_VAIN HOPES_
iv. 17-20
The first part of the fourth elegy was specially concerned with the
fate of the gilded youth of Jerusalem; the second and closely parallel
part with that of the princes; the third introduced us to the dramatic
scene in which the fallen priests and prophets were portrayed; now in
the fourth part of the elegy the king and his courtiers are the
prominent figures. While all the rest of the poem is written in the
third person, this short section is composed in the first person
plural. The arrangement is not exactly like that of the third elegy,
in which, after speaking in his own person, the poet appears as the
representative and spokesman of his people. The more simple form of
the composition now under consideration would lead us to suppose that
the pronoun "we" comes in for the most natural reason--viz., because
the writer was himself an actor in the scene which he here describes.
We must conclude, then, that he was one of the group of Zedekiah's
personal attendants, or at least a member of a company of Jews which
escaped at the time of the royal flight and took the same road when
the citizens were scattered by the sack of the city.
The picture, however, is somewhat idealised. Events that could only
have taken place in succession are described as though they were all
occurring in the present. We have first the anxious watching of the
besieged for the advent of an army of relief; then the chase of their
victims through the streets by the invaders--which must have been
after they had broken into the city; next the flight and pursuit over
the mountains; and lastly, the capture of the king. This setting of a
succession of events in one scene as though they were contemporaneous
is so far an imaginary arrangement that we must be on our guard
against a too literal interpretation of the details. Evidently we have
here a poetic picture, not the bare deposition of a witness.
The burden of the passage is the grievous disappointment of the court
party at the failure of their fond hopes. But Jeremiah was directly
opposed to that party, and though our author was not the great prophet
himself we have abundant evidence that he was a faithful disciple who
echoed the very thoughts and shared the deepest convictions of his
master. How then can he now appear as one of the court party? It is
just possible that he was no friend of Jeremiah at the time he is now
describing. He may have been converted subsequently by the logic of
facts, or by the more potent influence of the discipline of adversity,
a possibility which would give peculiar significance to the personal
confessions contained in the previous elegy, with its account of "the
man who had seen affliction." But the poetic form of the section
dealing with the court, and the fact that all it describes is
expressed in the present tense, prevent us from pressing this
conjecture to a definite conclusion. It would be enough if we could
suppose, as there is no difficulty in doing, that in the general
confusion our poet found himself in unexpected companionship with the
flying court. Thus he would witness their experiences.
We have, then, in this place an expression of the attitude of the
court party in the midst of the great calamities that have overtaken
them. It is emphatically one of profound disappointment. These deluded
people had been sanguine to the last, and proudly sceptical of danger,
with an infatuation almost amounting to insanity which had blinded
them to the palpable lessons of defeats already endured--for we must
not forget that Jerusalem had been taken twice before this. Naturally
their disappointment was proportionate to their previous elation.
The hopes that had been thus rudely dashed to the ground had been
based on a feeling of the sacred inviolability of Jerusalem. This
feeling had been sedulously nurtured by a bastard form of religion.
Like the worship of Rome in Virgil's day, a sort of cult of Jerusalem
had now grown up. Men who had no faith in Jehovah put their trust in
Jerusalem. The starting-point and excuse of this singular creed are to
be traced to the deep-rooted conviction of the Jews that their city
was the chosen favourite of Jehovah, and that therefore her God would
certainly protect her. But this idea was treated most inconsistently
when people coolly ignored the Divine will while boldly claiming
Divine favour. In course of time even that position was abandoned, and
Jerusalem became practically a fetich. Then, while faith in the
destiny of the city was cherished as a superstition, prophets such as
Jeremiah, who directed men's thoughts to God, were silenced and
persecuted. This folly of the Jews has its counterpart in the
exaltation of the papacy during the Middle Ages. The Pope claimed to
be seated on his throne by the authority of Christ; but the papacy
was really put in the place of Christ. Similarly people who trust in
the Church, their City of God, rather than in her Lord, have fallen
into an error like that of the Jews, who put confidence in their city
rather than in their God. So have those who confide in their own
election instead of looking to the Divine Sovereign who, they declare,
has named them in His eternal decrees; and those again who set
reliance on their religion, its rites and creeds; and lastly, those
who trust in their very faith as itself a saving power. In all these
cases, the city, the Pope, the election, the Church, the religion, the
faith are simply idols, no more able to protect the superstitious
people who put them in the place of God than the ark that was captured
in battle when the Jews tried to use it as a talisman, or even the
fish-god Dagon that lay shattered before it in the Philistine temple.
But now we find the old-established faith in Jerusalem so far
undermined that it has to be supplemented by other grounds of hope. In
particular there are two of these--the king and a foreign ally. The
ally is mentioned first because the poet starts from the time when men
still hoped that the Egyptians would espouse the cause of Israel, and
come to the help of the little kingdom against the hosts of Babylon.
There was much to be said in favour of this expectation. In the past
Egypt had been in alliance with the people now threatened. The two
great kingdoms of the Nile and the Euphrates were rivals; and the
aggressive policy of Babylon had brought her into conflict with Egypt.
The Pharaohs might be glad to have Israel preserved as a "buffer
state." Indeed, negotiations had been carried on with that end in
view. Nevertheless the dreams of deliverance built on this foundation
were doomed to disappointment. The poet shows us the anxious Jews on
their city towers straining their eyes till they are weary in watching
for the relief that never comes. They could look down through the gap
in the hills towards Bethlehem and the south country, and the dust of
an army would be visible from afar in the clear Syrian atmosphere;
but, alas! no distant cloud promises the approach of the deliverer. We
are reminded of the siege of Lucknow; but in the hour of the Jews'
great need there is no sign corresponding to the welcome music of the
Scotch air that ravished the ears of the British garrison.
Faithful prophets had repeatedly warned the Jews against this false
ground of hope. In a former generation Isaiah had cautioned his
contemporaries not to lean on "this broken reed"[256] Egypt; and at
the present crisis Jeremiah had followed with similar advice,
predicting the failure of the Egyptian alliance, and replying to the
messengers of Zedekiah who had come to solicit the prophet's prayers:
"Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel: Thus shall ye say to the king
of Judah, that sent you unto me to enquire of me; Behold, Pharaoh's
army, which is come forth to help you, shall return to Egypt into
their own land. And the Chaldæans shall come again, and fight against
this city; and they shall take it, and burn it with fire."[257] Though
regarded at the time as unpatriotic and even treasonable, this advice
proved to be sound, and the predictions of the messenger of Jehovah
correct. Now that we can read the events in the light of history we
have no difficulty in perceiving that even as a matter of state
policy the counsel of Isaiah and Jeremiah was wise and statesmanlike.
Babylon was quite irresistible. Even Egypt could not stand against the
powerful empire that was making itself master of the world. Besides,
alliance with Egypt involved the loss of liberty, for it had to be
paid for, and the weak ally of a great kingdom was no better than a
tributary state. Meanwhile Israel was embroiled in quarrels from which
she should have tried, as far as possible, to keep herself aloof.
[256] Isa. xxxvi. 6.
[257] Jer. xxxvii. 7, 8.
But the prophets shewed that deeper questions than such as concern
political diplomacy were at stake. In happier days the arm of
Providence had been laid bare, and Jerusalem saved without a blow,
when the destroying angel of pestilence swept through the Assyrian
host. It is true Jerusalem had to submit soon after this; but the
lesson was being taught that her safety really consisted in
submission. This was the kernel of Jeremiah's unpopular message.
Historically and politically that too was justified. It was useless to
attempt to stem the tide of one of the awful marches of a
world-conquering army. Only the obstinacy of a fanatical patriotism
could have led the Jews of this period to hold out so long against the
might of Babylon, just as the very same obstinacy encouraged their mad
descendants in the days of Titus to resist the arms of Rome. But then
the prophets were constantly preaching to heedless ears that there was
real safety in submission, that a humble measure of escape was to be
had by simply complying with the demands of the irresistible
conquerors. Proud patriots might despise this consolation, preferring
to die fighting. But that was scarcely the case with the fugitives;
these people had neither the relief that is the reward of a quiet
surrender, nor the glory that accompanies death on the battle-field.
To those who could hear the deeper notes of prophetic teaching the
safety of surrender meant a much more valuable boon. The submission
recommended was not merely to be directed to King Nebuchadnezzar;
primarily it consisted in yielding to the will of God. People who will
not turn to this one true refuge from all danger and trouble are
tempted to substitute a variety of vain hopes. Most of us have our
Egypt to which we look when the vision of God has become dim in the
soul. The worldly cynicism that echoes and degrades the words of the
Preacher, "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity," is really the product
of the decay of dead hopes. It would not be so sour if it had not been
disappointed. Yet so persistent is the habit of castle-building, that
the cloudland in which many previous structures of fancy have melted
away is resorted to again and again by an eager throng of fresh aerial
architects. After experience has confirmed the warning that riches
take to themselves wings and flee away, and in face of our Lord's
advice not to lay up treasures where thieves break through and steal,
and where moth and rust consume, we see men as eager as ever to scrape
wealth together, as ready to put all their trust in it when it has
come to them, as astonished and dismayed when it has failed them.
Ambition was long ago proved to be a frail bubble; yet ambition never
wants for slaves. The cup of pleasure has been drained so often that
the world should know by this time how very nauseous its dregs are;
and still feverish hands are held out to grasp it.
Now this obstinate disregard of the repeated lessons of experience is
too remarkable a habit of life to be reckoned as a mere accident.
There must be some adequate causes to account for it. In the first
place, it testifies with singular force to the vitality of what we
may call the faculty of hope itself. Disappointment does not kill the
tendency to reach forth to the future, because this tendency comes
from within, and is not a mere response to impressions. In persons of
a sanguine temperament this may be taken to be a constitutional
peculiarity; but it is too widespread to be disposed of as nothing
more than a freak of nature. It is rather to be considered an
instinct, and as such a part of the original constitution of man. How
then has it come to be? Must we not attribute the native hopefulness
of mankind to the deliberate will and purpose of the Creator? But in
that case must we not say of this, as we can say with certainty of
most natural instincts: He who has given the hunger will also supply
the food with which to satisfy it? To reject that conclusion is to
land ourselves in a form of pessimism that is next door to atheism.
Schopenhauer rests the argument by means of which he thinks to
establish a pessimistic view of the universe largely on the
delusiveness of natural instincts which promise a satisfaction never
attained; but in reasoning in this way he is compelled to describe the
supreme Will that he believes to be the ultimate principle of all
things as a non-moral power. The mockery of human existence to which
his philosophy reduces us is impossible in view of the Fatherhood of
God revealed to us in Jesus Christ. Shelley, contrasting our fears and
disappointments with the "clear keen joyance" of the skylark, bewails
the fact that
"We look before and after,
And pine for what is not."
If this is the end of the matter, evolution is a mocking progress,
for it leads to the pit of despair. If the large vision that takes in
past and future only brings sorrow, it would have been better for us
to have retained the limited range of animal perceptions. But faith
sees in the very experience of disappointment a ground for fresh hope.
The discovery that the height already attained is not the summit of
the mountain, although it appeared to be when viewed from the plain,
is a proof that the summit is higher than we had supposed. Meanwhile,
the awakening of desires for further climbing is a sign that the
disappointments we have experienced hitherto are not occasions for
despair. If, as Shelley goes on to say--
"Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought,"
the sadness cannot be without mitigation, for there must be an element
of sweetness in it from the first; and if so this must point to a
future when this sadness itself shall pass away. The author of the
Epistle to the Hebrews argues on these lines when he draws the
conclusion from the repeated disappointments of the hopes of Israel in
conjunction with the repeated promises of God that "there remaineth
therefore a rest for the people of God."[258] Instincts are God's
promises written in the Book of Nature. Seeing that our deepest
instincts are not satisfied by any of the common experiences of life,
they must point to some higher satisfaction.
[258] Heb. iv. 9.
Here we are brought to the explanation of the disappointment itself.
We must confess, in the first instance, that it arises from the
perverse habit of looking for satisfaction in objects that are too
low, objects that are unworthy of human nature. This is one of the
strongest evidences of a fall. The more mind and heart are corrupted
by sin the more will hope be dragged down to inferior things. But the
story does not end at this point. God is educating us through
illusions. If all our aspirations were fulfilled on earth we should
cease to hope for what was higher than earth. Hope is purged and
elevated by the discovery of the vanity of its pursuits.
These considerations will be confirmed when we follow the elegist in
his treatment of the disappointment of the second ground of hope, that
which was found in the royalist's confidence in his sovereign. The
poetic account of the events which ended in the capture of Zedekiah
seems to consist in a blending of metaphor with history. The image of
the chase underlies the whole description. It has been pointed out
that with the narrowness of eastern streets and the simplicity of the
weapons of ancient warfare, it would be impossible for the Chaldæans
to pick out their victims and shoot them down from outside the walls.
But when they had effected an entrance they would not simply make the
streets dangerous, for then they would be breaking into the houses
where the people are here supposed to be hiding. The language seems
more fit for the description of a faction fight, such as often
occurred in Paris at the time of the French Revolution, than an
account of the sack of a city by a foreign enemy. But the hunting
image is in the poet's mind, and the whole picture is coloured by it.
After the siege the fugitives are pursued over the mountains. Taking
the route across the Mount of Olives and so down to the Jordan, that
which David had followed in his flight from Absalom, they would soon
find themselves in a difficult wilderness country. They had despaired
of their lives in the city, exclaiming: "Our end is near, our days
are fulfilled; for our end is come."[259] Now they are in sore
extremities. The swift pursuit suggests Jeremiah's image of the eagles
on the wing overtaking their quarry. "Behold, he shall come up as
clouds," said the prophet, "and his chariots shall be as the
whirlwind; his horses are swifter than eagles."[260] There was no
possibility of escape from such persistent foes. At the same time,
ambuscades were in waiting among the many caves that honeycomb these
limestone mountains--in the district where the traveller in the
parable of "The good Samaritan" fell among thieves. The king himself
was taken like a hunted animal caught in a trap, though, as we learn
from the history, not till he had reached Jericho.[261]
[259] iv. 18.
[260] Jer. iv. 13
[261] 2 Kings xxv. 4, 5; Jer. xxxix. 4, 5.
The language in which Zedekiah is described is singularly strong. He
is "the breath of our nostrils, the anointed of the Lord." The hope of
the fugitives had been "to live under his shadow among the
nations."[262] It is startling to find such words applied to so weak
and worthless a ruler. It cannot be the expression of sycophancy; for
the king and his kingdom had disappeared before the elegy was written.
Zedekiah was not so bad as some of his predecessors. Like Louis XVI.,
he reaped the long accumulating retribution of the sins of his
ancestors. Yet after making due allowance for the exuberance of the
Oriental style, we must feel that the language is out of proportion to
the possibilities of the most courtly devotion of the time. Evidently
the kingly idea means more than the prosaic personality of any
particular monarch. The romantic enthusiasm of Cavaliers and Nonjurors
for the Stuarts was not to be accounted for by the merits and
attractions of the various successive sovereigns and pretenders
towards whom it was directed. The doctrine of the Divine right of
kings is always associated with vague thoughts of power and glory that
are never realised in history. This is most strikingly evident in the
Hebrew conception of the status and destiny of the line of David. But
in that one supreme case of devotion to royalty the dream of the ages
ultimately came to be fulfilled, and more than fulfilled, though in a
very different manner from the anticipation of the Jews. There is
something pathetic in the last shred of hope to which the fugitives
were clinging. They had lost their homes, their city, their land; yet
even in exile they clung to the idea that they might keep together
under the protection of their fallen king. It was a delusion. But the
strange faith in the destiny of the Davidic line that here passes into
fanaticism is the seed-bed of the Messianic ideas which constitute the
most wonderful part of Old Testament prophecy. By a blind but divinely
guided instinct the Jews were led to look through the failure of their
hopes on to the appointed time when One should come who only could
give them satisfaction.
[262] iv. 20.