perhaps that calls for censure. For all young men are not wise with
the highest wisdom, nor original, nor brave with the courage which
follows Truth in scorn of consequence. And our young man may not be
dowered with the love of loves, the hate of hates, the scorn of
scorns. He may be of a nature essentially prudent and commonplace, or
training and habit may have superinduced a second nature. To him a
primrose may be a primrose and nothing more; his instinctive thought,
as he looks at it, may be how he can reproduce its colour in some of
his textures or extract a saleable perfume from its nectared cup. He
may even think that primroses are a mistake, and that 'tis pity they
were not pot-herbs; or he may assume that he shall have plenty of time
to gather primroses by-and-bye, but that for the present he must be
content to pick pot-herbs for the market. In his way, he may even be a
religious man; he may admit that both prosperity and adversity are of
God, that we must take patiently whatever He may send; and he may
heartily desire to be on good terms with Him who alone "can order all
things as He please."
[Sidenote: _The Perils to which it exposes him._ Ch. vii., v. 15-Ch.
viii., v. 13.]
[Sidenote: _He is likely to compromise Conscience_; Ch. vii., vv.
15-20.]
But here we light on his first grave peril; for he will carry his
temperance into his religion, and he may subordinate even that to his
desire to get on. Looking on men in their religious aspect, he sees
that they are divided into two classes, the righteous and the wicked.
As he considers them, he concludes that on the whole the righteous
have the best of it, that godliness is real gain. But he soon
discovers that this first rough conclusion needs to be carefully
qualified. For, as he studies men more closely, he perceives that at
times the righteous die in their righteousness without being the
better for it, and the wicked live on in their wickedness without
being the worse for it. He perceives that while the very wicked die
before their time, the very righteous, those who are always reaching
forth to that which is before them and rising to new heights of
insight and obedience, are "forsaken," that they are left alone in the
thinly-peopled solitude to which they have climbed, losing the
sympathy even of those who once walked with them. Now, these are
facts; and a prudent sensible man tries to accept facts, and to adjust
himself to them, even when they are adverse to his wishes and
conclusions. _He_ does not want to be left alone, nor to die before
his time. And therefore, taking these new facts into account, he
infers that it will be best to be good without being too good, and to
indulge himself with an occasional lapse into some general and
customary wickedness without being too wicked. Nay, he is disposed to
believe that "whoso feareth God," studying the facts of his providence
and drawing logical inferences from them, "will lay hold of both"
wickedness and righteousness, and will blend them in that proportion
which the facts seem to favour. But here Conscience protests, urging
that to do evil can never be good. To pacify it, he adduces the
notorious fact that "there is not a righteous man on earth who doeth
good, and sinneth not." "Conscience," he says, "you are really too
strict and straitlaced, too hard on one who wants to do as well as he
can. You go quite too far. How can you expect me to be better than
great saints and men after God's own heart?" And so, with a wronged
and pious air, he turns to lay one hand on wickedness and another on
righteousness, quite content to be no better than his neighbours and
to let Conscience sulk herself into a sweeter mood.
[Sidenote: _To be indifferent to Censure_; Ch. vii., vv. 21, 22.]
Conscience being silenced, Prudence steps in. And Prudence says,
"People will talk. They will take note of your slips, and tattle about
them. Unless you are very very careful, you will damage your
reputation; and if you do that, how can you hope to get on?" Now as
the man is specially devoted to Prudence, and has found her kind
mistress and useful monitress in one, he is at first a little
staggered to find her taking part against him. But he soon recovers
himself, and replies: "Dear Prudence, you know as well as I do that
people don't like a man to be better than themselves. Of course they
will talk if they catch me tripping; but I don't mean to do more than
trip, and a man who trips gains ground in recovering himself, and goes
all the faster for a while. Besides we all trip; some fall even. And I
talk of my neighbours just as they talk of me; and we all like each
other the better for being birds of one feather."
[Sidenote: _To despise Women_; Ch. vii., vv. 25-29.]
At this Prudence smiles and stops her mouth. But being very willing to
assist so quick-witted a disciple, she presently returns and says:
"Are you not rather a long while in securing your little Competence?
Is there no short cut to it? Why not take a wife with a small fortune
of her own, or with connexions who could help you on?" Now the man,
not being a bad man, but one who would fain be good so far as he knows
goodness, is somewhat taken aback by such a suggestion as this. He
thinks Prudence must be growing very worldly and mercenary. He says
within himself, "Surely _love_ should be sacred! A man should not
prostitute _that_ in order to get on! If I marry a woman simply or
mainly for her money, what worse degradation can I inflict on her or
on myself? how shall I be better than those old Hebrews and Orientals
who held women to be only a toy or a convenience? To do that, would be
to make a snare and a net of her indeed, to degrade her from her true
place and function, and possibly would lead me to think of her as even
worse than I had made her." Nevertheless, his heart being very much
set on securing a Competence, and an accident of the sort which he
calls "providences" putting a foolish woman with a pocketful of money
in his way, he takes both the counsel of Prudence and a wife to
match.
[Sidenote: _And to be indifferent to Public Wrongs._ Ch. viii., vv.
1-13.]
The world, we may be sure, thinks none the worse of him for that. Once
more he has proved himself a man whose eye is stedfastly bent on "the
main chance," and who knows how to seize occasions as they rise. But
he, who has thus profaned the inner sanctuary of his own soul, is not
likely to be sensitive to the large claims of public duty. If he sees
oppression, if the tyranny of a man or a class mounts to a height
which calls for rebuke and opposition, _he_ is not likely to sacrifice
comfort and risk either property or popularity that he may assail
iniquity in her strong places. It is not such men as he who, when the
times are out of joint, feel that they are born to set them right.
Prudence is still his guide, and Prudence says, "Let things alone;
they will right themselves in time. The social laws will avenge
themselves on the head of the oppressor, and deliver the oppressed.
You can do little to hasten their action. Why, to gain so little,
should you risk so much?" And the man is content to sit still with
folded hands when every hand that can strike a blow for right is
wanted in the strife, and can even quote texts of Scripture to prove
that in "quietness, and confidence" in the action of Divine Laws, is
the true strength.
[Sidenote: _The Preacher condemns this Theory, and declares the Quest
to be still unattained._ Ch. vii., vv. 14, 15.]
Now I make my appeal to those who daily enter the world of
business--is not this the tone of that world? are not these the very
perils to which you lie open? How often have you heard men recount the
slips of the righteous in order to justify themselves for not assuming
to be righteous overmuch! How often have you heard them vindicate
their own occasional errors by citing the errors of those who give
greater heed to religion than they do, or make a louder profession of
it! How often have you heard them congratulate a neighbour on his good
luck in carrying off an heiress, or speak of wedded love itself as a
mere help to worldly advancement! How often have you heard them sneer
at the nonsensical enthusiasm which has led certain men to "throw away
their chances in life" in order to devote themselves to the service of
truth, or to forfeit popularity that they might lead a forlorn hope
against customary wrongs, and thank God that no such maggot ever bit
their brains! If during the years which have lapsed since I too "went
on 'Change," the general tone has not risen a whole heaven--and I have
heard of no such miracle--I know that you must daily hear such things
as these, and worse than these; and that not only from irreligious men
of bad character, but from men who take a fair place in our Christian
congregations. From the time of the wise Preacher to the present hour,
this sort of talk has been going on, and the scheme of life from
which it springs has been stoutly held. There is the more need,
therefore, for you to listen to and weigh the Preacher's conclusion.
For his conclusion is, that this scheme of life is wholly and
irredeemably wrong, that it tends to make a man a coward and a slave,
that it cannot satisfy the large desires of the soul, and that it
cheats him of the Chief Good. His conclusion is, that the man who so
sets his heart on acquiring even a Competence that he cannot be
content without it, has no genuine trust in God, since he is willing
to give in to immoral maxims and customs in order to secure that
which, as he thinks, will make him largely independent of the Divine
Providence.
The Preacher speaks as to wise men, to men of some experience of the
world. Judge you what he says.
FOURTH SECTION.
_THE QUEST ACHIEVED. THE CHIEF GOOD IS TO BE FOUND, NOT IN WISDOM, NOR
IN PLEASURE, NOR IN DEVOTION TO AFFAIRS AND ITS REWARDS; BUT IN A WISE
USE AND A WISE ENJOYMENT OF THE PRESENT LIFE, COMBINED WITH A STEDFAST
FAITH IN THE LIFE TO COME._
CHAP. VIII., VER. 16, TO CHAP. XII., VER. 7.
At last we approach the end of our Quest. The Preacher has found the
Chief Good, and will show us where to find it. But are we even yet
prepared to welcome it and to lay hold of it? Apparently he thinks we
are not. For, though he has already warned us that it is not to be
found in Wealth or Industry, in Pleasure or Wisdom, he repeats his
warning in this last Section of his Book, as if he still suspected us
of hankering after our old errors. Not till he has again assured us
that we shall miss our mark if we seek the supreme Good in any of the
directions in which it is commonly sought, does he direct us to the
sole path in which we shall not seek in vain. Once more, therefore, we
must gird up the loins of our mind to follow him along his several
lines of thought, encouraged by the assurance that the end of our
journey is not now far off.
[Sidenote: _The Chief Good not to be found in Wisdom_: Ch. viii., v.
16-Ch. ix., v. 6.]
1. The Preacher commences this Section by carefully defining his
position and equipment as he starts on his final course. As yet he
carries no lamp of Revelation in his hand, although he will not
venture beyond a certain point without it. For the present he will
trust to Reason and Experience, and mark the conclusions to which
these conduct when unaided by any direct light from Heaven. His first
conclusion is that Wisdom, which of all temporal goods still stands
foremost with him, is incapable of yielding a true content. Much as it
can do for man, it cannot solve the moral problems which task and
afflict his heart, the problems which he _must_ solve before he can be
at peace. He may be so bent on solving these by Wisdom as to see "no
sleep with his eyes by day or night;" he may rely on Wisdom with a
confidence so genuine as to suppose at times that by its help he has
"found out all the work of God"--really solved all the mysteries of
the Divine Providence; but nevertheless "he has not found it out;" the
illusion will soon pass, and the unsolved mysteries reappear dark and
sombre as of old (chap. viii., vv. 16, 17). And the proof that he has
failed is, first, that he is as incompetent to foresee the future as
those who are not so wise as he. With all his sagacity, he cannot tell
whether he shall meet "the love or the hatred" of his fellows. His lot
is as closely hidden in "the hand of God" as theirs, although he may
be as much better as he is wiser than they (chap. ix., ver. 1). A
second proof is that "the same fate" overtakes both the wise and the
foolish, the righteous and the wicked, and he is as unable to escape
it as any of his neighbours. All die; and to men ignorant of the
heavenly hope of the Gospel the indiscrimination of Death seems the
most cruel and hopeless of wrongs. The Preacher, indeed, is not
ignorant of that bright hope; but as yet he has not taken the lamp of
Revelation into his hand: he is simply speaking the thought of those
who have no higher guide than Reason, no brighter light than
Reflection. And to these, their wisdom having taught them that to do
right is infinitely better than to do wrong, no fact was so monstrous
and inscrutable as that their lives should run to the same disastrous
close with the lives of evil and violent men, that all alike should
fall into the hands of "that churl, Death." As they revolved this
fact, their hearts grew hot with a fierce resentment as natural as it
was impotent, a resentment all the hotter because they knew how
impotent it was. Therefore the Preacher dwells on this fact, lingers
over his description of it, adding touch to touch. "One fate comes to
all," he says, "to the righteous and to the wicked, to the pure and to
the impure, to the religious and to the irreligious, to the profane
and to the reverent." If death be a good, the maddest fool and the
vilest reprobate share it with the sage and the saint. If death be an
evil, it is inflicted on the good as well as on the bad. None is
exempt. Of all wrongs this is the greatest; of all problems this is
the most insoluble. Nor is there any doubt as to the nature of death.
To him for whom there shines no light of hope behind the darkness of
the grave, death is the supreme evil. For to the living, however
deject and wretched, there is still some hope that times may mend:
even though in outward condition despicable as that unclean outcast, a
dog--the homeless and masterless scavenger of Eastern cities--he has
some advantage over the royal lion who, once couched on a throne, now
lies in the dust rotting to dust. The living know at least that they
must die; but the dead know not anything. The living can recall the
past, and their memory harps fondly on notes which were once most
sweet; but the very memory of the dead has perished, no music of the
happy past can revive on their dulled sense, nor will any recall their
names. The heavens are fair; the earth is beautiful and generous; the
works of men are many and diverse and great; but they have "no more
any portion for ever in ought that is done under the sun" (vv. 2-6).
This is the Preacher's description of the hapless estate of the dead.
His words would go straight home to the hearts of the men for whom he
wrote, with a force even beyond that which they would have for heathen
races. In their Captivity, they had renounced the worship of idols.
They had renewed their covenant with Jehovah. Many of them were
devoutly attached to the ordinances and commandments which they and
their fathers had neglected in happier and more prosperous years. Yet
their lives were made bitter to them with cruel bondage, and they had
as little hope in their death as the Persians who embittered their
lives, and probably even less. It was in this sore strait, and under
the strong compulsions of this dreadful extremity, that the more
studious and pious of their rabbis, like the Preacher himself, drew
into an expressive context the passages scattered through their Sacred
Books which hinted at a retributive life beyond the tomb, and settled
into that firm persuasion of the immortality of the soul which, as a
rule, they never henceforth altogether let go. But when the Preacher
wrote, this settled and general conviction had not been reached. There
were many among them who, as their thoughts circled round the mystery
of death, could only cry, "Is this _the end_? is _this_ the end?" To
the great majority of them it seemed the end. And even the few, who
sought an answer to the question by blending the Greek and Oriental
with the Hebrew Wisdom, attained no clear answer to it. To mere human
wisdom, Life remained a mystery, and Death a mystery still more cruel
and impenetrable. Only those who listened to the Preachers and
Prophets taught of God beheld the dawn which already began to glimmer
on the darkness in which men sat.
[Sidenote: _Nor in Pleasure_: Ch. ix., vv. 7-12.]
Imagine, then, a Jew brought to the bitter pass which Coheleth has
described. He has acquainted himself with Wisdom, native and foreign;
and wisdom has led him to conclusions of virtue. Nor is he of those
who love virtue as they love music--without practising it. Believing
that a righteous and religious carriage of himself will ensure
happiness and equip him to encounter the problems of life, he has
striven to be good and pure, to offer his sacrifices and pay his vows.
But he has found that, despite his best endeavours, his life is not
tranquil, that the very calamities which overtake the wicked overtake
him, that that wise carriage of himself by which he thought to win
love has provoked hatred, that death remains a frowning and
inhospitable mystery. He hates death, and has no great love for the
life which has brought him only labour and disappointment. Where is he
likely to turn next? Wisdom having failed him, to what will he apply?
At what conclusion will he arrive? Will not his conclusion be that
standing conclusion of the baffled and the hapless, "Let us eat and
drink for to-morrow we die"? Will he not say, "Why should I weary
myself any more with studies which yield no certain science, and
self-denials which meet with no reward? If a wise and pure conduct
cannot secure me from the evils I dread, let me at least try to forget
them and to grasp such poor delights as are still within my reach?"
This, at all events, _is_ the conclusion in which the Preacher lands
him; and hence he takes occasion to review the pretensions of Pleasure
or Mirth. To the baffled and hopeless devotee of Wisdom he says, "Go,
then, eat thy bread with gladness, and drink thy wine with a merry
heart. Cease to trouble yourself about God and His judgments. He, as
you have seen, does not mete out rewards and punishments according to
our merit or demerit; and as He does not punish the wicked after their
deserts, you may be sure that He has long since accepted your wise
virtuous endeavours, and will keep no score against you. Deck yourself
in white festive garments; let no perfume be lacking to your head; add
to your harem any woman who charms your eye: and, as the day of your
life is brief at the best, let no hour of it slip by unenjoyed. As you
have chosen Mirth for your portion, be as merry as you may. Whatever
you can get, get; whatever you can do, do. You are on the road to the
dark dismal grave where there is no work nor device; there is,
therefore, the more reason why your journey should be a merry one"
(vv. 7-10).
Thus the Preacher describes the Man of Pleasure, and the maxims by
which he rules his life. How true the description is I need not tarry
to prove; 'tis a point every man can judge for himself. Judge also
whether the warning which the Preacher subjoins be not equally true to
experience (vv. 11, 12). For, after having depicted, or personated,
the Man who trusts in Wisdom, and the Man who devotes himself to
Pleasure, he proceeds to show that even the Man who blends mirth with
study, whose wisdom preserves him from the disgusts of satiety and
vulgar lust, is nevertheless--to say nothing of the Chief Good--very
far from having reached a certain good. _Then_, at least, "the race
was not (always) to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; neither
was bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favour to
the learned." Those who had the fairest chances had not always the
happiest success; nor did those who bent themselves most strongly to
their ends always reach their ends. Those who were wanton as birds, or
heedless as fish, were often taken in the snare of calamity or swept
up by the net of misfortune. At any moment a killing frost might
blight all the growths of Wisdom and destroy all the sweet fruits of
Pleasure: and if they had only these, what could they do but starve
when they were gone? The good which was at the mercy of accident,
which might vanish before the instant touch of disease or loss or
pain, was not worthy to be, or to be compared with, the Chief Good,
which is a good for all times, in all accidents and conditions, and
renders him who has it equal to all events.
[Sidenote: _Nor in Devotion to Affairs and its Rewards._ Ch. ix., v.
13-Ch. x., v. 20.]
So far, then, Coheleth has been occupied in retracing the argument of
the first Section of the Book. Now he returns upon the second and
third Sections: he deals with the man who plunges into public affairs,
who turns his wisdom to practical account, and seeks to attain a
competence, if not a fortune. He lingers over this stage of his
argument, probably because the Jews, then as always, even in exile and
under the most cruel oppression, were a remarkably energetic,
practical, money-getting race, with a singular faculty of dealing with
political issues or handling the market; and, as he slowly pursues it,
he drops many hints of the social and political conditions of the
time. Two features of it he takes much to heart: first, that wisdom,
even of the most practical and sagacious sort, did not win its fair
recognition and reward--a very natural complaint in so wise a man;
and, secondly, that his people were under tyrants so gross,
self-indulgent, indolent, and unstatesman-like as the Persians of his
day--also a natural complaint in a man of so wise and patriotic a
spirit.
He opens with an anecdote in proof of the slight regard in which the
most valuable and remunerative sagacity was held. He tells us of a
poor man--and I have sometimes thought that this poor man may have
been the Author himself; for the military leaders of the Jews, though
among the most expert strategists of that era, were often very learned
and studious men--who lived in a little city, with only a few
inhabitants. A great king came up against the city, besieged it, threw
up the lofty military causeway, as high as the walls, from which it
was the fashion of the time to deliver the assault. By his Archimedian
wit the poor man hit on a stratagem which saved the city; but though
his service was so signal, and the city so little that the "few men in
it" must have seen him every day, "yet no one remembered that same
poor man," or lent a hand to lift him from his poverty. Wise as he
was, his wisdom did not bring him bread, nor riches, nor favour (vv.
13-15). Therefore, concludes the Preacher, wisdom, great gift though
it is, and better, as in this instance, than "an army to a beleaguered
city" (chap, vii., ver. 19), is not of itself sufficient to secure
success. A poor man's wisdom--as many an inventor has found--is
despised even by those who profit by it. Although his counsel, in the
day of extremity, is infinitely more valuable than the loud bluster
of fools, or of a ruler among fools, nevertheless the ruler, because
he is foolish, may be affronted to find one of the poorest men in the
place wiser than himself; he may easily cast his "merit in the eye of
scorn," and so rob him both of the honour and the reward of his
achievement (vv. 16, 17)--an ancient saw not without modern instances.
For the fool is a greater power in the world, especially the fool who
is wise in his own conceit. Insignificant in himself, he may
nevertheless do great harm and "destroy much good." Just as a tiny
fly, when it is dead, may make the sweetest ointment offensive by
infusing its own evil savour, so a man, when his wit is gone, may with
his little folly cause many sensible men to distrust the wisdom they
should honour (chap. x., ver. 1):--who has not met such a hot-headed
want-wit in, for example, the lobbies of the House of Commons? To a
wise man, such as Coheleth, the fool, the presumptuous conceited fool,
is "rank and smells to heaven," infesting sweeter natures than his own
with a most pestilent corruption. He paints us a picture of
him--paints it with a keen graphic scorn which, if the eyes of the
fool were in his head (chap. ii., ver. 14), and "what he is pleased to
call his mind" could for a moment shift from his left hand to his
right (ver. 2), might make him nearly as contemptible to himself as he
is to others. As we read ver. 3 the unhappy wretch stands before us.
We see him coming out of his house; he goes dawdling down the street,
for ever wandering from the path, attracted by the merest trifle,
staring at familiar objects with eyes that have no recognition in
them, knowing neither himself nor others; and, with pointed finger,
chuckles after every sober citizen he meets, "There goes a fool!"