From this admirable work, in which he neither hides his follies nor flaunts his talents, we learn that Maimon possessed rare virtues.  His sympathy for the poor, his ready helpfulness even at the sacrifice of himself, rendered him as uncommon in moral action as in philosophic speculation.  To the English reader a striking parallelism suggests itself between him and his contemporary Oliver Goldsmith.  Both were afflicted with generosity above their fortunes; both had a “knack at hoping,” which led frequently to their undoing; neither could subscribe easily to the “decent formalities of rigid virtue”; and, as of the latter we may also say of the former, in the language of a reviewer, “He had lights and shadows, virtues and foibles—­vices you cannot call them, be you never so unkind.”

As Goldsmith came to London, so came Maimon to Berlin, “without friends, recommendation, money, or impudence.”  His only luggage was two manuscripts:  a commentary on the works of Maimuni, whose name he had adopted, and to whom he paid divine reverence; and a treatise in which he attempted to rationalize the recondite doctrines of the Cabbala, and which he always kept by him “as a monument of the struggle of the human mind after perfection in spite of all hindrances which were put in its way.”  The little bundle, which, to the zealot Jewish elders of that community, seemed sufficient indication that Maimon was tainted with heresy, and that his intentions were to devote himself to the study of science and philosophy, proved a great impediment to entering Berlin; and when, after a long, incredible struggle, he was finally admitted, he found himself incapable of earning a livelihood.  In his childlike naivete he was betrayed by the very persons upon whom he relied most.  All this could not deaden his love for knowledge and truth.  By chance he obtained Wolff’s Metaphysics, and this marked a new epoch in his life.  “Not only the sublime science in itself,” says he, “but also the order and mathematical method of the celebrated author, the precision of his explanations, the exactness of his reasoning, and the scientific arrangement of his expositions—­all this kindled a new light in my mind.”

So profound a thinker could not for long be a mere pupil.  Wolff’s argument a posteriori for the existence of God, in accordance with his philosophic hobby, the “principle of sufficient reason,” displeased him wholly.  A Hebrew letter to Mendelssohn, in which he shook the foundation of the Metaphysics by means of his irrefutable ontology, won him the admiration of the Berlin sage, who invited him to become his daily guest.