than once subjected to Egyptian conquest and authority. It has given us a most interesting glimpse from about 2000 B.C. of the natural products of Canaan, and the manner of life of its inhabitants (Tale of Sinuhe). At a later time (Tell-Amarna letters) it shows the Egyptian dominion threatened by the advance of Hittites from the north, and by the incursion of a body of nomadic marauders called Ḫabiri (see page 218). It tells us that Jakob-el (and Joseph-el?) was the name of a place in Canaan in the first half of the 15th century (pages 360, 389 f.), and that Israel was a tribe living in Palestine about 1200 B.C.; also that Hebrews (‛Apriw) were a foreign population in Egypt from the time of Ramses II. to that of Ramses IV. (Heyes, Bibel und Ägypten: Abraham und seine Nachkommen in Ägypten 146 ff.; Eerdmans, Alttestamentliche Studien 52 ff.; The Expositor l.c. 197). All this is of the utmost value; and if the patriarchs lived in this age, then this is the background against which we have to set their biographies. But the real question is whether there is such a correspondence between the biographies and their background that the former would be unintelligible if transplanted to other and later surroundings. We should gladly welcome any evidence that this is the case; but it seems to us that the remarkable thing about these narratives is just the absence of background and their general compatibility with the universal conditions of ancient Eastern life.² The case for the historicity of the tradition, based on correspondences with contemporary evidence from the period in question, appears to us to be greatly overstated.

The line of argument that claims most careful attention is to the following effect: Certain legal customs presupposed by the patriarchal stories are now known to have prevailed (in Babylon) in the age of Ḫammurabi; these customs had entirely ceased in Israel under the monarchy; consequently the narratives could not have been invented by legend-writers of that period (Jeremias, Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 355 ff.). The strongest case is the truly remarkable parallel supplied by Code of Ḫammurabi 146 to the position of Hagar as concubine-slave in chapter 16 (below, page 285). Here everything turns on the probability that this usage was unknown in Israel in the regal period; and it is surely pressing the argumentum ex silentio too far to assert confidently that if it had been known it would certainly have been mentioned in the later literature. We must remember that Genesis contains almost the only pictures of intimate family life in the Old Testament, and that it refers to many things not mentioned later simply because there was no occasion to speak of them. Were twin-births peculiar to the ♦patriarchal period because two are mentioned in Genesis and none at all in the rest of the Old Testament? The fact that the custom of the concubine-slave has persisted in Mohammedan countries down to modern times, should warn us against such sweeping negations.—Again, we learn (ib. 358) that the simultaneous marriage with two sisters was permitted by ancient Babylonian law, but was proscribed in Hebrew legislation as incestuous. Yes, but the law in question (Leviticus 18¹⁸) is late; and does not its enactment in the Priestly-Code rather imply that the practice against which it is directed survived in Israel till the close of the monarchy?—The distinction between the mōhar, or purchase price of a wife, and the gift to the bride (ib.), should not be cited: the mōhar is an institution everywhere prevailing in early pastoral societies; it is known to Hebrew jurisprudence (Exodus 22¹⁶); its name is not old Babylonian; and even its transmutation into personal service is in accordance with Arab practice (page 383 below).¹—In short, it does not appear that the examples given differ from another class of usages, “die nicht spezifisch altbabylonisch sind, sondern auch spätern bez. intergentilen Rechtszuständen entsprechen, die aber ... wenigstens teilweise eine interessante Beleuchtung durch den Code Ḫammurabi erfahren.” The “interessante Beleuchtung” will be freely admitted.

Still less has the new knowledge of the political circumstances of Palestine contributed to the direct elucidation of the patriarchal tradition, although it has brought to light certain facts which have to be taken into account in interpreting that tradition. The complete silence of the narratives as to the protracted Egyptian dominion over the country is very remarkable, and only to be explained by a fading of the actual situation from the popular memory during the course of oral transmission. The existence of Philistines in the time of Abraham is, so far as archæology can inform us, a positive anachronism. On the whole it must be said that archæology has in this region created more problems than it has solved. The occurrence of the name Yaḳob-el in the time of Thothmes III., of Asher under Seti I. and Ramses II., and of Israel under Merneptah; the appearance of Hebrews (Ḫabiri?) in Palestine in the 15th century, and in Egypt (‛Apriw?) from Ramses II. to Ramses IV., present so many difficulties to the adjustment of the patriarchal figures to their original background. We do not seem as yet to be in sight of a historical construction which shall enable us to bring these conflicting data into line with an intelligible rendering of the Hebrew tradition.

It is considerations such as these that give so keen an edge to the controversy about the genuineness of chapter 14. That is the only section of Genesis which seems to set the figure of Abraham in the framework of world history. If it be a historical document, then we have a fixed centre round which the Abrahamic traditions, and possibly those of the other patriarchs as well, will group themselves; if it be but a late imitation of history, we are cast adrift, with nothing to guide us except an uncertain and artificial scheme of chronology. For an attempt to estimate the force of the arguments on either side we must refer to the commentary below (page 271 ff.). Here, however, it is in point to observe that even if the complete historicity of chapter 14 were established, it would take us but a little way towards the authentication of the patriarchal traditions as a whole. For that episode confessedly occupies a place entirely unique in the records of the patriarchs; and all the marks of contemporary authorship which it is held to present are so many proofs that the remaining narratives are of a different character, and lack that particular kind of attestation. The coexistence of oral traditions and historic notices relating to the same individual proves that the former rest on a basis of fact; but it does not warrant the inference that the oral tradition is accurate in detail, or even that it faithfully reflects the circumstances of the period with which it deals. And to us the Abraham of oral tradition is a far more important religious personality than Abram the Hebrew, the hero of the exploit recorded in chapter 14.

2. Ethnological theories.—The negative conclusion expressed above (page xvii f.) as to the value of ancient Babylonian analogies to the patriarchal tradition, depends partly on the assumption of the school of writers whose views were under consideration: viz., that the narratives are a transcript of actual family life in that remote age, and therefore susceptible of illustration from private law as we find it embodied in the Code of Ḫammurabi. It makes, however, little difference if for family relations we substitute those of clans and peoples to one another, and treat the individuals as representatives of the tribes to which Israel traced its origin. We shall then find the real historic content of the legends in migratory movements, tribal divisions and fusions, and general ethnological phenomena, which popular tradition has disguised as personal biographies. This is the line of interpretation which has mostly prevailed in critical circles since Ewald;¹ and it has given rise to an extraordinary variety of theories. In itself (as in the hands of Ewald) it is not necessarily inconsistent with belief in the individual existence of the patriarchs; though its more extreme exponents do not recognise this as credible. The theories in question fall into two groups: those which regard the narratives as ideal projections into the past of relations subsisting, or conceptions formed, after the final settlement in Canaan;² and those which try to extract from them a real history of the period before the Exodus. Since the former class deny a solid tradition of any kind behind the patriarchal story, we may here pass them over, and confine our attention to those which do allow a certain substratum of truth in the pictures of the pre-Exodus period.

As a specimen of this class of theories, neither better nor worse than others that might be chosen, we may take that of Cornill. According to him, Abraham was a real person, who headed a migration from Mesopotamia to Canaan about 1500 B.C. Through the successive separations of Moab, Ammon, and Edom, the main body of immigrants was so reduced that it might have been submerged, but for the arrival of a fresh contingent from Mesopotamia under the name Jacob (the names, except Abraham’s, are all tribal or national). This reinforcement consisted of four groups, of which the Leah-group was the oldest and strongest. The tribe of Joseph then aimed at the hegemony, but was overpowered by the other tribes, and forced to retire to Egypt. The Bilhah-group, thus deprived of its natural support, was assailed by the Leah-tribes led by Reuben; but the attempt was foiled, and Reuben lost his birthright. Subsequently the whole of the tribes were driven to seek shelter in Egypt, when Joseph took a noble revenge by allowing them to settle by its side in the frontier province of Egypt (History of Israel, 29 ff.).

It will be seen that the construction hangs mainly on two leading ideas: tribal affinities typified by various phases of the marriage relation; and migrations. As regards the first, we have seen (page xii) that there is a true principle at the root of the method. It springs from the personification of a tribe under the name of an individual, male or female; and we have admitted that many names in Genesis have this significance, and probably no other. If, then, two eponymous ancestors (Jacob and Esau) are represented as twin brothers, we may be sure that the peoples in question were conscious of an extremely close affinity. If a male eponym is married to a female, we may presume (though with less confidence) that the two tribes were amalgamated. Or, if one clan is spoken of as a wife and another as a concubine, we may reasonably conclude that the latter was somehow inferior to the former. But beyond a few simple analogies of this kind (each of which, moreover, requires to be tested by the inherent probabilities of the case) the method ceases to be reliable; and the attempt to apply it to all the complex family relationships of the patriarchs only lands us in confusion.¹—The idea of migration is still less trustworthy. Certainly not every journey recorded in Genesis (e.g. that of Joseph from Hebron to Shechem and Dothan, 37^14 ff.: pace Steuernagel) can be explained as a migratory movement. Even when the ethnological background is apparent, the movements of tribes may be necessary corollaries of the assumed relationships between them (e.g. Jacob’s journey to Ḥarran: page 357); and it will be difficult to draw the line between these and real migrations. The case of Abraham is no doubt a strong one; for if his figure has any ethnological significance at all, his exodus from Ḥarran (or Ur) can hardly be interpreted otherwise than as a migration of Hebrew tribes from that region. We cannot feel the same certainty with regard to Joseph’s being carried down to Egypt; it seems to us altogether doubtful if this be rightly understood as an enforced movement of the tribe of Joseph to Egypt in advance of the rest (see page 441).

But it is when we pass from genealogies and marriages and journeys to pictorial narrative that the breakdown of the ethnological method becomes complete. The obvious truth is that no tribal relationship can supply an adequate motive for the wealth of detail that meets us in the richly coloured patriarchal legends; and the theory stultifies itself by assigning ethnological significance to incidents which originally had no such meaning. It will have been noticed that Cornill utilises a few biographical touches to fill in his scheme (the youthful ambition of Joseph; his sale into Egypt, etc.), and every other theorist does the same. Each writer selects those incidents which fit into his own system, and neglects those which would ♦embarrass it. Each system has some plausible and attractive features; but each, to avoid absurdity, has to exercise a judicious restraint on the consistent extension of its principles. The consequence is endless diversity in detail, and no agreement even in general outline.¹

It is evident that such constructions will never reach any satisfactory result unless they find some point of support in the history of the period as gathered from contemporary sources. The second millennium B.C. is thought to have witnessed one great movement of Semitic tribes to the north, viz., the Aramæan. About the middle of the millennium we find the first notices of the Aramæans as nomads in what is now the Syro-Arabian desert. Shortly afterwards the Ḫabiri make their appearance in Palestine. It is a natural conjecture that these were branches of the same migration, and it has been surmised that we have here the explanation of the tradition which affirms the common descent of Hebrews and Aramæans. The question then arises whether we can connect this fact with the patriarchal tradition, and if so with what stratum of that tradition. Isaac and Joseph are out of the reckoning, because neither is ever brought into contact with the Aramæans; Rebekah is too insignificant. Abraham is excluded by the chronology, unless (with Cornhill) we bring down his date to circa 1500, or (with Steuernagel) regard his migration as a traditional duplicate of Jacob’s return from Laban. But if Jacob is suggested, we encounter the difficulty that Jacob must have been settled in Canaan some generations before the age of the Ḫabiri. In the case of Abraham there may be a conflation of two traditions,—one tracing his nativity to Ḥarran and the other to Ur; and it is conceivable that he is the symbol of two migrations, one of which might be identified with the arrival of the Ḫabiri, and the other might have taken place as early as the age of Ḫammurabi. But these are speculations no whit more reliable than any of those dealt with above; and it has to be confessed that as yet archæology has furnished no sure basis for the reconstruction of the patriarchal history. It is permissible to hope that further discoveries may bring to light facts which shall enable us to decide more definitely than is possible at present how far that history can be explained on ethnological lines.¹

3. The patriarchs as individuals.—We come, in the last place, to consider the probability that the oral tradition, through its own inherent tenacity of recollection, may have retained some true impression of the events to which it refers. After what has been said, it is vain to expect that a picture true in every detail will be recoverable from popular tales current in the earliest ages of the monarchy. The course of oral tradition has been too long, the disturbing influences to which it has been exposed have been too numerous and varied, and the subsidiary motives which have grafted themselves on to it too clearly discernible, to admit of the supposition that more than a substantial nucleus of historic fact can have been preserved in the national memory of Israel. It is not, however, unreasonable to believe that such a historical nucleus exists; and that with care we may disentangle from the mass of legendary accretions some elements of actual reminiscence of the prehistoric movements which determined the subsequent development of the national life.¹ It is true that in this region we have as a rule only subjective impressions to guide us; but in the absence of external criteria a subjective judgement has its value, and one in favour of the historic origin of the tradition is at least as valid as another to the contrary effect.—The two points on which attention now falls to be concentrated are: (a) the personalities of the patriarchs; and (b) the religious significance of the tradition.

(a) It is a tolerably safe general maxim that tradition does not invent names, or persons. We have on any view to account for the entrance of such figures as Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph into the imagination of the Israelites; and amongst possible avenues of entrance we must certainly count it as one, that they were real men, who lived and were remembered. What other explanations can be given? The idea that they were native creations of Hebrew mythology (Goldziher) has, for the present at least, fallen into disrepute; and there remain but two theories as alternatives to the historic reality of the patriarchs: viz., that they were originally personified tribes, or that they were originally Canaanite deities.

The conception of the patriarchs as tribal eponyms, we have already seen to be admissible, though not proved. The idea that they were Canaanite deities is not perhaps one that can be dismissed as transparently absurd. If the Israelites, on entering Canaan, found Abraham worshipped at Hebron, Isaac at Beersheba, Jacob at Bethel, and Joseph at Shechem, and if they adopted the cult of these deities, they might come to regard themselves as their children; and in course of time the gods might be transformed into human ancestors around whom the national legend might crystallise. At the same time the theory is destitute of proof; and the burden of proof lies on those who maintain it. Neither the fact (if it be a fact) that the patriarchs were objects of worship at the shrines where their graves were shown, nor the presence of mythical traits in their biographies, proves them to have been superhuman beings.—The discussion turns largely on the evidence of the patriarchal names; but this, too, is indecisive. The name Israel is national, and in so far as it is applied to an individual it is a case of eponymous personification. Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph (assuming these to be contractions of Yiẓḥaḳ-el, etc.) are also most naturally explained as tribal designations. Meyer, after long vacillation, has come to the conclusion that they are divine names (Die Israeliten und ihre Nachbarstämme, 249 ff.); but the arguments which formerly convinced him that they are tribal seem to us more cogent than those to which he now gives the preference. That names of this type frequently denote tribes is a fact; that they may denote deities is only a hypothesis. That they may also denote individuals (Yaḳub-ilu, Yašup-ilu) is true; but that only establishes a possibility, hardly a probability; for it is more likely that the individual was named after his tribe than that the tribe got its name from an individual.—The name Abram stands by itself. It represents no ethnological entity, and occurs historically only as the name of an individual; and though it is capable of being interpreted in a sense appropriate to deity, all analogy is in favour of explaining it as a theophorous human name. The solitary allusion to the biblical Abram in the monuments—the mention of the ‘Field of Abram’ in Shishak’s inscription (see page 244)—is entirely consistent with this acceptation.—It is probably a mistake to insist on carrying through any exclusive theory of the patriarchal personalities. If we have proved that Abram was a historical individual, we have not thereby proved that Isaac and Jacob were so also; and if we succeed in resolving the latter into tribal eponyms, it will not follow that Abraham falls under the same category.

There is thus a justification for the tendency of many writers to put Abraham on a different plane from the other patriarchs, and to concentrate the discussion of the historicity of the tradition mainly on his person. An important element in the case is the clearly conceived type of character which he represents. No doubt the character has been idealised in accordance with the conceptions of a later age; but the impression remains that there must have been something in the actual Abraham which gave a direction to the idealisation. It is this perception more than anything else which invests the figure of Abraham with the significance which it has possessed for devout minds in all ages, and which still resists the attempt to dissolve him into a creation of religious phantasy. If there be any truth in the description of legend as a form of narrative conserving the impression of a great personality on his age, we may venture, in spite of the lack of decisive evidence, to regard him as a historic personage, however dim the surroundings of his life may be.¹

(b) It is of little consequence to know whether a man called Abraham lived about 2000 B.C., and led a caravan from Ur or Ḥarran to Palestine, and defeated a great army from the east. One of the evil effects of the controversial treatment of such questions is to diffuse the impression that a great religious value attaches to discussions of this kind. What it really concerns us to know is the spiritual significance of the events, and of the mission of Abraham in particular. And it is only when we take this point of view that we do justice to the spirit of the Hebrew tradition. It is obvious that the central idea of the patriarchal tradition is the conviction in the mind of Israel that as a nation it originated in a great religious movement, that the divine call which summoned Abraham from his home and kindred, and made him a stranger and sojourner on the earth, imported a new era in God’s dealings with mankind, and gave Israel its mission in the world (Isaiah 41^8 f.). Is this conception historically credible?

Some attempts to find historic points of contact for this view of Abraham’s significance for religion will be looked at presently; but their contribution to the elucidation of the biblical narrative seems to us disappointing in the extreme. Nor can we unreservedly assent to the common argument that the mission of Moses would be unintelligible apart from that of Abraham. It is true, Moses is said to have appealed to the God of the fathers; and if that be a literally exact statement, Moses built on the foundation laid by Abraham. But that the distinctive institutions and ideas of the Yahwe-religion could not have originated with Moses just as well as with Abraham, is more than we have a right to affirm. In short, positive proof, such as would satisfy the canons of historical criticism, of the work of Abraham is not available. What we can say is, in the first place, that if he had the importance assigned to him, the fact is just of the kind that might be expected to impress itself indelibly on a tradition dating from the time of the event. We have in it the influence of a great personality, giving birth to the collective consciousness of a nation; and this fact is of a nature to evoke that centripetal ‘intensification of memory’ which Höffding emphasises as the distinguishing mark and the preserving salt of legend as contrasted with myth. In the second place, the appearance of a prophetic personality, such as Abraham is represented to have been, is a phenomenon with many analogies in the history of religion. The ethical and spiritual idea of God which is at the foundation of the religion of Israel could only enter the world through a personal organ of divine revelation; and nothing forbids us to see in Abraham the first of that long series of prophets through whom God has communicated to mankind a saving knowledge of Himself. The keynote of Abraham’s piety is faith in the unseen,—faith in the divine impulse which drove him forth to a land which he was never to possess; and faith in the future of the religion which he thus founded. He moves before us on the page of Scripture as the man through whom faith, the living principle of true religion, first became a force in human affairs. It is difficult to think that so powerful a conception has grown out of nothing. As we read the story, we may well trust the instinct which tells us that here we are face to face with a decisive act of the living God in history, and an act whose essential significance was never lost in Israelite tradition.

The significance of the Abrahamic migration in relation to the general movements of religious thought in the East is the theme of Winckler’s interesting pamphlet, Abraham als Babylonier, Joseph als Aegypter (1903). The elevation of Babylon, in the reign of Ḫammurabi, to be the first city of the empire, and the centre of Babylonian culture, meant, we are told, a revolution in religion, inasmuch as it involved the deposition of Sin, the old moon-god, from the supreme place in the pantheon in favour of the ‘Deliverer Marduk,’ the tutelary deity of Babylon. Abraham, a contemporary, and an adherent of the older faith, opposed the reformation; and, after vainly seeking support for his protest at Ur and Ḥarran, the two great centres of the worship of Sin, migrated to Canaan, beyond the limits of Ḫammurabi’s empire, to worship God after his fashion. How much truth is contained in these brilliant generalisations it is difficult for an ordinary man to say. In spite of the ingenuity and breadth of conception with which the theory is worked out, it is not unfair to suggest that it rests mostly on a combination of things that are not in the Bible with things that are not in the monuments. Indeed, the only positive point of contact between the two data of the problem is the certainly remarkable fact that tradition does connect Abraham with two chief centres of the Babylonian moon-worship. But what we chiefly desiderate is some evidence that the worship of the moon-god had greater affinities with monotheism than the worship of Marduk, the god of the vernal sun. [The attempt to connect Joseph with the abortive monotheistic reform of Chuenaten (Amenophis IV.) is destitute of plausibility.]—To a similar effect Jeremias, Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 327 ff.: “A reform movement of protest against the religious degeneration of the ruling classes” was the motive of the migration (333), perhaps connected with the introduction of a new astronomical era, the Taurus-epoch (which, by the way, had commenced nearly 1000 years before! compare 66). The movement assumed the form of a migration—a Hegira—under Abraham as Mahdi, who preached his doctrine as he went, made converts in Ḥarran, Egypt, Gerar, Damascus, and elsewhere, finally establishing the worship of Yahwe at the sanctuaries of Palestine. This is to write a new Abrahamic legend, considerably different from the old.

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§ 5. Preservation and collection of the traditions.

In all popular narration the natural unit is the short story, which does not too severely tax the attention of a simple audience, and which retains its outline and features unchanged as it passes from mouth to mouth.¹ A large part of the Book of Genesis consists of narratives of this description,—single tales, of varying length but mostly very short, each complete in itself, with a clear beginning and a satisfying conclusion. As we read the book, unities of this kind detach themselves from their context, and round themselves into independent wholes; and it is only by studying them in their isolation, and each in its own light, that we can fully appreciate their charm and understand, in some measure, the circumstances of their origin. The older stratum of the primæval history, and of the history of Abraham, is almost entirely composed of single incidents of this kind: think of the story of the Fall, of Cain and Abel, of Noah’s drunkenness, of the Tower of Babel; and again of Abraham in Egypt, of the flight or expulsion of Hagar, of the sacrifice of Isaac, etc., etc. When we pass the middle of the book, the mode of narration begins to change. The biography of Jacob is much more a consecutive narrative than that of Abraham; but even here the separate scenes stand out in their original distinctness of outline (e.g. the transference of the birthright, Jacob at Bethel, the meeting with Rachel at the well, the wrestling at Peniel, the outrage on Dinah, etc.). It is not till we come to the history of Joseph that the principle of biographical continuity gains the upper hand. Joseph’s story is, indeed, made up of a number of incidents; but they are made to merge into one another, so that each derives its interest from its relation to the whole, and ends (except the last) on a note of suspense and expectation rather than of rest. This no doubt is due to the greater popularity and more frequent repetition of the stories of Jacob and Joseph; but at the same time it bears witness to a considerable development of the art of story-telling, and one in which we cannot but detect some degree of professional aptitude and activity.

The short stories of Genesis, even those of the most elementary type, are exquisite works of art, almost as unique and perfect in their own kind as the parables of our Lord are in theirs. They are certainly not random productions of fireside gossip, but bear the unmistakable stamp of individual genius (Gunkel, Genesis übersetzt und erklärt page xxx). Now, between the inception of the legends (which is already at some distance from the traditional facts) and the written form in which they lie before us, there stretches an interval which is perhaps in some instances to be measured by centuries. Hence two questions arise: (1) What was the fate of the stories during this interval? Were they cast adrift on the stream of popular talk,—with nothing to secure their preservation save the perfection of their original form,—and afterwards collected from the lips of the people? Or were they taken in hand from the first by a special class of men who made it their business to conserve the integrity of the narratives, and under whose auspices the mass of traditional material was gradually welded into its present shape? And (2), how is this whole process of transmission and consolidation related to the use of writing? Was the work of collecting and systematising the traditions primarily a literary one, or had it already commenced at the stage of oral narration?

To such questions, of course, no final answers can be given. (1) It is not possible to discriminate accurately between the modifications which a narrative would undergo through constant repetition, and changes deliberately made by responsible persons. On the whole, the balance of presumption seems to us to incline towards the hypothesis of professional oversight of some sort, exercised from a very early time. On this assumption, too, we can best understand the formation of legendary cycles; for it is evident that no effective grouping of tradition could take place in the course of promiscuous popular recital. (2) As to the use of writing, it is natural to suppose that it came in first of all as an aid to the memory of the narrator, and that as a knowledge of literature extended the practice of oral recitation gradually died out, and left the written record in sole possession of the field. In this way we may imagine that books would be formed, which would be handed down from father to son, annotated, expanded, revised, and copied; and so collections resembling our oldest pentateuchal documents might come into existence.¹

Here we come upon one important fact which affords some guidance in the midst of these speculations. The bulk of the Genesis-tradition lies before us in two closely parallel and practically contemporaneous recensions (see page xliii ff. below). Since there is every reason to believe that these recensions were made independently of each other, it follows that the early traditions had been codified, and a sort of national epos had taken shape, prior to the compilation of these documents. When we find, further, that each of them contains evidence of earlier collections and older strata of tradition, we must assume a very considerable period of time to have elapsed between the formation of a fixed corpus of tradition and the composition of Yahwist and Elohist. Beyond this, however, we are in the region of vaguest conjecture. We cannot tell for certain what kind of authority had presided over the combination of the legends, nor whether it was first done in the oral or the literary stage of translation. We may think of the priesthoods of the leading sanctuaries as the natural custodians of the tradition:¹ the sanctuaries were at least the obvious repositories of the cult-legends pertaining to them. But we cannot indicate any sanctuary of such outstanding national importance as to be plausibly regarded as the centre of a national epic.² Or we may assign a conspicuous share in the work to the prophetic guilds which, in the time of Samuel, were foci of enthusiasm for the national cause, and might conceivably have devoted themselves to the propagation of the national tradition. Or, finally, we may assume, with Gunkel, Genesis übersetzt und erklärt, that there existed in Israel, as among the Arabs, guilds of professional story-tellers, exercising their vocation at public festivals and such like gatherings, for the entertainment and instruction of the people. The one certainty is that a considerable time must be allowed for the complex mental activities which lie behind our earliest literary sources. It is true that the rise of a national epos presupposes a strongly developed consciousness of national unity; but in Israel the national ideal was much older than its realisation in the form of a state, and therefore we have no reason for placing the unification of the traditions later than the founding of the monarchy. From the age of Samuel at least all the essential conditions were present; and a lower limit than that will hardly meet the requirements of the case.

We may here refer to a matter of great importance in its bearing on the possibility of accurate oral transmission of the legends: viz. the recent effort of Sievers (Metrische Studien, ii., 1904‒5) to resolve the whole of Genesis into verse. If his theory should be established, it would not merely furnish the most potent instrument of literary analysis conceivable, but it would render credible a very high degree of verbal exactitude during the period of unwritten tradition. The work of Sievers is viewed with qualified approval both by Gunkel, Genesis übersetzt und erklärt (page xxix f.) and Procksch, Das nordhebräische Sagenbuch: die Elohimquelle (210 ff.), and it is certain to evoke interesting discussion. The present writer, who is anything but a ‘Metriker von Fach,’ does not feel competent to pronounce an opinion on its merits. Neither reading aloud, nor counting of syllables, has convinced him that the scansion holds, or that Hebrew rhythm in general is so rigorously exact as the system demands. The prejudice against divorcing poetic form from poetic feeling and diction (of the latter there is no trace in what have been considered the prose parts of Genesis) is not lightly to be overcome; and the frequent want of coincidence between breaks in sense and pauses in rhythm disturbs the mind, besides violating what used to be thought a fundamental feature of Hebrew poetry. Grave misgivings are also raised by the question whether the Massoretic theory of the syllable is (as Sievers assumes) a reliable guide to the pronunciation and rhythm of the early Hebrew language. It seems therefore hazardous to apply the method to the solution of literary problems, whether by emendation of the text, or by disentanglement of sources.

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§ 7. The Sources of Genesis.

The Book of Genesis has always been the strategic position of Pentateuchal literary criticism. It was the examination of this book that led Astruc, in 1753,¹ to the important discovery which was the first positive achievement in this department of research. Having noticed the significant alternation of the divine names in different sections of the book, and having convinced himself that the phenomenon could not be explained otherwise than as due to the literary habit of two writers, Astruc proceeded to divide the bulk of Genesis into two documents, one distinguished by the use of the name אֱלֹהִים, and the other by the use of יְהֹוָה; while a series of fragmentary passages where this criterion failed him brought the total number of his mémoires up to twelve. Subsequent investigations served to emphasise the magnitude of this discovery, which Eichhorn² speedily put on a broader basis by a characterisation of the style, contents, and spirit of the two documents. Neither Astruc nor Eichhorn carried the analysis further than Exodus 2,—partly because they were influenced by the traditional opinion (afterwards abandoned by Eichhorn) of Mosaic authorship, and did not expect to find traces of composition in the history contemporaneous with Moses. We shall see presently that there is a deeper reason why this particular clue to the analysis could not at first be traced beyond the early chapters of Exodus.

While the earlier attempts to discredit Astruc’s discovery took the direction of showing that the use of the two divine names is determined by a difference of meaning which made the one or the other more suitable in a particular connexion, the more recent opposition entrenches itself mostly behind the uncertainties of the text, and maintains that the Versions (especially LXX) show the Massoretic Text to be so unreliable that no analysis of documents can be based on its data: see Klostermann, Der Pentateuch (1893), page 20 ff.; Dahse, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., vi. (1903), 305 ff.; Redpath, American Journal of Theology, viii. (1904), 286 ff.; Eerdmans, Die Komposition der Genesis (1908), 34 ff.; Wiener, Bibliotheca Sacra and Theological Review (1909), 119 ff.—It cannot be denied that the facts adduced by these writers import an element of uncertainty into the analysis, so far as it depends on the criterion of the divine names; but the significance of the facts is greatly overrated, and the alternative theories propounded to account for the textual phenomena are improbable in the extreme. (1) So far as I have observed, no attention is paid to what is surely a very important factor of the problem, the proportion of divergences to agreements as between LXX and Massoretic Text. In Genesis the divine name occurs in one or other form about 340 times (in Massoretic Text, יהוה 143 times + אלהים 177 times + י׳ א׳ 20 times). The total deviations registered by Redpath (296 ff.) number 50; according to Eerdmans (34 f.) they are 49; i.e. little more than one-seventh of the whole. Is it so certain that that degree of divergence invalidates a documentary analysis founded on so much larger a field of undisputed readings? (2) In spite of the confident assertions of Dahse (309) and Wiener (131 f.) there is not a single instance in which LXX is ‘demonstrably’ right against Massoretic Text. It is readily conceded that it is probably right in a few cases; but there are two general presumptions in favour of the superior fidelity of the Massoretic tradition. Not only (a) is the chance of purely clerical confusion between κ̅ς and θ̅ς greater than between יהוה and אלהים, or even between י׳ and א׳, and (b) a change of divine names more apt to occur in translation than in transcription, but (c) the distinction between a proper name יהוה and a generic אלהים is much less likely to have been overlooked in copying than that between two appellatives κύριος and θεός. An instructive example is 4²⁶, where LXX κύριος ὁ θεός is ‘demonstrably’ wrong. (3) In the present state of textual criticism it is impossible to determine in particular cases what is the original reading. We can only proceed by the imperfect method of averages. Now it is significant that while in Genesis LXX substitutes θεός for יהוה 21 times, and κύριος ὁ θεός 19 times (40 in all), there are only 4 cases of κύριος and 6 of κύριος ὁ θεός for אלהים (10 in all: the proportions being very much the same for the whole Pentateuch). LXX thus reveals a decided (and very natural) preference for the ordinary Greek θεός over the less familiar κύριος. Dahse urges (page 308) that Massoretic Text betrays an equally marked preference for יהוה, and has frequently substituted it for אלהים; but that is much less intelligible. For although the pronunciation of יהוה as אֲדֹנָי might have removed the fear of the Tetragrammaton,—and that would be a very good reason for leaving יהוה where it was,—it suggests no motive at all for inserting it where it was not. There is force, however, in Gray’s remark on a particular case (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Numbers page 311), that “wherever [ὁ] κ̅ς appears in LXX it deserves attention as a possible indication of the original text.” (4) The documentary theory furnishes a better explanation of the alternation of the names than any other that has been propounded. Redpath’s hypothesis of a double recension of the Pentateuch, one mainly Yahwistic and the other wholly (?) Elohistic, of which one was used only where the other was illegible, would explain anything, and therefore explains nothing; least of all does it explain the frequent coincidence of hypothetical illegibility with actual changes of style, phraseology, and standpoint. Dahse (following out a hint of Klostermann) accounts for the phenomena of Massoretic Text (and The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch) by the desire to preserve uniformity within the limits of each several pericope of the Synagogue lectionary; but why some pericopes should be Yahwistic and others Elohistic, it is not easy to conceive. He admits that his view cannot be carried through in detail; yet it is just of the kind which, if true, ought to be verifiable in detail. One has but to read consecutively the first three chapters of Genesis, and observe how the sudden change in the divine name coincides with a new vocabulary, representation, and spiritual atmosphere, in order to feel how paltry all such artificial explanations are in comparison with the hypothesis that the names are distinctive of different documents. The experience repeats itself, not perhaps quite so convincingly, again and again throughout the book; and though there are cases where the change of manner is not obvious, still the theory is vindicated in a sufficient number of instances to be worth carrying through, even at the expense of a somewhat complicated analysis, and a very few demands (see page xlviii f.) on the services of a redactor to resolve isolated problems. (5) It was frankly admitted by Kuenen long ago (see Historisch-critisch Onderzoek naar het ontstaan en de verzameling van de boeken des Ouden Verbonds i. pages 59, 62) that the test of the divine names is not by itself a sufficient criterion of source or authorship, and that critics might sometimes err through a too exclusive reliance on this one phenomenon.¹ Nevertheless the opinion can be maintained that the Massoretic Text is far superior to the Versions, and that its use of the names is a valuable clue to the separation of documents. Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction; and, however surprising it may appear to some, we can reconcile our minds to the belief that the Massoretic Text does reproduce with substantial accuracy the characteristics of the original autographs. At present that assumption can only be tested by the success or failure of the analysis based on it. It is idle to speculate on what would have happened if Astruc and his successors had been compelled to operate with LXX instead of Massoretic Text; but it is a rational surmise that in that case criticism would still have arrived, by a more laborious route, at very much the positions it occupies to-day.

The next great step towards the modern documentary theory of the Pentateuch was Hupfeld’s¹ demonstration that אלהים is not peculiar to one document, but to two; so that under the name Elohist two different writers had previously been confused. It is obvious, of course, that in this inquiry the divine names afford no guidance; yet by observing finer marks of style, and the connexion of the narrative, Hupfeld succeeded in proving to the ultimate satisfaction of all critics that there was a second Elohistic source (now called Elohist), closely parallel and akin to the Yahwistic (Yahwist), and that both Yahwist and Elohist had once been independent consecutive narratives. An important part of the work was a more accurate delimitation of the first Elohist (now called the Priestly Code: Priestly-Code), whose outlines were then first drawn with a clearness to which later investigation has had little to add.²

Though Hupfeld’s work was confined to Genesis, it had results of the utmost consequence for the criticism of the Pentateuch as a whole. In particular, it brought to light a fact which at once explains why Genesis presents a simpler problem to analysis than the rest of the Pentateuch, and furnishes a final proof that the avoidance of יהוה by two of the sources was not accidental, but arose from a theory of religious development held and expressed by both writers. For both Priestly-Code (Exodus 6^2 ff.) and Elohist (Exodus 3^13 ff.) connect the revelation of the Tetragrammaton with the mission of Moses; while the former states emphatically that God was not known by that name to the patriarchs.¹ Consistency demanded that these writers should use the generic name for Deity up to this point; while Yahwist, who was bound by no such theory, could use יהוה from the first.² From Exodus 6 onwards Priestly-Code regularly uses יהוה; Elohist’s usage fluctuates between א׳ and י׳ (perhaps a sign of different strata within the document), so that the criterion no longer yields a sure clue to the analysis.

It does not lie within the scope of this Introduction to trace the extension of these lines of cleavage through the other books of the Hexateuch; and of the reflex results of the criticism of the later books on that of Genesis only two can here be mentioned. One is the recognition of the unique position and character of Deuteronomy in the Pentateuch, and the dating of its promulgation in the eighteenth year of Josiah.¹ Although this has hardly any direct influence on the criticism of Genesis, it is an important landmark in the Pentateuch problem, as furnishing a fixed date by reference to which the age of the other documents can partly be determined. The other point is the question of the date of Priestly-Code. The preconception in favour of the antiquity of this document (based for the most part on the fact that it really forms the framework of the Pentateuch) was nearly universal among scholars down to the publication of Wellhausen’s Geschichte Israels, i., in 1878; but it had already been shown to be groundless by Graff² and Kuenen in 1866‒69.

This revolutionary change was brought about by a comparison of the layers of legislation in the later Pentateuch books with one another, and with the stages of Israel’s religious history as revealed in the earlier historical books; from which it appeared that the laws belonging to Priestly-Code were later than Deuteronomy, and that their codification took place during and after, and their promulgation after, the Exile. There was hesitation at first in extending this conclusion to the narratives of Priestly-Code, especially those of them in Genesis and Exodus 1‒11. But when the problem was fairly faced, it was perceived, not only that Priestly-Code in Genesis presented no obstacle to the theory, but that in many respects its narrative was more intelligible as the latest than as the oldest stratum of the book.

The chief positions at which literary criticism has arrived with regard to Genesis are, therefore, briefly these: (1) The oldest sources are Yahwist and Elohist, closely parallel documents, both dating from the best period of Hebrew literature, but distinguished from each other by their use of the divine name, by slight idiosyncrasies of style, and by quite perceptible differences of representation. (2) These sources were combined into a composite narrative (Jehovist) by a redactor (Redactor^Jehovist), whose hand can be detected in several patches of a literary complexion differing from either of his authorities. He has done his work so deftly that it is frequently difficult, and sometimes impossible, to sunder the documents. It is generally held that this redaction took place before the composition of Deuteronomy, so that a third stage in the history of the Pentateuch would be represented by the symbols Jehovist + Deuteronomy. (3) The remaining source Priestly-Code is a product of the Exilic or post-Exilic age, though it embodies older material. Originally an independent work, its formal and schematic character fitted it to be the framework of the Pentateuchal narrative; and this has determined the procedure of the final redactor (Redactor^Pentateuch), by whom excerpts from Jehovist have been used to fill up the skeleton outline which Priestly-Code gave of the primitive and patriarchal history.

The above statement will, it is hoped, suffice to put the reader in possession of the main points of the critical position occupied in the Commentary. The evidence by which they are supported will partly be given in the next four §§; but, for a full discussion of the numerous questions involved, we must here refer to works specially devoted to the subject.¹

Some idea of the extent to which conservative opinion has been modified by criticism, may be gathered from the concessions made by Professor Orr, whose book, The Problem of the Old Testament, deservedly ranks as the ablest assault on the critical theory of the Pentateuch that has recently appeared in English. Dr. Orr admits (a) that Astruc was right in dividing a considerable part of Genesis into Elohistic and Yahwistic sections; (b) that Eichhorn’s characterisation of the style of the two documents has, in the main, ‘stood the test of time’; (c) that Hupfeld’s observation of a difference in the Elohistic sections of Genesis ‘in substance corresponds with facts’; and (d) that even Graf and Wellhausen ‘mark an advance,’ in making Priestly-Code a relatively later stratum of Genesis than Jehovist (pages 196‒201). When we see so many defences evacuated one after another, we begin to wonder what is left to fight about, and how a theory which was cradled in infidelity, and has the vice of its origin clinging to all its subsequent developments (Orr, 195 f.), is going to be prevented from doing its deadly work of spreading havoc over the ‘believing view’ of the Old Testament. Dr. Orr thinks to stem the torrent by adopting two relatively conservative positions from Klostermann. (1) The first is the denial of the distinction between Yahwist and Elohist (216 ff.). As soon as Hupfeld had effected the separation of Elohist from Priestly-Code, it ought to have been perceived, he seems to suggest, that the sections thus disentangled are really parts of Yahwist (217). And yet, even to Dr. Orr, the matter is not quite so simple as this, and he makes another concession. The distinction in the divine names remains; and so he is driven to admit that Yahwist and Elohist were, not indeed independent works, but different literary recensions of one and the same old work (229). What is meant by two versions in circulation alongside of each other, which never had currency as separate documents, is a point on which Dr. Orr owes his readers some explanation; if there were two recensions they certainly existed separately; and he cannot possibly know how far their agreement extended. The issue between him and his critical opponents is, nevertheless, perfectly clear: they hold that Yahwist and Elohist are independent recensions of a common body of tradition, while he maintains that they were recensions of a single document, differing in nothing but the use of יהוה or אלהים. What reasons, then, hinder us from deserting the critical view, and coming over to the side of Dr. Orr? In the first place, the difference between Yahwist and Elohist is not confined to the divine names. The linguistic evidence is very much clearer than Dr. Orr represents; and differences of conception, though slight, are real. It is all very well to quote from candid and truth-loving opponents admissions of the close resemblance of the narratives, and the difficulty and uncertainty of the analysis, in particular instances, and to suggest that these admissions amount to a throwing up of the case; but no man with an independent grasp of the subject will be imposed on by so cheap a device. In the second place, Yahwist and Elohist consist largely of duplicate narratives of the same event. It is true, this argument is lost on Dr. Orr, who has no difficulty in conceiving that Abraham twice told the same lie about his wife, and that his son Isaac followed his example, with very similar results in the three cases. But he will hardly affect to be surprised that other men take a more natural view,¹ and regard the stories as traditional variations of the same theme.—(2) The second position is that Priestly-Code was never a distinct or self-subsisting document, but only a “framework” enclosing the contents of Jehovist (341‒377). Again we have to ask what Dr. Orr means by a ‘framework,’ which, in his own words, “has also, at certain points, its original, and, in parts, considerable contributions to bring to the history” (272); and how he can possibly tell that these original and considerable contributions did not come from an independent work. The facts that it is now closely interwoven with Jehovist, and that there are gaps in its narrative (even if these gaps were more considerable than there is any reason to suppose), prove nothing except that it has passed through the hands of a redactor. That its history presupposes a knowledge of Jehovist, and is too meagre to be intelligible apart from it, is amply explained by the critical view that the author wished to concentrate attention on the great religious turning-points in the history (the Creation, the Flood, the Covenant with Abraham, the Blessing of Jacob by Isaac, the origin of the name Israel, the Settlement in Egypt, etc.), and dismissed the rest with a bare chronological epitome. When we add that on all these points, as well as others, the ‘original and considerable contributions’ are (Dr. Orr’s protestations notwithstanding) radically divergent from the older tradition, we have every proof that could be desired that Priestly-Code was an independent document, and not a mere supplementary expansion of an earlier compilation (see, further, page lvii ff. below). But now, supposing Dr. Orr to have made good his contentions, what advantage has he gained? So far as we can see, none whatever! He does indeed go on to assert a preference for the term ‘collaboration’ as expressing the ‘kind and manner of the activity which brought the Pentateuchal books into their present shape’ (375).² But that preference might just as easily have been exercised on the full literary results of the critical theory. And Dr. Orr deceives himself if he imagines that that flimsy hypothesis will either neutralise the force of the arguments that have carried criticism past the barren eccentricities of Klostermann, or save what he chooses to consider the ‘essential Mosaicity’ of the Pentateuch.

Professor Eerdmans of Leiden, in a series of recent publications, has announced his secession from the Graf-Wellhausen school, and commenced to lay down the programme of a new era in Old Testament criticism (Hibbert Journal vii. [1909], 813 ff.). His Komposition der Genesis (1908) gives a foretaste of his literary method; and certainly the procedure is drastic enough. The divine names are absolutely misleading as a criterion of authorship; and the distinction between Priestly-Code and Jehovist goes overboard along with that between Yahwist and Elohist. Criticism is thus thrown back into its original chaos, out of which Eerdmans proceeds to evoke a new kosmos. His one positive principle is the recognition of a polytheistic background behind the traditions, which has been obscured in various degrees by the later monotheistic interpretation. By the help of this principle, he distinguishes four stages in the development of the tradition. (1) The first is represented by remnants of the original undiluted polytheism, where Yahwe does not appear at all; e.g. 35^1‒7; the Israel-recension of the Joseph-stories; the groundwork of chapters 1. 20. 28^1‒9 6⁹‒9¹⁷. (2) Legends which recognise Yahwe as one among many gods; 4. 9^18‒27 22. 27. 28^11‒22 29. 30. 31. 39. (3) In the third stage, polytheistic legends are transferred to Yahwe as the only God: 2. 3. 6^1‒8 7^1‒5 8^20‒22 11^1‒9 16. 18. 19. 24. 25^19‒34 26. (4) Late additions of purely monotheistic complexion: 15^1‒6 17. 35^9‒15 48^3‒6. Now, we are quite prepared to find traces of all these stages of religion in the Genesis-narratives, if they can be proved; and, indeed, all of them except the second are recognised by recent critics. But while any serious attempt to determine the age of the legends from their contents rather than from their literary features is to be welcomed, it is difficult to perceive the distinctions on which Eerdmans’s classification is based, or to admit that, for example, chapter 17 is one whit more monotheistic than 20 or 27, or 24. In any case, on Eerdmans’s own showing, the classification affords no clue to the composition and history of the book. In order to get a start, he has to fall back on the acknowledged literary distinction between a Jacob-recension and an Israel-recension of the Joseph-narratives (on this see page 439 below). Since the former begins אלה תלדות יעקב, it is considered to have formed part of a comprehensive history of the patriarchs, commencing with Adam (5¹), set in a framework of Tôlĕdôth. This is the groundwork of Genesis. It is destitute of monotheistic colouring (it contains, however, legends of all the first three classes!), Yahwe being to the compiler simply one of the gods; and must therefore have originated before the Exile: a lower limit is 700 B.C. This collection was soon enlarged by the addition of legends not less ancient than its own; and by the insertion of the Israel-recension, which is as polytheistic in character as the Tôlĕdôth-collection! The monotheistic manipulation of the work set in after Deuteronomy; but how many editions it went through we cannot tell for certain. The last thorough-going reviser was the author of chapter 17; but additions were made even later than that, etc. etc. A more bewildering hypothesis it has never been our lot to examine; and we cannot pretend to believe that it contains the rudiments of a successful analysis. There is much to be learned from Eerdmans’s work, which is full of acute observations and sound reasoning in detail; but as a theory of the composition of Genesis it seems to us utterly at fault. What with Winckler and Jerome, and Cheyne, and now Eerdmans, Old Testament scholars have a good many new eras dawning on them just now. Whether any of them will shine unto the perfect day, time will show.

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§ 8. The collective authorship of Yahwist and Elohist.

In Yahwist and Elohist we have, according to what has been said above, the two oldest written recensions of a tradition which had at one time existed in the oral form. When we compare the two documents, the first thing that strikes us is their close correspondence in outline and contents. The only important difference is that Elohist’s narrative does not seem to have embraced the primitive period, but to have commenced with Abraham. But from the point where Elohist strikes into the current of the history (at chapter 20, with a few earlier traces in chapter 15), there are few incidents in the one document to which the other does not contain a parallel.¹. What is much more remarkable, and indeed surprising, is that the manner of narration changes in the two documents pari passu. Thus the transition from the loose connexion of the Abraham legends to the more consecutive biography of Jacob, and then to the artistic unity of the Joseph-stories (see page xxviii f.), is equally noticeable in Yahwist and in Elohist. It is this extraordinarily close parallelism, both in matter and form, which proves that both documents drew from a common body of tradition, and even suggests that that tradition had already been partly reduced to writing.²

Here we come back, from the side of analysis, to a question which was left unsettled in § 5; the question, namely, of the process by which the oral tradition was consolidated and reduced to writing. It has been shown with great probability that both Yahwist and Elohist are composite documents, in which minor legendary cycles have been incorporated, and different strata of tradition are embedded. This presupposes a development of the tradition within the circle represented by each document, and leads eventually to the theory advocated by most recent critics, that the symbols Yahwist and Elohist must be taken to express, not two individual writers but two schools, i.e., two series of narrators, animated by common conceptions, following a common literary method, and transmitting a common form of the tradition from one generation to another.

The phenomena which suggest this hypothesis are fully described in the body of the commentary, and need only be recapitulated here. In Yahwist, composite structure has been most clearly made out in the Primæval History (chapters 1‒11), where at least two, and probably more, strands of narrative can be distinguished (pages 1‒4). Gunkel seems to have shown that in 12‒25 two cycles of Abraham-legends have been interwoven (page 240); also that in 25 ff. the Jacob-Esau and the Jacob-Laban legends were originally independent of each other: this last, however, applies to Yahwist and Elohist alike, so that the fusion had probably taken place in the common tradition which lies behind both. Further, chapters 34 and 38 (pages 418, 450) belong to an older stratum of tradition than the main narrative; and the same might be said of chapter 49 (page 512), which may very plausibly be regarded as a traditional poem of the ‘school’ of Yahwist, and the oldest extant specimen of its repertoire.—With regard to Elohist, the proof of composite authorship lies chiefly in the Books of Exodus, Numbers, and Joshua; in Genesis, however, we have imperfectly assimilated fragments of a more ancient tradition in 34 (? if Elohist be a component there), 35^1‒7 48²² and perhaps some other passages.—The important fact is that these passages exhibit all the literary peculiarities of the main source to which they are assigned; at least, no linguistic differentiæ of any consequence have yet been discovered.¹ The problem is to frame a theory which shall do justice at once to their material incongruities and their literary homogeneity.

While the fact of collective authorship of some kind is now generally recognised, there is no agreement as to the interpretation which best explains all the phenomena. Some scholars are impressed (and the impression is certainly very intelligible) by the unity of conception and standpoint and mode of treatment which characterise the two collections, and maintain that (in the case of Yahwist especially) the stamp of a powerful and original personality is too obvious to leave much play for the activity of a ‘school.’¹ It is very difficult to hold the balance even between the claims of unity and complexity in the documents; but the theory of single authorship may easily be pressed too far. If we could get through with only a Yahwist¹ and Yahwist², Elohist¹, Elohist² etc.,—i.e., with the theory of one main document supplemented by a few later additions,—it would be absurd to speak of ‘schools.’ And even if the case were considerably more complicated, it might still be possible to rest satisfied (as a majority of critics do) with the idea of literary schools, manipulating written documents under the influence of tendencies and principles which had become traditional within special circles. Gunkel goes, however, much further with his conception of Yahwist and Elohist as first of all guilds of oral narrators, whose stories gradually took written shape within their respective circles, and were ultimately put together in the collections as we now have them. The theory, while not necessarily excluding the action of an outstanding personality in shaping either the oral or the literary phase of the tradition, has the advantage of suggesting a medium in which the traditional material might have assumed its specifically Yahwistic or Elohistic form before being incorporated in the main document of the school. It is at all events a satisfactory working hypothesis; and that is all that can be looked for in so obscure a region of investigation. Whether it is altogether so artificial and unnatural as Professor Orr would have us believe, the reader must judge for himself.

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§ 10. Date and place of origin—Redaction of Jehovist.

On the relative age of Yahwist and Elohist, there exists at present no consensus of critical opinion. Down to the appearance of Wellhausen’s Geschichte Israels in 1878, scholars were practically unanimous in assigning the priority to Elohist.¹ Since then, the opposite view has been strongly maintained by the leading exponents of the Grafian theory,² although a number of critics still adhere to the older position.³ The reason for this divergence of opinion lies not in the paucity of points of comparison, but partly in the subjective nature of the evidence, and partly in the fact that such indications as exist point in opposite directions.

To take a few examples from Genesis: Chapter 16^1‒14 (Yahwist) produces an impression of greater antiquity than the parallel 21^9‒19 (Elohist); Yahwist’s explanation of the name Issachar, with its story of the love-apples (30^14‒16), is more primitive than that of Elohist (30¹⁷); Yahwist (30^28‒43) attributes the increase of Jacob’s flocks to his own cunning, whereas Elohist (31^4‒13) attributes it to the divine blessing. On the other hand, Elohist’s recension of the Bethel-theophany (28^{11 f. 17 ff.}) is obviously more antique than Yahwist’s (^13‒16); and in the Joseph narratives the leadership of Reuben (Elohist) is an element of the original tradition which Yahwist has altered in favour of Judah. A peculiarly instructive case is 12^10 ff. (Yahwist) ∥ 20 (Elohist) ∥ 26^7 ff. (Yahwist), where it seems to us (though Kuenen and others take a different view) that Gunkel is clearly right in holding that Yahwist has preserved both the oldest and the youngest form of the legend, and that Elohist represents an intermediate stage.

This result is not surprising when we understand that Yahwist and Elohist are not individual writers, but guilds or schools, whose literary activity may have extended over several generations, and who drew on a store of unwritten tradition which had been in process of codification for generations before that. This consideration forbids us also to argue too confidently from observed differences of theological standpoint between the two documents. It is beyond doubt that Elohist, with its comparative freedom from anthropomorphisms and sensible theophanies, with its more spiritual conception of revelation, and its greater sensitiveness to ethical blemishes on the character of the patriarchs (page xlviii), occupies, on the whole, a higher level of reflexion than Yahwist; but we cannot tell how far such differences are due to the general social milieu in which the writers lived, and how far to esoteric tendencies of the circles to which they belonged. All that can safely be affirmed is that, while Elohist has occasionally preserved the more ancient form of the tradition, there is a strong presumption that Yahwist as a whole is the earlier document.

In attempting to determine the absolute dates of Yahwist and Elohist, we have a fixed point of departure in the fact that both are earlier than the age of written prophecy (page li f.); in other words, 750 B.C. is the terminus ad quem for the composition of either. If it be the case that 37⁸ in Elohist presupposes the monarchy of the house of Joseph, the terminus a quo for that document would be the disruption of the kingdom, circa 930 (compare Deuteronomy 33⁷); and indeed no one proposes to fix it higher. Between these limits, there is little to guide us to a more precise determination. General considerations, such as the tone of political feeling, the advanced conception of God, and traces of the influence of 9th-century prophecy, seem to us to point to the later part of the period, and in particular to the brilliant reign of Jeroboam II. (785‒745), as the most likely time of composition.¹ In Yahwist there is no unequivocal allusion to the divided kingdom; and nothing absolutely prevents us from putting its date as early as the reign of Solomon. The sense of national solidarity and of confidence in Israel’s destiny is even more marked than in Elohist; and it has been questioned, not without reason, whether such feelings could have animated the breast of a Judæan in the dark days that followed the dissolution of Solomon’s empire.² That argument is not greatly to be trusted: although the loss of the northern provinces was keenly felt in Judah (Isaiah 7¹⁷), yet the writings of Isaiah show that there was plenty of flamboyant patriotism there in the 8th century, and we cannot tell how far in the intervening period religious idealism was able to overcome the depression natural to a feeble and dependent state, and keep alive the sense of unity and the hope of reunion with the larger Israel of the north. In any case, it is improbable that Yahwist and Elohist are separated by an interval of two centuries; if Elohist belongs to the first half of the 8th century, Yahwist will hardly be earlier than the 9th.³

Specific historical allusions which have been thought to indicate a more definite date for Yahwist (or Elohist) prove on examination to be unreliable. If 31^44 ff. 49^23 ff. contained references to the wars between Israel and Aram under Omri and his successors, it would be necessary to bring the date of both documents down to that time; but Gunkel has shown that interpretation to be improbable.—27^40b presupposes the revolt of Edom from Judah (circa 840); but that prosaic half-verse is probably an addition to the poetic passage in which it occurs, and therefore goes to show that the blessing itself is earlier, instead of later, than the middle of the 9th century.—The curse on Canaan (9^23 ff.) does not necessarily assume the definite subjugation of the Canaanites by Israel; and if it did, would only prove a date not earlier than Solomon.—Other arguments, such as the omission of Asshur and the inclusion of Kelaḥ and Nineveh in the list of Assyrian cities in 10¹¹ etc., are still less conclusive.

While it is thus impossible to assign a definite date to Yahwist and Elohist, there are fairly solid grounds for the now generally accepted view that the former is of Judæan and the latter of Ephraimite origin. Only, it must be premised that the body of patriarchal tradition which lies behind both documents is native to northern, or rather central, Israel, and must have taken shape there.¹ The favourite wife of Jacob is not Leah but Rachel, the mother of Joseph (Ephraim-Manasseh) and Benjamin; and Joseph himself is the brightest figure in all the patriarchal gallery. The sacred places common to both recensions—Shechem, Bethel, Mahanaim, Peniel, Beersheba—are, except the last, all in Israelite territory; and Beersheba, though belonging geographically to Judah, was for some unknown reason a favourite resort of pilgrims from the northern kingdom (Amos 5⁵ 8¹⁴, 1 Kings 19³).—It is when we look at the divergence between the two sources that the evidence of the Ephraimite origin of Elohist and the Judæan of Yahwist becomes consistent and clear. Whereas Elohist never evinces the slightest interest in any sanctuary except those mentioned above, Yahwist makes Hebron the scene of his most remarkable theophany, and thus indelibly associates its sanctity with the name of Abraham. It is true that he also ascribes to Abraham the founding of the northern sanctuaries, Shechem and Bethel (12^7. 8); but we can hardly fail to detect something perfunctory in his description, as compared with Elohist’s impressive narrative of Jacob’s dream at Bethel (28^{10‒12. 17‒22}), or his own twofold account of the founding of Beersheba (chapters 21. 26). It is Elohist alone who records the place of Rachel’s grave (35¹⁹), of those of Rebekah’s nurse Deborah (⁸), of Joseph (Joshua 24³²), and Joshua (³⁰),—all in the northern territory. The sections peculiar to Yahwist (page xliii) are nearly all of local Judæan interest: in 18 the scene is Hebron; 19^1‒28 is a legend of the Dead Sea basin; 19^30 ff. deals with the origin of the neighbouring peoples of Moab and Ammon; 38 is based on the internal tribal history of Judah (and is not, as has been supposed, charged with animosity towards that tribe: see page 455). Finally, while Joseph’s place of honour was too firmly established to be challenged, it is Yahwist who, in defiance of the older tradition, transfers the birthright and the hegemony from Reuben to Judah (49^8 ff. 35^22 f., the Joseph narratives).—These indications make it at least relatively probable that in Yahwist we have a Judæan recension of the patriarchal tradition, while Elohist took its shape in the northern kingdom.

The composite work Jehovist is the result of a redactional operation, which was completed before the other components (♦D and Priestly-Code) were incorporated in the Pentateuch.¹ The redactors (Redactor^Jehovist) have done their work (in Genesis) with consummate skill and care, and have produced a consecutive narrative whose strands it is often difficult to unravel. They have left traces of their hand in a few harmonising touches, designed to remove a discrepancy between Yahwist and Elohist (16^9 f. 28^21b? 31^{49 ff. (passim)} 39¹ 41^50? 46¹ 50^10 f.): some of these, however, may be later glosses. Of greater interest are a number of short additions, of similar import and complexion but occurring both in Yahwist and Elohist, which may, not with certainty but with great probability, be assigned to these editors (13^14‒17 18^17‒19 22^15‒18 26^3b‒5 28¹⁴ 32^10‒13 46^3bβ): to this redaction we are disposed also to attribute a thorough revision of chapter 15. In these passages we seem to detect a note of tremulous anxiety regarding the national future of Israel and its tenure of the land of Canaan, which is at variance with the optimistic outlook of the original sources, and suggests that the writers are living under the shadow of impending exile. A slight trace of Deuteronomic phraseology in 18^17 ff. and 26^3b ff. confirms the impression that the redaction took place at some time between the publication of Deuteronomy and the Exile.

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§ 11. The Priestly Code and the Final Redaction.

It is fortunately not necessary to discuss in this place all the intricate questions connected with the history and structure of the Priests’ Code. The Code as a whole is, even more obviously than Yahwist or Elohist, the production of a school,—in this case a school of juristic writers, whose main task was to systematise the mass of ritual regulations which had accumulated in the hands of the Jerusalem priesthood, and to develop a theory of religion which grew out of them. Evidence of stratification appears chiefly in the legislative portions of the middle Pentateuch, where several minor codes are amalgamated, and overlaid with considerable accretions of later material. Here, however, we have to do only with the great historical work which forms at once the kernel of the Code and the framework of the Pentateuch, the document distinguished by Wellhausen as Q (Quatuor foederum liber), by Kuenen as Priestly-Code², by others as Priestly-Code^Kernel.¹ Although this groundwork shows traces of compilation from pre-existing material (see pages 8, 35, 40, 130, 169, 428 f., etc.), it nevertheless bears the impress of a single mind, and must be treated as a unity.

No critical operation is easier or more certain than the separation of this work, down even to very small fragments, from the context in which it is embedded. When this is done, and the fragments pieced together, we have before us, almost in its original integrity, an independent document, which is a source, as well as the framework, of Genesis. We have seen (page xli) that the opposite opinion is maintained by Klostermann and Orr, who hold that Priestly-Code is merely a supplementing redactor of, or ‘collaborator’ with, Jehovist. But two facts combine to render this hypothesis absolutely untenable. (1) The fragments form a consecutive history, in which the lacunæ are very few and unimportant, and those which occur are easily explicable as the result of the redactional process. The precise state of the case is as follows: In the primæval history no hiatus whatever can be detected. Dr. Orr’s assertion (The Problem of the Old Testament, 348 f.) that Priestly-Code’s account of the Flood must have contained the episodes of the birds and the sacrifice, because both are in the Babylonian version, will be worth considering when he has made it probable either that Priestly-Code had ever read the Babylonian story, or that, if he had, he would have wished to reproduce it intact. As matter of fact, neither is in the least degree probable; and, as we shall see presently, Noah’s sacrifice is an incident which Priestly-Code would certainly have suppressed if he had known of it.—In the history of Abraham there is again no reason to suspect any omission. Here is a literal translation of the disjecta membra of Priestly-Code’s epitome of the biography of Abraham, with no connexions supplied, and only one verse transposed (19²⁹): 12^4b “Now Abram was 75 years old when he went out from Ḥarran. ⁵ And Abram took Sarai his wife, and Lot his brother’s son, and all their possessions which they had acquired, and all the souls whom they had procured; and they went out to go to the land of Canaan, and they came to the land of Canaan. 13⁶ And the land could not bear them so that they might dwell together, for their possessions were great, and they were not able to dwell together. ^11b So they separated from one another: ^12ab Abram dwelt in the land of Canaan, and Lot dwelt in the cities of the Oval. 19²⁹ And when God destroyed the cities of the Oval, God remembered Abraham, and sent Lot away from the midst of the overthrow, when he overthrew the cities in which Lot dwelt.—16¹ Now Sarai, Abram’s wife, had borne him no children. ³ So Sarai, Abram’s wife, took Hagar the Egyptian, her maid, after Abram had dwelt ten years in the land of Canaan, and gave her to Abram her husband for a wife to him. ¹⁵ And Hagar bore to Abram a son, and Abram called the name of his son whom Hagar bore to him Ishmael. ¹⁶ And Abram was 86 years old when Hagar bore Ishmael to Abram.—17¹ And when Abram was 99 years old, Yahwe appeared to Abram, and said to him,” etc. Here follows the account of the covenant with Abraham, the change of his name and that of Sarai, the institution of circumcision, and the announcement of the birth of Isaac to Sarah (chapter 17).—The narrative is resumed in 21^1b “And Yahwe did to Sarah as he had spoken, ^2b at the appointed time which God had mentioned. ³ And Abraham called the name of his son who was born to him, whom Sarah bore to him, Isaac. ⁴ And Abraham circumcised Isaac his son when he was 8 days old, as God had commanded him. ⁵ And Abraham was 100 years old when Isaac his son was born to him.—23¹ And the life of Sarah was 127 years; ² and Sarah died in Kiryath Arba, that is Hebron, in the land of Canaan.” This introduces the story of the purchase of Machpelah as a burying-place (chapter 23), and this brings us to—25⁷ “And these are the days of the years of the life of Abraham which he lived: 175 years; ⁸ and he expired. And Abraham died in a good old age, an old man and full [of years], and was gathered to his father’s kin. ⁹ And his sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron the son of Zohar, the Hittite, which is opposite Mamre: ¹⁰ the field which Abraham bought from the sons of Heth: there was Abraham buried, and Sarah his wife.—¹¹ And after the death of Abraham, God blessed Isaac his son.” The reader can judge for himself whether a narrative so continuous as this, every isolated sentence of which has been detached from its context by unmistakable criteria of the style of Priestly-Code, is likely to have been produced by the casual additions of a mere supplementer of an older work. And if he objects to the transposition of 19²⁹, let him note at the same time how utterly meaningless in its present position that verse is, considered as a supplement to 19^1‒28.—In the sections on Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, there are undoubtedly omissions which we can only supply from Jehovist; and if we were to judge from these parts alone, the supplementary theory would be more plausible than it is. We miss, e.g., accounts of the birth of Jacob and Esau, of Jacob’s arrival in Paddan Aram, of his marriage to Leah and Rachel, of the birth of Joseph, of his slavery and elevation in Egypt, his reconciliation with his brethren, and perhaps some other particulars. Even here, however, the theory is absolutely negatived by the contradictions to Jehovist which will be specified immediately. Dr. Orr’s argument on this point (The Problem of the Old Testament, 343 ff.) really assumes that the account of Jehovist is the only way in which the gaps of Priestly-Code could be filled up; but the examination of the story of Abraham has shown that that is not the case. The facts are fully explained by the supposition that a short epitome of the history, similar to that of the history of Abraham, has been abridged in the redaction, by the excision of a very few sentences, in favour of the fuller narrative of Jehovist.—(2) The second fact which makes Dr. Orr’s hypothesis untenable is this, that in almost every instance where Priestly-Code expands into circumstantial narration it gives a representation of the events which is distinctly at variance with the older documents. The difference between Priestly-Code’s cosmogony and Yahwist’s account of the Creation is such that it is ludicrous to speak of the one as a supplement or a ‘framework’ to the other; and the two Flood stories are hardly less irreconcilable (see page 148). In the life of Abraham, we have two parallel accounts of the covenant with Abraham in chapter 15 (Jehovist) and 17 (Priestly-Code); and it is evident that the one supersedes and excludes the other. Again, Priestly-Code’s reason for Jacob’s journey to Mesopotamia (28^1‒9) is quite inconsistent with that given by Jehovist in chapter 27 (page 374 f.); and his conception of Isaac’s blessing as a transmission of the blessing originally bestowed on Abraham (28⁴) is far removed from the idea which forms the motive of chapter 27. In Jehovist, Esau takes up his abode in Seir before Jacob’s return from Mesopotamia (32³); in Priestly-Code he does not leave Canaan till after the burial of Isaac (35⁶). Priestly-Code’s account of the enmity between Joseph and his brethren is unfortunately truncated, but enough is preserved to show that it differed essentially from that of Jehovist (see page 444). It is difficult to make out where Jacob was buried according to Yahwist and Elohist, but it certainly was not at Machpelah, as in Priestly-Code (see page 538 f.). And so on. Everywhere we see a tendency in Priestly-Code to suppress or minimise discords in the patriarchal households. It is inconceivable that a supplementer should thus contradict his original at every turn, and at the same time leave it to tell its own story. When we find that the passages of an opposite tenor to Jehovist form parts of a practically complete narrative, we cannot avoid the conclusion that Priestly-Code^Kernel is an independent document, which has been preserved almost entire in our present Book of Genesis. The question then arises whether these discrepancies spring from a divergent tradition followed by Priestly-Code^Kernel or from a deliberate re-writing of the history as told by Jehovist, under the influence of certain theological ideals and principles, which we now proceed to consider.

The central theme and objective of Priestly-Code^Kernel is the institution of the Israelitish theocracy, whose symbol is the Tabernacle, erected, after its heavenly antitype, by Moses at Mount Sinai. For this event the whole previous history of mankind is a preparation. The Mosaic dispensation is the last of four world-ages: from the Creation to the Flood, from Noah to Abraham, from Abraham to Moses, and from Moses onwards. Each period is inaugurated by a divine revelation, and the last two by the disclosure of a new name of God: El Shaddai to Abraham (17¹), and Yahwe to Moses (Exodus 6³). Each period, also, is marked by the institution of some permanent element of the theocratic constitution, the Levitical system being conceived as a pyramid rising in four stages: the Sabbath (2^2 f.); permission of the slaughter of animals, coupled with a restriction on the use of the blood (9^1 ff.); circumcision (17); and, lastly, the fully developed Mosaic ritual. Not till the last stage is reached is sacrificial worship of the Deity authorised. Accordingly neither altars nor sacrifices are ever mentioned in the pre-Mosaic history; and even the distinction between clean and unclean animals is supposed to be unknown at the time of the Flood. It is particularly noteworthy that the profane, as distinct from the sacrificial, slaughter of animals, which even the Deuteronomic law treats as an innovation, is here carried back to the covenant with Noah.

Beneath this imposing historical scheme, with its ruling idea of a progressive unfolding of God’s will to men, we discover a theory of religion which, more than anything else, expresses the spirit of the Priestly school to which the author of Priestly-Code^Kernel belonged. The exclusive emphasis on the formal or institutional aspect of religion, which is the natural proclivity of a sacerdotal caste, appears in Priestly-Code^Kernel in a very pronounced fashion. Religion is resolved into a series of positive enactments on the part of God, and observance of these on the part of man. The old cult-legends (page xii f.), which traced the origin of existing ritual usages to historic incidents in the lives of the fathers, are swept away; and every practice to which a religious value is attached is referred to a direct command of God. In the deeper problems of religion, on the other hand, such as the origin of evil, the writer evinces no interest; and of personal piety—the disposition of the heart towards God—his narrative hardly furnishes an illustration. In both respects he represents a theology at once more abstract and shallower than that of Yahwist or Elohist, whose more imaginative treatment of religious questions shows a true apprehension of the deeper aspects of the spiritual life (chapter 3. 6⁵ 8²¹ 18^23 ff. 45⁸ etc.), and succeeds in depicting the personal religion of the patriarchs as a genuine experience of inward fellowship with God (compare 22. 24^12 ff. 32^9 ff. 48^15 f. etc.). It would be unfair to charge the author of Priestly-Code^Kernel with indifference to the need for vital godliness, for he lacks the power of delineating character and emotion in any relation of life; but his defects are none the less characteristic of the type of mind that produced the colourless digest of history, which suffices to set forth the dominant ideas of the Priestly theology.

Another characteristic distinction between Jehovist and Priestly-Code is seen in the enhanced transcendentalism of the latter’s conception of Deity. Anthropomorphic, and still more anthropopathic, expressions are studiously avoided (an exception is Genesis 2^2 f.: compare Exodus 31^17b); revelation takes the form of simple speech; angels, dreams, and visions are never alluded to. Theophanies are mentioned, but not described; God is said to ‘appear’ to men, and to ‘go up from them’ (Genesis 17^{1. 22  f.} 35^9. 13 48³, Exodus 6³), but the manner of His appearance is nowhere indicated save in the supreme manifestation at Sinai (Exodus 24^1 ff. 34^29b 40^34 f.). It is true that a similar inconcreteness often characterises the theophanies of Yahwist and Elohist, and the later strata of these documents exhibit a decided approximation to the abstract conceptions of Priestly-Code. But a comparison of the parallels chapter 17 with 15, or 35^9 ff. with 28^10 ff., makes it clear that Priestly-Code’s departure from the older tradition springs from a deliberate intention to exclude sensuous imagery from the representation of Godhead.

It remains to consider, in the light of these facts, Priestly-Code’s attitude to the traditional history of the patriarchs. In the first place, it is clear that he accepts the main outline of the history as fixed in tradition. But whether he knew that tradition from other sources than Yahwist and Elohist, is a question not so easily answered. For the primitive period, direct dependence on Yahwist is improbable, because of the marked diversity in the accounts of the Creation and the Flood: here Priestly-Code seems to have followed a tradition closely akin to, but not identical with, that of Yahwist. In the history of the patriarchs there seems no reason to suppose that he had any other authorities than Yahwist and Elohist. The general course of events is the same, and differences of detail are all explicable from the known tendencies of the Code. But the important facts are that nearly the whole of the history, both primitive and patriarchal, is reduced to a meagre summary, with little save a chronological significance, and that the points where the narrative becomes diffuse and circumstantial are (with one exception) precisely those which introduce a new religious dispensation: viz. the Creation, the Flood, the Abrahamic covenant, and the Exodus. The single exception is the purchase of Machpelah (chapter 23), an event which doubtless owes its prominence to its connexion with the promise of the land to Abraham and his seed. For the rest, a certain emphasis naturally lies on outstanding events, like the origin of the name Israel (35^9 f.), or the settlement of Jacob’s family in Egypt (47^5‒11); and the author lingers with interest on the transmission of the patriarchal blessing and promise from Isaac to Jacob (28³ 35¹²), and from Jacob to his sons (48^3 f.). But these are practically all the incidents to which Priestly-Code^Kernel attaches any sort of significance of their own; and even these derive much of their importance from their relation to the chronological scheme into which they are fitted.—Hence to say that Priestly-Code’s epitome would be ‘unintelligible’ apart from Jehovist, is to confuse his point of view with our own. It is perfectly true that from Priestly-Code alone we should know very little of the characters of the patriarchs, of the motives which governed their actions, or of the connexion between one event and another. But these are matters which Priestly-Code had no interest in making ‘intelligible.’ He is concerned solely with events, not with causes or motives. The individual is sufficiently described when we are told whose son he was, how long he lived, what children he begot, and such like. He is but a link in the generations that fill up the history; and even where he is the recipient of a divine revelation, his selection for that privilege depends on his place in the divine scheme of chronology, rather than on any personal endowment or providential training.

The style of Priestly-Code^Kernel can be characterised without the reserves and qualifications which were necessary in speaking of the difference between Yahwist and Elohist (page xlvii f.); there is no better illustration of the dictum le style c’est l’homme than in this remarkable document. Speaking broadly, the style reflects the qualities of the legal mind, in its stereotyped terminology, its aim at precise and exhaustive statement, its monotonous repetitions, and its general determination to leave no loophole for misinterpretation or misunderstanding. The jurist’s love of order and method appears in a great facility in the construction of schemes and schedules—genealogical tables, systematic enumerations, etc.—as well as in the carefully planned disposition of the narrative as a whole. It is necessary to read the whole work consecutively in order to realise the full effect of the laboured diffuseness, the dry lucidity and prosaic monotony of this characteristic product of the Priestly school of writers. On the other hand, the style is markedly deficient in the higher elements of literature. Though capable at times of rising to an impressive dignity (as in Genesis 1. 47^7‒11), it is apt to degenerate into a tedious and meaningless iteration of set phrases and rigid formulæ (see Numbers 7). The power of picturesque description, or dramatic delineation of life and character, is absent: the writer’s imagination is of the mechanical type, which cannot realise an object without the help of exact quantitative specification or measurement. Even in chapter 23, which is perhaps the most lifelike narrative in the Code, the characteristic formalism asserts itself in the measured periodic movement of the action, and the recurrent use of standing expressions from the opening to the close. That such a style might become the property of a school we see from the case of Ezekiel, whose writings show strong affinities with Priestly-Code; but of all the Priestly documents, Priestly-Code^Kernel is the one in which the literary bent of the school is best exemplified, and (it may be added) is seen to most advantage.

The following selection (from Driver, An Introduction to the Literature of the Old Testament⁸, 131 ff.) of distinctive expressions of Priestly-Code, occurring in Genesis, will give a sufficient idea of the stylistic peculiarity of the book, and also of its linguistic affinities with the later literature, but especially with the Book of Ezekiel.

אלהים as the name of God, uniformly in Genesis, except 17¹ 21^1b.—מין, ‘kind’: 1^{11. 12. 21. 24. 25} 6²⁰ 7¹⁴ (Leviticus 11, Deuteronomy 14; only again Ezekiel 47¹⁰).—שָׁרַץ, ‘to swarm’: 1^20. 21 7²¹ 8¹⁷ 9⁷ +¹ (outside of Priestly-Code only Psalms 105³⁰, Ezekiel 47⁹).—שֶׁרֶץ, ‘swarming things’: 1²⁰ 7²¹ + (only in Priestly-Code and Deuteronomy 14¹⁹).—פרה ורבה: 1^22. 28 8¹⁷ 9^1. 7 17²⁰ 28³ 35¹¹ 47²⁷ 48⁴ (Exodus 1⁷, Leviticus 26⁹; elsewhere only Jeremiah 3¹⁶ [inverted], 23³, Ezekiel 36¹¹).—לאכלה: 1^29. 30 6²¹ 9³ + (elsewhere only in Ezekiel (10 times), and (as infinitive) Jeremiah 12⁹).—תולדות: 10³² 25¹³ + (elsewhere 1 Chronicles 5⁷ 7^2. 4. 9 8²⁸ 9^9. 34 26³¹). The phrase [ו]אלה תולדות occurs in Priestly-Code 10 times in Genesis (see page xxxiv), and in Numbers 3¹; elsewhere only Ruth 4¹⁸, 1 Chronicles 1²⁹.—גוע: 6¹⁷ 7²¹ 25^8. 17 35²⁹ 49²³ + (elsewhere poetical: Zechariah 13⁸, Psalms 88¹⁶ 104²⁹, Lamentations 1¹⁹, and 8 times in Job).—עִמְּךָ, אִתְּךָ, etc. (appended to enumerations): 6¹⁸ 7^7. 13 8^16. 18 9⁸ 28⁴ 46^6. 7 +.—אחריכם, etc. (after ‘seed’): 9⁹ 17^{7. 8. 9. 10. 19} 35¹² 48⁴ +.—עצם היום הזה: 7¹³ 17^23. 26 +; only in Priestly-Code and Ezekiel 2³ 24² 40¹ (Joshua 10²⁷ redactional).—יהם—למשפחותם: 8¹⁹ 10^5. 20. 31 36⁴⁰ + (very often in Priestly-Code: elsewhere only Numbers 11¹⁰ [Jehovist], 1 Samuel 10²¹, 1 Chronicles 5⁷ 6^47. 48).—ברית עולם: 9¹⁶ 17^7. 13. 19 +, only in Priestly-Code.—במאד מאד: 17^2. 6. 20 + Exodus 1⁷; elsewhere only Ezekiel 9⁹ 16¹³.—רכוש: 12⁵ 13⁶ 31¹⁸ 36⁷ 46⁶ +; elsewhere Genesis 14^{11. 12. 16. 21} 15¹⁴; and 15 times in Chronicles, Ezra, Daniel.—רָכַשׁ: 12⁵ 31¹⁸ 36⁶ 46⁶ +.—נפש (= ‘person’): 12⁵ 36⁶ 46^{15. 18. 22. 25. 26. 27} +; “much more frequent in Priestly-Code than elsewhere.”—יכם—לדרתם: 17^7. 9. 12 + 36 times (only in Priestly-Code).—מגורים: 17⁸ 28⁴ 36⁷ 37¹ 47⁹ + Exodus 6⁴; elsewhere Ezekiel 20³⁸, Psalms 55¹⁶ 119⁵⁴, Job 18¹⁹ +.—אחזה: 17⁸ 23^4. 9. 20 36⁴³ 47¹¹ 48⁴ 49³⁰ 50¹³ +. Often in Ezekiel (44²⁸ 45^{5. 6. 7. 8} 46^16. 18 48^20. 21. 22); elsewhere Psalms 2⁸, 1 Chronicles 7²⁸ 9² [= Nehemiah 11³], 2 Chronicles 11¹⁴ 31¹ +.—מקנה: 17^{12. 13. 23. 27} 23¹⁸ + (confined to Priestly-Code except Jeremiah 32^{11. 12. 14. 16}).—עמים (= ‘father’s kin’): 17¹⁴ 25^8. 17 35²⁹ 49³³ + (also Ezekiel 18¹⁸; elsewhere Judges 5¹⁴?, Hosea 10¹⁴ +).—תושב: 23⁴ + 10 times (also 1 Kings 17¹?, 1 Chronicles 29¹⁵, Psalms 39¹³).—קנון: 31¹⁸ [34²³] 36⁶ + (outside of Priestly-Code, only Ezekiel 38^12 f.; Proverbs 4⁷, Psalms 104²⁴ 105²¹).

In the choice of synonymous expressions, Priestly-Code exhibits an exclusive preference for הוליד in the sense of ‘beget’ over ילד (in the genealogies of Yahwist), and for the form אני of the 1st person pronoun (אנכי only in Genesis 23⁴).

Geographical designations peculiar to Priestly-Code^Kernel are: Kiryath-’Arba‛ (for Hebron) 23² 35²⁷ +; Machpelah, 23^9. 17. 19 25⁹ 49³⁰ 50¹³ +; Paddan-Aram, 25²⁰ 28^{2. 5. 6. 7} 31¹⁸ 33¹⁸ 35^9. 26 46¹⁵ +.—To these may be added ארץ כנען, 11³¹ 12⁵ 13¹² 16³ 17⁸ 23^2. 19 31¹⁸ 33¹⁸ 35⁶ 37¹ +; the expression is found in Jehovist only in the Joseph-section (chapters 42, 44, 45, 47). Priestly-Code^Kernel has כנען without ארץ only in בנות כנען (28¹ 36²).

In view of all these and similar peculiarities (for the list is by no means exhaustive), the attempt to obliterate the linguistic and stylistic distinction between Priestly-Code and Jehovist (Eerdmans) is surely a retrograde step in criticism.

The date of the composition of Priestly-Code^Kernel lies between the promulgation of the Deuteronomic law (621 B.C.), and the post-Exilic reformation under Ezra and Nehemiah (444). It is later than Deuteronomy, because it assumes without question the centralisation of worship at one sanctuary, which in Deuteronomy is only held up as an ideal to be realised by a radical reform of established usage. A nearer determination of date depends on questions of the internal analysis of Priestly-Code which are too complex to be entered on here. That the Code as a whole is later than Ezekiel is proved by the fact that the division between priests and Levites, which is unknown to the writer of Deuteronomy, and of which we find the origin and justification in Ezekiel 44^6‒16, is presupposed as already established (Numbers 3. 4. 8, etc.). It is possible, however, that that distinction belongs to a stratum of the legislation not included in Priestly-Code^Kernel; in which case Priestly-Code^Kernel might very well be earlier than Ezekiel, or even than the Exile. The question does not greatly concern us here. For the understanding of Genesis, it is enough to know that Priestly-Code^Kernel, both in its theological conceptions and its attitude towards the national tradition, represents a phase of thought much later than Yahwist and Elohist.

The view that Priestly-Code^Kernel was written before the Exile (in the end of the 7th century) is advocated by Procksch (l.c. 319 ff.), who reduces this part of Priestly-Code to narrower limits than most critics have done. He regards it as an essentially historical work, of considerable literary merit, embracing hardly any direct legislation except perhaps the Law of Holiness (Priestly-Codeʰ), and recognising the priestly status of the entire tribe of Levi, just as in Deuteronomy (Numbers 17^16‒24 and Priestly-Codeʰ in its original form). If that fact could be established, it would go far to show that the document is older than Ezekiel. It is admitted both by Kuenen and Wellhausen (Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 116) that the disparity of priests and Levites is accentuated in the later strata of Priestly-Code as compared with Priestly-Code^Kernel, but that it is not recognised in Priestly-Code^Kernel is not clear. As to pre-Exilic origin, the positive arguments advanced by Procksch are not very cogent; and it is doubtful whether, even on his own ground, he has demonstrated more than the possibility of so early a date. In Genesis, the only fact which points in that direction is one not mentioned by Procksch: viz. that the priestly Table of Nations in chapter 10 bears internal evidence of having been drawn up some considerable time before the 5th century B.C. (page 191 below); but that may be sufficiently explained by the assumption that the author of Priestly-Code^Kernel made use of pre-existing documents in the preparation of his work.

The last distinguishable stage in the formation of the Pentateuch is the amalgamation of Priestly-Code with the older documents,—in Genesis the amalgamation of Priestly-Code^Kernel with Jehovist. That this process has left traces in the present text is quite certain a priori; though it is naturally difficult to distinguish redactional changes of this kind from later explanatory glosses and modifications (compare 6⁷ 7^7. 22. 23 10²⁴ 27⁴⁶ etc.). The aim of the redactor was, in general, to preserve the ipsissima verba of his sources as far as was consistent with the production of a complete and harmonious narrative; but he appears to have made it a rule to find a place for every fragment of Priestly-Code that could possibly be retained. It is not improbable that this rule was uniformly observed by him, and that the slight lacunæ which occur in Priestly-Code after chapter 25 are due to the activity of later scribes in smoothing away redundancies and unevennesses from the narrative. That such changes might take place after the completion of the Pentateuch we see from 47^5 ff., where LXX has preserved a text in which the dovetailing of sources is much more obvious than in Massoretic Text.—If the lawbook read by Ezra before the congregation as the basis of the covenant (Nehemiah 8^1 ff.) was the entire Pentateuch (excepting late additions),¹ the redaction must have been effected before 444 B.C., and in all probability the redactor was Ezra himself. On the other hand, if (as seems to the present writer more probable) Ezra’s lawbook was only the Priestly Code, or part of it (Priestly-Code^Kernel + Priestly-Codeʰ),² then the final redaction is brought down to a later period, the terminus ad quem being the borrowing of the Jewish Pentateuch by the Samaritan community. That event is usually assigned, though on somewhat precarious grounds, to Nehemiah’s second term of office in Judæa (circa 432 B.C.).

Of far greater interest and significance than the date or manner of this final redaction, is the fact that it was called for by the religious feeling of post-Exilic Judaism. Nothing else would have brought about the combination of elements so discordant as the naïve legendary narratives of Jehovist and the systematised history of the Priestly Code. We can hardly doubt that the spirit of the Priestly theology is antipathetic to the older recension of the tradition, or that, if the tendencies represented by the Code had prevailed, the stories which are to us the most precious and edifying parts of the Book of Genesis would have found no place in an authoritative record of God’s revelation of Himself to the fathers. But this is not the only instance in which the spiritual insight of the Church has judged more wisely than the learning of the schools. We know that deeper influences than the legalism and institutionalism of Priestly-Code’s manifesto—necessary as these were in their place—were at work in the post-Exilic community: the individualism of Jeremiah, the universalism of the second Isaiah, the devotion and lyric fervour of the psalmists, and the daring reflexion of the writer of Job. And to these we may surely add the vein of childlike piety which turned aside from the abstractions and formulas of the Priestly document, to find its nutriment in the immortal stories through which God spoke to the heart then, as He speaks to ours to-day.

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COMMENTARY.

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THE PRIMÆVAL HISTORY.

Chapters I‒XI.

It has been shown in the Introduction (page xxxiii) that the most obvious division of the book of Genesis is into four nearly equal parts, of which the first (chapters 1‒11) deals with the Creation of the world, and the history of primitive mankind prior to the call of Abraham. These chapters are composed of excerpts from two of the main sources of the Pentateuch, the Priestly Code, and the Yahwistic document. Attempts have been made from time to time (e.g. by Schrader, Dillmann, and more recently Winckler) to trace the hand of the Elohist in chapters 1‒11; but the closest examination has failed to produce any substantial evidence that Elohist is represented in the Primitive History at all. By the great majority of critics the non-Priestly traditions in this part of Genesis are assigned to the Yahwistic cycle: that is to say, they are held to have been collected and arranged by the school of rhapsodists to whose literary activity we owe the document known as Yahwist.

To the Priests’ Code, whose constituents can here be isolated with great certainty and precision, belong: 1. The Cosmogony (1¹‒2^4a); 2. The List of Patriarchs from Adam to Noah (5); 3. An account of the Flood (6⁹‒9²⁹*); 4. A Table of Peoples (10*); 5. The Genealogies of Shem (11^10‒26), and Terah (11^27‒32*), ending with Abraham. There is no reason to suppose either that the original Priestly-Code contained more than this, or, on the other hand, that Priestly-Code was written to supplement the older tradition, and to be read along with it. It is in accordance with the purpose and tendency of the document that the only events recorded in detail—the Creation and the Flood—are those which inaugurate two successive World-ages or Dispensations, and are associated with the origin of two fundamental observances of Judaism—the Sabbath (2³), and the sanctity of the blood (9^4 ff.).

In marked contrast to the formalism of this meagre epitome is the rich variety of life and incident which characterises the Yahwistic sections, viz.: 1. The Creation and Fall of Man (2^4b‒3²⁴); 2. Cain and Abel (4^1‒16); 3. The Genealogy of Cain (4^17‒24); 4. A fragmentary Sethite Genealogy (4^25 f. ... 5²⁹ ...); 5. The marriages with divine beings (6^1‒4); 6. An account of the Flood (6⁵‒8²²*); 7. Noah’s Curse and Blessing (9^20‒27); 8. A Table of Peoples (10*); 9. The Tower of Babel (11^1‒9); 10. A fragment of the Genealogy of Teraḥ (11^28‒30). Here we have a whole gallery of varied and graphic pictures, each complete in itself and essentially independent of the rest, arranged in a loosely chronological order, and with perhaps a certain unity of conception, in so far as they illustrate the increasing wickedness that accompanied the progress of mankind in civilisation. Even the genealogies are not (like those of Priestly-Code) bare lists of names and figures, but preserve incidental notices of new social or religious developments associated with particular personages (4^{17. 20‒22. 26} 5²⁹), besides other allusions to a more ancient mythology from which the names have been drawn (4^{19. 22. 23 f.}).

Composition of Yahwist.—That a narrative composed of so many separate and originally independent legends should present discrepancies and discontinuities is not surprising, and is certainly by itself no proof of literary diversity. At the same time there are many indications that Yahwist is a composite work, based on older collections of Hebrew traditions, whose outlines can still be dimly traced. (1) The existence of two parallel genealogies (Cainite and Sethite) at once suggests a conflate tradition. The impression is raised almost to certainty when we find that both are derived from a common original (page 138 f.). (2) The Cainite genealogy is incompatible with the Deluge tradition. The shepherds, musicians, and smiths, whose origin is traced to the last three members of the genealogy, are obviously not those of a bygone race which perished in the Flood, but those known to the author and his contemporaries (page 115 f.). (3) Similarly, the Table of Nations and the story of the Confusion of Tongues imply mutually exclusive explanations of the diversities of language and nationality: in one case the division proceeds slowly and naturally on genealogical lines, in the other it takes place by a sudden interposition of almighty power. (4) There is evidence that the story of the Fall was transmitted in two recensions (page 52 f.). If Gunkel be right, the same is true of Yahwist’s Table of Peoples, and of the account of the Dispersion; but there the analysis is less convincing. (5) In 4²⁶ we read that Enosh introduced the worship of Yahwe. The analogy of Exodus 6^2 f. (Priestly-Code) affords a certain presumption that the author of such a statement will have avoided the name יהוה up to this point; and as a matter of fact אֱלֹהִים occurs immediately before in verse ²⁵. It is true that the usage is observed in no earlier Yahwistic passage except 3^1‒5, where other explanations might be thought of. But throughout chapters 2 and 3 we find the very unusual compound name יהוה אלהים, and it is a plausible conjecture that one recension of the Paradise story was distinguished by the use of Elohim, and that Yahwe was inserted by a harmonising Yahwistic editor (so Budde, Gunkel, al.: see page 53).

To what precise extent these phenomena are due to documentary differences is a question that requires to be handled with the utmost caution and discrimination. It is conceivable that a single author should have compiled a narrative from a number of detached legends which he reported just as he found them, regardless of their internal consistency. Nevertheless, there seems sufficient evidence to warrant the conclusion that (as Wellhausen has said) we have to do not merely with aggregates but with sequences; although to unravel perfectly the various strands of narrative may be a task for ever beyond the resources of literary criticism. Here it will suffice to indicate the principal theories.—(a) Wellhausen (Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments² 9‒14) seems to have been the first to perceive that 4^1‒16a is a late expansion based (as he supposed) on 4^16‒24 and on chapters 2, 3; that originally chapters 2‒4 existed not only without 4^1‒16a, but also without 4^25 f. and 5²⁹; and that chapters 2. 3. 4^16‒24 11^1‒9 form a connexion to which the story of the Flood is entirely foreign and irrelevant.—(b) The analysis was pushed many steps further by Budde (Biblische Urgeschichte, passim), who, after a most exhaustive and elaborate examination, arrived at the following theory: the primary document (Yahwist¹) consisted of 2^{4b‒9. 16‒25} 3^1‒19. 21 6³ 3²³ 4^{1. 2bβ. 16b. 17‒24} 6^1. 2. 4 10⁹ 11^1‒9 9^20‒27. This was recast by Yahwist² (substituting אלהים for יהוה down to 4²⁶), whose narrative contained a Cosmogony (but no Paradise story), the Sethite genealogy, the Flood-legend, the Table of Nations, and a seven-membered Shemite genealogy. These two recensions were then amalgamated by Yahwist³, who inserted dislocated passages of Yahwist¹ in the connexion of Yahwist², and added 4^1‒5 5²⁹ etc. Yahwist² attained the dignity of a standard official document, and is the authority followed by Priestly-Code at a later time. The astonishing acumen and thoroughness which characterise Budde’s work have had a great influence on critical opinion, yet his ingenious transpositions and reconstructions of the text seem too subtle and arbitrary to satisfy any but a slavish disciple. One feels that he has worked on too narrow a basis by confining his attention to successive overworkings of the same literary tradition, and not making sufficient allowance for the simultaneous existence of relatively independent forms.—(c) Stade (Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xiv. 274 ff. [= Ausgewählte akademische Reden und Abhandlungen 244‒251]) distinguishes three main strata: (1) chapters 2. 3. 11^1‒9; (2) 4^{25 f. 17‒22} 9^20‒27 10⁹? 6^1. 2?; (3) the Flood-legend, added later to the other two, by a redactor who also compiled a Sethite genealogy (4^25 f. ... 5²⁹ ...) and inserted the story of Cain and Abel, and the Song of Lamech (4^23 f.).—(d) Gunkel (Genesis übersetzt und erklärt² 1 ff.) proceeds on somewhat different lines from his predecessors. He refuses in principle to admit incongruity as a criterion of source, and relies on certain verses which bear the character of connecting links between different sections. The most important is 5²⁹ (belonging to the Sethite genealogy), where we read: “This (Noah) shall comfort us from our labour and from the toil of our hands on account of the ground which Yahwe has cursed.” Here there is an unmistakable reference backward to 3¹⁷, and forward to 9^20 ff.. Thus we obtain a faultless sequence, forming the core of a document where יהוה was not used till 4²⁶, and hence called Yahwistᵉ, consisting of: one recension of the Paradise story; the (complete) Sethite genealogy; and Noah’s discovery of wine. From this sequence are excluded obviously: the second recension of the Paradise story; the Cainite genealogy; and (as Gunkel thinks) the Flood-legend, where Noah appears in quite a different character: these belong to a second document (Yahwistʲ). Again, 9^18 f. form a connecting link between the Flood and the Table of Nations; but Gunkel distinguishes two Yahwistic strata in the Table of Nations and assigns one to each of his documents: similarly with the section on the Tower of Babel. The legend of Cain and Abel is regarded (with Wellhausen, Budde, Stade, al.) as an editorial expansion.

In this commentary the analysis of Gunkel is adopted in the main; but with the following reservations: (1) The account of the Flood cannot be naturally assigned to Yahwistʲ, because of its admitted incompatibility with the assumption of the Cainite genealogy (see above). Gunkel, indeed, refuses to take such inconsistencies into account; but in that case there is no reason for giving the Flood to Yahwistʲ rather than to Yahwistᵉ. There is no presumption whatever that only two documents are in evidence; and the chapters in question show peculiarities of language which justify the assumption of a separate source (Stade), say Yahwistᵈ. (2) With the Flood passage goes the Yahwistic Table of Peoples (9^18 f.). The arguments for two Yahwists in chapter 10 are hardly decisive; and Yahwistᵉ at all events had no apparent motive for attaching an ethnographic survey to the name of Noah. (3) Gunkel’s analysis of 11^1‒9 appears on the whole to be sound; but even so there is no ground for identifying the two components with Yahwistᵉ and Yahwistʲ respectively. On the contrary, the tone of both recensions has a striking affinity with that of Yahwistʲ: note especially (with Wellhausen) the close resemblance in form and substance between 11⁶ and 3²². Thus:

Such constructions, it need hardly be added, are in the highest degree precarious and uncertain; and can only be regarded as tentative explanations of problems for which it is probable that no final solution will be found.

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I. 1‒II. 3.
Creation of the World in Six Days:
Institution of the Sabbath.

A short Introduction describing the primæval chaos (1^1. 2) is followed by an account of the creation of the world in six days, by a series of eight divine fiats, viz.: (1) the creation of light, and the separation of light from darkness, ^3‒5; (2) the division of the chaotic waters into two masses, one above and the other below the ‘firmament,’ ^6‒8; (3) the separation of land and sea through the collecting of the lower waters into “one place,” ^9. 10; (4) the clothing of the earth with its mantle of vegetation, ^11‒13; (5) the formation of the heavenly bodies, ^14‒19; (6) the peopling of sea and air with fishes and birds, ^20‒23; (7) the production of land animals, ^24. 25; and (8) the creation of man, ^26‒31. Finally, the Creator is represented as resting from His works on the seventh day; and this becomes the sanction of the Jewish ordinance of the weekly Sabbath rest (2^1‒3).

Character of the Record.—It is evident even from this bare outline of its contents that the opening section of Genesis is not a scientific account of the actual process through which the universe originated. It is a world unknown to science whose origin is here described,—the world of antique imagination, composed of a solid expanse of earth, surrounded by and resting on a world-ocean, and surmounted by a vault called the ‘firmament,’ above which again are the waters of a heavenly ocean from which the rain descends on the earth (see on verses ^6‒8).¹ That the writer believed this to be the true view of the universe, and that the narrative expresses his conception of how it actually came into being, we have, indeed, no reason to doubt (Wellhausen, Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 296). But the fundamental difference of standpoint just indicated shows that whatever the significance of the record may be, it is not a revelation of physical fact which can be brought into line with the results of modern science. The key to its interpretation must be found elsewhere.

In order to understand the true character of the narrative, we must compare it with the cosmogonies which form an integral part of all the higher religions of antiquity. The demand for some rational theory of the origin of the world as known or conceived is one that emerges at a very early stage of culture; and the efforts of the human mind in this direction are observed to follow certain common lines of thought, which point to the existence of a cosmological tradition exerting a widespread influence over ancient speculation on the structure of the universe. There is ample evidence, as will be shown later (below, page 45 ff.), that the Hebrew thinkers were influenced by such a tradition; and in this fact we find a clue to the inner meaning of the narrative before us. The tradition was plastic, and therefore capable of being moulded in accordance with the genius of a particular religion; at the same time, being a tradition, it retained a residuum of unassimilated material derived from the common stock of cosmological speculation current in the East. What happened in the case of the biblical cosmogony is this: that during a long development within the sphere of Hebrew religion it was gradually stripped of its cruder mythological elements, and transformed into a vehicle for the spiritual ideas which were the peculiar heritage of Israel. It is to the depth and purity of these ideas that the narrative mainly owes that character of sobriety and sublimity which has led many to regard it as the primitive revealed cosmogony, of which all others are grotesque and fantastic variations (Dillmann, page 10).

The religious significance of this cosmogony lies, therefore, in the fact that in it the monotheistic principle of the Old Testament has obtained classical expression. The great idea of God, first proclaimed in all its breadth and fulness by the second Isaiah during the Exile, is here embodied in a detailed account of the genesis of the universe, which lays hold of the imagination as no abstract statement of the principle could ever do. The central doctrine is that the world is created,—that it originates in the will of God, a personal Being transcending the universe and existing independently of it. The pagan notion of a Theogony—a generation of the gods from the elementary world-matter—is entirely banished. It is, indeed, doubtful if the representation goes so far as a creatio ex nihilo, or whether a pre-existent chaotic material is postulated (see on verse ¹); it is certain at least that the kosmos, the ordered world with which alone man has to do, is wholly the product of divine intelligence and volition. The spirituality of the First Cause of all things, and His absolute sovereignty over the material He employs, are further emphasised in the idea of the word of God—the effortless expression of His thought and purpose—as the agency through which each successive effect is produced; and also in the recurrent refrain which affirms that the original creation in each of its parts was ‘good,’ and as a whole ‘very good’ (verse ³¹), i.e. that it perfectly reflected the divine thought which called it into existence. The traces of mythology and anthropomorphism which occur in the body of the narrative belong to the traditional material on which the author operated, and do not affect his own theological standpoint, which is defined by the doctrines just enumerated. When to these we add the doctrine of man, as made in the likeness of God, and marked out as the crown and goal of creation, we have a body of religious truth which distinguishes the cosmogony of Genesis from all similar compositions, and entitles it to rank among the most important documents of revealed religion.

The Framework.—The most noteworthy literary feature of the record is the use of a set of stereotyped formulæ, by which the separate acts of creation are reduced as far as possible to a common expression. The structure of this ‘framework’ (as it may be called) is less uniform than might be expected, and is much more regular in LXX than in Massoretic Text. It is impossible to decide how far the irregularities are due to the original writer, and how far to errors of transmission. Besides the possibility of accident, we have to allow on the one hand for the natural tendency of copyists to rectify apparent anomalies, and on the other hand for deliberate omissions, intended to bring out Sacred numbers in the occurrences of the several formulæ.¹

The facts are of some importance, and may be summarised here: (a) The fiat (And God said, Let ...) introduces (both in Massoretic Text and LXX) each of the eight works of creation (verses^{3. 6. 9. 11. 14. 20. 24. 26}). (b) And it was so occurs literally 6 times in Massoretic Text, but virtually 7 times: i.e. in connection with all the works except the sixth (verses^{[3]. 7. 9. 11. 15. 24. 30}); in LXX also in verse ²⁰. (c) The execution of the fiat (And God made ...—with variations) is likewise recorded 6 times in Massoretic Text and 7 times in LXX (verses^{7. [9]. 12. 16. 21. 25. 27}). (d) The sentence of divine approval (And God saw that it was good) is pronounced over each work except the second (in LXX there also), though in the last instance with a significant variation: see verses^{4. [8]. 10. 12. 18. 21. 25. 31}. (e) The naming of the objects created (And God called ...) is peculiar to the three acts of separation (verses^5. 8. 10). (f) And God blessed ... (3 times) is said of the sixth and eighth works and of the Sabbath day (verses^22. 28 2³). (g) The division into days is marked by the closing formula, And it was evening, etc., which, of course, occurs 6 times (verses^{5. 8. 13. 19. 23. 31}), being omitted after the third and seventh works.

The occurrence of the ויהו כן before the execution of the fiat produces a redundancy which may be concealed but is not removed by substituting so for and in the translation (So God made, etc.). When we observe further that in 5 cases out of the 6 (in LXX 5 out of 7) the execution is described as a work, that the correspondence between fiat and fulfilment is often far from complete, and finally that 2^2a seems a duplicate of 2¹, the question arises whether all these circumstances do not point to a literary manipulation, in which the conception of creation as a series of fiats has been superimposed on another conception of it as a series of works. The observation does not carry us very far, since no analysis of sources can be founded on it; but it is perhaps a slight indication of what is otherwise probable, viz. that the cosmogony was not the free composition of a single mind, but reached its final form through the successive efforts of many writers (see below).¹

The Seven Days’ Scheme.—The distribution of the eight works over six days has appeared to many critics (Ilgen, Ewald, Schrader, Wellhausen, Dillmann, Budde, Gunkel, al.) a modification introduced in the interest of the Sabbath law, and at variance with the original intention of the cosmogony. Before entering on that question, it must be pointed out that the adjustment of days to works proceeds upon a clear principle, and results in a symmetrical arrangement. Its effect is to divide the creative process into two stages, each embracing four works and occupying three days, the last day of each series having two works assigned to it. There is, moreover, a remarkable, though not perfect, parallelism between the two great divisions. Thus the first day is marked by the creation of light, and the fourth by the creation of the heavenly bodies, which are expressly designated ‘light-bearers’; on the second day the waters which afterwards formed the seas are isolated and the space between heaven and earth is formed, and so the fifth day witnesses the peopling of these regions with their living denizens (fishes and fowls); on the third day the dry land emerges, and on the sixth terrestrial animals and man are created. And it is hardly accidental that the second work of the third day (trees and grasses) corresponds to the last appointment of the sixth day, by which these products are assigned as the food of men and animals. Broadly speaking, therefore, we may say that “the first three days are days of preparation, the next three are days of accomplishment” (Driver Genesis 2). Now whether this arrangement belongs to the original conception of the cosmogony, or at what stage it was introduced, are questions very difficult to answer. Nothing at all resembling it has as yet been found in Babylonian documents; for the division into seven tablets of the Enuma eliš series has no relation to the seven days of the biblical account.¹ If therefore a Babylonian origin is assumed, it seems reasonable to hold that the scheme of days is a Hebrew addition; and in that case it is hard to believe that it can have been introduced without a primary reference to the distinctively Israelitish institution of the weekly Sabbath. It then only remains to inquire whether we can go behind the present seven days’ scheme, and discover in the narrative evidence of an earlier arrangement which either ignored the seven days altogether, or had them in a form different from what we now find.

The latter position is maintained by Wellhausen (Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments² 187 ff.), who holds that the scheme of days is a secondary addition to the framework as it came from the hand of its Priestly author (Q). In the original cosmogony of Q a division into seven days was recognised, but in a different form from what now obtains; it was moreover not carried through in detail, but merely indicated by the statement of 2² that God finished His work on the seventh day. The key to the primary arrangement he finds in the formula of approval, the absence of which after the second work he explains by the consideration that the separation of the upper waters from the lower and of the lower from the dry land form really but one work, and were so regarded by Q. Thus the seven works of creation were (1) separation of light from darkness; (2) separation of waters (verses^6‒10); (3) creation of plants; (4) luminaries; (5) fish and fowl; (6) land animals; (7) man. The statement that God finished His work on the seventh day Wellhausen considers to be inconsistent with a six days’ creation, and also with the view that the seventh was a day of rest; hence in chapter 2, he deletes ^2b and ^3b, and reads simply: “and God finished His work which He made on the seventh day, and God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it.”—This theory has been subjected to a searching criticism by Budde (Die biblische Urgeschichte 487 ff.; compare also Dillmann 15), who rightly protests against the subsuming of the creation of heaven and that of land and sea under one rubric as a ‘separation of waters,’ and gets rid of the difficulty presented by 2^2a by reading sixth instead of seventh (see on the verse). Budde urges further that the idea of the Sabbath as a day on which work might be done is one not likely to have been entertained in the circles from which the Priestly Code emanated,¹ and also (on the ground of Exodus 20¹¹) that the conception of a creation in six days followed by a divine Sabbath rest must have existed in Israel long before the age of that document.—It is to be observed that part of Budde’s argument (which as a whole seems to me valid against the specific form of the theory advanced by Wellhausen) only pushes the real question a step further back; and Budde himself, while denying that the seven days’ scheme is secondary to Priestly-Code, agrees with Ewald, Dillmann, and many others in thinking that there was an earlier Hebrew version of the cosmogony in which that scheme did not exist.

The improbability that a disposition of the cosmogony in eight works should have obtained currency in Hebrew circles without an attempt to bring it into some relation with a sacred number has been urged in favour of the originality of the present setting (Holzinger, 23 f.). That argument might be turned the other way; for the very fact that the number 8 has been retained in spite of its apparent arbitrariness suggests that it had some traditional authority behind it. Other objections to the originality of the present scheme are: (a) the juxtaposition of two entirely dissimilar works under the third day; (b) the separation of two closely related works on the second and third days; (c) the alternation of day and night introduced before the existence of the planets by which their sequence is regulated (thus far Dillmann 15), and (d) the unnatural order of the fourth and fifth works (plants before heavenly bodies). These objections are not all of equal weight; and explanations more or less plausible have been given of all of them. But on the whole the evidence seems to warrant the conclusions: that the series of works and the series of days are fundamentally incongruous, that the latter has been superimposed on the former during the Hebrew development of the cosmogony, that this change is responsible for some of the irregularities of the disposition, and that it was introduced certainly not later than Priestly-Code, and in all probability long before his time.

Source and Style.—As has been already hinted, the section belongs to the Priestly Code (Priestly-Code). This is the unanimous opinion of all critics who accept the documentary analysis of the Hexateuch, and it is abundantly proved both by characteristic words and phrases, and general features of style. Expressions characteristic of Priestly-Code are (besides the divine name אלהים): ברא (see on verse¹), זכר ונקבה ²⁷, חיתו ארץ [חית ה׳] ^24. 25. 30, לאכלה ^29. 30, מין ^{11. 12. 21. 24. 25}, מקוה ¹⁰, פרה ורבה ^22. 28, רָמַשׂ, רֶמֶשׂ ^{21. 24. 25. 26. 28. 30}, שָׁרַץ, שֶׁרֶץ ^20. 21, and תולדות in 2^4a.—Compare the lists in Dillmann, page 1; Gunkel, page 107, and Oxford Hexateuch, i. 208‒220; and for details see the Commentary below.—Of even greater value as a criterion of authorship is the unmistakable literary manner of the Priestly historian. The orderly disposition of material, the strict adherence to a carefully thought out plan, the monotonous repetition of set phraseology, the aim at exact classification and definition, and generally the subordination of the concrete to the formal elements of composition: these are all features of the ‘juristic’ style cultivated by this school of writers,—“it is the same spirit that has shaped Genesis 1 and Genesis 5” (Gunkel).—On the artistic merits of the passage very diverse judgments have been pronounced. Gunkel, whose estimate is on the whole disparaging, complains of a lack of poetic enthusiasm and picturesqueness of conception, poorly compensated for by a marked predilection for method and order. It is hardly fair to judge a prose writer by the requirements of poetry; and even a critic so little partial to Priestly-Code as Wellhausen is impressed by “the majestic repose and sustained grandeur” of the narrative, especially of its incomparable exordium (Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 297). To deny to a writer capable of producing this impression all sense of literary effect is unreasonable; and it is perhaps near the truth to say that though the style of Priestly-Code may, in technical descriptions or enumerations, degenerate into a pedantic mannerism (see an extreme case in Numbers 7), he has found here a subject suited to his genius, and one which he handles with consummate skill. It is a bold thing to desiderate a treatment more worthy of the theme, or more impressive in effect, than we find in the severely chiselled outlines and stately cadences of the first chapter of Genesis.

In speaking of the style of Priestly-Code it has to be borne in mind that we are dealing with the literary tradition of a school rather than with the idiosyncrasy of an individual. It has, indeed, often been asserted that this particular passage is obviously the composition ‘at one heat’ of a single writer; but that is improbable. If the cosmogony rests ultimately on a Babylonian model, it “must have passed through a long period of naturalisation in Israel, and of gradual assimilation to the spirit of Israel’s religion before it could have reached its present form” (Driver, Genesis 31). All, therefore, that is necessarily implied in what has just been said is that the later stages of that process must have taken place under the auspices of the school of Priestly-Code, and that its work has entered very deeply into the substance of the composition.—Of the earlier stages we can say little except that traces of them remain in those elements which do not agree with the ruling ideas of the last editors. Budde has sought to prove that the story had passed through the school of Yahwist before being adopted by that of Priestly-Code; that it was in fact the form into which the cosmogony had been thrown by the writer called Yahwist². Of direct evidence for that hypothesis (such as would be supplied by allusions to Genesis 1 in other parts of Yahwist²) there is none: it is an inference deduced mainly from these premises: (1) that the creation story shows traces of overworking which presuppose the existence of an older Hebrew recension; (2) that in all other sections of the prehistoric tradition Priestly-Code betrays his dependence on Yahwist²; and (3) that Yahwist² in turn is markedly dependent on Babylonian sources (see Die biblische Urgeschichte 463‒496, and the summary on page 491 f.). Even if all these observations be well founded, it is obvious that they fall far short of a demonstration of Budde’s thesis. It is a plausible conjecture so long as we assume that little was written beyond what we have direct or indirect evidence of (ib. 463¹); but when we realise how little is known of the diffusion of literary activity in ancient Israel, the presumption that Yahwist² was the particular writer who threw the Hebrew cosmogony into shape becomes very slender indeed.

1. We are confronted at the outset by a troublesome question of syntax which affects the sense of every member of verse ¹. While all ancient versions and many moderns take the verse as a complete sentence, others (following Rashi and Ibn Ezra) treat it as a temporal clause, subordinate either to verse ³ (Rashi, and so most) or verse ² (Ibn Ezra, apparently). On the latter view the verse will read: In the beginning of God’s creating the heavens and the earth: בְּרֵאשִׁית being in the construct state, followed by a clause as genitive (compare Isaiah 29¹, Hosea 1² etc.; and see Gesenius-Kautzsch, § 130 d; Davidson § 25). In a note below reasons are given for preferring this construction to the other; but a decision is difficult, and in dealing with verse ¹ it is necessary to leave the alternative open.—In the beginning] If the clause be subordinate the reference of ראשית is defined by what immediately follows, and no further question arises. But if it be an independent statement beginning is used absolutely (as in John 1¹), and two interpretations become possible: (a) that the verse asserts the creation (ex nihilo) of the primæval chaos described in verse ²; or (b) that it summarises the whole creative process narrated in the chapter. The former view has prevailed in Jewish and Christian theology, and is still supported by the weighty authority of Wellhausen. But (1) it is not in accordance with the usage of ראשית (see below); (2) it is not required by the word ‘create,’—a created chaos is perhaps a contradiction (Isaiah 45¹⁸ לֹא־תֹהוּ בְרָאָהּ), and Wellhausen himself admits that it is a remarkable conception; and (3) it is excluded by the object of that verb: the heavens and the earth. For though that phrase is a Hebrew designation of the universe as a whole, it is only the organised universe, not the chaotic material out of which it was formed, that can naturally be so designated. The appropriate name for chaos is ‘the earth’ (verse ²); the representation being a chaotic earth from which the heavens were afterwards made (^6 f.). The verse therefore (if an independent sentence at all) must be taken as an introductory heading to the rest of the chapter.¹—God created.] The verb בָּרָא contains the central idea of the passage. It is partly synonymous with עָשָׂה (compare verses ^21. 27 with ²⁵), but 2³ shows that it had a specific shade of meaning. The idea cannot be defined with precision, but the following points are to be noted: (a) The most important fact is that it is used exclusively of divine activity—a restriction to which perhaps no parallel can be found in other languages (see Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 304). (b) The idea of novelty (Isaiah 48^6 f. 41²⁰ 65^17 f., Jeremiah 31²¹) or extraordinariness (Exodus 34¹⁰, Numbers 16³⁰ [Yahwist]) of result is frequently implied, and it is noteworthy that this is the case in the only two passages of certainly early date where the word occurs. (c) It is probable also that it contains the idea of effortless production (such as befits the Almighty) by word or volition² (Psalms 33⁹). (d) It is obvious (from this chapter and many passages) that the sense stops short of creatio ex nihilo,—an idea first explicitly occurring in 2 Maccabees 7²⁸. At the same time the facts just stated, and the further circumstance that the word is always used with accusative of product and never of material, constitute a long advance towards the full theological doctrine, and make the word ‘create’ a suitable vehicle for it.

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1.—ראשית] The form is probably contracted from רְאֵשִׁית (compare שְׁאֵרִית), and therefore not derived directly from רֹאשׁ. It signifies primarily the first (or best) part of a thing: Genesis 10¹⁰ (‘nucleus’), 49³ (‘first product’), Deuteronomy 33²¹, Amos 6⁶ etc. (On its ritual sense as the first part of crops, etc., see Gray’s note, Numbers 226 ff.). From this it easily glides into a temporal sense, as the first stage of a process or series of events: Hosea 9¹⁰ (‘in its first stage’), Deuteronomy 11¹² (of the year), Job 8⁷ 40¹⁹ (a man’s life), Isaiah 46¹⁰ (starting point of a series), etc. Wellhausen (Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 386) has said that Deuteronomy 11¹² is the earliest instance of the temporal sense; but the distinction between ‘first part’ and ‘temporal beginning’ is so impalpable that not much importance can be attached to the remark. It is of more consequence to observe that at no period of the language does the temporal sense go beyond the definition already given, viz. the first stage of a process, either explicitly indicated or clearly implied. That being so, the prevalent determinate construction becomes intelligible. That in its ceremonial sense the word should be used absolutely was to be expected (so Leviticus 2¹² [Numbers 18¹²] Nehemiah 12⁴⁴: with these may be taken also Deuteronomy 33²¹). In its temporal applications it is always defined by genitive or suffix except in Isaiah. 46¹⁰, where the antithesis to אחרית inevitably suggests the intervening series of which ר׳ is the initial phase. It is therefore doubtful if בָּר׳ could be used of an absolute beginning detached from its sequel, or of an indefinite past, like בָּראשנה or בַּתּחלה (see Isaiah 1²⁶, Genesis 13³).—This brings us to the question of syntax. Three constructions have been proposed: (a) verse ¹ an independent sentence (all versions and the great majority of commentaries, including Calvin, Delitzsch, Tuch, Wellhausen, Driver). In sense this construction (taking the verse as superscription) is entirely free from objection: it yields an easy syntax, and a simple and majestic opening. The absence of the article tells against it, but is by no means decisive. At most it is a matter of pointing, and the sporadic Greek transliterations Βαρησηθ (Field, Origenis Hexaplorum quæ supersunt; sive Veterum Interpretum Græcorum in totum Vetus Testamentum Fragmenta), and Βαρησεθ (Lagarde, Ankündigung einer neuen Ausgabe der griech. Uebersezung des Alte Testament 5), alongside of Βρησιθ, may show that in ancient times the first word was sometimes read בָּר׳. Even the Massoretic pointing does not necessarily imply that the word was meant as construct; ר׳ is never found with articles, and Delitzsch has well pointed out that the stereotyped use or omission of articles with certain words is governed by a subtle linguistic sense which eludes our analysis (e.g. מִקֶּדֶם, מֵרֹאשׁ, בָּרִאשֹׁנָה: compare König Historisch-comparative Syntax der hebräischen Sprache § 294 g). The construction seems to me, however, opposed to the essentially relative idea of ר׳,—its express reference to that of which it is the beginning (see above). (b) verse ¹ protasis: verse ² parenthesis: verse ³ apodosis;—When God began to create ...—now the earth was ...—God said, Let there be light. So Rashi, Ewald, Dillmann,¹ Holzinger, Gunkel, al.—practically all who reject (a). Although first appearing explicitly in Rashi († 1105), it has been argued that this represents the old Jewish tradition, and that (a) came in under the influence of LXX from a desire to exclude the idea of an eternal chaos preceding the creation.² But the fact that Targum^Onkelos agrees with LXX militates against that opinion. The one objection to (b) is the ‘verzweifelt geschmacklose Construction’ (Wellhausen) which it involves. It is replied (Gunkel, al.) that such openings may have been a traditional feature of creation stories, being found in several Babylonian accounts, as well as in Genesis 2^4b‒6. In any case a lengthy parenthesis is quite admissible in good prose style (see 1 Samuel 3^2aβ‒3, with Driver Notes on the Hebrew Text of the Books of Samuel, ad loc.), and may be safely assumed here if there be otherwise sufficient grounds for adopting it. The clause as genitive is perfectly regular, though it would be easy to substitute infinitive בְּרֹא (mentioned but not recommended by Rashi). (c) A third view, which perhaps deserves more consideration than it has received, is to take verse ¹ as protasis and verse ² as apodosis, ‘When God began to create the heavens and the earth, the earth was, etc.’ (Abraham Ibn Ezra? but see Cheyne, in Hebräica ii. 50). So far as sense goes the sequence is eminently satisfactory; the ויאמר of verse ³ is more natural as a continuation of verse ² than of verse ¹. The question is whether the form of verse ² permits its being construed as apodosis. The order of words (subject before predicate) is undoubtedly that proper to the circumstantial clause (Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 157; Davidson § 138 (c)); but there is no absolute rule against an apodosis assuming this form after a time-determination (see Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 78). Close parallels (for it is hard to see that the ויהי makes any essential difference) are Genesis 7¹⁰ (Yahwist), 22¹ (Elohist), or (with imperfect), Leviticus 7^16b (Priestly-Code). The construction is not appreciably harsher than in the analogous case of 2⁵, where it has been freely adopted.—ברא] enters fully into Old Testament usage only on the eve of the Exile. Apart from three critically dubious passages (Amos 4¹³, Isaiah 4⁵, Jeremiah 31²¹), its first emergence in prophecy is in Ezekiel (3 times); it is specially characteristic of II Isaiah (20 times), in Priestly-Code 10 times, and in other late passages 8 times. The proof of pre-exilic use rests on Exodus 34¹⁰, Numbers 16³⁰ (Yahwist), Deuteronomy 4³². There is no reason to doubt that it belongs to the early language; what can be fairly said is that at the Exile the thought of the divine creation of the world became prominent in the prophetic theology, and that for this reason the term which expressed it technically obtained a currency it had not previously enjoyed. The primary idea is uncertain. It is commonly regarded as the root of a Piel meaning ‘cut,’ hence ‘form by cutting,’ ‘carve,’ ‘fashion,’ (Aramaic baraʸ, Phœnician ברא [Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum, i. 347⁴]: see Brown-Driver-Briggs, s.v.; Lane, A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament 197 b; Lidzbarski, Handbuch der nordsemitischen Epigraphik 244 [with ?]); but the evidence of the connexion is very slight. The only place where בֵּרֵא could mean ‘carve’ is Ezekiel 21^{24 bis}; and there the text is almost certainly corrupt (see Cornill, Toy, Kraetschmar, ad loc.). Elsewhere it means ‘cut down’ (Ezekiel 23⁴⁷) or ‘clear ground by hewing down trees’ (Joshua 17^15. 18 [Yahwist])—a sense as remote as possible from fashion or make (Dillmann, Gesenius-Buhl s.v.; Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 387). The Aramaic bara’a (used chiefly of creation of animate beings) is possibly borrowed from Hebrew. Native philologists connect it, very unnaturally, with bari’a, ‘be free’; so that ‘create’ means to liberate (from the clay, etc.) (Lane, 178 b, c): Dillmann’s view is similar. Barth (Zeitschrift für Assyriologie, iii. 58) has proposed to identify ברא (through mutation of liquids) with the Assyrian verb for ‘create,’ banū; but rejects the opinion that the latter is the common Semitic בנה ‘build’ (Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 498¹), with which ברא alternates in Sabæan (Müller in Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft, xxxvii. 413, 415).

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2. Description of Chaos.—It is perhaps impossible to unite the features of the description in a single picture, but the constitutive elements of the notion of chaos appear to be Confusion (תהו ובהו), Darkness, and Water (תהום, מים). The weird effect of the language is very impressive. On the syntax, see above.—waste and void] The exact meaning of this alliterative phrase—Tōhû wā-Bōhû—is difficult to make out. The words are nouns; the connotation of תהו ranges from the concrete ‘desert’ to the abstract ‘nonentity’; while בהו possibly means ‘emptiness’ (v.i.). The exegetical tendency has been to emphasise the latter aspect, and approximate to the Greek notion of chaos as empty space (Gunkel). But our safest guide is perhaps Jeremiah’s vision of Chaos-come-again (4^23‒26), which is simply that of a darkened and devastated earth, from which life and order have fled. The idea here is probably similar, with this difference, that the distinction of land and sea is effaced, and the earth, which is the subject of the sentence, must be understood as the amorphous watery mass in which the elements of the future land and sea were commingled.—Darkness (an almost invariable feature of ancient conceptions of chaos) was upon the face of the Deep] The Deep (תְּהוֹם) is the subterranean ocean on which the earth rests (Genesis 7¹¹ 8² 49²⁵, Amos 7⁴ etc.); which, therefore, before the earth was formed, lay bare and open to the superincumbent darkness. In the Babylonian Creation-myth the primal chaos is personified under the name Ti’āmat. The Hebrew narrative is free from mythological associations, and it is doubtful if even a trace of personification lingers in the name תהום. In Babylonian, ti’āmatu or tāmtu is a generic term for ‘ocean’; and it is conceivable that this literal sense may be the origin of the Hebrew conception of the Deep (see page 47).—The Spirit of God was brooding] not, as has sometimes been supposed, a wind sent from God to dry up the waters (Targum^Onkelos, Abraham Ibn Ezra, and a few moderns), but the divine Spirit, figured as a bird brooding over its nest, and perhaps symbolising an immanent principle of life and order in the as yet undeveloped chaos. Compare Milton, Paradise Lost, i. 19 ff., vii. 233 ff. It is remarkable, however, if this be the idea, that no further effect is given to it in the sequel. (1) The idea of the Spirit as formative principle of the kosmos, while in the line of the Old Testament doctrine that he is the source of life (Psalms 33⁶ 104^29 f.), yet goes much beyond the ordinary representation, and occurs only here (possibly Isaiah 40¹³). (2) The image conveyed by the word brooding (מְרַחֶפֶת) is generally considered to rest on the widespread cosmogonic speculation of the world-egg (so even Delitzsch and Dillmann), in which the organised world was as it were hatched from the fluid chaos. If so, we have here a fragment of mythology not vitally connected with the main idea of the narrative, but introduced for the sake of its religious suggestiveness. In the source from which this myth was borrowed the brooding power might be a bird-like deity¹ (Gunkel), or an abstract principle like the Greek Ἔρως, the Phœnician Πόθος, etc.: for this the Hebrew writer, true to his monotheistic faith, substitutes the Spirit of God, and thereby transforms a “crude material representation ... into a beautiful and suggestive figure” (Driver The Book of Genesis with Introduction and Notes 5).

The conceptions of chaos in antiquity fluctuate between that of empty space (Hesiod, Aristotle, Lucretius, etc.) and the ‘rudis indigestaque moles’ of Ovid (Metamorphoses i. 7). The Babylonian representation embraces the elements of darkness and water, and there is no doubt that this is the central idea of the Genesis narrative. It is singular, however, that of the three clauses of verse ² only the second (which includes the two elements mentioned) exercises any influence on the subsequent description (for on any view the ‘waters’ of the third must be identical with the Tĕhôm of the second). It is possible, therefore, that the verse combines ideas drawn from diverse sources which are not capable of complete synthesis. Only on this supposition would it be possible to accept Gunkel’s interpretation of the first clause as a description of empty space. In that case the earth is probably not inclusive of, but contrasted with, Tĕhôm: it denotes the space now occupied by the earth, which being empty leaves nothing but the deep and the darkness.

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2. תהו ובהו] LXX ἀόρατος καὶ ἀκατασκεύαστος; Aquila κένωμα καὶ οὐθέν; Symmachus ἀργὸν καὶ ἀδιάκριτον; Theodotion κενὸν (or οὐθὲν) καὶ οὐθὲν; Vulgate inanis et vacua; Targum^Onkelos צדיא וריקניא (‘desolate and empty’); Peshiṭtå . The fragmentary Jerome Targum has a double translation: “And the earth was תהיא ובהיא, and (compare Targum^Onkelos) desolate from the sons of men, and empty of work.” תהו occurs along with בהו in Jeremiah 4²³, Isaiah 34¹¹; תהו alone in 17 passages besides. The meaning varies between two extremes: (a) a (trackless) desert (Job 12²⁴ [= Psalms 107⁴⁰] 6¹⁸, Deuteronomy 32¹⁰), and (b) unsubstantiality (שאין לו ממש, Abraham Ibn Ezra) or ‘nonentity,’ a sense all but peculiar to II Isaiah (also 1 Samuel 12²¹, and perhaps Isaiah 29²¹), but very frequent there. The primary idea is uncertain. It is perhaps easier on the whole to suppose that the abstract sense of ‘formlessness,’ or the like, gave rise to a poetic name for desert, than that the concrete ‘desert’ passed over into the abstract ‘formlessness’; but we have no assurance that either represents the actual development of the idea. It seems not improbable that the Old Testament usage is entirely based on the traditional description of the primæval chaos, and that the word had no definite connotation in Hebrew, but was used to express any conception naturally associated with the idea of chaos—‘formlessness,’ ‘confusion,’ ‘unreality,’ etc.—בהו] (never found apart from תהו) may be connected with bahiya = ‘be empty’; though Aramaic is hardly a safe guide in the case of a word with a long history behind it. The identification with Βααυ, the mother of the first man in Phœnician mythology (see page 49 f.), is probable.—תהום] is undoubtedly the philological equivalent of Babylonian Ti’āmat: a connexion with Aramaic Tihāmat, the Red Sea littoral province (Hoffmann in Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, iii. 118), is more dubious (see Lane, 320 b, c; Jensen, Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, 560). In early Hebrew the word is rare, and always (with possible exception of Exodus 15^5. 8) denotes the subterranean ocean, which is the source from which earthly springs and fountains are fed (Genesis 49²⁵, Deuteronomy 33¹³, Amos 7⁴, and so Deuteronomy 8⁷, Genesis 7¹¹ 8² (Priestly-Code); compare Homer Iliad xxi. 195), and is a remnant of the primal chaos (Genesis 1², Psalms 104⁶, Proverbs 8²⁷). In later writings it is used of the sea (plural, seas), and even of torrents of water (Psalms 42⁸); but, the passages being poetic, there is probably always to be detected a reference to the world-ocean, either as source of springs, or as specialised in earthly oceans (see Ezekiel 26¹⁹). Though the word is almost confined to poetry (except Genesis 1² 7¹¹ 8², Deuteronomy 8⁷, Amos 7⁴), the only clear cases of personification are Genesis 49²⁵, Deuteronomy 33¹³ (Tĕhôm that coucheth beneath). The invariable absence of the article (except with plural in Psalms 106⁹, Isaiah 63¹³) proves that it is a proper name, but not that it is a personification (compare the case of שְׁאוֹל). On the other hand, it is noteworthy that תהום, unlike most Hebrew names of fluids, is feminine, becoming occasionally masculine only in later times when its primary sense had been forgotten (compare Albrecht, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xvi. 62): this might be due to an original female personification.—מרחפת] Greek Versions and Vulgate express merely the idea of motion (ἐπεφέρετο, ἐπιφερόμενον, ferebatur); Targum^Onkelos מנשבא (‘blow’ or ‘breathe’); Peshiṭtå . Jerome (Quæstiones sive Traditiones hebraicæ in Genesim): “incubabat sive confovebat in similitudinem volucris ova calore animantis.” It is impossible to say whether ‘brood’ or ‘hover’ is the exact image here, or in Deuteronomy 32¹¹,—the only other place where the Piel occurs (the Qal in Jeremiah 23⁹ may be a separate root). The Syriac verb has great latitude of meaning; it describes, e.g., the action of Elisha in laying himself on the body of the dead child (2 Kings 4³⁴); and is used of angels hovering over the dying Virgin. It is also applied to a waving of the hands (or of fans) in certain ecclesiastical functions, etc. (see Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus 3886).

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3‒5. First work: Creation of light.—[And] God said] On the connexion, see above, pages 13 ff.; and on the significance of the fiat, page 7.—Let there be light] The thought of light as the first creation, naturally suggested by the phenomenon of the dawn, appears in several cosmogonies; but is not expressed in any known form of the Babylonian legend. There the creator, being the sun-god, is in a manner identified with the primal element of the kosmos; and the antithesis of light and darkness is dramatised as a conflict between the god and the Chaos monster. In Persian cosmogony also, light, as the sphere in which Mazda dwells, is uncreated and eternal (Tiele, Geschichte der Religion im Altertum ii. 295 f.). In Isaiah 45⁷ both light and darkness are creations of Yahwe, but that is certainly not the idea here. Compare Milton’s Paradise Lost, iii. 1 ff.:

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3. ויהי אור corresponds to the ויהי כן of subsequent acts.

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4. saw that the light was good] The formula of approval does not extend to the darkness, nor even to the coexistence of light and darkness, but is restricted to the light. “Good” expresses the contrast of God’s work to the chaos of which darkness is an element. Gunkel goes too far in suggesting that the expression covers a ‘strong anthropomorphism’ (the possibility of failure, happily overcome). But he rightly calls attention to the bright view of the world implied in the series of approving verdicts, as opposed to the pessimistic estimate which became common in later Judaism.—And God divided, etc.]. To us these words merely suggest alternation in time; but Hebrew conceives of a spatial distinction of light and darkness, each in its own ‘place’ or abode (Job 38^19 f.). Even the separate days and nights of the year seem thought of as having independent and continuous existence (Job 3⁶).

The Hebrew mind had thus no difficulty in thinking of the existence of light before the heavenly bodies. The sun and moon rule the day and night, but light and darkness exist independently of them. It is a mistake, however, to compare this with the scientific hypothesis of a cosmical light diffused through the nebula from which the solar system was evolved. It is not merely light and darkness, but day and night, and even the alternation of evening and morning (verse ⁵), that are represented as existing before the creation of the sun.

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4. האור כי טוב] with attracted object: see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 117 h; Davidson § 146.

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5. And God called, etc.] The name—that by which the thing is summoned into the field of thought—belongs to the full existence of the thing itself. So in the first line of the Babylonian account, “the heaven was not yet named” means that it did not yet exist.—And it became evening, etc.] Simple as the words are, the sentence presents some difficulty, which is not removed by the supposition that the writer follows the Jewish custom of reckoning the day from sunset to sunset (Tuch, Gunkel, Bennett, etc.). The Jewish day may have begun at sunset, but it did not end at sunrise; and it is impossible to take the words as meaning that the evening and morning formed the first (second, etc.) day. Moreover, there could be no evening before the day on which light was created. The sentence must refer to the close of the first day with the first evening and the night that followed, leading the mind forward to the advent of a new day, and a new display of creative power (Delitzsch, Dillmann, Holzinger, al.). One must not overlook the majestic simplicity of the statement.

The interpretation of יום as æon, a favourite resource of harmonists of science and revelation, is opposed to the plain sense of the passage, and has no warrant in Hebrew usage (not even Psalms 90⁴). It is true that the conception of successive creative periods, extending over vast spaces of time, is found in other cosmogonies (Delitzsch 55); but it springs in part from views of the world which are foreign to the Old Testament. To introduce that idea here not only destroys the analogy on which the sanction of the sabbath rests, but misconceives the character of the Priestly Code. If the writer had had æons in his mind, he would hardly have missed the opportunity of stating how many millenniums each embraced.

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5. יום in popular parlance denotes the period between dawn and dark, and is so used in ^5a. When it became necessary to deal with the 24-hours’ day, it was most natural to connect the night with the preceding period of light, reckoning, i.e., from sunrise to sunrise; and this is the prevailing usage of Old Testament (יום ולילה). In post-exilic times we find traces of the reckoning from sunset to sunset in the phrase לילה ויום (νυχθήμερον), Isaiah 27³ 34¹⁰, Esther 4¹⁶. Priestly-Code regularly employs the form ‘day and night’; and if Leviticus 23³² can be cited as a case of the later reckoning, Exodus 12¹⁸ is as clearly in favour of the older (see Marti, Encyclopædia Biblica, 1036; König, Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft, lx. 605 ff.). There is therefore no presumption in favour of the less natural method in this passage.—קָ֫רָא] Mil‛el, to avoid concurrence of two accented syllables.—♦לַ֫יְלָה] (also Mil‛el) a reduplicated form (לַיְלַי; compare Aramaic ליליא): see Nöldeke, Mandäische Grammatik § 109; Prätorius, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, iii. 218; König ii. § 52 c.—יום אחד] ‘a first day,’ or perhaps better ‘one day.’ On אהד as ordinal, see Gesenius-Kautzsch §§ 98 a, 134 p; Davidson § 38, R. 1; but compare Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 387.

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6‒8. Second work: The firmament.—The second fiat calls into existence a firmament, whose function is to divide the primæval waters into an upper and lower ocean, leaving a space between as the theatre of further creative developments. The “firmament” is the dome of heaven, which to the ancients was no optical illusion, but a material structure, sometimes compared to an “upper chamber” (Psalms 104¹³, Amos 9⁶) supported by “pillars” (Job 26¹¹), and resembling in its surface a “molten mirror” (Job 37¹⁸). Above this are the heavenly waters, from which the rain descends through “windows” or “doors” (Genesis 7¹¹ 8², 2 Kings 7^2. 19) opened and shut by God at His pleasure (Psalms 78²³). The general idea of a forcible separation of heaven and earth is widely diffused; it is perhaps embodied in our word ‘heaven’ (from heave?) and Old English ‘lift.’ A graphic illustration of it is found in Egyptian pictures, where the god Shu is seen holding aloft, with outstretched arms, the dark star-spangled figure of the heaven-goddess, while the earth-god lies prostrate beneath (see Jeremias Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 7).¹ But the special form in which it appears here is perhaps not fully intelligible apart from the Babylonian creation-myth, and the climatic phenomena on which it is based (see below, page 46).

Another interpretation of the firmament has recently been propounded (Winckler, Himmels- und Weltbild der Babylonier, 25 ff.; Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 164, 174) which identifies it with the Babylonian šupuk šamē, and explains both of the Zodiac. The view seems based on the highly artificial Babylonian theory of a point-for-point correspondence between heaven and earth, according to which the Zodiac represents a heavenly earth, the northern heavens a heavenly heaven (atmospheric), and the southern a heavenly ocean. But whatever be the truth about šupuk šamē, such a restriction of the meaning of רקיע is inadmissible in Hebrew. In Psalms 19², Daniel 12³ it might be possible; but even there it is unnecessary, and in almost every other case it is absolutely excluded. It is so emphatically in this chapter, where the firmament is named heaven, and birds (whose flight is not restricted to 10° on either side of the ecliptic) are said to fly ‘in front of the firmament.’

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6. רָקִיעַ] (LXX στερέωμα, Vulgate firmamentum) a word found only in Ezekiel, Priestly-Code, Psalms 19² 150¹, Daniel 12³. The absence of article shows that it is a descriptive term, though the only parallels to such a use would be Ezekiel 1^{22 f. 25 f.} 10¹ (compare Phœnician מרקע = ‘dish’ [Blechschale]: Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum, i. 90¹; see Lidzbarski 370, 421). The idea is solidity, not thinness or extension: the sense ‘beat thin’ belongs to the Piel (Exodus 39³ etc.); and this noun is formed from the Qal, which means either (intransitive) to ‘stamp with the foot’ (Ezekiel 6¹¹), or (transitive), ‘stamp firm,’ ‘consolidate’ (Isaiah 42⁵ etc.). It is curious that the verb is used of the creation of the earth, never of heaven, except Job 37¹⁸.—ויחי מבדיל] on participle expressing permanence, see Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 135, 5.—בֵּין־לְ: König Historisch-comparative Syntax der hebräischen Sprache § 319 n.—וַיַּבְדֵּל] LXX supplies as subject ὁ θεός.—7. ויהי כן] transposed in LXX to end of verse ⁶, its normal position,—if indeed it be not a gloss in both places (Wellhausen).—8. LXX also inserts here the formula of approval: on its omission in Hebrew, see above, pages 8, 9.

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9, 10. Third work: Dry land and sea.—The shoreless lower ocean, which remained at the close of the second day, is now replaced by land and sea in their present configuration. The expressions used: gathered together ... appear—seem to imply that the earth already existed as a solid mass covered with water, as in Psalms 104^5. 6; but Dillmann thinks the language not inconsistent with the idea of a muddy mixture of earth and water, as is most naturally suggested by verse ². Henceforth the only remains of the original chaos are the subterranean waters (commonly called Tĕhôm, but in Psalms 24² ‘sea’ and ‘streams’), and the circumfluent ocean on which the heaven rests (Job 26¹⁰, Psalms 139⁹, Proverbs 8²⁷), of which, however, earthly seas are parts.

Wellhausen’s argument, that verses ^6‒10 are the account of a single work (above, page 9 f.), is partly anticipated by Abraham Ibn Ezra, who points out that what is here described is no true creation, but only a manifestation of what was before hidden and a gathering of what was dispersed. On the ground that earth and heaven were made on one day (2⁴), he is driven to take ויאמר as pluperfect, and assign verses ^9. 10 to the second day. Some such idea may have dictated the omission of the formula of approval at the close of the second day’s work.

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9. יִקָּווּ] in this sense, only Jeremiah 3¹⁷. For מָקוֹם read with LXX מִקְוֶה = ‘gathering-place,’ as in verse ¹⁰. Nestle (Marginalien und Materialien, 3) needlessly suggests for the latter מִקְרֶה, and for יקוו, יִקָּרוּ.—מִתַּחַת] not ‘from under’ but simply ‘under’ (see verse ¹⁰); Gesenius-Kautzsch § 119 c².—וְתֵרָאֶה] jussive unapocopated, as often near the principal pause; Gesenius-Kautzsch § 109 a.—At the end of the verse LXX adds: καὶ συνήχθη τὸ ὕδωρ τὸ ὑποκάτω τοῦ οὐρανοῦ εἰς τὰς συναγωγὰς αὐτῶν καὶ ὤφθη ἡ ξηρά: i.e. וַיִּקָּווּ הַמַּיִם אֲשֶׁר מִתַּחַת הַשָּׁמַיִם אֶל־מִקְוֵיהֶם וַתֵּרָא הַיַּבָּשָׁה. The addition is adopted by Ball, and the plural αὐτῶν proves at least that it rests on a Hebrew original, ὕδωρ being singular in Greek (Wellhausen).—10. יַמִּים] the plural (compare Genesis 49¹³, Deuteronomy 33¹⁹, Psalms 46^3 f. [where it is construed as singular] 24² etc.) is mostly poetic and late prose; it is probably not numerical, but plural of extension like מַיִם, שָׁמַיִם, and therefore to be rendered as singular.

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11‒13. Fourth work: Creation of plants.—The appearing of the earth is followed on the same day, not inappropriately, by the origination of vegetable life. The earth itself is conceived as endowed with productive power—a recognition of the principle of development not to be explained as a mere imparting of the power of annual renewal (Dillmann); see to the contrary verse ¹² compared with verse ²⁴.—11. Let the earth produce verdure] דֶּשֶׁא means ‘fresh young herbage,’ and appears here to include all plants in the earliest stages of their growth; hence the classification of flora is not threefold—grass, herbs, trees (Dillmann, Driver, al.)—but twofold, the generic דשא including the two kinds עֵשֶׂב and עֵץ (Delitzsch, Gunkel, Holzinger, etc.). The distinction is based on the methods of reproduction; the one kind producing seed merely, the other fruit which contains the seed.—The verse continues (amending with the help of LXX): grass producing seed after its kind, and fruit-tree producing fruit in which (i.e. the fruit) is its (the tree’s) seed after its (the tree’s) kind.—after its kind] v.i.—upon the earth] comes in very awkwardly; it is difficult to find any suitable point of attachment except with the principal verb, which, however, is too remote.

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11. תַּֽדְשֵׁא דֶּשֶׁא] literally ‘vegetate vegetation,’ the noun being accusative cognate with the verb.—תַּֽ׳ is ἅπαξ λεγόμενον; on the pointing with Metheg (Baer-Delitzsch page 74) see König i. § 42, 7. Peshiṭtå () must have read תוצא as verse ¹².—דֶּשֶׁא עֵשֶׂב] LXX (βοτάνην χόρτου) and Vulgate treat the words as in annexion, contrary to the accents and the usage of the terms. It is impossible to define them with scientific precision; and the twofold classification given above—herb and tree—is more or less precarious. It recurs, however, in Exodus 9²⁵ 10^12. 15 (all Yahwist), and the reasons for rejecting the other are, first, the absence of וְ before עשב; and, second, the syntactic consideration that דשא as cognate accusative may be presumed to define completely the action of the verb.—דשׁא denotes especially fresh juicy herbage¹ (Proverbs 27²⁵) and those grasses which never to appearance get beyond that stage. עשב, on the other hand (unlike דּ׳), is used of human food, and therefore includes cultivated plants (the cereals, etc.) (Psalms 104¹⁴).—עץ] read וִעֵץ with The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch, LXX Vulgate, Peshiṭtå, and 3 Hebrew MSS (Ball).—למינו, למינהו] On form of suffix see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 91 d. LXX in verse ¹¹ inserts the word after זרע (rendering strangely κατὰ γένος καὶ καθ’ ὁμοιότητα,—and so verse ¹²), and later in the verse (κατὰ γένος εἰς ὁμοιότητα) transposes as indicated in the translation above.—מין] a characteristic word of Priestly-Code, found elsewhere only in Deuteronomy 14^{13. 14. 15. 18} (from Leviticus 11), and (dubiously) Ezekiel 47¹⁰,—everywhere with suffix. The etymology is uncertain. If connected with תְּמוּנָה (form, likeness), the meaning would be ‘form’ (Latin, species); but in usage it seems to mean simply ‘kind,’ the singular suffix here being distributive: “according to its several kinds.” In Syriac the corresponding word denotes a family or tribe. For another view, see Friedrich Delitzsch, Prolegomena eines neuen hebräisch-aramäischen Wörterbuchs zum Alten Testament 143 f.—12. ותוצא] One is tempted to substitute the rare ותדשא as in verse ¹¹ (so Ball).—After עץ LXX adds פרי: Ball deletes the פרי in verse ¹¹.

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14‒19. Fifth work: The heavenly luminaries.—On the parallelism with the first day’s work see above, page 8 f. The verses describe only the creation of sun and moon; the clause and the stars in verse ¹⁶ appears to be an addition (v.i.). The whole conception is as unscientific (in the modern sense) as it could be—(a) in its geocentric standpoint, (b) in making the distinction of day and night prior to the sun, (c) in putting the creation of the vegetable world before that of the heavenly bodies. Its religious significance, however, is very great, inasmuch as it marks the advance of Hebrew thought from the heathen notion of the stars to a pure monotheism. To the ancient world, and the Babylonians in particular, the heavenly bodies were animated beings, and the more conspicuous of them were associated or identified with the gods. The idea of them as an animated host occurs in Hebrew poetry (Judges 5²⁰, Isaiah 40²⁶, Job 38⁷ etc.); but here it is entirely eliminated, the heavenly bodies being reduced to mere luminaries, i.e. either embodiments of light or perhaps simply ‘lamps’ (v.i.). It is possible, as Gunkel thinks, that a remnant of the old astrology lurks in the word dominion; but whereas in Babylonia the stars ruled over human affairs in general, their influence here is restricted to that which obviously depends on them, viz. the alternation of day and night, the festivals, etc. Compare Job 38³³, Psalms 136^7‒9 (Jeremiah 31³⁵). It is noteworthy that this is the only work of creation of which the purpose is elaborately specified.—luminaries (מְא[וֹ]רֹת)] i.e. bearers or embodiments of light. The word is used most frequently of the sevenfold light of the tabernacle (Exodus 25⁶ etc.); and to speak of it as expressing a markedly prosaic view of the subject (Gunkel) is misleading.—in the firmament, etc.] moving in prescribed paths on its lower surface. This, however, does not justify the interpretation of רקיע as the Zodiac (above, page 22).—to separate between the day, etc.]. Day and night are independent entities; but they are now put under the rule of the heavenly bodies, as their respective spheres of influence (Psalms 121⁶).—for signs and for seasons, etc.] מוֹעֲדִים (seasons) appears never (certainly not in Priestly-Code) to be used of the natural seasons of the year (Hosea 2¹¹, Jeremiah 8⁷ are figurative), but always of a time conventionally agreed upon (see Exodus 9⁵), or fixed by some circumstance. The commonest application is to the sacred seasons of the ecclesiastical year, which are fixed by the moon (compare Psalms 104¹⁹). If the natural seasons are excluded, this seems the only possible sense here; and Priestly-Code’s predilection for matters of cultus makes the explanation plausible.—אֹתֹת (signs) is more difficult, and none of the explanations given is entirely satisfactory (v.i.).—16. for dominion over the day ... night] in the sense explained above; and so verse ¹⁸.—and the stars] Since the writer seems to avoid on principle the everyday names of the objects, and to describe them by their nature and the functions they serve, the clause is probably a gloss (but v.i.). On the other hand, it would be too bold an expedient to supply an express naming of the planets after the analogy of the first three works (Tuch).

The laboured explanation of the purposes of the heavenly bodies is confused, and suggests overworking (Holzinger). The clauses which most excite suspicion are the two beginning with והיו (the difficult ^14b and ^15aα);—note in particular the awkward repetition of למארות וגו׳. The functions are stated with perfect clearness in ^16‒18: (a) to give light upon the earth, (b) to rule day and night, and (c) to separate light from darkness. I am disposed to think that ^14b was introduced as an exposition of the idea of the verb משׁל, and that ^15aα was then added to restore the connexion. Not much importance can be attached to the insertions of LXX (v.i.), which may be borrowed from verse ^17 f..

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14. יהי מארת] (∥ יהי אור in verse ³). On the breach of concord, see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 145 o; Davidson § 113 b.—מאור] a late word, is used of heavenly bodies in Ezekiel 32⁸, Psalms 74¹⁶; it never means ‘lamp’ exactly, but is often applied collectively to the seven-armed lampstand of the tabernacle; once it is used of the eyes (Proverbs 15³⁰), and once of the divine countenance (Psalms 90⁸).—ברקיע הש׳] the genitive is not partitive but explicative: Davidson § 24 (a).—LXX inserts at this point: εἰς φαῦσιν τῆς γῆς, καὶ ἄρχειν τῆς ἡμέρας καὶ τῆς νυκτὸς, καί.—לאתת] In Jeremiah 10² אתות השמים are astrological portents such as the heathen fear, and that is commonly taken as the meaning here, though it is not quite easy to believe the writer would have said the sun and moon were made for this purpose.¹ If we take אֹת in its ordinary sense of ‘token’ or ‘indication,’ we might suppose it defined by the words which follow. Tuch obtains a connexion by making the double ו = both ... and (“as signs, both for [sacred] seasons and for days and years”): others by a hendiadys (“signs of seasons”). It would be less violent to render the first ו und zwar (videlicet): “as signs, and that for seasons,” etc.; see Brown-Driver-Briggs, s. וְ 1. b, where some of the examples come, at any rate, very near the sense proposed. Olshausen arrives at the same sense by reading לְמוֹ׳ simply (Monatsberichte der Königlich-Preussischen Akadamie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin., 1870, 380).—16. ואת הכ׳] Driver (Hebrew ii. 33) renders “and the lesser light, as also the stars, to rule,” etc. The construction is not abnormal; but would the writer have said that the stars rule the night?—18. וּֽלְהַבדיל] On the comparative sheva see König i. § 10, 6 e.

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20‒23. Sixth work: Aquatic and aërial animals.—Let the waters swarm with swarming things—living creatures, and let fowl fly, etc.] The conjunction of two distinct forms of life under one creative act has led Gunkel to surmise that two originally separate works have been combined in order to bring the whole within the scheme of six days. Bennett (rendering and fowl that may fly) thinks the author was probably influenced by some ancient tradition that birds as well as fishes were produced by the water (so Rashi and Abraham Ibn Ezra on 2¹⁹). The conjecture is attractive, and the construction has the support of all Greek versions and Vulgate; but it is not certain that the verb can mean “produce a swarm.” More probably (in connexions like the present: see Exodus 7²⁸ [Yahwist] [English Version 8³], Psalms 105³⁰) the sense is simply teem with, indicating the place or element in which the swarming creatures abound, in which case it cannot possibly govern עוֹף as objective.—שֶׁרֶץ has a sense something like ‘vermin’: i.e. it never denotes ‘a swarm,’ but is always used of the creatures that appear in swarms (v.i.).—נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה] literally, ‘living soul’; used here collectively, and with the sense of נפש weakened, as often, to ‘individual’ or ‘being’ (contrast verse ³⁰ and see on 2⁷). The creation of the aquatic animals marks, according to Old Testament ideas, the first appearance of life on the earth, for life is nowhere predicated of the vegetable kingdom.—over the earth in front of the firmament] i.e. in the atmosphere, for which Hebrew has no special name.—21. created] indistinguishable from made in verse ²⁵.—the great sea monsters] The introduction of this new detail in the execution of the fiat is remarkable. הַתַּנִינִם here denotes actual marine animals; but this is almost the only passage where it certainly bears that sense (Psalms 148⁷). There are strong traces of mythology in the usage of the word: Isaiah 27¹ 51⁹ (Gunkel Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit 30‒33), Psalms 74¹³(?); and it may have been originally the name of a class of legendary monsters like Ti’āmat. The mythological interpretation lingered in Jewish exegetical tradition (see below).—22. And God blessed them, etc.] In contrast with the plants, whose reproductive powers are included in their creation (verse ^11 ff.), these living beings are endowed with the right of self-propagation by a separate act—a benediction (see verse ²⁸). The distinction is natural.—be fruitful, etc.] “There is nothing to indicate that only a single pair of each kind was originally produced” (Bennett); the language rather suggests that whole species, in something like their present multitude, were created.

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20. ישרצו ... שרץ] On syntax see Davidson § 73, R. 2. The root has in Aramaic the sense of ‘creep,’ and there are many passages in Old Testament where that idea would be appropriate (Leviticus 11^29. 41‒43 etc.); hence Robertson Smith (Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 293), ‘creeping vermin generally.’ But here and Genesis 8¹⁷ 9⁷, Exodus 1⁷ 7²⁸, Psalms 105³⁰ it can only mean ‘teem’ or ‘swarm’; and Driver (Genesis 12) is probably right in extending that meaning to all the passages in Hebrew Genesis 1^20 f., Exodus 7²⁸, Psalms 105³⁰ are the only places where the construct with cognitive accusative appears; elsewhere the animals themselves are subject of the verb. The words, except in three passages, are peculiar to the vocabulary of Priestly-Code.—But for the fact that שֶׁרָץ never means ‘swarm,’ but always ‘swarming thing,’ it would be tempting to take it as construct state before נפש חיה (LXX, Aquila, Vulgate). As it is, נ׳ ח׳ has all the awkwardness of a gloss (see 2¹⁹). The phrase is applied once to man, 2⁷ (Yahwist); elsewhere to animals,—mostly in Priestly-Code (Genesis 1^21. 24. 30 9^{10. 12. 15. 16}, Leviticus 11^10. 46 etc.).—ועוף יעופף] The order of words as in verse ²² (והעוף ירב), due to emphasis on the new subject. The use of descriptive imperfect (LXX, Aquila, Symmachus, Theodotion, Vulgate) is mostly poetic, and for reasons given above must here be refused.—על פני] = ‘in front of’: see Brown-Driver-Briggs, s. פנה, II. 7, a,—LXX inserts ויהי כן at the end of the verse.—21. התנינם] It is naturally difficult to determine exactly how far the Hebrew usage of the word is coloured by mythology. The important point is that it represents a power hostile to God, not only in the passages cited above, but also in Job 7¹². There are resemblances in the Aramaic tinnīn, a fabulous amphibious monster, appearing now on land and now in the sea (personification of the waterspout? Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 176), concerning which the Arabian cosmographers have many wonderful tales to relate (Mas‛ūdī, i. 263, 266 ff.; Kazwīnī, Ethé’s translation i. 270 ff.). Rashi, after explaining literally, adds by way of Haggada that these are ‘Leviathan and his consort,’ who were created male and female, but the female was killed and salted for the righteous in the coming age, because if they had multiplied the world would not have stood before them (compare Enoch 60^7‒9, 4 Esdras 6^49‒52, Bereshith Rabba chapter 7).¹—ואת כל־נפש הח׳ Compare 9¹⁰, Leviticus 11¹⁰; נ׳ though without article is really determined by כל (but see Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 209 (1)).—אשר שרצו] א׳, accusative of definition, as שֶׁרֶץ in verse ²⁰.—22. פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ] highly characteristic of Priestly-Code (only 3 times elsewhere).

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24, 25. Seventh work: Terrestrial animals.—24. Let the earth bring forth living creatures] נפש חיה (again collectively) is here a generic name for land animals, being restricted by what precedes—‘living animals that spring from the earth.’ Like the plants (verse ¹²), they are boldly said to be produced by the earth, their bodies being part of the earth’s substance (2^7. 19); this could not be said of fishes in relation to the water, and hence a different form of expression had to be employed in verse ²⁰.—The classification of animals (best arranged in verse ²⁵) is threefold: (1) wild animals, חַיַּת הָאָרֶץ (roughly, carnivora); (2) domesticated animals, בְּהֵמָה (herbivora); (3) reptiles, רֶמֶשׂ הָאֲדָמָה, including perhaps creeping insects and very small quadrupeds (see Driver A Dictionary of the Bible, i. 518). A somewhat similar threefold division appears in a Babylonian tablet—‘cattle of the field, beasts of the field and creatures of the city’ (Jensen Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, 42 f.; King, The Seven Tablets of Creation 112 f.).—25. God saw that it was good] The formula distinctly marks the separation of this work from the creation of man, which follows on the same day. The absence of a benediction corresponding to verses ^22. 28 is surprising, but it is idle to speculate on the reason.

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24. The distinctions noted above are not strictly observed throughout the Old Testament. בהמה (from a root signifying ‘be dumb’—Aramaic and Ethiopic) denotes collectively, first, animals as distinguished from man (Exodus 9¹⁹ etc.), but chiefly the larger mammals; then, domestic animals (the dumb creatures with which man has most to do), (Genesis 34²³ 36⁶ etc.). Of wild animals specially it is seldom used alone (Deuteronomy 32²⁴, Habakkuk 2¹⁷), but sometimes with an addition (אֶרֶץ, שָׂדֶה, יַעַר) which marks the unusual reference. As a noun of unity, Nehemiah 2^12. 14. See Brown-Driver-Briggs, s.v.—חַיְתוֹ אֶרֶץ] an archaic phrase in which וֹ represents the old case ending of the nominative, u or um (Gesenius-Kautzsch, § 90 n). So Psalms 79²; חיתו in other combinations Isaiah 56⁹, Zephaniah 2¹⁴, Psalms 104¹¹; Psalms 50¹⁰ 104²⁰. In sense it is exactly the same as the commoner חַיַּת הָאָרֶץ 1^25. 30 9^2. 10 etc.), and usually denotes wild animals, though sometimes animals in general (ζῶον).—רמש and שרץ naturally overlap; but the first name is derived from the manner of movement, and the second from the tendency to swarm (Driver l.c.).

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26‒28. Eighth work: Creation of man.—As the narrative approaches its climax, the style loses something of its terse rigidity, and reveals a strain of poetic feeling which suggests that the passage is moulded on an ancient creation hymn (Gunkel). The distinctive features of this last work are: (a) instead of the simple jussive we have the cohortative of either self-deliberation or consultation with other divine beings; (b) in contrast to the lower animals, which are made each after its kind or type, man is made in the image of God; (c) man is designated as the head of creation by being charged with the rule of the earth and all the living creatures hitherto made.—26. Let us make man] The difficulty of the 1st person plural has always been felt.

Amongst the Jews an attempt was made to get rid of it by reading נַֽעֲשֶׂה as participle Niphal—a view the absurd grammatical consequences of which are trenchantly exposed by Abraham Ibn Ezra. The older Christian commentaries generally find in the expression an allusion to the Trinity (so even Calvin); but that doctrine is entirely unknown to the Old Testament, and cannot be implied here. In modern times it has sometimes been explained as plural of self-deliberation (Tuch), or after the analogy of the ‘we’ of royal edicts; but Dillmann has shown that neither is consistent with native Hebrew idiom. Dillmann himself regards it as based on the idea of God expressed by the plural אלהים, as ‘the living personal synthesis of a fulness of powers and forces’ (so Driver); but that philosophic rendering of the concept of deity appears to be foreign to the theology of the Old Testament.

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26. בצלמנו כדמותנו] LXX κατ’ εἰκόνα ἡμετέραν καὶ καθ’ ὁμοίωσιν. Mechilta (see above, page 14), gives as LXX’s reading בצלם ובדמות.—On the בְּ ‘of a model,’ compare Exodus 25⁴⁰; Brown-Driver-Briggs, s.v. III. 8.—צלם] Assyrian ṣalmu, the technical expression for the statue of a god (Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 476³); Aramaic and Syrian צַלְמָא, = ‘image’; the root is not ẓalima, ‘be dark,’ but possibly ṣalama, ‘cut off’ (Nöldeke, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xvii. 185 f.). The idea of ‘pattern’ or ‘model’ is confined to the Priestly-Code passages cited above; it stands intermediate between the concrete sense just noted (an artificial material reproduction: 1 Samuel 6⁵ etc.) and another still more abstract, viz. ‘an unreal semblance’ (Psalms 39⁷ 73²⁰).—דְּמוּת is the abstract noun resemblance; but also used concretely (2 Chronicles 4³, like Syrian ); Aramaic dumyat = ‘effigy.’ The ו is radical (form דִּמְוַת, compare Aramaic); hence the ending וּת is no proof of Aramaic influence (Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁵ 388); see Driver The Journal of Philology xi. 216.—ובכל־הארץ] Insert חַיַּת with Peshiṭtå (v.s.). Other versions agree with Massoretic Text.

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The most natural and most widely accepted explanation is that God is here represented as taking counsel with divine beings other than Himself, viz. the angels or host of heaven: compare 3²² 11⁷, Isaiah 6⁸, 1 Kings 22^19‒22 (so Philo, Rashi, Abraham Ibn Ezra, Delitzsch, Holzinger, Gunkel, Bennett, al.). Dillmann objects to this interpretation, first, that it ascribes to angels some share in the creation of man, which is contrary to scriptural doctrine;¹ and, second, that the very existence of angels is nowhere alluded to by Priestly-Code at all. There is force in these considerations; and probably the ultimate explanation has to be sought in a pre-Israelite stage of the tradition (such as is represented by the Babylonian account: see below, page 46), where a polytheistic view of man’s origin found expression. This would naturally be replaced in a Hebrew recension by the idea of a heavenly council of angels, as in 1 Kings 22, Job 1, 38⁷, Daniel 4¹⁴ 7¹⁰ etc. That Priestly-Code retained the idea in spite of his silence as to the existence of angels is due to the fact that it was decidedly less anthropomorphic than the statement that man was made in the image of the one incomparable Deity.—in our image, according to our likeness] The general idea of likeness between God and man frequently occurs in classical literature, and sometimes the very term of this verse (εἰκών, ad imaginem) is employed. To speak of it, therefore, as “the distinctive feature of the Bible doctrine concerning man” is an exaggeration; although it is true that such expressions on the plane of heathenism import much less than in the religion of Israel (Dillmann). The idea in this precise form is in the Old Testament peculiar to Priestly-Code (5^1. 3 9⁶); the conception, but not the expression, appears in Psalms 8⁶: later biblical examples are Sirach 17^3 ff., Wisdom 2²³ (where the ‘image’ is equivalent to immortality), 1 Corinthians 11⁷, Colossians 3¹⁰, Ephesians 4²⁴, James 3⁹.

The origin of the conception is probably to be found in the Babylonian mythology. Before proceeding to the creation of Ea-bani, Aruru forms a mental image (zikru: see Jensen Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, 401 f.) of the God Anu (ib. 120, l. 33); and similarly, in the Descent of Ištar, Ea forms a zikru in his wise heart before creating Aṣūšunamir (ib. 86. l. 11). In both cases the reference is obviously to the bodily form of the created being. See, further, Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³ 506; Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 167.

The patristic and other theological developments of the doctrine lie beyond the scope of this commentary;¹ and it is sufficient to observe with regard to them—(1) that the ‘image’ is not something peculiar to man’s original state, and lost by the Fall; because Priestly-Code, who alone uses the expression, knows nothing of a Fall, and in 9⁶ employs the term, without any restriction, of post-diluvian mankind. (2) The distinction between εἰκών (imago) and ὁμοίωσις (similitudo)—the former referring to the essence of human nature and the latter to its accidents or its endowments by grace—has an apparent justification in LXX, which inserts καί between the two phrases (see below), and never mentions the ‘likeness’ after 1²⁶; so that it was possible to regard the latter as something belonging to the divine idea of man, but not actually conferred at his creation. The Hebrew affords no basis for such speculations: compare 5^1. 3 9⁶.—(3) The view that the divine image consists in dominion over the creatures (Gregory of Nyssa, Chrysostom, Socinians, etc.) is still defended by Holzinger; but it cannot be held without an almost inconceivable weakening of the figure, and is inconsistent with the sequel, where the rule over the creatures is, by a separate benediction, conferred on man, already made in the image of God. The truth is that the image marks the distinction between man and the animals, and so qualifies him for dominion: the latter is the consequence, not the essence, of the divine image (compare Psalms 8^6 ff., Sirach 17^2‒4)—(4) Does the image refer primarily to the spiritual nature or to the bodily form (upright attitude, etc.) of man? The idea of a corporeal resemblance seems free from objection on the level of Old Testament theology; and it is certainly strongly suggested by a comparison of 5³ with 5¹. God is expressly said to have a ‘form’ which can be seen (תְּמוּנָה, Numbers 12⁸, Psalms 17¹⁵); the Old Testament writers constantly attribute to Him bodily parts; and that they ever advanced to the conception of God as formless spirit would be difficult to prove. On the other hand, it may well be questioned if the idea of a spiritual image was within the compass of Hebrew thought. Dillmann, while holding that the central idea is man’s spiritual nature, admits a reference to the bodily form in so far as it is the expression and organ of mind, and inseparable from spiritual qualities.² It might be truer to say that it denotes primarily the bodily form, but includes those spiritual attributes of which the former is the natural and self-evident symbol.³—Note the striking parallel in Ovid, Metamorphoses i. 76 ff.

Man (אָדָם) is here generic (the human race), not the proper name of an individual, as 5³. Although the great majority of commentaries take it for granted that a single pair is contemplated, there is nothing in the narrative to bear out that view; and the analogy of the marine and land animals is against it on the whole (Tuch and Bennett).—fish of the sea, etc.] The enumeration coincides with the classification of animals already given, except that the earth occurs where we should expect wild beast of the earth. חַיַּת should undoubtedly be restored to the text on the authority of Peshiṭtå.—27. in his image, in the image of God, etc.] The repetition imparts a rhythmic movement to the language, which may be a faint echo of an old hymn on the glory of man, like Psalms 8 (Gunkel).—male and female] The persistent idea that man as first created was bi-sexual and the sexes separated afterwards (mentioned by Rashi as a piece of Haggada, and recently revived by Schwally, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., ix. 172 ff.), is far from the thought of the passage.—28. A benediction is here again the source of fertility, but this time also of dominion: Gunkel regards this as another fragment of a hymn.

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27. בצלמו] LXX omitted. The curious paraphrase of Symmachus appears to reflect the Ebionite tendency of that translator: ἐν εἰκόνι διαφόρῳ ὄρθιον ὁ θεὸς ἔκτισεν αὐτόν (Geiger, Jüdische Zeitschrift für Wissenschaft und Leben, i. 40 f.). See, however, Nestle, Marginalien und Materialien, 3 f., who calls attention to the ὄρθιον in LXX of 1 Samuel 28¹⁴, and considers this word the source of the idea that the upright form of man is part of the divine image. But LXX in 1 Samuel probably misread זקן as זקף.—אֹתוֹ] constructio ad formam: אֹתָם constructio ad sensum, אדם being collective: see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 132 g.—זכר ונקבה] The phrase confined to Priestly-Code except Deuteronomy 4¹⁶; נ׳ alone in Jeremiah 31²¹ (a gloss?). Although the application to a single pair of individuals predominates in the Law, the collective sense is established by Genesis 7¹⁶, and is to be assumed in some other cases (Numbers 5³ etc.). On its etymology see Gesenius Thesaurus philologicus criticus Linguæ Hebrææ et Chaldææ Veteris Testamenti, s.v., and (for a different view) Schwally, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xi. 181 f.—28. ויאמר להם] LXX λέγων; perhaps original.—וכבשֻׁהָ] The only instance of a verbal suffix in this chapter: a strong preference for expression of accusative by את with suffix is characteristic of the style of Priestly-Code (Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 389).—הרמשת] participle with article = relative clause: see Davidson § 99, R. 1. The previous noun is defined by כל, as in verse ²¹ (The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch inserts the article).—After שמים Peshiṭtå read ובבהמה (so Ball). LXX has for the end of the verse: καὶ πάντων τῶν κτηνῶν καὶ πάσης τῆς γῆς καὶ πάντων [τῶν ἑρπετῶν] τῶν ἑρπόντων ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς.

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29‒31. The record of creation closes with another (tenth) divine utterance, which regulates in broad and general terms the relation of men and animals to the vegetable world. The plants are destined for food to man and beast. The passage is not wholly intelligible apart from 9^2 ff., from which we see that its point is the restriction on the use of animal food, particularly on the part of man. In other words, the first stage of the world’s history—that state of things which the Creator pronounced very good—is a state of peace and harmony in the animal world. This is Priestly-Code’s substitute for the garden of Eden.

A distinction is made between the food of man and that of animals: to the former (a) seeding plants (probably because the seed is important in cultivation, and in cereals is the part eaten), and (b) fruit-bearing trees; to the latter all the greenness of herbage, i.e. the succulent leafy parts. The statement is not exhaustive: no provision is made for fishes, nor is there any mention of the use of such victuals as milk, honey, etc. Observe the difference from chapters 2. 3, where man is made to live on fruit alone, and only as part of the curse has herbs (עשב) assigned to him.—31. The account closes with the divine verdict of approval, which here covers a survey of all that has been made, and rises to the superlative ‘very good.’

Verses ^29 f. differ significantly in their phraseology from the preceding sections: thus זֹרֵעַ instead of מַזְרִיעַ (^11. 12); העץ אשר בו פרי עץ זרע זרע instead of the far more elegant עץ עשה פרי אשר זרעו בו; the classification into beasts, birds, and reptiles (contrast ^24. 25); נפש חיה of the inner principle of life instead of the living being as in ^20 f. 24; ירק עשב instead of דשא. These linguistic differences are sufficient to prove literary discontinuity of some kind. They have been pointed out by Kraetschmar (Die Bundesvorstellung im Alten Testament 103 f.), who adds the doubtful material argument that the prohibition of animal food to man nullifies the dominion promised to him in verses ^26. 28. But his inference (partly endorsed by Holzinger) that the verses are a later addition to Priestly-Code does not commend itself; they are vitally connected with 9^2 ff., and must have formed part of the theory of the Priestly writer. The facts point rather to a distinction in the sources with which Priestly-Code worked,—perhaps (as Gunkel thinks) the enrichment of the creation-story by the independent and widespread myth of the Golden Age when animals lived peaceably with one another and with men. The motives of this belief lie deep in the human heart—horror of bloodshed, sympathy with the lower animals, the longing for harmony in the world, and the conviction that on the whole the course of things has been from good to worse—all have contributed their share, and no scientific teaching can rob the idea of its poetic and ethical value.

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29. נתתי] = ‘I give’; Davidson § 40 b; Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 13.—זרע (over Athnach)] wrongly omitted by LXX.—אכלה] found only in Priestly-Code and Ezekiel, and always preceded by לְ. It is strictly feminine infinitive, and perhaps always retains verbal force (see Driver The Journal of Philology xi. 217). The ordinary cognate words for food are אֹכֶל and מַֽאֲכָל.—30. ולכל וגו׳ The construction is obscure. The natural interpretation is that ³⁰ expresses a contrast to ²⁹—the one specifying the food of man, the other that of animals. To bring out this sense clearly it is necessary (with Ewald al.) to insert נתתי before את־כל־ירק. The text requires us to treat לכם יהיה לאכלה in ²⁹ as a parenthesis (Dillmann) and את־כל־ירק as still under the regimen of the distant נתתי.—רוֹמֵשׂ] LXX ἑρπετῷ τῷ ἕρποντι—assimilating.—נֶפֶשׁ] here used in its primary sense of the soul or animating principle (see later on 2⁷), with a marked difference from verses ^20 f. 24.—ירק עשׂב] so 9³, = י׳ דֶּשֶׁא Psalms 37². יֶרֶק (verdure) alone may include the foliage of trees (Exodus 10¹⁵); י׳ הַשָּׂדֶה = ‘grass’ (Numbers 22⁴). The word is rare (6 times); a still rarer form יָרָק may sometimes be confounded with it (Isaiah 37²⁷ = 2 Kings 17²⁶?).—31. יום הששי] The article with the number appears here for the first time in the chapter. On the construction, see Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 209 (1), where it is treated as the beginning of a usage prevalent in post-biblical Hebrew, which often in a definite expression uses the article with the adjective alone (כנסת הגדולה, etc.). Compare Gesenius-Kautzsch § 126 w (with footnote); Holzinger Einleitung in den Hexateuch 465; Driver The Journal of Philology xi. 229 f.

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II. 1‒3. The rest of God.—The section contains but one idea, expressed with unusual solemnity and copiousness of language,—the institution of the Sabbath. It supplies an answer to the question, Why is no work done on the last day of the week? (Gunkel). The answer lies in the fact that God Himself rested on that day from the work of creation, and bestowed on it a special blessing and sanctity.—The writer’s idea of the Sabbath and its sanctity is almost too realistic for the modern mind to grasp: it is not an institution which exists or ceases with its observance by man; the divine rest is a fact as much as the divine working, and so the sanctity of the day is a fact whether man secures the benefit or not. There is little trace of the idea that the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath; it is an ordinance of the kosmos like any other part of the creative operations, and is for the good of man in precisely the same sense as the whole creation is subservient to his welfare.

1. And all their host] The ‘host of heaven’ (צְבָא הַשָּׁמַיִם) is frequently mentioned in the Old Testament, and denotes sometimes the heavenly bodies, especially as objects of worship (Deuteronomy 4¹⁹ etc.), sometimes the angels considered as an organised army (1 Kings 22¹⁹ etc.). The expression ‘host of the earth’ nowhere occurs; and it is a question whether the plural suffix here is not to be explained as a denominatio a potiori (Holzinger), or as a species of attraction (Driver). If it has any special meaning as applied to the earth, it would be equivalent to what is elsewhere called מְלֹא הארץ (Isaiah 6³ 34¹, Deuteronomy 33¹⁶ etc.)—the contents of the earth, and is most naturally limited to those things whose creation has just been described.¹ In any case the verse yields little support to the view of Smend and Wellhausen, that in the name ‘Yahwe of Hosts’ the word denotes the complex of cosmical forces (Smend, Lehrbuch der alttestamentlichen Religionsgeschichte 201 ff.), or the demons in which these forces were personified (Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten 77).—2. And God finished, etc.] The duplication of verse ¹ is harsh, and strongly suggests a composition of sources.—on the seventh day] The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch, LXX, Peshiṭtå read sixth day (so also Jubilees, ii. 16, and Jerome, Quæstiones sive Traditiones hebraicæ in Genesim), which is accepted as the original text by many commentaries (Ilgen, Olshausen, Budde, al.).² But sixth is so much the easier reading that one must hesitate to give it the preference. To take the verb as pluperfect (Calvin al.) is grammatically impossible. On Wellhausen’s explanation, see above, page 9 f. The only remaining course is to give a purely negative sense to the verb finish: i.e. ‘desisted from,’ ‘did not continue’ (Abraham Ibn Ezra, Delitzsch, Dillmann, Driver, al.). The last view may be accepted, in spite of the absence of convincing parallels.—and he rested] The idea of שָׁבַת is essentially negative: cessation of work, not relaxation (Driver): see below. Even so, the expression is strongly anthropomorphic, and warns us against exaggerating Priestly-Code’s aversion to such representations.³—3. blessed ... sanctified] The day is blessed and sacred in itself and from the beginning; to say that the remark is made in view of the future institution of the Sabbath (Driver), does not quite bring out the sense. Both verbs contain the idea of selection and distinction (compare Sirach 36 [33] ^7‒9), but they are not synonymous (Gunkel). A blessing is the effective utterance of a good wish; applied to things, it means their endowment with permanently beneficial qualities (Genesis 27²⁷, Exodus 23²⁵, Deuteronomy 28¹²). This is the case here: the Sabbath is a constant source of well-being to the man who recognises its true nature and purpose. To sanctify is to set apart from common things to holy uses, or to put in a special relation to God.—which God creatively made] see the footnote.—Although no closing formula for the seventh day is given, it is contrary to the intention of the passage to think that the rest of God means His work of providence as distinct from creation: it is plainly a rest of one day that is thought of. It is, of course, a still greater absurdity to suppose an interval of twenty-four hours between the two modes of divine activity. The author did not think in our dogmatic categories at all.

The origin of the Hebrew Sabbath, and its relation to Babylonian usages, raise questions too intricate to be fully discussed here (see Lotz, Quaestiones de historia Sabbati [1883]; Jastrow, American Journal of Theology ii. [1898], 312 ff.; Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 592 ff.; Driver A Dictionary of the Bible, s.v., and The Book of Genesis with Introduction and Notes 34; Stade Biblische Theologie des Alten Testaments § 88, 2). The main facts, however, are these: (1) The name šab[p]attu occurs some five or six times in cuneiform records; but of these only two are of material importance for the Sabbath problem, (a) In a syllabary (II R. 32, 16 a, b) šabattu is equated with ûm nûḫ libbi, which has been conclusively shown to mean ‘day of the appeasement of the heart (of the deity),’—in the first instance, therefore, a day of propitiation or atonement (Jensen Zeitschrift für Assyriologie, iv. 274 ff.; Jastrow l.c. 316 f.). (b) In a tablet discovered by Pinches in 1904, the name šapattu is applied to the fifteenth day of the month (as full-moon-day?) (Pinches Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archæology, xxvi. 51 ff.; Zimmern, Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft, lviii. 199 ff., 458 ff.). (2) The only trace of a Babylonian institution at all resembling the Hebrew Sabbath is the fact that in certain months of the year (Elul, Marchešvan, but possibly the rest as well) the 7th, 14th, 21st and 28th days, and also the 19th (probably as the 7 × 7th from the beginning of the previous month), had the character of dies nefasti (‘lucky day, unlucky day’), on which certain actions had to be avoided by important personages (king, priest, physician) (IV R. 32 f., 33). Now, no evidence has ever been produced that these dies nefasti bore the name šabattu; and the likelihood that this was the case is distinctly lessened by the Pinches fragment, where the name is applied to the 15th day, but not to the 7th, although it also is mentioned on the tablet. The question, therefore, has assumed a new aspect; and Meinhold (Sabbat und Woche im Alten Testament [1905], and more recently [1909], Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xxix. 81 ff.), developing a hint of Zimmern, has constructed an ingenious hypothesis on the assumption that in Babylonian šabattu denotes the day of the full moon. He points to the close association of new-moon and Sabbath in nearly all the pre-exilic references (Amos 8⁵, Hosea 2¹³, Isaiah 1¹³, 2 Kings 4^22 f.); and concludes that in early Israel, as in Babylon, the Sabbath was the full-moon festival and nothing else. The institution of the weekly Sabbath he traces to a desire to compensate for the loss of the old lunar festivals, when these were abrogated by the Deuteronomic reformation. This innovation he attributes to Ezekiel; but steps towards it are found in the introduction of a weekly day of rest during harvest only (on the ground of Deuteronomy 16⁹; compare Exodus 34²¹), and in the establishment of the sabbatical year (Leviticus 25), which he considers to be older than the weekly Sabbath. The theory involves great improbabilities, and its net result seems to be to leave the actual Jewish Sabbath as we know it without any point of contact in Babylonian institutions. It is hard to suppose that there is no historical connexion between the Hebrew Sabbath and the dies nefasti of the Babylonian calendar; and if such a connexion exists, the chief difficulties remain where they have long been felt to lie, viz., (a) in the substitution of a weekly cycle running continuously through the calendar for a division of each month into seven-day periods, probably regulated by the phases of the moon; and (b) in the transformation of a day of superstitious restrictions into a day of joy and rest. Of these changes, it must be confessed, no convincing explanation has yet been found. The established sanctity of the number seven, and the decay or suppression of the lunar feasts, might be contributory causes; but when the change took place, and whether it was directly due to Babylonian influence, or was a parallel development from a lunar observance more primitive than either, cannot at present be determined. See Hehn, Siebenzahl und Sabbat bei den Babyloniern und im Alten Testament, 91 ff., especially 114 ff.; compare Gordon, The Early Traditions of Genesis, 216 ff.

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1. צבא] Literally ‘host’ or ‘army’; then ‘period of service’ (chiefly military), LXX κόσμος and Vulgate ornatus look like a confusion with צְבִי. Used of the host of heaven, Deuteronomy 4¹⁹ 17³, Isaiah 24²¹ 40²⁶, where Vulgate has in the first case astra, in the others militia; LXX κόσμος in all.—2. ויכל] For the alleged negative sense of Piel (see above), examine Numbers 17²⁵, or (with מן) 1 Samuel 10¹³, Exodus 34³³ etc.—מלאכה] the word “used regularly of the work or business forbidden on the Sabbath (Exodus 20^9. 10 35², Jeremiah 17^22. 24 al.)” (Driver); or on holy convocations (Exodus 12¹⁶, Leviticus 16²⁹ 23^28 ff., Numbers 29⁷). It has the prevailing sense of regular occupation or business, as Genesis 39¹¹, Jonah 1⁸.—השביעי¹] The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch, LXX, Peshiṭtå, The Book of Jubilees., Bereshith Rabba הששי, given as LXX’s reading in Mechilta (compare page 14 above).—וישבת] The omission of continued subject (אלהים) might strengthen Wellhausen’s contention that the clause is a gloss (see page 10 above): it occurs nowhere else in the passage except possibly 1⁷. The verb שבת (possibly connected with Aramaic sabata = ‘cut off,’ or Assyrian šabātu = ‘cease,’ ‘be completed’: but see Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 593 f.) appears in Old Testament in three quite distinct senses: (a) ‘cease to be,’ ‘come to an end’; (b) ‘desist’ (from work, etc.); (c) ‘keep Sabbath’ (denominative). Of the last there are four undoubted cases, all very late: Leviticus 25² 23³² 26^34 f., 2 Chronicles 36²¹. But there are five others where this meaning is at least possible: Genesis 2^2. 3, Exodus 16³⁰ 23¹² 34²¹ 31¹⁷; and of these Exodus 23¹² 34²¹ are pre-exilic. Apart from these doubtful passages, the sense ‘desist’ (b) is found only in Hosea 7⁴, Job 32¹ (Qal); Exodus 5⁵, Joshua 22²⁵, Ezekiel 16⁴¹ 34¹⁰ (Hiphil); of which Hosea 7⁴ (a corrupt context) and Exodus 5⁵, alone are possibly pre-exilic. In all other occurrences (about 46 in all; 9 Qal, 4 Niphal, 33 Hiphil) the sense (a) ‘come to an end’ obtains; and this usage prevails in all stages of the literature from Amos to Daniel; the pre-exilic examples being Genesis 8²², Joshua 5¹²(?) (Qal); Isaiah 17³ (Niphal); Amos 8⁴, Hosea 1⁴ 2¹³, Isaiah 16¹⁰(?) 30¹¹, Deuteronomy 32²⁶, 2 Kings 23^5. 11, Jeremiah 7³⁴ 16⁹ 36²⁹ (Hiphil). These statistics seem decisive against Hehn’s view (l.c. 93 ff.) that שָׁבַת is originally a denominative from שַׁבָּת. If all the uses are to be traced to a single root-idea, there can be no doubt that (b) is primary. But while a dependence of (a) on (b) is intelligible (compare the analogous case of חָדַל), ‘desist’ from work, and ‘come to an end’ are after all very different ideas; and, looking to the immense preponderance of the latter sense (a), especially in the early literature, it is worth considering whether the old Hebrew verb did not mean simply ‘come to an end,’ and whether the sense ‘desist’ was not imported into it under the influence of the denominative use (c) of which Exodus 23¹² 34²¹ might be early examples. [A somewhat similar view is now expressed by Meinhold (Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, 1909, 100 f.), except that he ignores the distinction between ‘desist’ and ‘come to an end,’ which seems to me important.]—3. ברא ... לעשות] The awkward construction is perhaps adopted because ברא could not directly govern the substantive מלאכה. LXX has ἤρξατο ... ποιῆσαι.

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4a. These are the generations, etc.] The best sense that can be given to the expression is to refer the pronoun to what precedes, and render the noun by ‘origin’: ‘This is the origin of,’ etc. But it is doubtful if תולדות can bear any such meaning, and altogether the half-verse is in the last degree perplexing. It is in all probability a redactional insertion.

The formula (and indeed the whole phraseology) is characteristic of Priestly-Code; and in that document it invariably stands as introduction to the section following. But in this case the next section (2^4b‒4²⁶) belongs to Yahwist; and if we pass over the Yahwist passages to the next portion of Priestly-Code (chapter 5), the formula would collide with 5¹, which is evidently the proper heading to what follows. Unless, therefore, we adopt the improbable hypothesis of Strack, that a part of Priestly-Code’s narrative has been dropped, the attempt to treat 2^4a in its present position as a superscription must be abandoned. On this ground most critics have embraced a view propounded by Ilgen, that the clause stood originally before 1¹, as the heading of Priestly-Code’s account of the creation.¹ But this theory also is open to serious objection. It involves a meaning of תולדות which is contrary both to its etymology and the usage of Priestly-Code (see footnote). Whatever latitude of meaning be assigned to the word, it is the fact that in this formula it is always followed by genitive of the progenitor, never of the progeny: hence by analogy the phrase must describe that which is generated by the heavens and the earth, not the process by which they themselves are generated (so Lagarde, Orientalia ii. 38 ff., and Holzinger). And even if that difficulty could be overcome (see Lagarde), generation is a most unsuitable description of the process of creation as conceived by Priestly-Code. In short, neither as superscription nor as subscription can the sentence be accounted for as an integral part of the Priestly Code. There seems no way out of the difficulty but to assume with Holzinger that the formula in this place owes its origin to a mechanical imitation of the manner of Priestly-Code by a later hand. The insertion would be suggested by the observation that the formula divides the book of Genesis into definite sections; while the advantage of beginning a new section at this point would naturally occur to an editor who felt the need of sharply separating the two accounts of the creation, and regarded the second as in some way the continuation of the first. If that be so, he probably took ת׳ in the sense of ‘history’ and referred אֵלֶּה to what follows. The analogy of 5¹, Numbers 3¹ would suffice to justify the use of the formula before the ביום of ^4b.—It has been thought that LXX has preserved the original form of the text: viz. זה ספר ת׳ וגו׳ (compare 5¹); the redactor having, “before inserting a section from the other document, accidentally copied in the opening words of 5¹, which were afterwards adapted to their present position” (Bennett). That is improbable. It is more likely that LXX deliberately altered the text to correspond with 5¹. See Field, Origenis Hexaplorum quæ supersunt; sive Veterum Interpretum Græcorum in totum Vetus Testamentum Fragmenta, ad loc.; Nestle, Marginalien und Materialien, 4.

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4a. תולדות] only in plural constructs or with suffix; and confined to Priestly-Code, Chronicles and Ruth 4¹⁸. Formed from Hiphil of ילד, it means properly ‘begettings’; not, however, as noun of action, but concretely (= ‘progeny’); and this is certainly the prevalent sense. The phrase א׳ ת׳ (only Priestly-Code [all in Genesis except Numbers 3¹], 1 Chronicles 1²⁹, Ruth 4¹⁸) means primarily “These are the descendants”; but since a list of descendants is a genealogy, it is practically the same thing if we render, “This is the genealogical register.” In the great majority of instances (Genesis [5¹] 10¹ 11¹⁰ 11²⁷ 25¹² 36^1. 9, 1 Chronicles 1²⁹, Ruth 4¹⁸) this sense is entirely suitable; the addition of a few historical notices is not inconsistent with the idea of a genealogy, nor is the general character of these sections affected by it. There are just three cases where this meaning is inapplicable: Genesis 6⁹ 25¹⁹ 37². But it is noteworthy that, except in the last case, at least a fragment of a genealogy follows; and it is fair to inquire whether 37² may not have been originally followed by a genealogy (such as 35^22b‒26 or 46^8‒27 [see Hupfeld, Die Quellen der Genesis und die Art ihrer Zusammensetzung, 102‒109, 213‒216]) which was afterwards displaced in the course of redaction (see page 423, below). With that assumption we could explain every occurrence of the formula without having recourse to the unnatural view that the word may mean a “family history” (Gesenius-Buhl s.v.), or “an account of a man and his descendants” (Brown-Driver-Briggs). The natural hypothesis would then be that a series of תולדות formed one of the sources employed by Priestly-Code in compiling his work: the introduction of this genealogical document is preserved in 5¹ (so Holzinger); the recurrent formula represents successive sections of it, and 2^4a is a redactional imitation. When it came to be amalgamated with the narrative material, some dislocations took place: hence the curious anomaly that a man’s history sometimes appears under his own Tôlĕdôth, sometimes under those of his father; and it is difficult otherwise to account for the omission of the formula before 12¹ or for its insertion in 36⁹. On the whole, this theory seems to explain the facts better than the ordinary view that the formula was devised by Priestly-Code to mark the divisions of the principal work.—ב^הבראם] ‘in their creation’ or ‘when they were created.’ If the literal minuscule has critical significance (Tuch, Dillmann) the primary reading was infinitive Qal (בְּבָרְאָם); and this requires to be supplemented by אלהים as subject. It is in this form that Dillmann thinks the clause originally stood at the beginning of Genesis. (see on 1¹). But the omission of אלהים and the insertion of the ^ה minuscule are no necessary consequences of the transposition of the sentence; and the small ^ה may be merely an error in the archetypal MS, which has been mechanically repeated in all copies.

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Babylonian and other Cosmogonies.

1. The outlines of Babylonian cosmogony have long been known from two brief notices in Greek writers: (1) an extract from Berossus (3rd century B.C.) made by Alexander Polyhistor, and preserved by Syncellus from the lost Chronicle of Eusebius (lib. i.); and (2) a passage from the Neo-Platonic writer Damascius (6th century A.D.). From these it was apparent that the biblical account of creation is in its main conceptions Babylonian. The interest of the fragments has been partly enhanced, but partly superseded, since the discovery of the closely parallel ‘Chaldæan Genesis,’ unearthed from the debris of Asshurbanipal’s library at Nineveh by George Smith in 1873. It is therefore unnecessary to examine them in detail; but since the originals are not very accessible to English readers, they are here reprinted in full (with emendations after Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 488 ff.):

(1) Berossus: Γενέσθαι φησὶ χρόνον ἐν ᾧ τὸ πᾶν σκότος καὶ ὕδωρ εἶναι, καὶ ἐν τούτοις ζῶα τερατώδη, καὶ ἰδιοφυεῖς [emphatic by Richt., codex εἰδιφυεῖς] τὰς ἰδέας ἔχοντα ζωογονεῖσθαι· ἀνθρώπους γὰρ διπτέρους γεννηθῆναι, ἐνίους δὲ καὶ τετραπτέρους καὶ διπροσώπους· καὶ σῶμα μὲν ἔχοντας ἕν, κεφαλὰς δὲ δύο, ἀνδρείαν τε καὶ γυναικείαν, καὶ αἰδοῖα δὲ [corrected by von Gutschmid, codex τε], δισσὰ, ἄῤῥεν καὶ θῆλυ· καὶ ἑτέρους ἀνθρώπους τοὺς μὲν αἰγῶν σκέλη καὶ κέρατα ἔχοντας, τοὺς δὲ ἵππου πόδας [corrected by von Gutschmid, codex ἱππόποδας], τοὺς δὲ τὰ ὀπίσω μὲν μέρη ἵππων, τὰ δὲ ἔμπροσθεν ἀνθρώπων, οὓς [ὡς? von Gutschmid] ἱπποκενταύρους τὴν ἰδέαν εἶναι. Ζωογονηθῆναι δὲ καὶ ταύρους ἀνθρώπων κεφαλὰς ἔχοντας καὶ κύνας τετρασωμάτους, οὐρὰς ἰχθύος ἐκ τῶν ὄπισθεν μερῶν ἔχοντας, καὶ ἵππους κυνοκεφάλους καὶ ἀνθρώπους, καὶ ἕτερα ζῶα κεφαλὰς μὲν καὶ σώματα ἵππων ἔχοντα, οὐρὰς δὲ ἰχθύων· καὶ ἄλλα δὲ ζῶα παντοδαπῶν θηρίων μορφὰς ἔχοντα. Πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἰχθύας καὶ ἑρπετὰ καὶ ὄφεις καὶ ἄλλα ζῶα πλείονα θαυμαστὰ καὶ παρηλλαγμένας [emphatic by von Gutschmid, codex παρηλλαγμένα] τὰς ὄψεις ἀλλήλων ἔχοντα· ὧν καὶ τὰς εἰκόνας ἐν τῷ τοῦ Βηλου ναῷ ἀνακεῖσθαι, ἄρχειν δὲ τούτων πάντων γυναῖκα ᾗ ὄνομα Ὀμορκα [corrected by Scaliger, codex Ὁμορωκα] εἶναι· τοῦτο δὲ Χαλδαϊστὶ μὲν Θαμτε [corrected by W. R. Smith, Zeitschrift für Assyriologie, vi. 339, codex Θαλατθ], Ἑλληνιστὶ δὲ μεθερμηνεύεται θάλασσα κατὰ δὲ ἰσόψηφον σελήνη. Οὕτως δὲ τῶν ὅλων συνεστηκότων, ἐπανελθόντα Βηλον σχίσαι τὴν γυναῖκα μέσην, καὶ τὸ μὲν ἥμισυ αὐτῆς ποιῆσαι γῆν, τὸ δὲ ἄλλο ἥμισυ οὐρανὸν, καὶ τὰ ἐν [σὺν? von Gutschmid] αὐτῇ ζῶα ἀφανίσαι, ἀλληγορικῶς δέ φησι τοῦτο πεφυσιολογῆσθαι· ὑγροῦ γὰρ ὄντος τοῦ παντὸς καὶ ζώων ἐν αὐτῷ γεγεννημένων [A]¹ τοιῶνδε [emphatic by von Gutschmid, codex τὸν δὲ] Βηλον, ὃν Δία μεθερμηνεύουσι, μέσον τεμόντα τὸ σκότος χωρίσαι γῆν καὶ οὐρανὸν ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων, καὶ διατάξαι τὸν κόσμον. Τὰ δὲ ζῶα οὐκ ἐνεγκόντα τὴν τοῦ φωτὸς δύναμιν φθαρῆναι, ἰδόντα δὲ τὸν Βηλον χώραν ἔρημον καὶ ἀκαρποφόρον [emphatic by Gunkel, codex καρποφόρον] κελεῦσαι ἑνὶ τῶν θεῶν τὴν κεφαλὴν ἀφελόντι ἑαυτοῦ τῷ ἀποῤῥυέντι αἵματι φυρᾶσαι τὴν γῆν καὶ διαπλάσαι ἀνθρώπους καὶ θηρία τὰ δυνάμενα τὸν ἀέρα φέρειν. Ἀποτελέσαι δὲ τὸν Βηλον καὶ ἄστρα καὶ ἥλιον καὶ σελήνην καὶ τοὺς πέντε πλανήτας. Ταῦτά φησιν ὁ πολυΐστωρ Ἀλέξανδρος τὸν Βηρωσσὸν ἐν τῇ πρώτῃ φάσκειν [B]¹ τοῦτον τὸν θεὸν ἀφελεῖν τὴν ἑαυτοῦ κεφαλὴν καὶ τὸ ῥυὲν αἷμα τοὺς ἄλλους θεοὺς φυρᾶσαι τῇ γῇ, καὶ διαπλάσαι τοὺς ἀνθρώπους· διὸ νοερούς τε εἶναι καὶ φρονήσεως θείας μετέχειν.

(2) Damascius: Τῶν δὲ βαρβάρων ἐοίκασι Βαβυλώνιοι μὲν τὴν μίαν τῶν ὅλων ἀρχὴν σιγῇ παριέναι, δύο δὲ ποιεῖν Ταυθε καὶ Ἀπασων, τὸν μὲν Ἀπασων ἄνδρα τῆς Ταυθε ποιοῦντες, ταύτην δὲ μητέρα θεῶν ὀνομάζοντες, ἐξ ὧν μονογενῆ παῖδα γεννηθῆναι τὸν Μωυμιν, αὐτὸν οἶμαι τὸν νοητὸν κόσμον ἐκ τῶν δυοῖν ἀρχῶν παραγόμενον. Ἐκ δὲ τῶν αὐτῶν ἄλλην γενεὰν προελθεῖν, Λαχην [codex Δαχην] καὶ Λαχον [codex Δαχον]. Εἶτα αὖ τρίτην ἐκ τῶν αὐτῶν, Κισσαρη καὶ Ἀσσωρον, ἐξ ὧν γενέσθαι τρεῖς, Ἀνον καὶ Ἰλλινον καὶ Ἀον· τοῦ δὲ Ἀου καὶ Δαυκης υἱὸν γενέσθαι τὸν Βηλον, ὃν δημιουργὸν εἶναί φασιν.[B]¹

2. The only cuneiform document which admits of close and continuous comparison with Genesis 1 is the great Creation Epos just referred to. Since the publication, in 1876, of the first fragments, many lacunæ have been filled up from subsequent discoveries, and several duplicates have been brought to light; and the series is seen to have consisted of seven Tablets, entitled, from the opening phrase, Enuma eliš (= ‘When above’).¹ The actual tablets discovered are not of earlier date than the 7th century B.C., but there are strong reasons to believe that the originals of which these are copies are of much greater antiquity, and may go back to 2000 B.C., while the myth itself probably existed in writing in other forms centuries before that. Moreover, they represent the theory of creation on which the statements of Berossus and Damascius are based, and they have every claim to be regarded as the authorised version of the Babylonian cosmogony. It is here, therefore, if anywhere, that we must look for traces of Babylonian influences on the Hebrew conception of the origin of the world. The following outline of the contents of the tablets is based on King’s analysis of the epic into five originally distinct parts (The Seven Tablets of Creation, page lxvii).

i. The Theogony.—The first twenty-one lines of Tablet I. contain a description of the primæval chaos and the evolution of successive generations of deities:

First Laḥmu and Laḥamu,³ then Ansar and Kisar,⁴ and lastly (as we learn from Damascius, whose report is in accord with this part of the tablet, and may safely be used to make up a slight defect) the supreme triad of the Babylonian pantheon, Anu, Bel, and Ea.⁵

ii. The Subjugation of Apsu by Ea.—The powers of chaos, Apsu, Tiamat, and a third being called Mummu (Damascius Μωυμις), take counsel together to ‘destroy the way’ of the heavenly deities. An illegible portion of Tablet I. must have told how Apsu and Mummu were vanquished by Ea, leaving Tiamat still unsubdued. In the latter part of the tablet the female monster is again incited to rebellion by a god called Kingu, whom she chooses as her consort, laying on his breast the ‘Tables of Destiny’ which the heavenly gods seek to recover. She draws to her side many of the old gods, and brings forth eleven kinds of monstrous beings to aid her in the fight.

iii. The conflict between Marduk and Tiamat.—Tablets II. and III. are occupied with the consultations of the gods in view of this new peril, resulting in the choice of Marduk as their champion; and Tablet IV. gives a graphic description of the conflict that ensues. On the approach of the sun-god, mounted on his chariot and formidably armed, attended by a host of winds, Tiamat’s helpers flee in terror, and she alone confronts the angry deity. Marduk entangles her in his net, sends a hurricane into her distended jaws, and finally despatches her by an arrow shot into her body.

iv. The account of creation commences near the end of Tablet IV. After subduing the helpers of Tiamat and taking the Tables of Destiny from Kingu, Marduk surveys the carcase, and ‘devised a cunning plan’:

Berossus says, what is no doubt implied here, that of the other half of Tiamat he made the earth; but whether this is meant by the founding of E-šara, or is to be looked for in a lost part of Tablet V., is a point in dispute (see Jensen Die Kosmologie der Babylonier 185 ff., 195 ff.; and Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, 344 f.). Tablet V. opens with the creation of the heavenly bodies:

The rest of Tablet V., where legible, contains nothing bearing on the present subject; but in Tablet VI. we come to the creation of man, which is recorded in a form corresponding to the account of Berossus:

At the end of the tablet the gods assemble to sing the praises of Marduk; and the last tablet is filled with a

v. Hymn in honour of Marduk.—From this we learn that to Marduk was ascribed the creation of vegetation and of the ‘firm earth,’ as well as those works which are described in the legible portions of Tablets IV.‒VI.

How far, now, does this conception of creation correspond with the cosmogony of Genesis 1? (1) In both we find the general notion of a watery chaos, and an etymological equivalence in the names (Ti’āmat, Tĕhôm) by which it is called. It is true that the Babylonian chaos is the subject of a double personification, Apsu representing the male, and Tiamat the female principle by whose union the gods are generated. According to Jensen (Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, 559 f.), Apsu is the fresh, life-giving water which descends from heaven in the rain, while Tiamat is the ‘stinking,’ salt water of the ocean: in the beginning these were mingled (Tablet I. 5), and by the mixture the gods were produced. But in the subsequent narrative the rôle of Apsu is insignificant; and in the central episode, the conflict with Marduk, Tiamat alone represents the power of chaos, as in Hebrew Tĕhôm.—(2) In Enuma eliš the description of chaos is followed by a theogony, of which there is no trace in Genesis. The Babylonian theory is essentially monistic, the gods being conceived as emanating from a material chaos. Lukas, indeed (l.c. 14 ff., 24 ff.), has tried to show that they are represented as proceeding from a supreme spiritual principle, Anu. But while an independent origin of deity may be consistent with the opening lines of Tablet I., it is in direct opposition to the statement of Damascius, and is irreconcilable with the later parts of the series, where the gods are repeatedly spoken of as children of Apsu and Tiamat. The biblical conception, on the contrary, is probably dualistic (above, pages 7, 15), and at all events the supremacy of the spiritual principle (Elohim) is absolute. That a theogony must have originally stood between verses ² and ³ of Genesis 1 (Gunkel) is more than can be safely affirmed. Gunkel thinks it is the necessary sequel to the idea of the world-egg in the end of verse ². But he himself regards that idea as foreign to the main narrative; and if in the original source something must have come out of the egg, it is more likely to have been the world itself (as in the Phœnician and Indian cosmogonies) than a series of divine emanations.—(3) Both accounts assume, but in very different ways, the existence of light before the creation of the heavenly bodies. In the Babylonian legend the assumption is disguised by the imagery of the myth: the fact that Marduk, the god of light, is himself the demiurge, explains the omission of light from the category of created things. In the biblical account that motive no longer operates, and accordingly light takes its place as the first creation of the Almighty.—(4) A very important parallel is the conception of heaven as formed by a separation of the waters of the primæval chaos. In Enuma eliš the septum is formed from the body of Tiamat; in Genesis it is simply a rākî‛a—a solid structure fashioned for the purpose. But the common idea is one that could hardly have been suggested except by the climatic conditions under which the Babylonian myth is thought to have originated. Jensen has shown, to the satisfaction of a great many writers, how the imagery of the Babylonian myth can be explained from the changes that pass over the face of nature in the lower Euphrates valley about the time of the vernal equinox (see Die Kosmologie der Babylonier 307 ff.; compare Gunkel Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit 24 ff.; Gordon). Chaos is an idealisation of the Babylonian winter, when the heavy rains and the overflow of the rivers have made the vast plain like a sea, when thick mists obscure the light, and the distinction between heaven and sea seems to be effaced. Marduk represents the spring sun, whose rays pierce the darkness and divide the waters, sending them partly upwards as clouds, and partly downwards to the sea, so that the dry land appears. The ‘hurricane,’ which plays so important a part in the destruction of the chaos-monster, is the spring winds that roll away the dense masses of vapour from the surface of the earth. If this be the natural basis of the myth of Marduk and Tiamat, it is evident that it must have originated in a marshy alluvial region, subject to annual inundations, like the Euphrates valley.—(5) There is, again, a close correspondence between the accounts of the creation of the heavenly bodies (see page 21 f.). The Babylonian is much fuller, and more saturated with mythology: it mentions not only the moon but the signs of the Zodiac, the planet Jupiter, and the stars. But in the idea that the function of the luminaries is to regulate time, and in the destination of the moon to rule the night, we must recognise a striking resemblance between the two cosmogonies.—(6) The last definite point of contact is the creation of man (page 30 f.). Here, however, the resemblance is slight, though the deliberative 1st person plural in Genesis 1²⁶ is probably a reminiscence of a dialogue like that between Marduk and Ea in the Enuma eliš narrative.—(7) With regard to the order of the works, it is evident that there cannot have been complete parallelism between the two accounts. In the tablets the creation of heaven is followed naturally by that of the stars. The arrangement of the remaining works, which must have been mentioned in lost parts of Tablets V. and VI., is, of course, uncertain; but the statement of Berossus suggests that the creation of land animals followed instead of preceding that of man. At the same time it is very significant that the separate works themselves, apart from their order: Firmament, Luminaries, Earth, Plants, Animals, Men,—are practically identical in the two documents: there is even a fragment (possibly belonging to the series) which alludes to the creation of marine animals as a distinct class (King, The Seven Tablets of Creation, lix, lxxxvi). Gordon (Early Traditions of Genesis) holds that the differences of arrangement can be reduced to the single transposition of heavenly bodies and plants (see his table, page 51).

In view of these parallels, it seems impossible to doubt that the cosmogony of Genesis 1 rests on a conception of the process of creation fundamentally identical with that of the Enuma eliš tablets.

3. There is, however, another recension of the Babylonian creation story from which the fight of the sun-god with chaos is absent, and which for that reason possesses a certain importance for our present purpose. It occurs as the introduction to a bilingual magical text, first published by Pinches in 1891.¹ Once upon a time, it tells us, there were no temples for the gods, no plants, no houses or cities, no human inhabitants:

Then arose a ‘movement in the sea’; the most ancient shrines and cities of Babylonia were made, and divine beings created to inhabit them. Then

Next he formed beasts, the rivers, grasses, various kinds of animals, etc.; then, having ‘laid in a dam by the side of the sea,’ he made reeds and trees, houses and cities, and the great Babylonian sanctuaries. The whole description is extremely obscure, and the translations vary widely. The main interest of the fragment lies in its non-legendary, matter-of-fact representation of the primæval condition of things, and of the process of world-building. Of special correspondences with Genesis 1 there are perhaps but two: (a) the impersonal conception of chaos implied in the appellative sense of tāmtu (Tĕhôm) for the sea; (b) the comparison of the firmament to a canopy, if that be the right interpretation of the phrase. In the order of the creation of living beings it resembles more the account in Genesis 2; but from that account it is sharply distinguished by its assumption of a watery chaos in contrast to the arid waste of Genesis 2⁵. It is therefore inadmissible to regard this text as a more illuminating parallel to Genesis 1 than the Enuma eliš tablets. The most that can be said is that it suggests the possibility that in Babylonia there may have existed recensions of the creation story in which the mythical motive of a conflict between the creator and the chaos-monster played no part, and that the biblical narrative goes back directly to one of these. But when we consider that the Tiamat myth appears in both the Greek accounts of Babylonian cosmogony, that echoes of it are found in other ancient cosmogonies, and that in these cases its imagery is modified in accordance with the religious ideas of the various races, the greater probability is that the cosmogony of Genesis 1 is directly derived from it, and that the elimination of its mythical and polytheistic elements is due to the influence of the pure ethical monotheism of the Old Testament.—Gunkel in his Schöpfung und Chaos was the first to call attention to possible survivals of the creation myth in Hebrew poetry. We find allusions to a conflict between Yahwe and a monster personified under various names (Rahab, the Dragon, Leviathan, etc.—but never Tĕhôm); and no explanation of them is so natural as that which traces them to the idea of a struggle between Yahwe and the power of chaos, preceding (as in the Babylonian myth) the creation of the world. The passages, however, are late; and we cannot be sure that they do not express a literary interest in foreign mythology rather than a survival of a native Hebrew myth.²

4. The Phœnician cosmogony, of which the three extant recensions are given below,¹ hardly presents any instructive points of comparison with Genesis 1. It contains, however, in each of its recensions, the idea of the world-egg—a very widespread cosmological speculation to which no Babylonian analogies have been found, but which is supposed to underlie the last clause of Genesis 1². In Sanchuniathon, the union of ‘gloomy, breath-like Air’ with ‘turbid dark Chaos’ produces a miry watery mixture called Μωτ, in which all things originate, and first of all certain living beings named ‘watchers of heaven’ (צֹפֵי שָׁמַיִם). These appear to be the constellations, and it is said that they are ‘shaped like the form of an egg,’ i.e., probably, are arranged in the sky in that form. In Eudemos, the first principles are Χρόνος, Πόθος, and Ὀμίχλη: the two latter give birth to Ἀήρ and Αὔρα, and from the union of these again proceeds ‘an egg.’ More striking is the expression of the idea in Mochos. Here the union of Αἰθήρ and Ἀήρ produces Οὐλωμος (עוֹלָם), from which proceed Χουσωρος, ‘the first opener,’ and then ‘an egg.’ It is afterwards explained that the egg is the heaven, and that when it is split in two (? by Χουσωρος) the one half forms the heaven and the other the earth. It may introduce consistency into these representations if we suppose that in the process of evolution the primæval chaos (which is coextensive with the future heaven and earth) assumes the shape of an egg, and that this is afterwards divided into two parts, corresponding to the heaven and the earth. The function of Χουσωρος is thus analogous to the act of Marduk in cleaving the body of Tiamat in two. But obviously all this throws remarkably little light on Genesis 1².—Another supposed point of contact is the resemblance between the name Βααυ and the Hebrew בֹּהוּ. In Sanchuniathon Βααυ is explained as night, and is said to be the wife of the Kolpia-wind, and mother of Αἰών and Πρωτόγονος, the first pair of mortals. It is evident that there is much confusion in this part of the extract; and it is not unreasonably conjectured that Αἰών and Πρωτόγονος were really the first pair of emanations, and Kolpia and Baau the chaotic principles from which they spring; so that they may be the cosmological equivalents of Tōhû and Bōhû in Genesis. There is a strong probability that the name Βααυ is connected with Bau, a Babylonian mother-goddess (see Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 161); but the evidence is too slight to enable us to say that specifically Phœnician influences are traceable in Genesis 1².

5. A division of creation into six stages, in an order similar to that of Genesis 1, appears in the late book of the Bundehesh (the Parsee Genesis), where the periods are connected with the six annual festivals called Gahanbars, so as to form a creative year, parallel to the week of Genesis 1. The order is: 1. Heaven; 2. Water; 3. Earth; 4. Plants; 5. Animals; 6. Men. We miss from the enumeration: Light, which in Zoroastrianism is an uncreated element; and the Heavenly bodies, which are said to belong to an earlier creation (Tiele, Geschichte der Religion im Altertum, ii. 296). The late date of the Bundehesh leaves room, of course, for the suspicion of biblical influence; but it is thought by some that the same order can be traced in a passage of the younger Avesta, and that it may belong to ancient Iranian tradition (Tiele, l.c., and Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., vi. 244 ff.; Caland, Theologisch Tijdschrift, xxiii. 179 ff.).—The most remarkable of all known parallels to the six days’ scheme of Genesis is found in a cosmogony attributed to the ancient Etruscans by Suidas (Lexicon, s.v. Τυρρηνία). Here the creation is said to have been accomplished in six periods of 1000 years, in the following order: 1. Heaven and Earth; 2. the Firmament; 3. Sea and Water; 4. Sun and Moon; 5. Souls of Animals; 6. Man (see K. O. Müller, Die Etrusker, ii. 38; Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 154 f.). Suidas, however, lived not earlier than the 10th century A.D., and though his information may have been derived from ancient sources, we cannot be sure that his account is not coloured by knowledge of the Hebrew cosmogony.

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II. 4b‒III. 24.
The Creation and Fall of Man
(Yahwist).

The passage forms a complete and closely articulated narrative,¹ of which the leading motive is man’s loss of his original innocence and happiness through eating forbidden fruit, and his consequent expulsion from the garden of Eden. The account of creation in 2^4b ff. had primarily, perhaps, an independent interest; yet it contains little that is not directly subservient to the main theme developed in chapter 3. It is scarcely to be called a cosmogony, for the making of ‘earth and heaven’ (2^4b) is assumed without being described; the narrative springs from an early phase of thought which was interested in the beginnings of human life and history, but had not advanced to speculation on the origin of heaven and earth (compare Frankenberg in Gunkel² 24). From chapter 1 it differs fundamentally both in its conception of the primal condition of the world as an arid, waterless waste (2^5 f.: contrast 1²), and in the order of creative works: viz. Man (⁷), Trees (⁹), Animals (^18‒20), Woman (^21‒23). Alike in this arrangement and in the supplementary features—the garden (^8. 10 ff.), the miraculous trees (^9b), the appointments regarding man’s position in the world (^15‒17), and the remarkable omissions (plants, fishes, etc.)—it is governed by the main episode to which it leads up (chapter 3), with its account of the temptation by the serpent (^1‒5), the transgression (^6. 7), the inquest (^8‒13), the sentences (^14‒19), and the expulsion from Eden (^22‒24).

The story thus summarised is one of the most charming idylls in literature: chapter 3 is justly described by Gunkel as the ‘pearl of Genesis.’ Its literary and æsthetic character is best appreciated by comparison with chapter 1. Instead of the formal precision, the schematic disposition, the stereotyped diction, the aim at scientific classification, which distinguish the great cosmogony, we have here a narrative marked by childlike simplicity of conception, exuberant though pure imagination, and a captivating freedom of style. Instead of lifting God far above man and nature, this writer revels in the most exquisite anthropomorphisms; he does not shrink from speaking of God as walking in His garden in the cool of the day (3⁸), or making experiments for the welfare of His first creature (2^18 ff.), or arriving at a knowledge of man’s sin by a searching examination (3^9 ff.), etc. While the purely mythological phase of thought has long been outgrown, a mythical background everywhere appears; the happy garden of God, the magic trees, the speaking serpent, the Cherubim and Flaming Sword, are all emblems derived from a more ancient religious tradition. Yet in depth of moral and religious insight the passage is unsurpassed in the Old Testament. We have but to think of its delicate handling of the question of sex, its profound psychology of temptation and conscience, and its serious view of sin, in order to realise the educative influence of revealed religion in the life of ancient Israel. It has to be added that we detect here the first note of that sombre, almost melancholy, outlook on human life which pervades the older stratum of Genesis 1‒11. Compare the characterisation in Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 302 ff.; Gunkel page 22 ff.

Source.—The features just noted, together with the use of the divine name יהוה, show beyond doubt that the passage belongs to the Yahwistic cycle of narratives (Yahwist). Expressions characteristic of this document are found in קדמת 2¹⁴, הפעם 2²³, מה־זאת 3¹³, ארור 3^14. 17, עצבון 3^16. 17, בעבור 3¹⁷; and (in contrast to Priestly-Code) יצר, ‘create,’ instead of ברא, חית השדה instead of ח׳ הארץ, נשמת חיים instead of רוח ח׳ (see on 7²²); and the constant use of accusative suffix to the verb.

Traces of Composition.—That the literary unity of the narrative is not perfect there are several indications, more or less decisive. (1) The geographical section 2^10‒14 is regarded by most critics (since Ewald) as a later insertion, on the grounds that it is out of keeping with the simplicity of the main narrative, and seriously interrupts its sequence. The question is whether it be merely an isolated interpolation, or an extract from a parallel recension. If the latter be in evidence, we know too little of its character to say that 2^10‒14 could not have belonged to it. At all events the objections urged would apply only to ^11‒14; and there is much to be said, on this assumption, for retaining ¹⁰ (or at least ^10a) as a parallel to verse ⁶ (Holzinger).—(2) A more difficult problem is the confusion regarding the two trees on which the fate of man depends, a point to which attention was first directed by Budde. According to 2^9b the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil grew together in the midst of the garden, and in 2¹⁷ the second alone is made the test of the man’s obedience. But chapter 3 (down to verse ²¹) knows of only one tree in the midst of the garden, and that obviously (though it is never so named) the tree of knowledge. The tree of life plays no part in the story except in 3^22. 24, and its sudden introduction there only creates fresh embarrassment; for if this tree also was forbidden, the writer’s silence about it in 2¹⁷ 3³ is inexplicable; and if it was not forbidden, can we suppose that in the author’s intention the boon of immortality was placed freely within man’s reach during the period of his probation? So far as the main narrative is concerned, the tree of life is an irrelevance; and we shall see immediately that the part where it does enter into the story is precisely the part where signs of redaction or dual authorship accumulate.—(3) The clearest indication of a double recension is found in the twofold account of the expulsion from Eden: 3^23. 24. Here ²² and ²⁴ clearly hang together; ²⁰ and ²¹ are as clearly out of their proper position; hence ²³ may have been the original continuation of ¹⁹, to which it forms a natural sequel. There is thus some reason to believe that in this instance, at any rate, the ‘tree of life’ is not from the hand of the chief narrator.—(4) Other and less certain duplicates are: 2⁶ ∥ 2^{10 (11‒14)} (see above), ^8a ∥ ^9a (the planting of the garden); and ^{8b 15a} (the placing of man in it); 2²³ ∥ 3²⁰ (the naming of the woman).—(5) Budde (Die biblische Urgeschichte 232 ff.) was the first to suggest that the double name יהוה אלהים (which is all but peculiar to this section) has arisen through amalgamation of sources. His theory in its broader aspects has been stated on page 3, above; it is enough here to point out its bearing on the compound name in Genesis 2 f. It is assumed that two closely parallel accounts existed, one of which (Yahwistᵉ) employed only אלהים, the other (Yahwistʲ) only יהוה. When these were combined the editor harmonised them by adding אלהים to יהוה everywhere in Yahwistʲ, and prefixing יהוה to אלהים everywhere in Yahwistᵉ except in the colloquy between the serpent and the woman (3^1‒5), where the general name was felt to be more appropriate.¹ The reasoning is precarious; but if it be sound, it follows that 3^1‒5 must be assigned to Yahwistᵉ; and since these verses are part of the main narrative (that which speaks only of the tree of knowledge), there remain for Yahwistʲ only 3^22. 24, and possibly some variants and glosses in the earlier part of the narrative.—On the whole, the facts seem to warrant these conclusions: of the Paradise story two recensions existed; in one, the only tree mentioned was the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, while the other certainly contained the tree of life (so van Doorninck, Theologisch Tijdschrift, xxxix. 225  f.) and possibly both trees;² the former supplied the basis of our present narrative, and is practically complete, while the second is so fragmentary that all attempt to reconstruct even its main outlines must be abandoned as hopeless.

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8‒17.
The garden of Eden.

That the planting of the garden was subsequent to the creation of man is the undoubted meaning of the writer; the rendering plantaverat (Vulgate: so Abraham Ibn Ezra) is grammatically impossible, and is connected with a misconception of מקדם below.—a garden in Eden] This is perhaps the only place where Eden (as a geographical designation) is distinguished from the garden (compare 2^10. 15 3^23. 24 4¹⁶, Isaiah 51³, Ezekiel 28¹³ 31^9. 16. 18 36³⁵, Joel 2³, Sirach 40²⁷). The common phrase גַּן עֵדֶן would suggest to a Hebrew the idea ‘garden of delight,’ as it is rendered by LXX (often) and Vulgate (v.i.). There is no probability that the proper name was actually coined in this sense. It is derived by the younger Delitzsch and Schrader from Babylonian edinu, ‘plain,’ ‘steppe,’ or ‘desert’ (Delitzsch Wo lag das Paradies? 80; Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament², 26 f.; Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 539); but it is a somewhat precarious inference that the garden was conceived as an oasis in the midst of a desert (Holzinger).—מִקֶּדֶם] ‘in the (far) East’; i.e. from the Palestinian standpoint of the author; not, of course, to be identified with any other עֶדֶן within the geographical horizon of the Israelites (see 2 Kings 19¹² [= Isaiah 37¹²], Ezekiel 27²³, Amos 1⁵).

Besides the passages cited above, the idea of a divine garden appears also in Genesis 13¹⁰, Ezekiel 31⁸. Usually it is a mere symbol of luxuriant fertility, especially in respect of its lordly trees (Ezekiel 31^{8 f. 16. 18}); but in Ezekiel 28¹³ it is mentioned as the residence of a semi-divine being. Most of the allusions are explicable as based on Genesis 2 f.; but the imagery of Ezekiel 28 reveals a highly mythological conception of which few traces remain in the present narrative. If the idea be primitive Semitic (and גַּן is common to all the leading dialects), it may originate in the sacred grove (Hima) “where water and verdure are united, where the fruits of the sacred trees are taboo, and the wild animals are ’anīs, i.e. on good terms with man, because they may not be frightened away” (Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 303²; compare Reste arabischen Heidentums 141; Barton, A Sketch of Semitic Origins¹, 96). In early times such spots of natural fertility were the haunts of the gods or supernatural beings (Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 102 ff.). But from the wide diffusion of the myth, and the facts pointed out on page 93 f. below, it is plain that the conception has been enriched by material from different quarters, and had passed through a mythological phase before it came into the hands of the biblical writers. Such sacred groves were common in Babylonia, and mythological idealisations of them enter largely into the religious literature (see Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 195 ff.).

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8. גן] LXX παράδεισος (compare פרדס, Canticles 4¹³, Ecclesiastes 2⁵, Nehemiah 2⁸: probably from Persian), and so Vulgate, Peshiṭtå.—עֵדֶן] is regularly treated as a proper noun by Targum^Onkelos, Peshiṭtå, by Vulgate only 4¹⁶ (everywhere else as appellative: voluptas, deliciæ). LXX has Ἐδεμ only in 2^8. 10 4¹⁶; elsewhere τρυφή[ς], except Isaiah 51³ (παράδεισος).—מקדם] Literally ‘in front’ (on the מן see König Historisch-kritisches Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache ii. page 318; Brown-Driver-Briggs, 578ᵇ): in the history books it always means ‘east’ or ‘eastward’; but in prophets and Psalms it usually has temporal sense (‘of old’); and so it is misunderstood here by all versions except LXX (Vulgate in principio, etc.).—9. כל־עץ] Gesenius-Kautzsch § 127 b.—הדעת] The use of article with infitive construct is very rare (Davidson § 19), but is explained by the frequent use of דעת as abstract noun. Otherwise the construction is regular, טוב ורע being accusative, not genitive of object.—Budde (Die biblische Urgeschichte 51 f.) objects to the splitting up of the compound object by the secondary predicate בתוך הגן, and thinks the original text must have been ובתוך הגן עץ הדעח וגו׳; thus finding a confirmation of the theory that the primary narrative knew of only one tree, and that the tree of knowledge (page 52; so Ball, Holzinger, Gunkel, al.). In view of the instances examined by Driver in Hebraica, ii. 33, it is doubtful if the grammatical argument can be sustained; but if it had any force it ought certainly to lead to the excision of the second member rather than of the first (Kuenen Theologisch Tijdschrift, 1884, 136; van Doorninck, ib., 1905, 225 f.; Eerdmans, ib. 494 ff.). A more important point is the absence of את before the definite object. The writer’s use of this participle is very discriminating; and its omission suggests that ^9b is really a nominal clause, as rendered above. If we were to indulge in analysis of sources, we might put ^9b (in whole or in part) after ^8a, and assign it to that secondary stratum of narrative which undoubtedly spoke of a tree of life (3²²).

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9. all sorts of trees ... food] The primitive vegetation is conceived as consisting solely of trees, on whose fruit man was to subsist; the appearance of herbs is a result of the curse pronounced on the ground (3^17 f.).—and the tree of life (was) in the midst] On Budde’s strictures on the form of the sentence, v.i. The intricate question of the two trees must be reserved for separate discussion (pages 52 f., 94); for the present form of the story both are indispensable. The tree of life, whose fruit confers immortality (3²²; compare Proverbs 3¹⁸ 11³⁰ 13¹² 15⁴; further, Ezekiel 47¹², Revelation 22²), is a widely diffused idea (see Dillmann 49; Wünsche, Die Sagen vom Lebensbaum und Lebenswasser). The tree of knowledge is a more refined conception; its property of communicating knowledge of good and evil is, however, magical, like that of the other; a connexion with oracular trees (Lenormant, Les Origines de l’histoire i. 85 f.; Baudissin, Studien zur semitischen Religionsgeschichte ii. 227) is not so probable. As to what is meant by ‘knowing good and evil,’ see page 95 ff.

The primitive Semitic tree of life is plausibly supposed by Barton (A Sketch of Semitic Origins¹, 92 f.) to have been the date-palm; and this corresponds to the sacred palm in the sanctuary of Ea at Eridu (IV R. 15*), and also to the conventionalised sacred tree of the seals and palace-reliefs, which is considered to be a palm combined with some species of conifer. Compare also the sacred cedar in the cedar forest of Gilgamesh, Tablets IV. V. For these and other Babylonian parallels, see Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 195 ff.

10. a river issued (or issues) from Eden] The language does not necessarily imply that the fountain-head was outside the garden (Driver, Bennett); the verb יָצָא is used of the rise of a stream at its source (Exodus 17⁶, Numbers 20¹¹, Judges 15¹⁹, Ezekiel 47¹, Zechariah 14⁸, Joel 4¹⁸). Whether the participle expresses past or present time cannot be determined.—from thence it divides itself] The river issues from the garden as a single stream, then divides into four branches, which are the four great rivers of the world. The site of Paradise, therefore, is at the common source of the four rivers in question (page 62‒66 below). That is the plain meaning of the verse, however inconsistent it may be with physical geography.—11. Pîšôn] The name occurs (along with Tigris, Euphrates, Jordan, and Gihon) in Sirach 24²⁵, but nowhere else in Old Testament. That it was not a familiar name to the Hebrews is shown by the topographical description which follows. On the various speculative identifications, see Delitzsch and Dillmann, and page 64 f. below.—the whole land of Ḥăvîlāh] The phraseology indicates that the name is used with some vagueness, and considerable latitude. In 10^7. 29 25¹⁸ etc., Ḥavilah seems to be a district of Arabia (see page 202); but we cannot be sure that it bears the same meaning in the mythically coloured geography of this passage.—12. Two other products of the region are specified; but neither helps to an identification of the locality.—bĕdōlaḥ] a substance well known to the Israelites (Numbers 11⁷), is undoubtedly the fragrant but bitter gum called by the Greeks βδέλλιον or βδέλλα. Pliny (Naturalis Historia, xii. 35 f.) says the best kind grew in Bactriana, but adds that it was found also in Arabia, India, Media, and Babylonia.—the šōham stone] A highly esteemed gem (Job 28¹⁶), suitable for engraving (Exodus 28⁹ etc.), one of the precious stones of Eden (Ezekiel 28¹³), and apparently used in architecture (1 Chronicles 29²). From the Greek equivalents it is generally supposed to be either the onyx or the beryl (v.i.). According to Pliny, the latter was obtained from India, the former from India and Arabia (Naturalis Historia, xxxvii. 76, 86).—13. Gîḥôn] The name of a well on the East of Jerusalem (the Virgin’s spring: 1 Kings 1³³ etc.), which Abraham Ibn Ezra strangely takes to be meant here. In Jewish and Christian tradition it was persistently identified with the Nile (Sirach 24²⁷; LXX of Jeremiah 2¹⁸ [where שִׁחוֹר is translated Γηών]; Josephus Antiquities of the Jews i. 39, and the Fathers generally). The great difficulty of that view is that the Nile was as well known to the Hebrews as the Euphrates, and no reason appears either for the mysterious designation, or the vague description appended to the name.—land of Kûš] Usually Ethiopia; but see on 10⁶.—14. Ḥiddeḳel] is certainly the Tigris, though the name occurs only once again (Daniel 10⁴).—in front of ’Aššûr] Either between it and the spectator, or to the east of it: the latter view is adopted by nearly all commentaries; but the parallels are indecisive, and the point is not absolutely settled. Geographically the former would be more correct, since the centre of the Assyrian Empire lay East of the Tigris. The second view can be maintained only if אַשּׁוּר be the city which was the ancient capital of the Empire, now Ḳal‛at Šerḳāt on the West bank of the river. But that city was replaced as capital by Kalḫi as early as 1300 B.C., and is never mentioned in Old Testament. It is at least premature to find in this circumstance a conclusive proof that the Paradise legend had wandered to Palestine before 1300 B.C. (Gressmann, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., x. 347).—Euphrates] The name (פְּרָת) needed no explanation to a Hebrew reader: it is the נָהָר par excellence of the Old Testament (Isaiah 8⁷ and often).

The site of Eden.—If the explanation given above of verse ¹⁰ be correct,—and it is the only sense which the words will naturally bear,—it is obvious that a real locality answering to the description of Eden exists and has existed nowhere on the face of the earth. The Euphrates and Tigris are not and never were branches of a single stream; and the idea that two other great rivers sprang from the same source places the whole representation outside the sphere of real geographical knowledge. In ^10‒14, in short, we have to do with a semi-mythical geography, which the Hebrews no doubt believed to correspond with fact, but which is based neither on accurate knowledge of the region in question, nor on authentic tradition handed down from the ancestors of the human race. Nevertheless, the question where the Hebrew imagination located Paradise is one of great interest; and many of the proposed solutions are of value, not only for the light they have thrown on the details of ^10‒14, but also for the questions they raise as to the origin and character of the Paradise-myth. This is true both of those which deny, and of those which admit, the presence of a mythical element in the geography of ^10‒14.

1. Several recent theories seek an exact determination of the locality of Paradise, and of all the data of ^10‒14, at the cost of a somewhat unnatural exegesis of verse ¹⁰. That of Friedrich Delitzsch (Wo lag das Paradies?, 1881) is based partly on the fact that North of Babylon (in the vicinity of Bagdad) the Euphrates and Tigris approach within some twenty miles of each other, the Euphrates from its higher level discharging water through canals into the Tigris, which might thus be regarded as an offshoot of it. The land of Eden is the plain (edinu) between the two rivers from Tekrit (on the Tigris: nearly a hundred miles North of Bagdad) and ‛Ana (on the Euphrates) to the Persian Gulf; the garden being one specially favoured region from the so-called ‘isthmus’ to a little South of Babylon. The river of verse ¹⁰ is the Euphrates; Pishon is the Pallakopas canal, branching off from the Euphrates on the right a little above Babylon and running nearly parallel with it to the Persian Gulf; Giḥon is the Shaṭṭ en-Nil, another canal running East of the Euphrates from near Babylon and rejoining the parent river opposite Ur; Ḥiddeḳel and Euphrates are, of course, the lower courses of the Tigris and Euphrates respectively, the former regarded as replenished through the canal system from the latter. Ḥavilah is part of the great Syrian desert lying West and South of the Euphrates; and Kush is a name for northern and middle Babylonia, derived from the Kaššite dynasty that once ruled there. In spite of the learning and ingenuity with which this theory has been worked out, it cannot clear itself of an air of artificiality at variance with the simplicity of the passage it seeks to explain. That the Euphrates should be at once the undivided Paradise-stream and one of the ‘heads’ into which it breaks up is a glaring anomaly; while verse ¹⁴ shows that the narrator had distinctly before his mind the upper course of the Tigris opposite Assur, and is therefore not likely to have spoken of it as an effluent of the Euphrates. The objection that the theory confuses rivers and canals is fairly met by the argument that the Babylonian equivalent of נָהָר is used of canals, and also by the consideration that both the canals mentioned were probably ancient river-beds; but the order in which the rivers are named tells heavily against the identifications. Moreover, the expression ‘the whole land of Ḥavilah’ seems to imply a much larger tract of the earth’s surface than the small section of desert enclosed by the Pallakopas; and to speak of the whole of northern Babylonia as ‘surrounded’ by the Shaṭṭ en-Nil is an abuse of language.—According to Sayce The Higher Criticism and the Verdict of the Monuments, 95 ff.; A Dictionary of the Bible, i. 643 f.), the garden of Eden is the sacred garden of Ea at Eridu; and the river which waters it is the Persian Gulf, on the shore of which Eridu formerly stood. The four branches are, in addition to Euphrates and Tigris (which in ancient times entered the Gulf separately), the Pallakopas and the Choaspes (now the Kerkha), the sacred river of the Persians, from whose waters alone their kings were allowed to drink (Herodotus i. 188). Besides the difficulty of supposing that the writer of verse ¹⁰ meant to trace the streams upwards towards their source above the garden, the theory does not account for the order in which the rivers are given; for the Pallakopas is West of Euphrates, while the Choaspes is East of the Tigris.¹ Further, although the description of the Persian Gulf as a ‘river’ is fully justified by its Babylonian designation as Nâr Marratum (‘Bitter River’), it has yet to be made probable that either Babylonians or Israelites would have thought of a garden as watered by ‘bitter’ (i.e. salt) water.—These objections apply with equal force to the theory of Hommel (Aufsätze und Abhandlungen arabistisch-semitologischen Inhalts, iii. 1, page 281 ff., etc., The Ancient Hebrew Tradition as illustrated by the Monuments, 314 ff.), who agrees with Sayce in placing Paradise at Eridu, in making the single stream the Persian Gulf, and one of the four branches the Euphrates. But the three other branches, Pishon, Giḥon, and Ḥiddeḳel, he identifies with three North Arabian wādīs,—Wadi Dawāsir, Wadi Rummā, and Wadi Sirhān (the last the ‘wādī of Diḳlah’ = ḫad-deḳel [see on verse ¹⁴ above], the name having been afterwards transferred to the Tigris).

2. Since none of the above theories furnishes a satisfactory solution of the problem, we may as well go back to what appears the natural interpretation of verse ¹⁰, and take along with it the utopian conception of four great rivers issuing from a single source. The site of Paradise is then determined by the imaginary common source of the two known rivers, Euphrates and Tigris. As a matter of fact, the western arm of the Euphrates and the eastern arm of the Tigris do rise sufficiently near each other to make the supposition of a common source possible to ancient cosmography; and there is no difficulty in believing that the passage locates the garden in the unexplored mountains of Armenia. The difficulty is to find the Pishon and the Giḥon. To seek them amongst the smaller rivers of Armenia and Trans-Caucasia is a hopeless quest; for a knowledge of these rivers would imply a knowledge of the country, which must have dispelled the notion of a common source. Van Doorninck has suggested the Leontes and Orontes (Theologisch Tijdschrift, xxxix. 236), but a Hebrew writer must surely have known that these rivers rose much nearer home than the Euphrates and Tigris. There is more to be said for the opinion that they represent the two great Indian rivers, Ganges and Indus, whose sources must have been even more mysterious than those of the Euphrates and Tigris, and might very well be supposed to lie in the unknown region from Armenia to Turkestan.¹ The attraction of this view is that it embraces all rivers of the first magnitude that can have been known in western Asia (for, as we shall see, even the Nile is not absolutely excluded); and it is no valid objection to say that the Indian rivers were beyond the horizon of the Israelites, since we do not know from what quarter the myth had travelled before it reached Palestine. Yet I find no modern writer of note who accepts the theory in its completeness. Delitzsch and Dillmann identify the Pishon with the Indus, but follow the traditional identification of Giḥon with the Nile (see page 61 above). But if the biblical narrator believed the Nile to rise with Euphrates and Tigris, it is extremely likely that he regarded its upper waters as the Indus, as Alexander the Great did in his time;² and we might then fall back on the old identification of Pishon with the Ganges.³ But it must be admitted that the names Ḥavilah and Kush are a serious difficulty to this class of theories. The latter, indeed, may retain its usual Old Testament meaning if Giḥon be the upper Nile, either as a continuation of the Indus or a separate river; but if it be the Indus alone, Kush must be the country of the Kaššites, conceived as extending indefinitely East of Babylonia. Ḥavilah has to be taken as a name for India considered as an extension of North-east Arabia, an interpretation which finds no support in the Old Testament. At the same time, as Dillmann observes, the language employed (‘the whole land of Ḥavilah’) suggests some more spacious region than a limited district of Arabia; and from the nature of the passage we can have no certainty that the word is connected with the Ḥavilah of Genesis 10.—An interesting and independent theory, based on ancient Babylonian geographical documents, has been propounded by Haupt. The common source of the four rivers is supposed to have been a large (imaginary) basin of water in North Mesopotamia: the Euphrates and Tigris lose themselves in marshes; the Pishon (suggested by the Kerkha) is conceived as continued in the Nâr Marratum (Persian Gulf) and the Red Sea, and so ‘encompasses’ the whole of Ḥavilah (Arabia); beyond this there was supposed to be land, through which the Giḥon (suggested by the Karun) was supposed to reach Kush (Ethiopia), whence it flowed northwards as the Nile. The theory perhaps combines more of the biblical data in an intelligible way than any other that has been proposed; and it seems to agree with those just considered in placing the site of Eden at the common source of the rivers, to the North of Mesopotamia.⁴

3. It seems probable that the resources of philology and scientific geography are well-nigh exhausted by theories such as have been described above, and that further advance towards a solution of the problem of Paradise will be along the line of comparative mythology. Discussions precisely similar to those we have examined are maintained with regard to the Iranian cosmography—whether, e.g., the stream Ranḥa be the Oxus or the Yaxartes or the Indus; the truth being that Ranḥa is a mythical celestial stream, for which various earthly equivalents might be named (see Tiele, Geschichte der Religion im Altertum ii. 291 f.). If we knew more of the diffusion and history of cosmological ideas in ancient religions, we should probably find additional reason to believe that Genesis 2^10‒14 is but one of many attempts to localise on earth a representation which is essentially mythical. Gunkel (¹33, ²31), adopting a suggestion of Stucken, supposes the original Paradise to have been at the North pole of the heavens (the summit of the mountain of the gods: compare Ezekiel 28¹⁴), and the river to be the Milky Way, branching out—[but does it?]—into four arms (there is some indication that the two arms between Scorpio and Capricornus were regarded in Babylonia as the heavenly counterparts of Euphrates and Tigris: see Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 528). It is not meant, of course, that this was the idea in the mind of the biblical writer, but only that the conception of the mysterious river of Paradise with its four branches originated in mythological speculation of this kind. If this be the case, we need not be surprised if it should prove impossible to identify Pishon and Giḥon with any known rivers: on the other hand, the mention of the well-known Tigris and Euphrates clearly shows that the form of the myth preserved in Genesis 2^10‒14 located the earthly Paradise in the unknown northerly region whence these rivers flowed. And the conclusion is almost inevitable that the myth took shape in a land watered by these two rivers,—in Babylonia or Mesopotamia (see Gressmann, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., x. 346 f.).

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10. יפרד] Frequently imperfect? So Driver, A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew §§ 30 α, 113, 4 β; Gesenius-Kautzsch § 107  d (‘always taking place afresh’), Davidson § 54 (b). That seems hardly natural. Is it possible that for once מִשָּׁם could have the effect of אָז in transporting the mind to a point whence a new development takes place? (Davidson § 45, R. 2).—רָאשִׁים] Not ‘sources’ but ‘branches’; as Arabic ra’s en-nahr (as distinct from ra’s el-‛ain) means the point of divergence of two streams (Wetzstein, quoted by Delitzsch, page 82). So Assyrian rîš nâri or rîš nâr, of the point of divergence (Ausgangsort) of a canal (Delitzsch Wo lag das Paradies? 98, 191).—11. האחד] See on 1⁵.—הוא הסבב] On the determination of predicate, Davidson § 19, R. 3; compare Gesenius-Kautzsch § 126 k (so verse ^13 f.).—החוילה] If the article be genuine, it shows that the name was significant (‘sandland,’ from חוֹל?); but everywhere else it is wanting, and The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch omits it here.—12. וּֽזֲהב] On metheg and hataf-pathach, see Gesenius-Kautzsch §§ 10 g, 16 e, f; König i. § 10, 6 e δ (compare 1¹⁸).—הִוא] The first instance of this Qrê perpetuum of the Pentateuch, where the regular הִיא is found only Genesis 14² 20⁵ 38²⁵, Leviticus 2¹⁵ 11³⁹ 13^10. 21 16³¹ 21⁹, Numbers 5^13 f.. König (Historisch-kritisches Lehrgebäude der hebräischen Sprache i. page 124 ff.) almost alone amongst modern scholars still holds to the opinion that the epicene consonantal form is genuinely archaic; but the verdict of philology and of Hexateuch criticism seems decisive against that view. It must be a graphic error of some scribe or school of scribes: whether proceeding from the original script definition הִא or not does not much matter (see Driver and White’s note on Leviticus 1¹³ in The Sacred Books of the Old Testament, page 25 f.).—טוב] The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch + מְאֹד.—הבדלח] Of the ancient versions LXX alone has misunderstood the word, rendering here ὁ ἄνθραξ (red garnet), and in Numbers 11⁷ (the only other occurrence) κρύσταλλος. Peshiṭtå can only be a clerical error. That it is not a gem is proved by the absence of אבן.—אבן השהם] LXX ὁ λίθος ὁ πράσινος (leek-green stone); other Greek versions ὄνυξ, and so Vulgate (onychinus); Peshiṭtå , Targum^Onkelos בורלא. Philology has as yet thrown no light on the word, though a connexion with Babylonian sâmtu is probable. Myres (Encyclopædia Biblica, 4808 f.) makes the interesting suggestion that it originally denoted malachite, which is at once striped and green, and that after malachite ceased to be valued tradition wavered between the onyx (striped) and the beryl (green). Petrie, on the other hand (A Dictionary of the Bible, iv. 620), thinks that in early times it was green felspar, afterwards confused with the beryl. It is at least noteworthy that Jensen (Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, 405) is led on independent grounds to identify sâmtu with malachite. But is malachite found in any region that could be plausibly identified with Ḥavilah?—13. גיחון] Probably from √ גיח (Job 38⁸ 40²³) = ‘bursting forth.’—14. שֵׁם] LXX omitted.—חדקל] Babylonian Idigla, Diglat, Aramaic דִּגְלַת and , Arabic Diǧlat; then Old Persian Tigrâ, Pehlevi Digrat, Greek Τίγρις and Τίγρης. The Persian Tigrâ was explained by a popular etymology as ‘arrow-swift’ (Strabo); and similarly it was believed that the Hebrews saw in their name a compound of חַד, ‘sharp,’ and קַל, ‘swift,’—a view given by Rashi, and mentioned with some scorn by Abraham Ibn Ezra. Hommel’s derivation (The Ancient Hebrew Tradition as illustrated by the Monuments, 315) from ḫadd, ‘wādī,’ and דִּקְלָה (= ‘wādī of Diḳlah,’ Genesis 10²⁷), is of interest only in connexion with his peculiar theory of the site of Paradise.—קדמת] Rendered ‘in front’ by LXX (κατέναντι), Peshiṭtå () and Vulgate (contra); as ‘eastward’ by Aquila, Symmachus (ἐξ ἀνατολῆς) and Targum^Onkelos (למדנחא). This last is also the view of Rashi, Abraham Ibn Ezra, and of most moderns. But see Nöldeke Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft, xxxiii. 532, where the sense ‘eastward’ is decisively rejected. The other examples are 4¹⁶, 1 Samuel 13⁵, Ezekiel 39¹¹†.—פרת] Babylonian Purâtu, Old Persian Ufrâtu, whence Greek Εὐφράτης.

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15. to till it and to guard it] To reject this clause (Budde), or the second member (Dillmann), as inconsistent with 3^17 ff. are arbitrary expedients. The ideal existence for man is not idle enjoyment, but easy and pleasant work; “the highest aspiration of the Eastern peasant” (Gunkel) being to keep a garden. The question from what the garden had to be protected is one that should not be pressed.—16 f. The belief that man lived originally on the natural fruit of trees (observe the difference from 1²⁹) was widespread in antiquity, and appears in Phœnician mythology.¹ Here, however, the point lies rather in the restriction than the permission,—in the imposition of a taboo on one particular tree.—For the words of the knowledge of good and evil it has been proposed to substitute “which is in the midst of the garden” (as 3³), on the ground that the revelation of the mysterious property of the tree was the essence of the serpent’s temptation and must not be anticipated (3⁵) (Budde, Holzinger, Gunkel, al.). But the narrative ought not to be subjected to such rigorous logical tests; and, after all, there still remained something for the serpent to disclose, viz. that such knowledge put man on an equality with God.—in the day ... die] The threat was not fulfilled; but its force is not to be weakened by such considerations as that man from that time became mortal (Jerome, al.), or that he entered on the experience of miseries and hardships which are the prelude of dissolution (Calvin, al.). The simple explanation is that God, having regard to the circumstances of the temptation, changed His purpose and modified the penalty.

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15. The verse is either a resumption of ^8b after the insertion of ^10‒14, or a duplicate from a parallel document. It is too original to be a gloss; and since there was no motive for making an interpolation at ^8b, the excision of ^10‒14 seems to lead necessarily to the conclusion that two sources have been combined.—את־האדם] LXX + ὃν ἔπλασεν (as verse ⁸).—וינּיחהו] On the two Hiphils of נוח and their distinction in meaning, see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 72 ee, and the Lexicon.—עדן] LXX^Lucian and most cursives render τῆς τρυφῆς: LXXᴬ and uncials omit the word.—לעבדָהּ וגו׳] Since גן is nowhere feminine, it is better to point לעבדֹה ולשמרֹה (see Albrecht, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xvi. 53).—16. האדם] LXX Ἀδαμ, Vulgate ei. Except in verse ¹⁸, the word is regularly, but wrongly, treated as a proper noun by these two versions from this point onwards.—17. מות תמות] Symmachus θνητὸς ἔσῃ. In LXX the verbs of this verse are all plural (as 3^3. 4).

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18‒25.
Creation of animals and woman.

The Creator, taking pity on the solitude of the man, resolves to provide him with a suitable companion. The naïveté of the conception is extraordinary. Not only did man exist before the beasts, but the whole animal creation is the result of an unsuccessful experiment to find a mate for him. Of the revolting idea that man lived for a time in sexual intercourse with the beasts (see page 91), there is not a trace.—18. a helper] The writer seems to be thinking (as in 2⁵), not of the original, but of the present familiar conditions of human life.—כְּנֶגְדּוֹ] (only here) literaly ‘as in front of him,’ i.e. corresponding to him.—19. The meaning cannot be that the animals had already been created, and are now brought to be named (Calvin, al. and recently Delitzsch, Stade): such a sense is excluded by grammar (see Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 76, Obsolete), and misses the point of the passage.—to see what he would call it] To watch its effect on him, and (eventually) to see if he would recognise in it the associate he needed,—as one watches the effect of a new experience on a little child.—whatever the man should call it, that (was to be) its name] The spontaneous ejaculation of the first man becomes to his posterity a name: such is the origin of (Hebrew) names.—The words נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה are incapable of construction, and are to be omitted as an explanatory gloss (Ewald, al.).—20. The classification of animals is carried a step further than in ¹⁹ (domestic and wild animals being distinguished), but is still simpler than in chapter 1. Fishes and ‘creeping things’ are frankly omitted as inappropriate to the situation.—21. It has appeared that no fresh creation ‘from the ground’ can provide a fit companion for man: from his own body, therefore, must his future associate be taken.—תַּרְדֵּמָה] is a hypnotic trance, induced by supernatural agency (compare Duhm on Isaiah 29¹⁰). The purpose here is to produce anæsthesia, with perhaps the additional idea that the divine working cannot take place under human observation (Dillmann, Gunkel).—one of his ribs] A part of his frame that (it was thought) could easily be spared. There is doubtless a deeper significance in the representation: it suggests “the moral and social relation of the sexes to each other, the dependence of woman upon man, her close relationship to him, and the foundation existing in nature for ... the feelings with which each should naturally regard the other” (Driver). The Arabs use similarly a word for ‘rib,’ saying hūa lizḳī or hūa bilizḳī for ‘he is my bosom companion.’ On the other hand, the notion that the first human being was androgynous, and afterwards separated into man and woman (see Schwally Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., ix. 172 ff.), finds no countenance in the passage.—22. built up the rib ... into a woman] So in the Egyptian “Tale of the two brothers,” the god Chnum ‘built’ a wife for his favourite Batau, the hieroglyphic determinative showing that the operation was actually likened to the building of a wall (see Wiedemann, A Dictionary of the Bible, Sup. 180).—23. By a flash of intuition the man divines that the fair creature now brought to him is part of himself, and names her accordingly. There is a poetic ring and rhythm in the exclamation that breaks from him.—This at last] Literally, ‘This, this time’ (v.i.): note the thrice repeated זֹאת.—bone of my bones, etc.] The expressions originate in the primitive notion of kinship as resting on “participation in a common mass of flesh, blood, and bones” (William Robertson Smith Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 273 f.: compare Kinship and Marriage in Early Arabia², 175 f.), so that all the members of a kindred group are parts of the same substance, whether acquired by heredity or assimilated in the processes of nourishment (compare 29¹⁴ 37²⁷, Judges 9², 2 Samuel 5¹ 19¹³). The case before us, where the material identity is expressed in the manner of woman’s creation, is unique.—shall be called Woman] English is fortunate in being able to reproduce this assonance (’Κ, ’Iššā) without straining language: other translations are driven to tours de force (e.g. Jerome Virago; Luther, Männin). Whether even in Hebrew it is more than an assonance is doubtful (v.i.).—24. An ætiological observation of the narrator: This is why a man leaves ... and cleaves ... and they become, etc.] It is not a prophecy from the standpoint of the narrative; nor a recommendation of monogamic marriage (as applied in Matthew 19^4 ff., Mark 10^6 ff., 1 Corinthians 6¹⁶, Ephesians 5³¹); it is an answer to the question, What is the meaning of that universal instinct which impels a man to separate from his parents and cling to his wife? It is strange that the man’s attachment to the woman is explained here, and the woman’s to the man only in 3¹⁶.

It has been imagined that the verse presupposes the primitive custom called beena marriage, or that modification of it in which the husband parts from his own kindred for good, and goes to live with his wife’s kin (so Gunkel: compare Kinship and Marriage in Early Arabia², 87, 207); and other instances are alleged in the patriarchal history. But this would imply an almost incredible antiquity for the present form of the narrative; and, moreover, the dominion of the man over the wife assumed in 3^16b is inconsistent with the conditions of beena marriage. Compare Benzinger Encyclopædia Biblica, 2675: “The phrase ... may be an old saying dating from remote times when the husband went to the house (tent) of the wife and joined her clan. Still the passage may be merely the narrator’s remark; and even if it should be an old proverb we cannot be sure that it really carries us so far back in antiquity.”—See, however, Gressmann, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., x. 353¹; van Doorninck, Theologisch Tijdschrift, xxxix. 238 (who assigns 2²⁴ and 3¹⁶ to different recensions).

one flesh] If the view just mentioned could be maintained, this phrase might be equivalent to ‘one clan’ (Leviticus 25⁴⁹); for “both in Hebrew and Arabic ‘flesh’ is synonymous with ‘clan’ or kindred group” (Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 274). More probably it refers simply to the connubium.—25. naked ... not ashamed] The remark is not merely an anticipation of the account given later of the origin of clothing (3⁷, compare ²¹). It calls attention to the difference between the original and the actual condition of man as conceived by the writer. The consciousness of sex is the result of eating the tree: before then our first parents had the innocence of children, who are often seen naked in the East (Doughty, Travels in Arabia Deserta, ii. 475).

Verse ²⁵ is a transition verse, leading over to the main theme to which all that goes before is but the prelude. How long the state of primitive innocence lasted, the writer is at no pains to inform us. This indifference to the non-essential is as characteristic of the popular tale as its graphic wealth of detail in features of real interest. The omission afforded an opportunity for the exercise of later Midrashic ingenuity; Jubilees iii. 15 fixes the period at seven years, while R. Eliezer (Bereshith Rabba) finds that it did not last six hours.

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18. אעשה] May be cohortative (Gesenius-Kautzsch § 75 l); LXX, Vulgate render as 1st person plural (as 1²⁶).—עזר] (usually ‘succour’) = ‘helper’ (abstractum pro concreto) is used elsewhere chiefly of God (Deuteronomy 33^7. 26, Psalms 33²⁰ 115^9 ff. etc.); possible exceptions are Ezekiel 12¹⁴ (if text right), Hosea 13⁹ (if emended with Wellhausen): see Brown-Driver-Briggs.—כנגדו] LXX κατ’ αὐτόν (but verse ²⁰ ὅμοιος αὐτῷ); Aquila ὡς κατέναντι αὐτοῦ; Symmachus ἀντικρὺς αὐτοῦ; Vulgate similis sibi (ejus, verse ²⁰); Peshiṭtå ; Targum^Onkelos כקיבליהּ.—19. The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch, LXX insert עוֹד after אלהים.—Omission of את־ before כל־חית is remarkable in this chapter (see on verse ⁹), and is rectified by The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch.—נפש חיה] The only construction possible would be to take לו as dative ethical, and נ׳ ח׳ as direct object to יקרא; but that is contrary to the writer’s usage, and yields a jejune sense. Even if (with Rashi) we transpose and read ‘every living thing which the man called [by a name], that was its name,’ the discord of gender would be fatal, to say nothing of the addition of שֵׁם.—20. ולעוף] Read with MSS LXX, Vulgate, Peshiṭtå Targum^Jonathan ולכלֹ־עוף (Ball).—וּלְאָדָם] Here the Massoretic takes Adam as a proper name. Delitzsch, al. explain it as generic = ‘for a human being’ (Gunkel); Olshausen emends וְהָאדם. The truth is that the Massoretic loses no opportunity presented by the Kethîb of treating אדם as noun proper. Point וְלָֽאָדָם.—לא מצא] Tuch, al. take God as subject; but it may be passive expressed by indefinite subject (Gesenius-Kautzsch § 144 d, e) = ‘there was not found.’—21. תרדמה] LXX ἔκστασιν; Aquila καταφοράν; Symmachus κάρον; Peshiṭtå (‘tranquillity’); Vulgate sopor; Targum^Onkelos and some Greek versions (Field) have ‘sleep’ simply. The examples of its use (15¹², 1 Samuel 26¹², Isaiah 29¹⁰, Job 4¹³ 33¹⁵, Proverbs 19¹⁵†), all except the last, confirm Duhm’s view that hypnotic sleep is indicated. It is true that in the verb (Niphal) that sense is less marked.—23. זאת הפעם] The construction rendered above takes זאת as subject of the sentence and הפעם = ‘this time,’ the article having full demonstrative force, as in 29^34 f. 30²⁰ 46³⁰, Exodus 9²⁷ (so LXX, Symmachus, Theodotion, Vulgate; Delitzsch, Dillmann, Gunkel, al.). The accents, however, unite the words in one phrase ‘this time,’ after the rather important analogy of זֶה פַעֲמַיִם (27³⁶ 43¹⁰), leaving the subject unexpressed. This sense is followed by Peshiṭtå, Targum^{Onkelos-Jonathan}, and advocated by Stade (Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xvii. 210 ff.); but it seems less acceptable than the other.—אִישׁ, אִשָּׁה] The old derivation of these words from a common √ אנשׁ is generally abandoned, אישׁ being assigned to a hypothetical √ אוּשׁ = ‘be strong’ (Gesenius Thesaurus philologicus criticus Linguæ Hebrææ et Chaldææ Veteris Testamenti). Arabic and Aramaic, indeed, show quite clearly that the √ seen in the plural אֲנָשִׁים (and in אֱנוֹשׁ) and that of (אִנְשָׁה) אשָּׁה are only apparently identical, the one having s where the other has ṯ. The masculine and feminine are therefore etymologically distinct, and nothing remains but a very strong assonance. The question whether we are to postulate a third √ for the singular אִישׁ does not greatly concern us here; the arguments will be found in Brown-Driver-Briggs, s.v. See Nöldeke Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft, xl. 740 (“Aber אִישׁ möchte ich doch bei אנשׁ lassen”). In imitation of the assonance, Symmachus has ἄνδρις, Vulgate Virago. Theodotion λῆψις, represents אֶשָּׂא, ‘I will take’: a curious blunder which is fully elucidated by the quotation from Origen given in Field, page 15³².—For מאיש, The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch, LXX, Targum^Onkelos read מֵאִישָׁהּ, which is by no means an improvement.—לֽקֳחָה־זּאת] See Gesenius-Kautzsch §§ 10 h, 20 c.—24. והיו] Add שְׁנֵיהֶם with LXX, Vulgate, Peshiṭtå, Targum^Jonathan and New Testament citations. The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch has והיה משניהם, referring to the offspring.—25. עֲרוּמִּים] עָרוּם ‘naked,’ to be carefully distinguished from עָרוּם (√ ערם) ‘crafty,’ in 3¹, is either a by-form of עֵירֹם (√ עוּר = ‘be bare’) in 3^10 f., or (more probably) a different formation from √ ערה (‘be bare’). See Brown-Driver-Briggs, s.vv.—יתבששו] The Hithpael (only here) probably expresses reciprocity (‘ashamed before one another’); the imperfect is frequentative.

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14‒19.
Significance of the Fall.

This section contains the key to the significance of the story of the Fall. It is the first example of a frequently recurring motive of the Genesis narratives, the idea, viz., that the more perplexing facts in the history of men and peoples are the working out of a doom or ‘weird’ pronounced of old under divine inspiration, or (as in this case) by the Almighty Himself: see 4¹⁵ 8^21 ff. 9^25 ff. 16¹² 27^{27 ff. 39 f.} 48^19 ff., chapter 49; compare Numbers 23 f., Deuteronomy 33. Here certain fixed adverse conditions of the universal human lot are traced back to a primæval curse uttered by Yahwe in consequence of man’s first transgression. See, further, page 95 below.—The form of the oracles is poetic; but the structure is irregular, and no definite metrical scheme can be made out.

14, 15. The curse on the serpent is legible, partly in its degraded form and habits (¹⁴), and partly in the deadly feud between it and the human race (¹⁵).—14. on thy belly, etc.] The assumption undoubtedly is that originally the serpent moved erect, but not necessarily that its organism was changed (e.g. by cutting off its legs, etc. Rabbis). As a matter of fact most snakes have the power of erecting a considerable part of their bodies; and in mythological representations the serpent often appears in the upright position (Bennett). The idea probably is that this was its original posture: how it was maintained was perhaps not reflected upon.—dust shalt thou eat] Compare Micah 7¹⁷, Isaiah 65²⁵. It is a prosaic explanation to say that the serpent, crawling on the ground, inadvertently swallows a good deal of dust (Bochart Hierozoicon, sive bipertitum opus de animalibus Sacræ Scripturæ iii. 245; Dillmann, al.); and a mere metaphor for humiliation (like Assyrian ti-ka-lu ip-ra; Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, v. 232 f.) is too weak a sense for this passage. Probably it is a piece of ancient superstition, like the Arabian notion that the ǧinn eat dirt (Wellhausen Reste arabischen Heidentums 150).—all the days of thy life] i.e. each serpent as long as it lives, and the race of serpents as long as it lasts. It is not so certain as most commentaries seem to think that these words exclude the demonic character of the serpent. It is true that the punishment of a morally irresponsible agent was recognised in Hebrew jurisprudence (9⁵, Exodus 21^28 f., Leviticus 20^15 f.). But it is quite possible that here (as in verse ¹⁵) the archetypal serpent is conceived as re-embodied in all his progeny, as acting and suffering in each member of the species.—15. The serpent’s attempt to establish unholy fellowship with the woman is punished by implacable and undying enmity between them.¹—thy seed and her seed] The whole brood of serpents, and the whole race of men.—He shall bruise thee on the head, etc.] In the first clause the subject (הוּא) is the ‘seed’ of the woman individualised (or collectively), in the second (אַתָּה) it is the serpent himself, acting through his ‘seed.’ The current reading of Vulgate (ipsa) may have been prompted by a feeling that the proper antithesis to the serpent is the woman herself. The general meaning of the sentence is clear: in the war between men and serpents the former will crush the head of the foe, while the latter can only wound in the heel. The difficulty is in the verb שׁוּף, which in the sense ‘bruise’ is inappropriate to the serpent’s mode of attack. We may speak of a serpent striking a man (as in Latin feriri a serpente), but hardly of bruising. Hence many commentaries (following LXX al.) take the verb as a by-form of שָׁאַף (strictly ‘pant’), in the sense of ‘be eager for,’ ‘aim at’ (Gesenius, Ewald, Dillmann, al.); while others (Gunkel al.) suppose that by paronomasia the word means ‘bruise’ in the first clause, and ‘aim at’ in the second. But it may be questioned whether this idea is not even less suitable than the other (Driver). A perfectly satisfactory interpretation cannot be given (v.i.).

The Messianic interpretation of the ‘seed of the woman’ appears in Targum^Jonathan and Targum Jerome, where the verse is explained of the Jewish community and its victory over the devil “in the days of King Messiah.” The reference to the person of Christ was taught by Irenæus, but was never so generally accepted in the Church as the kindred idea that the serpent is the instrument of Satan. Mediæval exegetes, relying on the ipsa of the Vulgate, applied the expression directly to the Virgin Mary; and even Luther, while rejecting this reference, recognised an allusion to the virgin birth of Christ. In Protestant theology this view gave way to the more reasonable view of Calvin, that the passage is a promise of victory over the devil to mankind, united in Christ its divine Head. That even this goes beyond the original meaning of the verse is admitted by most modern expositors; and indeed it is doubtful if, from the standpoint of strict historical exegesis, the passage can be regarded as in any sense a Protevangelium. Dillmann (with whom Driver substantially agrees) finds in the words the idea of man’s vocation to ceaseless moral warfare with the ‘serpent-brood’ of sinful thoughts, and an implicit promise of the ultimate destruction of the evil power. That interpretation, however, is open to several objections. (1) A message of hope and encouragement in the midst of a series of curses and punishments is not to be assumed unless it be clearly implied in the language. It would be out of harmony with the tone not only of the Paradise story, but of the Yahwistic sections of chapters 1‒11 as a whole: it is not till we come to the patriarchal history that the “note of promise and of hope” is firmly struck. (2) To the mind of the narrator, the serpent is no more a symbol of the power of evil or of temptation than he is an incarnation of the devil. He is himself an evil creature, perhaps a demonic creature transmitting his demonic character to his progeny, but there is no hint that he represents a principle of evil apart from himself. (3) No victory is promised to either party, but only perpetual warfare between them: the order of the clauses making it specially hard to suppose that the victory of man was contemplated. Dillmann admits that no such assurance is expressed; but finds it in the general tenor of the passage: “a conflict ordained by God cannot be without prospect of success.” But that is really to beg the whole question in dispute. If it be said that the words, being part of the sentence on the serpent, must mean that he is ultimately to be defeated, it may be answered that the curse on the serpent is the enmity established between him and the human race, and that the feud between them is simply the manifestation and proof of that antagonism.—It is thus possible that in its primary intention the oracle reflects the protest of ethical religion against the unnatural fascination of snake-worship. It is psychologically true that the instinctive feelings which lie at the root of the worship of serpents are closely akin to the hatred and loathing which the repulsive reptile excites in the healthy human mind; and the transformation of a once sacred animal into an object of aversion is a not infrequent phenomenon in the history of religion (see Gressman l.c. 360). The essence of the temptation is that the serpent-demon has tampered with the religious instinct in man by posing as his good genius, and insinuating distrust of the goodness of God; and his punishment is to find himself at eternal war with the race whom he has seduced from their allegiance to their Creator. And that is very much the light in which serpent-worship must have appeared to a believer in the holy and righteous God of the Old Testament.—The conjecture of Gunkel, that originally the ‘seed of the woman’ and the ‘seed of the serpent’ may have been mythological personages (compare Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 217 f.), even if confirmed by Assyriology, would have little bearing on the thought of the biblical narrator.

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14. מכל] On this use of מן (= e numero), see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 119 w, and compare Exodus 19⁵, Deuteronomy 14² 33²⁴, Judges 5²⁴ etc. Stade’s argument (Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xvii. 209) for deleting מכל הבהמה ו, on the ground that the serpent belongs to the category of חית השדה but not to בהמה, is logical, but hardly convincing.—גחון] Probably from √ גחן (Aramaic) = ‘curve’ or ‘bend’ (Delitzsch, Brown-Driver-Briggs), occurs again only Leviticus 11⁴², of reptiles. Vulgate renders pectus, LXX combines στῆθος and κοιλία.—15. זֶרַע] in the sense of ‘offspring,’ is nearly always collective. In a few cases where it is used of an individual child (4^25 ? 21¹³, 1 Samuel 1¹¹) it denotes the immediate offspring as the pledge of posterity, never a remote descendant (see Nöldeke Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., viii. 164 ff.). The Messianic application therefore is not justified in grammar.—הוא] the rendering ipsa (Vulgate) is said not to be found in the Fathers before Ambrose and Augustine (Zapletal, ATliches, 19). Jerome at all events knew that ipse should be read.—ישופך ... תשופנו] The form שוף recurs only Job 9¹⁷, Psalms 139¹¹, and, in both, text and meaning are doubtful. In Aramaic and New Hebrew the √ (ע״ו or ע״ע) has the primary sense of ‘rub,’ hence ‘wear down by rubbing’ = ‘crush’; in Syriac it also means to crawl. There are a few examples of a tendency of ע״ו verbs to strengthen themselves by insertion of א (König i. 439), and it is often supposed that in certain passages (Ezekiel 36³, Amos 2⁷ 8⁴, Psalms 56^2. 3 57⁴) שׁוף is disguised under the by-form שׁאף. But the only places where the assumption is at all necessary are Amos 2⁷ 8⁴, where the א may be simply mater lectionis for the â of the participle (compare וְקָאם, Hosea 10¹⁴); in the other cases the proper sense of שָׁאַף ‘pant’ or metaphor ‘long for’) suffices. The reverse process (substitution of שוף for שאף) is much less likely; and the only possible instance would be Job 9¹⁷, which is too uncertain to count for anything. There is thus not much ground for supposing a confusion in this verse; and Delitzsch points out that verbs of hostile endeavour, as distinct from hostile achievement הכּה, רצח, etc.), are never construed with double accusative. The gain in sense is so doubtful that it is better to adhere to the meaning ‘crush.’ The old versions felt the difficulty and ambiguity. The idea of crushing is represented by Aquila προστρίψει, Symmachus θλίψει, LXX^{Codex Coislinianus} τρίψει (see Field) and Jerome (Quæstiones sive Traditiones hebraicæ in Genesim) conterere; ‘pant after’ by LXX^{A al.} τηρήσει[ς] (if not a mistake for τρήσει[ς] or τειρήσει[ς]). A double sense is given by Vulgate conteret ... insidiaberis, and perhaps Peshiṭtå ... ; while Targum^Onkelos paraphrases: הוא יהא דכיר מה דעבדת ליה מלקדמין ואת תהי נטר ליה לסופא.

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16. The doom of the woman: consisting in the hardships incident to her sex, and social position in the East. The pains of childbirth, and the desire which makes her the willing slave of the man, impressed the ancient mind as at once mysterious and unnatural; therefore to be accounted for by a curse imposed on woman from the beginning.—I will multiply, etc.] More strictly, ‘I will cause thee to have much suffering and pregnancy’ (see Davidson § 3, R. (2)). It is, of course, not an intensification of pain to which she is already subject that is meant.—For הֵרֹנַךְ, LXX read some word meaning ‘groaning’ (v.i.); but to prefer this reading on the ground that Hebrew women esteemed frequent pregnancy a blessing (Gunkel) makes a too general statement. It is better (with Holzinger) to assume a hendiadys: ‘the pain of thy conception’ (as in the explanatory clause which follows).—in pain ... children] The pangs of childbirth are proverbial in Old Testament for the extremity of human anguish (Isaiah 21³ 13⁸, Micah 4⁹, Psalms 48⁶, and often: Exodus 1¹⁹ cannot be cited to the contrary).—to thy husband ... desire] It is quite unnecessary to give up the rare but expressive תְּשׁוּקָה of the Hebrew for the weaker תְּשׁוּבָה of LXX, etc. (v.i.). It is not, however, implied that the woman’s sexual desire is stronger than the man’s (Knobel, Gunkel); the point rather is that by the instincts of her nature she shall be bound to the hard conditions of her lot, both the ever-recurring pains of child-bearing, and subjection to the man.—while he (on his part) shall rule over thee] The idea of tyrannous exercise of power does not lie in the verb; but it means that the woman is wholly subject to the man, and so liable to the arbitrary treatment sanctioned by the marriage customs of the East. It is noteworthy that to the writer this is not the ideal relation of the sexes (compare 2^18. 23). There is here certainly no trace of the matriarchate or of polyandry (see on 2²⁴).

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16. אל] Read וְאֶל־, with The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch, LXX, Peshiṭtå.—הרבה ארבה] So 16¹⁰ 22¹⁷. On the irregular form of infinitive absolute, see Gesenius-Kautzsch § 75 ff.—עצבון] (3¹⁷) 5²⁹† [Yahwist]). LXX λύπας (= עַצְּבוֹתֵךְ ?).—והרנך] (√ הרה): The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch והריונך (Ruth 4¹³, Hosea 9¹¹). Olshausen (Monatsberichte der Königlich-Preussischen Akadamie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin., 1870, 380) conjecture בְּהריונך, to avoid the harsh use of וְ. LXX τὸν στεναγμόν σου probably = הגיונך‎; יְגוֹנַךְ (‘sorrow’) has also been suggested (Gunkel); and צָרָתֵךְ (Dillmann, Holzinger, al.). The other versions follow Massoretic Text.—בעצב] The Samaritan Recension of the Pentateuch בעצבון; LXX likewise repeats ἐν λύπαις.—תשוקה] Probably connected with Arabic šauḳ, ‘ardent desire’ (Rahlfs “עָנִי und עָנָו,” page 71); compare שקק, Isaiah 29⁸, Psalms 107⁹. Aquila συνάφεια, Symmachus ὁρμή. Although it recurs only 4⁷ and Canticles 7¹¹, it is found in New Hebrew and should not be suspected. LXX ἡ ἀποστροφή σου and Peshiṭtå point to the reading תְּשׁוּבָתֵךְ, preferred by many, and defended by Nestle (Marginalien und Materialien, 6) as a technical expression for the relation here indicated, on the basis of LXX’s text of 2 Samuel 17³. His parallel between the return of the woman to her source (the man) and the return of the man to his source (the ground, verse ¹⁹) is perhaps fanciful.

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17‒19. The man’s sentence.—The hard, unremitting toil of the husbandman, wringing a bare subsistence from the grudging and intractable ground, is the standing evidence of a divine curse, resting, not, indeed, on man himself, but on the earth for his sake. Originally, it had provided him with all kinds of fruit good for food,—and this is the ideal state of things; now it yields nothing spontaneously but thorns and briars; bread to eat can only be extorted in the sweat of the brow,—and this is a curse: formerly man had been a gardener, now he is a fellaḥ. It does not appear that death itself is part of the curse. The name death is avoided; and the fact is referred to as part of the natural order of things,—the inevitable ‘return’ of man to the ground whence he was taken. The question whether man would have lived for ever if he had not sinned is one to which the narrative furnishes no answer (Gunkel).—17. And to the man] v.i. The sentence is introduced by a formal recital of the offence.—Cursed is the ground] As exceptional fertility was ascribed to a divine blessing (27²⁸ etc.), and exceptional barrenness to a curse (Isaiah 24⁶, Jeremiah 23¹⁰), so the relative unproductiveness of the whole earth in comparison with man’s expectations and ideals is here regarded as the permanent effect of a curse.—in suffering (bodily fatigue and mental anxiety) shalt thou eat [of] it] See 5²⁹. The ‘laborious work’ of the husbandman is referred to in Sirach 7¹⁵; but this is not the prevailing feeling of the Old Testament; and the remark of Knobel, that “agriculture was to the Hebrew a divine institution, but at the same time a heavy burden,” needs qualification. It is well to be reminded that “ancient Israel did not live constantly in the joy of the harvest festival” (Gunkel); but none the less it would be a mistake to suppose that it lived habitually in the mood of this passage.—18. the herb of the field] See on 1¹¹. The creation of this order of vegetation has not been recorded by Yahwist. Are we to suppose that it comes into existence simply in consequence of the earth’s diminished productivity caused by the curse? It seems implied at all events that the earth will not yield even this, except under the compulsion of human labour (see 2⁵).—19. in the sweat of thy brow, etc.] A more expressive repetition of the thought of ^17bβ. The phrase eat bread may mean ‘earn a livelihood’ (Amos 7¹²), but here it must be understood literally as the immediate reward of man’s toil.—till thou return, etc.] hardly means more than ‘all the days of thy life’ (in verse ¹⁷). It is not a threat of death as the punishment of sin, and we have no right to say (with Dillmann) that verses ^16‒19 are simply an expansion of the sentence of 2¹⁷. That man was by nature immortal is not taught in this passage; and since the Tree of Life in verse ²² belongs to another recension, there is no evidence that the main narrative regarded even endless life as within man’s reach. The connexion of the closing words is rather with 2⁷: man was taken from the ground, and in the natural course will return to it again.—and to dust, etc.] Compare Job 10⁹ 34¹⁵, Psalms 90³ 146⁴, Ecclesiastes 3²⁰ 12⁷ etc.: ἐκ γαίας βλαστὼν γαῖα πάλιν γέγονα.

The arrangement of the clauses in ^17‒19 is not very natural, and the repeated variations of the same idea have suggested the hypothesis of textual corruption or fusion of sources. In Jubilees iii. 25 the passage is quoted in an abridged form, the line ‘Cursed ... sake’ being immediately followed by ‘Thorns ... to thee,’ and ^18b, being omitted. This is, of course, a much smoother reading, and leaves out nothing essential; but ^17b is guaranteed by 5²⁹. Holzinger rejects ^18b, and to avoid the repetition of אכל proposes תעבדנה instead of תאכלנה in ¹⁷. Gunkel is satisfied with verse ^17 f. as they stand, but assigns ^19aα (to לחם) and ^19b to another source (Yahwistʲ), as doublets respectively of ^17bβ and ^19aβ. This is perhaps on the whole the most satisfactory analysis.—The poetic structure of the verses, which might be expected to clear up a question of this kind, is too obscure to afford any guidance. Sievers, e.g. (II. 10 f.) finds nothing, except in verse ¹⁹, to distinguish the rhythm from that of the narrative in which it is embedded, and all attempts at strophic arrangement are only tentative.

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17. Point וְלָאדם; there is no conceivable reason why אדם should be a proper name here (compare 2²⁰ 3²¹).—לאמר ... ממנו] LXX reads τούτου μόνου (see verse ¹¹) μὴ φαγεῖν, ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ ἔφαγες.—בעבורך] LXX (ἐν τοῖς ἔργοις σου), Symmachus, Vulgate read בַּֽעֲבָדֶךָ, Theodotion ἐν τῇ παραβάσει σου (בְּעָבְרְךָ). The phrase is characteristic of Yahwist; out of 22 instances in the Hexateuch, only about 3 can be assigned to Elohist (none to Priestly-Code).—תאכלנה] The government of direct accusative seems harsh, but is not unexampled: see Jeremiah 36¹⁶.—18. LXX omits initial וְ: so Vulgate Jubilees.—קוץ ודרדר] Hosea 10⁸; דרדר occurs nowhere else in Old Testament. It is still used in Syria (dardār) as a general name for thistles.—19. זעה] (√ יזע, waḏa‛a) is ἅπαξ λεγόμενον; compare יָזַע, Ezekiel 44¹⁸.—לחם] LXX Jubilees לחמך.

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20‒24.
The expulsion from Eden.

20. The naming of the woman can hardly have come in between the sentence and its execution, or before there was any experience of motherhood to suggest it. The attempts to connect the notice with the mention of child-bearing in ^15 f. (Delitzsch al.), or with the thought of mortality in ¹⁹ (Knobel), are forced. The most suitable position in the present text would be before (so Jubilees iii. 33) or after 4¹; and accordingly some regard it as a misplaced gloss in explanation of that verse. But when we consider (a) that the name Ḥavvāh must in any case be traditional, (b) that it is a proper name, whereas הָאָדָם remains appellative throughout, and (c) that in the following verses there are unambiguous traces of a second recension of the Paradise story, it is reasonable to suppose that verse ²⁰ comes from that recension, and is a parallel to the naming of the woman in 2²³, whether it stands here in the original order or not. The fact that the name Eve has been preserved, while there is no distinctive name for the man, suggests that חוה is a survival from a more primitive theory of human origins in which the first mother represented the unity of the race.—the mother of every living thing] According to this derivation, חַוָּה would seem to denote first the idea of life, and then the source of life—the mother.¹ But the form חוה is not Hebrew, and the real meaning of the word is not settled by the etymology here given (v.i.).—כָּל־חַי commonly includes all animals (8²¹ etc.), but is here restricted to mankind (as Psalms 143², Job 30²³). Compare however, πότνια θηρῶν, ‘Lady of wild things,’ a Greek epithet of the Earth-mother (Miss Harrison, Prolegomena to the study of Greek Religion 264).—21. Another detached notice describing the origin of clothing. It is, of course, not inconsistent with verse ⁷, but neither can it be said to be the necessary sequel to that verse; most probably it is a parallel from another source.—coats of skin] “The simplest and most primitive kind of clothing in practical use” (Driver).

An interesting question arises as to the connexion between this method of clothing and the loss of pristine innocence. That it exhibits God’s continued care for man even after the Fall (Dillmann al.) may be true as regards the present form of the legend; but that is hardly the original conception. In the Phœnician legend of Usōos, the invention is connected with the hunting of wild animals, and this again with the institution of sacrifice: ... ὃς σκέπην τῷ σώματι πρῶτος ἐκ δερμάτων ὧν ἴσχυσε συλλαβεῖν θηρίων εὗρε ... ἅμα τε σπένδειν αὐταῖς ἐξ ὧν ἤγρευε θηρίων (Præparatio Evangelica i. 10; Orelli, page 17 f.). Since sacrifice and the use of animal food were inseparably associated in Semitic antiquity, it may be assumed that this is conceived as the first departure from the Golden Age, when men lived on the spontaneous fruits of the earth. Similarly, William Robertson Smith (Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 306 ff.) found in the verse the Yahwistic theory of the introduction of the sacrifice of domestic animals, which thus coincided, as in Greek legend, with the transition from the state of innocence to the life of agriculture.

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20. חוה] LXX Εὕα [Εὔα] (in 4¹), Aquila Αὖα, Vulgate Heva, Jerome Eva (English Eve); in this verse LXX translates Ζωή, Symmachus Ζωογόνος. The similarity of the name to the Aramaic word for ‘serpent’ (חַוֵּי, חִוְיָא, Syriac , Syro-Palestinian [Matthew 7¹⁰]); (compare Arabic ḥayyat from ḥauyat [Nöldeke]) has always been noticed, and is accepted by several modern scholars as a real etymological equivalence (Nöldeke Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft, xlii. 487; Stade Geschichte des Volkes Israel, i. 633; Wellhausen Reste arabischen Heidentums 154). The ancient idea was that Eve was so named because she had done the serpent’s work in tempting Adam (Bereshith Rabba; Philo, De Agricultura Noë, 21; Clement of Alexandria Protrepticus ii. 12. 1). Quite recently the philological equation has acquired fresh significance from the discovery of the name חות on a leaden Punic tabella devotionis (described by Lidzbarski Ephemeris, i. 26 ff.; see Cooke, A Textbook of North-Semitic Inscriptions, 135), of which the first line reads: “O Lady ḤVT, goddess, queen...!” Lidzbarski sees in this mythological personage a goddess of the under-world, and as such a serpent-deity; and identifies her with the biblical Ḥavvah. Ḥavvah would thus be a ‘depotentiated’ deity, whose prototype was a Phœnician goddess of the Under-world, worshipped in the form of a serpent, and bearing the title of ‘Mother of all living’ (see Gressman l.c. 359 f.). Precarious as such combinations may seem, there is no objection in principle to an explanation of the name Ḥavvah on these lines. Besides the Ḥivvites of the Old Testament (who were probably a serpent-tribe), Wellhausen cites examples of Semitic princely families that traced their genealogy back to a serpent. The substitution of human for animal ancestry, and the transference of the animal name to the human ancestor, are phenomena frequently observed in the transition from a lower to a higher stage of religion. If the change took place while a law of female descent still prevailed, the ancestry would naturally be traced to a woman (or goddess); and when the law of male kinship was introduced she would as naturally be identified with the wife of the first man. It need hardly be said that all this, while possibly throwing some light on the mythical background of the biblical narrative, is quite apart from the religious significance of the story of the Fall in itself.—אם כל־חי] William Robertson Smith renders ‘mother of every ḥayy,’—ḥayy being the Arabic word which originally denoted a group of female kinship. Thus “Eve is the personification of the bond of kinship (conceived as exclusively mother-kinship), just as Adam is simply ‘man,’ i.e. the personification of mankind” (Kinship and Marriage in Early Arabia², 208). The interpretation has found no support.—21. Point לָאָדָם, as in verse ¹⁷.

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22‒24. The actual expulsion.—22. Behold ... one of us] This is no ‘ironica exprobatio’ (Calvin al.), but a serious admission that man has snatched a divine prerogative not meant for him. The feeling expressed (compare 11⁶) is akin to what the Greeks called the ‘envy of the gods,’ and more remotely to the Old Testament attribute of the zeal or jealousy of Yahwe,—His resentment of all action that encroaches on His divinity (see page 97). In verse ⁵ the same words are put in the mouth of the serpent with a distinct imputation of envy to God; and it is perhaps improbable that the writer of that verse would have justified the serpent’s insinuation, even in form, by a divine utterance. There are several indications (e.g. the phrase ‘like one of us’) that the secondary recension to which verse ²² belongs represents a cruder form of the legend than does the main narrative; and it is possible that it retains more of the characteristically pagan feeling of the envy of the gods.—in respect of knowing, etc.] Man has not attained complete equality with God, but only God-likeness in this one respect. Gressman’s contention that the verse is self-contradictory (man has become like a god, and yet lacks the immortality of a god) is therefore unfounded.—And now, etc.] There remains another divine attribute which man will be prompt to seize, viz. immortality: to prevent his thus attaining complete likeness to God he must be debarred from the Tree of Life. The expression put forth his hand suggests that a single partaking of the fruit would have conferred eternal life (Budde Die biblische Urgeschichte 52); and at least implies that it would have been an easy thing to do. The question why man had not as yet done so is not impertinent (Delitzsch), but inevitable; so momentous an issue could not have been left to chance in a continuous narrative. The obvious solution is that in this recension the Tree of Life was a (or the) forbidden tree, that man in his first innocence had respected the injunction, but that now when he knows the virtue of the tree he will not refrain from eating. It is to be observed that it is only in this part of the story that the idea of immortality is introduced, and that not as an essential endowment of human nature, but as contingent on an act which would be as efficacious after the Fall as before it.—On the aposiopesis at the end of the verse, v.i.—23 is clearly a doublet of ²⁴; and the latter is the natural continuation of ²². Verse ²³ is a fitting conclusion to the main narrative, in which it probably followed immediately on verse ¹⁹.—24. He drove out the man and made [him] dwell on the east of ... [and stationed] the Cherubim, etc.] This is the reading of LXX (v.i.), and it gives a more natural construction than Massoretic Text, which omits the words in brackets. On either view the assumption is that the first abode of mankind was east of the garden. There is no reason to suppose that the verse represents a different tradition as to the site of Eden from 2⁸ or 2^10 ff.. It is not said in 2⁸ that it was in the extreme east, or in 2¹⁰ that it was in the extreme north; nor is it here implied that it was further west than Palestine. The account of the early migration of the race in 11² is quite consistent with the supposition that mankind entered the Euphrates valley from a region still further east.—the Cherubim and the revolving sword-flame] Literally ‘the flame of the whirling sword.’ It has usually been assumed that the sword was in the hand of one of the cherubim; but probably it was an independent symbol, and a representation of the lightning. Some light may be thrown on it by an inscription of Tiglath-pileser I. (Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, i. 36 f.), where the king says that when he destroyed the fortress of Ḫunusa he made ‘a lightning of bronze.’ The emblem appears to be otherwise unknown, but the allusion suggests a parallel to the ‘flaming sword’ of this passage.

The Cherubim.—See the notes of Dillmann, Gunkel, Driver; Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 529 f., 631 ff.; Cheyne in Encyclopædia Biblica, 741 ff.; Jeremias Das Alte Testament im Lichte des alten Orients², 218; Haupt, The Sacred Books of the Old Testament, Numbers, 46; Polychrome Bible, 181 f.; Furtwängler, in Roscher’s Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie article Gryps.—The derivation of the word is uncertain. The old theory of a connexion with γρύψ (Greif, griffin, etc.) is not devoid of plausibility, but lacks proof. The often quoted statement of Lenormant (Les Origines de l’histoire i. 118), that kirubu occurs on an amulet in the de Clercq collection as a name of the winged bulls of Assyrian palaces, seems to be definitely disproved (see Jeremias 218).—A great part of the Old Testament symbolism could be explained from the hypothesis that the Cherubim were originally wind-demons, like the Harpies of Greek mythology (Harrison, Prolegomena to the study of Greek Religion 178 ff.). The most suggestive analogy to this verse is perhaps to be found in the winged genii often depicted by the side of the tree of life in Babylonian art. These figures are usually human in form with human heads, but sometimes combine the human form with an eagle’s head, and occasionally the human head with an animal body. They are shown in the act of fecundating the date-palm by transferring the pollen of the male tree to the flower of the female; and hence it has been conjectured that they are personifications of the winds, by whose agency the fertilisation of the palm is effected in nature (Tylor, Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archæology, xii. 383 ff.). Starting with this clue, we can readily explain (1) the function of the Cherub as the living chariot of Yahwe, or bearer of the Theophany, in Psalms 18¹¹ (2 Samuel 22¹¹). It is a personification of the storm-wind on which Yahwe rides, just as the Babylonian storm-god Zû was figured as a bird-deity. The theory that it was a personification of the thunder-cloud is a mere conjecture based on Psalms 18^11 f., and has no more intrinsic probability than that here suggested. (2) The association of the winged figures with the Tree of Life in Babylonian art would naturally lead to the belief that the Cherubim were denizens of Paradise (Ezekiel 28^14. 16), and guardians of the Tree (as in this passage). (3) Thence they came to be viewed as guardians of sacred things and places generally, like the composite figures placed at the entrances of Assyrian temples and palaces to prevent the approach of evil spirits. To this category belong probably in the first instance the colossal Cherubim of Solomon’s temple (1 Kings 6^23 ff. 8^6 f.), and the miniatures on the lid of the ark in the Tabernacle (Exodus 25^18 ff. etc.); but a trace of the primary conception appears in the alternation of cherubim and palm-trees in the temple decoration (1 Kings 6^29 ff., Ezekiel 41^18 ff.; see, further, 1 Kings 7^29 ff., Exodus 26^1. 31). (4) The most difficult embodiment of the idea is found in the Cherubim of Ezekiel’s visions—four composite creatures combining the features of the ox, the lion, the man, and the eagle (Ezekiel 1^5 ff. 10^1 ff.). These may represent primarily the ‘four winds of heaven’; but the complex symbolism of the Merkābāh shows that they have some deeper cosmic significance. Gunkel (page 20) thinks that an older form of the representation is preserved in Apocalypse 4^6 ff., where the four animal types are kept distinct. These he connects with the four constellations of the Zodiac which mark the four quarters of the heavens: Taurus, Leo, Scorpio (in the earliest astronomy a scorpion-man), and Aquila (near Aquarius). See Die Keilinschriften und das Alte Testament³, 631 f.

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22. כאחד] Construct before preposition; Gesenius-Kautzsch § 130 a.—מִמֶּנּוּ] The so-called oriental punctuation (which distinguishes 1st plural from 3rd singular masculine suffix) has מִמֵּנֿוּ, ‘from us’ (Baer-Delitzsch page 81). Targum^Onkelos (יחידי בעלמא מינה) and Symmachus (ὁμοῦ ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ) treat the form as 3rd singular: compare Rashi’s paraphrase: “alone below, as I am alone above.”—לדעת] ‘in [respect of] knowing’: gerundial infinitive; Davidson § 93; Gesenius-Kautzsch § 114 o; Driver A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew § 205.—The pregnant use of פֶּן־ (= ‘I fear lest’) is common (Genesis 19¹⁹ 26⁹ 38¹¹ 44³⁴, Exodus 13¹⁷ etc.). Here it is more natural to assume an anakolouthon, the clause depending on a cohortative, converted in verse ²³ into a historic tense.—גם] LXX, Peshiṭtå omit.—24. LXX καὶ ἐξέβαλεν τὸν Ἀδὰμ καὶ κατῴκισεν αὐτὸν ἀπέναντι τοῦ παραδείσου τῆς τρυφῆς, καὶ ἔταξεν τὰ χερουβὶν κτλ. = ויגרש את־האדם וישכן מקדם לגן עדן וַיָּשֶׂם את־הכרובים וגו׳. Ball rightly adopts this text, inserting אֹתוֹ after וישכן, against Yahwist’s usage. There is no need to supply any pronoun object whatever: see 2¹⁹ 18⁷ 38¹⁸, 1 Samuel 19¹³ etc. For the first three words Peshiṭtå has simply , and for וישכן (with the cherubim, etc., as object).—המתהפכת] Hithpael in the sense of ‘revolve,’ Judges 7¹³, Job 37¹²; in Job 38¹⁴ it means ‘be transformed.’

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The Origin and Significance of the Paradise Legend.

1. Ethnic parallels.—The Babylonian version of the Fall of man (if any such existed) has not yet been discovered. There is in the British Museum a much-debated seal-cylinder which is often cited as evidence that a legend very similar to the biblical narrative was current in Babylonia. It shows two completely clothed figures seated on either side of a tree, and each stretching out a hand toward its fruit, while a crooked line on the left of the picture is supposed to exhibit the serpent.¹ The engraving no doubt represents some legend connected with the tree of life; but even if we knew that it illustrates the first temptation, the story is still wanting; and the details of the picture show that it can have had very little resemblance to Genesis 3.—The most that can be claimed is that there are certain remote parallels to particular features or ideas of Genesis 2⁴‒3²⁴, which are yet sufficiently close to suggest that the ultimate source of the biblical narrative is to be sought in the Babylonian mythology. Attention should be directed to the following:—

(a) The account of Creation in 2^4 ff. has undoubted resemblances to the Babylonian document described on page 47 f., though they are hardly such as to prove dependence. Each starts with a vision of chaos, and in both the prior existence of heaven and earth seems to be assumed; although the Babylonian chaos is a waste of waters, while that of Genesis 2^5 f. is based rather on the idea of a waterless desert (see page 56 above). The order of creation, though not the same, is alike in its promiscuous and unscientific character: in the Babylonian we have a hopeless medley—mankind, beasts of the field, living things of the field, Tigris and Euphrates, verdure of the field, grass, marshes, reeds, wild-cow, ewe, sheep of the fold, orchards, forests, houses, and cities, etc. etc.—but no separate creation of woman.—The creation of man from earth moistened by the blood of a god, in another document, may be instanced as a distant parallel to 2⁷ (pages 42, 45).

(b) The legend of Eabani, embedded in the Gilgameš-Epic (Tablet I. Column ii. line 33 ff.: Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, page 120 ff.), seems to present us (it has been thought) with a ‘type of primitive man.’ Eabani, created as a rival to Gilgameš by the goddess Aruru from a lump of clay, is a being of gigantic strength who is found associating with the wild animals, living their life, and foiling all the devices of the huntsman. Eager to capture him, Gilgameš sends with the huntsman a harlot, by whose attractions he hopes to lure Eabani from his savagery. Eabani yields to her charms, and is led, a willing captive, to the life of civilisation:

But later in the epic, the harlot appears as the cause of his sorrows, and Eabani curses her with all his heart. Apart from its present setting, and considered as an independent bit of folk-lore, it cannot be denied that the story has a certain resemblance to Genesis 2^18‒24. Only, we may be sure that if the idea of sexual intercourse with the beasts be implied in the picture of Eabani, the moral purity of the Hebrew writer never stooped so low (see Jastrow, American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures, xv. 198 ff.; Stade, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft, xxiii. 174 f.).

(c) Far more instructive affinities with the inner motive of the story of the Fall are found in the myth of Adapa and the South-wind, discovered amongst the Tel-Amarna Tablets, and therefore known in Palestine in the 15th century B.C. (Keilinschriftliche Bibliothek, vi. 1, 92‒101). Adapa, the son of the god Ea, is endowed by him with the fulness of divine wisdom, but denied the gift of immortality:

“Wisdom I gave him, immortality I gave him not.”

While plying the trade of a fisherman on the Persian Gulf, the south-wind overwhelms his bark, and in revenge Adapa breaks the wings of the south-wind. For this offence he is summoned by Anu to appear before the assembly of the gods in heaven; and Ea instructs him how to appease the anger of Anu. Then the gods, disconcerted by finding a mortal in possession of their secrets, resolve to make the best of it, and to admit him fully into their society, by conferring on him immortality. They offer him food of life that he may eat, and water of life that he may drink. But Adapa had previously been deceived by Ea, who did not wish him to become immortal. Ea had said that what would be offered to him would be food and water of death, and had strictly cautioned him to refuse. He did refuse, and so missed immortal life. Anu laments over his infatuated refusal:

This looks almost like a travesty of the leading ideas of Genesis 3; yet the common features are very striking. In both we have the idea that wisdom and immortality combined constitute equality with deity; in both we have a man securing the first and missing the second; and in both the man is counselled in opposite directions by supernatural voices, and acts on that advice which is contrary to his interest. There is, of course, the vital difference that while Yahwe forbids both wisdom and immortality to man, Ea confers the first (and thus far plays the part of the biblical serpent) but withholds the second, and Anu is ready to bestow both. Still, it is not too much to expect that a story like this will throw light on the mythological antecedents of the Genesis narrative, if not directly on that narrative itself (see below, page 94).

What is true of Babylonian affinities holds good in a lesser degree of the ancient mythologies as a whole: everywhere we find echoes of the Paradise myth, but nowhere a story which forms an exact parallel to Genesis 2. 3. The Græco-Roman traditions told of a ‘golden age,’ lost through the increasing sinfulness of the race,—an age when the earth freely yielded its fruits, and men lived in a happiness undisturbed by toil or care or sin (Hesiod, Opera et Dies, 90‒92, 109‒120; Ovid, Metamorphoses i. 89‒112, etc.); but they knew nothing of a sudden fall. Indian and Persian mythologies told, in addition, of sacred mountains where the gods dwelt, with bright gold and flashing gems, and miraculous trees conferring immortality, and every imaginable blessing; and we have seen that similar representations were current in Babylonia. The nearest approach to definite counterparts of the biblical narrative are found in Iranian legends, where we read of Meshia and Meshiane, who lived at first on fruits, but who, tempted by Ahriman, denied the good god, lost their innocence, and practised all kinds of wickedness; or of Yima, the ruler of the golden age, under whom there was neither sickness nor death, nor hunger nor thirst, until (in one tradition) he gave way to pride, and fell under the dominion of the evil serpent Dahaka (see Dillmann page 47 ff.). But these echoes are too faint and distant to enable us to determine the quarter whence the original impulse proceeded, or where the myth assumed the form in which it appears in Genesis. For answers to these questions we are dependent mainly on the uncertain indications of the biblical narrative itself. Some features (the name Ḥavvah [page 85 f.], and elements of chapter 4) seem to point to Phœnicia as the quarter whence this stratum of myth entered the religion of Israel; others (the Paradise-geography) point rather to Babylonia, or at least Mesopotamia. In the present state of our knowledge it is a plausible conjecture that the myth has travelled from Babylonia, and reached Israel through the Phœnicians or the Canaanites (Wellhausen Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 307; Gressman Archiv für Religionswissenschaft., x. 345 ff.; compare Bevan, The Journal of Theological Studies, iv. 500 f.). A similar conclusion might be drawn from the contradiction in the idea of chaos, if the explanation given above of 2⁶ be correct: it looks as if the cosmogony of an alluvial region had been modified through transference to a dry climate (see page 56). The fig-leaves of 3⁷ are certainly not Babylonian; though a single detail of that kind cannot settle the question of origin. But until further light comes from the monuments, all speculations on this subject are very much in the air.

2. The mythical substratum of the narrative.—The strongest evidence of the non-Israelite origin of the story of the Fall is furnished by the biblical account itself, in the many mythological conceptions, of which traces still remain in Genesis. “The narrative,” as Driver says, “contains features which have unmistakable counterparts in the religious traditions of other nations; and some of these, though they have been accommodated to the spirit of Israel’s religion, carry indications that they are not native to it” (The Book of Genesis with Introduction and Notes 51). Amongst the features which are at variance with the standpoint of Hebrew religion we may put first of all the fact that the abode of Yahwe is placed, not in Canaan or at Mount Sinai, but in the far East. The strictly mythological background of the story emerges chiefly in the conceptions of the garden of the gods (see page 57 f.), the trees of life and of knowledge (page 59), the serpent (page 72 f.), Eve (page 85 f.), and the Cherubim (page 89 f.). It is true, as has been shown, that each of these conceptions is rooted in the most primitive ideas of Semitic religion; but it is equally true that they have passed through a mythological development for which the religion of Israel gave no opportunity. Thus the association of trees and serpents in Semitic folk-lore is illustrated by an Arabian story, which tells how, when an untrodden thicket was burned down, the spirits of the trees made their escape in the shape of white serpents (Lectures on the Religion of the Semites², 133); but it is quite clear that a long interval separates that primitive superstition from the ideas that invest the serpent and the tree in this passage. If proof were needed, it would be found in the suggestive combinations of the serpent and the tree in Babylonian and Phœnician art; or in the fabled garden of the Hesperides, with its golden fruit guarded by a dragon, always figured in artistic representations as a huge snake coiled round the trunk of the tree (compare Lenormant, Les Origines de l’Histoire, i. 93 f.: see the illustrations in Roscher, Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie 2599 f.). How the various elements were combined in the particular myth which lies immediately behind the biblical narrative, it is impossible to say; but the myth of Adapa suggests at least some elements of a possible construction, which cannot be very far from the truth. Obviously we have to do with a polytheistic legend, in which rivalries and jealousies between the different deities are almost a matter of course. The serpent is himself a demon; and his readiness to initiate man in the knowledge of the mysterious virtue of the forbidden tree means that he is at variance with the other gods, or at least with the particular god who had imposed the prohibition. The intention of the command was to prevent man from sharing the life of the gods; and the serpent-demon, posing as the good genius of man, defeats that intention by revealing to man the truth (similarly Gunkel 30). To the original heathen myth we may also attribute the idea of the envy of the gods, which the biblical narrator hardly avoids, and the note of weariness and melancholy, the sombre view of life,—the ‘scheue heidnische Stimmung,’—which is the ground-tone of the passage.

It is impossible to determine what, in the original myth, was the nature of the tree (or trees) which man was forbidden to eat. Gressman (l.c. 351 ff.) finds in the passage traces of three primitive conceptions: (1) the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, whose fruit imparts the knowledge of magic,—the only knowledge of which it can be said that it makes man at once the equal and the rival of the deity; (2) the tree of knowledge, whose fruit excites the sexual appetite and destroys childlike innocence (3⁷); (3) the tree of life, whose fruit confers immortality (3²²). The question is immensely complicated by the existence of two recensions, which do not seem so hopelessly inseparable as Gressman thinks. In the main recension we have the tree of knowledge, of which man eats to his hurt, but no hint of a tree of life. In the secondary recension there is the tree of life (of which man does not eat), and apparently the tree of knowledge of which he had eaten; but this depends on the word גַּם in 3²², which is wanting in LXX, and may be an interpolation. Again, the statement that knowledge of good and evil really amounts to equality with God, is found only in the second recension; in the other it is doubtful if the actual effect of eating the fruit was not a cruel disappointment of the hope held out by the serpent. How far we are entitled to read the ideas of the one into the other is a question we cannot answer. Eerdmans’ ingenious but improbable theory (Theologisch Tijdschrift, xxxix. 504 ff.) need not here be discussed. What is meant by knowledge of good and evil in the final form of the narrative will be considered under the next head.

3. The religious ideas of the passage.—Out of such crude and seemingly unpromising material the religion of revelation has fashioned the immortal allegory before us. We have now to inquire what are the religious and moral truths under the influence of which the narrative assumed its present form, distinguishing as far as possible the ideas which it originally conveyed from those which it suggested to more advanced theological speculation.

(1) We observe, in the first place, that the ætiological motive is strongly marked throughout. The story gives an explanation of many of the facts of universal experience,—the bond between man and wife (2²⁴), the sense of shame which accompanies adolescence (3⁷), the use of clothing (3²¹), the instinctive antipathy to serpents (3¹⁵). But chiefly it seeks the key to the darker side of human existence as seen in a simple agricultural state of society,—the hard toil of the husbandman, the birth-pangs of the woman, and her subjection to the man. These are evils which the author feels to be contrary to the ideal of human nature, and to the intention of a good God. They are results of a curse justly incurred by transgression, a curse pronounced before history began, and shadowing, rather than crushing, human life always and everywhere. It is doubtful if death be included in the effects of the curse. In verse ¹⁹ it is spoken of as the natural fate of a being made from the earth; in verse ²² it follows from being excluded from the tree of life. Man was capable of immortality, but not by nature immortal; and God did not mean that he should attain immortality. The death threatened in 2¹⁷ is immediate death; and to assume that the death which actually ensues is the exaction of that deferred penalty, is perhaps to go beyond the intention of the writer. Nor does it appear that the narrative seeks to account for the origin of sin. It describes what was, no doubt, the first sin; but it describe it as something intelligible, not needing explanation, not a mystery like the instinct of shame or the possession of knowledge, which are produced by eating the fruit of the tree.

(2) Amongst other things which distinguish man’s present from his original state, is the possession of a certain kind of knowledge which was acquired by eating the forbidden fruit. This brings us to the most difficult question which the narrative presents: what is meant by the knowledge of good and evil?¹ Keeping in mind the possibility that the two recensions may represent different conceptions, our data are these: In 3²² knowledge of good and evil is an attainment which (a) implies equality with God, (b) was forbidden to man, (c) is actually secured by man. In the leading narrative (b) certainly holds good (2¹⁷), but (a) and (c) are doubtful. Did the serpent speak truth when he said that knowledge of good and evil would make man like God? Did man actually attain such knowledge? Was the perception of nakedness a first flash of the new divine insight which man had coveted, or was it a bitter disenchantment and mockery of the hopes inspired by the serpent’s words? It is only the habit of reading the ideas of 3²² into the story of the temptation which makes these questions seem superfluous. Let us consider how far the various interpretations enable us to answer them.—i. The suggestion that magical knowledge is meant may be set aside as inadequate to either form of the biblical narrative: magic is not godlike knowledge, nor is it the universal property of humanity.—ii. The usual explanation identifies the knowledge of good and evil with the moral sense, the faculty of discerning between right and wrong. This view is ably defended by Budde (Die biblische Urgeschichte 69 ff.), and is not to be lightly dismissed, but yet raises serious difficulties. Could it be said that God meant to withhold from man the power of moral discernment? Does not the prohibition itself presuppose that man already knew that obedience was right and disobedience sinful? We have no right to say that the restriction was only temporary, and that God would in other ways have bestowed on man the gift of conscience; the narrative suggests nothing of the sort.—iii. Wellhausen (Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels⁶ 299 ff.) holds that the knowledge in question is insight into the secrets of nature, and intelligence to manipulate them for human ends; and this as a quality not so much of the individual as of the race,—the knowledge which is the principle of human civilisation. It is the faculty which we see at work in the invention of clothing (3²¹ ?), in the founding of cities (4¹⁷), in the discovery of the arts and crafts (4^19 ff.), and in the building of the tower (11^1 ff.). The undertone of condemnation of the cultural achievements of humanity which runs through the Yahwistic sections of chapters 1‒11 makes it probable that the writer traced their root to the knowledge acquired by the first transgression; and of such knowledge it might be said that it made man like God, and that God willed to withhold it permanently from His creatures.—iv. Against this view Gunkel (11 f., 25 f.) urges somewhat ineptly that the myth does not speak of arts and aptitudes which are learned by education, but of a kind of knowledge which comes by nature, of which the instinct of sex is a typical illustration. Knowledge of good and evil is simply the enlargement of capacity and experience which belongs to mature age,—ripeness of judgment, reason,—including moral discernment, but not identical with it.—The difference between the last two explanations is not great; and possibly both are true. Wellhausen’s seems to me the only view that does justice to the thought of 3²²; and if 4^16 ff. and 11^1‒9 be the continuation of this version of the Fall, the theory has much to recommend it. On the other hand, Gunkel’s acceptation may be truer to the teaching of 3^1 ff.. Man’s primitive state was one of childlike innocence and purity; and the knowledge which he obtained by disobedience is the knowledge of life and of the world which distinguishes the grown man from the child. If it be objected that such knowledge is a good thing, which God could not have forbidden to man, we may be content to fall back on the paradox of Christ’s idea of childhood: “Except ye turn, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

(3) The next point that claims attention is the author’s conception of sin. Formally, sin is represented as an act of disobedience to a positive command, imposed as a test of fidelity; an act, therefore, which implies disloyalty to God, and a want of the trust and confidence due from man to his Maker. But the essence of the transgression lies deeper: God had a reason for imposing the command, and man had a motive for disobeying it; and the reason and motive are unambiguously indicated. Man was tempted by the desire to be as God, and Yahwe does not will that man should be as God. Sin is thus in the last instance presumption,—an overstepping of the limits of creaturehood, and an encroachment on the prerogatives of Deity. It is true that the offence is invested with every circumstance of extenuation,—inexperience, the absence of evil intention, the suddenness of the temptation, and the superior subtlety of the serpent; but sin it was nevertheless, and was justly followed by punishment.—How far the passage foreshadows a doctrine of hereditary sin, it is impossible to say. The consequences of the transgression, both privative and positive, are undoubtedly transmitted from the first pair to their posterity; but whether the sinful tendency itself is regarded as having become hereditary in the race, there is not evidence to show.

(4) Lastly, what view of God does the narrative present? It has already been pointed out that 3²² borders hard on the pagan notion of the ‘envy’ of the godhead, a notion difficult to reconcile with the conceptions of Old Testament religion. But of that idea there is no trace in the main narrative of the temptation and the Fall, except in the lying insinuation of the serpent: the writer himself does not thus ‘charge God foolishly.’ His religious attitude is one of reverent submission to the limitations imposed on human life by a sovereign Will, which is determined to maintain inviolate the distinction between the divine and the human. The attribute most conspicuously displayed is closely akin to what the prophets called the ‘holiness’ of God, as illustrated, e.g., in Isaiah 2^12 ff.. After all, the world is God’s world and not man’s, and the Almighty is just, as well as holy, when He frustrates the impious aspiration of humanity after an independent footing and sphere of action in the universe. The God of Genesis 3 is no arbitrary heathen deity, dreading lest the sceptre of the universe should be snatched from his hand by the soaring ambition of the race of men; but a Being infinitely exalted above the world, stern in His displeasure at sin, and terrible in His justice; yet benignant and compassionate, slow to anger, and ‘repenting Him of the evil.’ Through an intensely anthropomorphic medium we discern the features of the God of the prophets and the Old Testament; nay, in the analogy of human fatherhood which underlies the description, we can trace the lineaments of the God and Father of Jesus Christ. That is the real Protevangelium which lies in the passage: the fact that God tempers judgment with mercy, the faith that man, though he has forfeited innocence and happiness, is not cut off from fellowship with his Creator.

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Chapter IV.
Beginnings of History and Civilisation.

Critical Analysis.—Chapter 4 consists of three easily separable sections: (a) the story of Cain and Abel (^1‒16), (b) a Cainite genealogy (^17‒24),¹ and (c) a fragment of a Sethite genealogy (^25. 26). As they lie before us, these are woven into a consecutive history of antediluvian mankind, with a semblance of unity sufficient to satisfy the older generation of critics.² Closer examination seems to show that the chapter is composite, and that the superficial continuity conceals a series of critical problems of great intricacy.

1. We have first to determine the character and extent of the Cainite genealogy. It is probable that the first link occurs in verse ^1 ff., and has to be disentangled from the Cain legend (so Wellhausen, Budde); whether it can have included the whole of that legend is a point to be considered later (page 100). We have thus a list of Adam’s descendants through Cain, continued in a single line for seven generations, after which it branches into three, and then ceases. It has no explicit sequel in Genesis; the sacred number 7 marks it as complete in itself; and the attempts of some scholars to remodel it in accordance with its supposed original place in the history are to be distrusted. Its main purpose is to record the origin of various arts and industries of civilised life; and apart from the history of Cain there is nothing whatever to indicate that it deals with a race of sinners, as distinct from the godly line of Seth. That this genealogy belongs to Yahwist has hardly been questioned except by Dillmann, who argues with some hesitation for assigning it to Elohist, chiefly on the ground of its discordance with verses ^25. 26. Budde (page 220 ff.) has shown that the stylistic criteria point decidedly (if not quite unequivocally) to Yahwist;¹ and in the absence of any certain trace of Elohist in chapters 1‒11, the strong presumption is that the genealogy represents a stratum of the former document. The question then arises whether it be the original continuation of chapter 3. An essential connexion cannot, from the nature of the case, be affirmed. The primitive genealogies are composed of desiccated legends, in which each member is originally independent of the rest; and we are not entitled to assume that an account of the Fall necessarily attached itself to the person of the first man. If it were certain that 3²⁰ is an integral part of one recension of the Paradise story, it might reasonably be concluded that that recension was continued in 4¹, and then in 4^17‒24. In the absence of complete certainty on that point the larger question must be left in suspense; there is, however, no difficulty in supposing that in the earliest written collection of Hebrew traditions the genealogy was preceded by a history of the Fall in a version partly preserved in chapter 3. The presumption that this was the case would, of course, be immensely strengthened if we could suppose it to be the intention of the original writer to describe not merely the progress of culture, but also the rapid development of sin (so Wellhausen).

2. The fragmentary genealogy of verses ^25. 26 corresponds, so far as it goes, with the Sethite genealogy of Priestly-Code in chapter 5. It will be shown later (page 138 f.) that the lists of 4^17‒24 and 5 go back to a common original; and if the discrepancy had been merely between Yahwist and Priestly-Code, the obvious conclusion would be that these two documents had followed different traditional variants of the ancient genealogy. But how are we to account for the fact that the first three names of Priestly-Code’s list occur also in the connexion of Yahwist? There are four possible solutions. (1) It is conceivable that Yahwist, not perceiving the ultimate identity of the two genealogies, incorporated both in his document (compare Ewald Jahrbücher der biblischen Wissenschaft, vi. page 4); and that the final redactor (Redactor^{Priestly-Code}) then curtailed the second list in view of chapter 5. This hypothesis is on various grounds improbable. It assumes (see ^25b) the murder of Abel by Cain as an original constituent of Yahwist’s narrative; now that story takes for granted that the worship of Yahwe was practised from the beginning, whereas ^26b explicitly states that it was only introduced in the third generation. (2) It has not unnaturally been conjectured that verse ^25 f. are entirely redactional (Ewald, Schrader, al.); i.e., that they were inserted by an editor (Redactor^{Priestly-Code}) to establish a connexion between the genealogy of Yahwist and that of Priestly-Code. In favour of this view the use of אדם (as a proper name) and of אלהים has been cited; but again the statement of ^26b presents an insurmountable difficulty. Priestly-Code has his own definite theory of the introduction of the name יהוה (see Exodus 6^2 ff.), and it is incredible that any editor influenced by him should have invented the gratuitous statement that the name was in use from the time of Enosh. (3) A third view is that verses ^25. 26 stood originally before verse ¹ (or before verse ¹⁷), so that the father of Cain and Abel (or of Cain alone) was not Adam but Enosh; and that the redactor who made the transposition is responsible also for some changes on verse ²⁵ to adapt it to its new setting (so Stade) (see on the verse). That is, no doubt, a plausible solution (admitted as possible by Dillmann), although it involves operations on the structure of the genealogy too drastic and precarious to be readily assented to. It is difficult also to imagine any sufficient motive for the supposed transposition. That it was made to find a connexion for the (secondary) story of Cain and Abel is a forced suggestion. The tendency of a redactor must have been to keep that story as far from the beginning as possible, and that the traditional data should have been deliberately altered so as to make it the opening scene of human history is hardly intelligible. (4) There remains the hypothesis that the two genealogies belong to separate strata within the Yahwistic tradition, which had been amalgamated by a redactor of that school (Redactor^Jahwist) prior to the incorporation of Priestly-Code; and that the second list was curtailed by Redactor^{Priestly-Code} because of its substantial identity with that of the Priestly Code in chapter 5. The harmonistic glossing of verse ²⁵ is an inevitable assumption of any theory except (1) and (2); it must have taken place after the insertion of the Cain and Abel episode; and on the view we are now considering it must be attributed to Redactor^Jahwist. In other respects the solution is free from difficulty. The recognition of the complex character of the source called Yahwist is forced on us by many lines of proof; and it will probably be found that this view of the genealogies yields a valuable clue to the structure of the non-Priestly sections of chapters 2‒11 (see pages 3, 134). One important consequence may here be noted. Eve’s use of the name אלהים, and the subsequent notice of the introduction of the name יהוה, suggest that this writer had previously avoided the latter title of God (as Elohist and Priestly-Code previously to Exodus 3^14 ff. and Exodus 6^2 ff.). Hence, if it be the case that one recension of the Paradise story was characterised by the exclusive use of אלהים (see page 53), 4^25. 26 will naturally be regarded as the sequel to that recension.

3. There remains the Cain and Abel narrative of verses ^1‒16. That it belongs to Yahwist in the wider sense is undisputed,¹ but its precise affinities within the Yahwistic cycle are exceedingly perplexing. If the theory mentioned at the end of the last paragraph is correct, the consistent use of the name יהוה² would show that it was unknown to the author of verses ^25. 26 and of that form of the Paradise story presupposed by these verses. Is it, then, a primary element of the genealogy in which it is embedded? It certainly contains notices—such as the introduction of agriculture and (perhaps) the origin of sacrifice—in keeping with the idea of the genealogy; but the length and amplitude of the narration would be without parallel in a genealogy; and (what is more decisive) there is an obvious incongruity between the Cain of the legend, doomed to a fugitive unsettled existence, and the Cain of the genealogy (verse ¹⁷), who as the first city-builder inaugurates the highest type of stable civilised life.³ Still more complicated are the relations of the passage to the history of the Fall in chapter 3. On the one hand, a series of material incongruities seem to show that the two narratives are unconnected: the assumption of an already existing population on the earth could hardly have been made by the author of chapter 3; the free choice of occupation by the two brothers, and Yahwe’s preference for the shepherd’s sacrifice, ignore the representation (3¹⁹) that husbandry is the destined lot of the race; and the curse on Cain is recorded in terms which betray no consciousness of a primal curse resting on the ground. It is true, on the other hand, that the literary form of 4^1‒16 contains striking reminiscences of that of chapter 3. The most surprising of these (4^7b ∥ 3^16b) may be set down to textual corruption (see the note on the verse); but there are several other turns of expression which recall the language of the earlier narrative: compare 4^9. 10. 11 with 3^9. 13. 17. In both we have the same sequence of sin, investigation and punishment (in the form of a curse), the same dramatic dialogue, and the same power of psychological analysis. But whether these resemblances are such as to prove identity of authorship is a question that cannot be confidently answered. There is an indistinctness of conception in 4^1‒16 which contrasts unfavourably with the convincing lucidity of chapter 3, as if the writer’s touch were less delicate, or his gift of imaginative delineation more restricted. Such impressions are too subjective to be greatly trusted; but, taken along with the material differences already enumerated, they confirm the opinion that the literary connexion between chapter 3 and 4^1 ff. is due to conscious or unconscious imitation of one writer by another.—On the whole, the evidence points to the following conclusion: The story of Cain and Abel existed as a popular legend entirely independent of the traditions regarding the infancy of the race, and having no vital relation to any part of its present literary environment. It was incorporated in the Yahwistic document by a writer familiar with the narrative of the Fall, who identified the Cain of the legend with the son of the first man, and linked the story to his name in the genealogy. How much of the original genealogy has been preserved it is impossible to say: any notices that belonged to it have certainly been rewritten, and cannot now be isolated; but verse ¹ (birth of Cain) may with reasonable probability be assigned to it (so Budde), possibly also ^2bβ (Cain’s occupation), and ^3b (Cain’s sacrifice).—Other important questions will be best considered in connexion with the original significance of the legend (page 111 ff.).