Chapter Two

SOLOMON was disappointed in the thorny path of wisdom and knowledge. Grief and sorrow—not happiness and rest—were the harvest of the soil. ‘God had never sown man’s happiness here. How then shall we there reap it? Yet not disheartened by the failure, he will try a new path. The man of wisdom turns himself into a man of pleasure. Laughter and mirth promise a brighter sky. In a fever of excitement he urges on his heart as if it were too sluggish for the plunge.

‘Go to now, I will prove thee with mirth. Enjoy thy pleasure. Take thy fill of it. Contrast his godly father, stirring up his heart—every exercise and faculty of his soul—to godly mirth—“wakening up his glory—psaltery and harp”—to sing the high praises of his God. (Ps. 57:7–11; 103:1, 2.) This was indeed to enjoy pleasure, such as his son in the idle mirth of vanity could never know.

A great downward step indeed was it from the ways of God, or even from the pleasure of enlarged intellect, to the froth of an empty mind—to the brutal pleasures of sense! A fearful experiment! One pleasure might bring a thousand woes. Surely, he must have been at this time a wanderer. For had he not commended to others the “pleasantness and peace of wisdom’s ways?” (Prov. 3:13–18.) And now was he looking to sensual mirth as the only substantial good?

This wisest of men was here in a very strange atmosphere, surrounded by those ‘choice spirits, as they counted and called themselves, who fancied the secret of happiness to lie in banishing all reflection, in laughing at preciseness and melancholy, and drowning care in merriment and revelry’ Must we not again give judgment?—Behold, this is also vanity! For “in the midst of laughter the heart is sorrowful, and the end of that mirth is heaviness.” (Prov. 14:13.

Comp. Isa. 50:11.) ‘Laughter’—as Bp. Hall reminds us—‘is only an argument of a mad distemper of the mind. Mirth is a vain and unprofitable passion, not fit for a wise man’s entertainment. We ask, therefore, of all the masters of mirth the emphatic question—‘What doeth it? What is it all worth? Where is to be found one atom of satisfactory result? What a deceitful lie it proves at the last! The crumbs of the Gospel are infinitely richer than the dainties of the world.

But this is man’s common delusion—to suppose that happiness is the creature of circumstances. If, therefore, he is disappointed in one course, he will seek it in another. Little does the self-deluded victim know that he carries the principle of his misery in his own bosom. Far, indeed, is he from his object. What he wishes is one thing; what he really needs is another.

Now take the scene as it lies before us in its widest extent, comprising “all that is in the world” in its three divisions—“the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life.” (1 John 2:16.) And what are all its crowded assemblies—its luxurious pleasures—all the outward show of person, dress, and equipage—the time and care spent on their preparation—the anxiety attending them—the weariness and frequent disappointment following them?

Must we not give our verdict—This also is vanity? Not that this forms the whole, or even the chief part of the evil. The citadel is in the heart. The main power—the strength of the principle—lies deep within. It is the apostacy of the heart from God—the cleaving of the heart to the things of time and sense. Ah! Christian professor,—this may consist with a very sober exterior, or even with total indifference to outward show. But look well to it.

See whether in this more quiet atmosphere there be not the same revolt from Him, who claims thy first love—who must be sought as everything to thee—as thine only satisfying rest. When wilt thou ever regret this choice? Nor is this evil confined to the wealthy in the community. The coarser mirth and loud gatherings of the people are no less depraved. Sober, enlightened reason could not endure the degraded level.

Every successive change in this world of pleasure brings up the question afresh—What doeth it? Unalloyed happiness—the object of pursuit—was still beyond grasp. Yet the Christian is not to be an anchorite. He must guard against ‘a stern chubbishness’—a cold forbidding gloom. He must shew ‘that elasticity of mind and buoyancy of spirit, that even temper and sunshine disposition, that cheers the man himself, and all that know him.

This glow in a Christian atmosphere is the token of a good conscience. Thus let the world see happiness to be a felt reality—an expectation abundantly fulfilled—a principle heightening and enlarging to all eternity. We need not go to the world for happiness. Its resources have their end.

Here is a principle that has all the elements of true joy in itself—“a well of water springing up into everlasting life.” (John 4:14.) Every fascinated child of pleasure is an object of compassion. Bright without—but how dark and hollow within! It is a light tread, but it is the path of death. The exterior may “be blameless. But there is a revolt from holy and humbling truth—a stirring up of the native enmity with fearful intensity. True joy has its own character.

It is—as the heathen philosopher teaches—‘a serious thing. It centres in truth. It is the natural ebullition of redeemed souls, singing (Ps. 126:1, 2) on their way Zionward, and tuning their hearts for the everlasting song. (Isa. 35:10.) Here we can answer the question—What doeth it? Let the trial prove. “I sat under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.” (Cant. 2:3.)

Solomon here records a third most extraordinary experiment, to discover the object of his search—Where shall it be found? Wisdom saith, “It is not in me. Pleasure, with the same impressive emphasis saith, “It is not in me. If neither hath it singly, let them both be tried together—the intellectual with the sensual pleasure—the grosser with the more refined. His purpose was to give himself to wine, yet acquainting his heart with wisdom.

Was not this venturing on the brink of the precipice—a wilful indulgence of “the lust of the flesh? But if we are not seeking heavenly pleasures, we shall soon be hankering after those that are shadowy and delusive. While they last, indeed, they are nothing for the great ends of soothing sorrow, satisfying want, quieting conscience.

And when they have passed away—they are—as Bp. Taylor solemnly warns us—‘nowhere but in God’s Book, deposited in the conscience, and sealed up against the day of dreadful account. To see the man of God here! Turn we back again to the glorious day, when he stood with outstretched hands as the chief minister of his people in his own consecrated temple.

Had it been now demolished—not one stone left upon another—the calamity would have been as nothing when compared with the present darkness and desolation of the spiritual temple. (Comp. 1 Kings, 8:22, with 11:1–8.) How desperate is the wickedness of the heart of man—even of regenerate man! The sparks of unmortified corruption—long kept under—not wholly extinct—may burst out into a flame, even after apparent maturity of godliness.

Surely to grey hairs must we work out our salvation with fear and trembling” (Philip. 2:12); adoring the mercy and forbearance of God, that follows his backsliding child even in his foulest course, and brings him back. We cannot suppose that Solomon sympathized in taste with the carousals of wine. Indeed he declares that he did it ‘not viciously, but to make an experiment. But could he forget the danger lest true godliness should flow out, and waste away in the experiment?

Every indulgence would tend to fix the heart to a most ruinous choice. That wisdom with which his heart was acquainted, could not give a right balance in such a mass of defilement. Much less could he expect to find here that good thing for the sons of men, while he was “making provisions for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof.” (Rom. 13:14.) Elsewhere he directs a moderate use of wine. (Ecclesiastes 9:9; Prov. 31:6, 7. Comp. Ps. 104:15.) But though his wisdom might have in some degree kept him master of his pleasures, and restrained him from foul excess (which is not numbered among his sins); yet to give himself to wine was transgressing the bounds of godly liberty.

Could he hope to maintain communion with God, in the merriment of the convivial board? Was it not quickening those members of the earth, “which we are bound to mortify?” (Col. 3:5.) How could he fix his own bounds of restraint? “Wine is a mocker.” (Prov. 20:1.) Who under the power of this cheat could venture to say—“Thus far will I go, and no further?

There is, indeed, a great subtilty of delusion in the effort to lay hold on folly, as an experiment, for the purpose of exposure. Self-discipline and self-distrust are the laws of self-preservation. The real good of which we are in search, is to be found in a higher and holier clime.

Of one ray of reconciliation and love will we not say—“Thou hast put gladness in my heart, more than in the time that their wine increased?” (Ps. 4:6, 7.) These pleasures must surely have “taken away the” wise man’s “heart,” when he attempted to link them with holy communion with his God. The purity of a godly taste can only be maintained in a close and heavenly walk.

When the heart is right, this will be the life which our soul loves, and in which alone we shall desire to live.—‘To read, to think, to love, to hope, to pray—these are the things that make men happy.’

Perhaps the whole course of this world’s experience does not furnish a more vivid picture of the unsatisfactory nature of earthly greatness. No element of rest or pleasure seems to be wanting. And yet the result is barren indeed. It is the converse of the Christian.

He seems to be “possessing all things;” yet in reality it is—“having nothing.” (Comp. 2 Cor. 4:10.) God employed Solomon not only to shew the picture, but to shew it—as we have before hinted—from his own experience. He therefore poured in upon him the full confluence of earthly happiness, that he might see, and prove, and tell its utter insufficiency for rest.

Here is therefore, ‘not only that general map of the world, that all things are vanity and vexation of spirit, but many other more particular cards. The many broken cisterns that he had tried—the wormwood that he had tasted from so many streams of earthly enjoyment—all set forth in detail a vivid picture fraught with instruction. Solomon’s metropolis must have been the wonder of the world. He made himself great works.

His houses, from their description, must have been wonderful buildings, both as to art and magnificence—framed probably, like the buildings of Babylon, for state or for pleasure. (Dan. 4:28, 30.) His vineyards, orchards, and gardens, were filled with trees (Cant. 8:11; 6:2; 4:13), pools of water, with some mechanical contrivance for conveying it. (Comp. 2 Kings 18:17; 20:20.) His retinue of servants, no less than his house, commanded the Queen of Sheba’s highest admiration. (1 Kings 10:5–8.) His extensive herds and flocks (1 Ki 4:23, 26, 28) were beyond what had heretofore been known.

Immense treasures of silver and gold—all that was rare and precious—flowed in from all quarters. (1 Ki 9:26–28; 10:10, 14, 15, 25, 27, 28.) Vocal and instrumental music ministered to his indulgence. (Comp. 2 Sam. 19:35; 2 Chron. 35:25.) His intellectual wisdom remained with him (alas! his spiritual wisdom had departed), to give the full scope to his comprehensive mind. Added to this—he had the most free and unabated enjoyment of his resources.

There was little of outward tumult to disturb. (1 Kings 4:25.)—All therefore that royal treasures could procure, largeness of heart desire, vast wisdom contrive—this was the portion of his labour—the rejoicing of his heart. And yet, when he looked back on all his works which he had wrought, and the labour which he had laboured, it seemed only as the chasing of shadows. The pleasure faded with the novelty. The appetite was palled without satisfaction.

The sad vacuity still remained—a wearisome vexation, as if ‘he had been abundantly filled with the wind,’ or “feeding upon ashes.” (Isa. 44:20.) Here, then, is the man, who drank the fullest cup of earth’s best joy—who ‘set nature on the rack to confess its uttermost strength for the delighting and satisfying of man. What the result is, hear from his own mouth—vanity and vexation.

‘To so small a purpose is it’—as Lord Bacon remarks—‘to have an erected face towards heaven, and a perpetual grovelling spirit upon earth, eating dust, as doth the serpent. Is not, then, the lowest condition in godliness far happier and far safer than the highest ground of earthly prosperity? And yet so strong is the spell of delusion, that Solomon’s experiment continues to be tried with the same unvarying result—There is no profit under the sun.

‘The man wakes from his dream, and finds that he possesses not an atom of the rich possessions he had dreamed of. Take the lesson from one of this world’s brightest favourites: ‘I shall never’—wrote Sir Walter Scott at the last—‘see the threescore and ten, and shall be summed up at a discount. No help for it, and no matter either. In so dark a cloud set one of the finest suns of human intellect! Unrestrained desire was the source of this vanity and vexation.

He would keep back from his eyes nothing that they desired. How little was this in the spirit of his father’s prayer—“Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity! Wisdom’s voice warns not to cast one hankering look toward the wilderness. Its unholy breath fades the freshness and purity of our enjoyment. It is in the spiritual world that we realize things in their true colour. ‘The empire of the whole world’—said the noble Luther—‘is but a crust to be thrown to a dog.

The highest honour in science forced from Henry Martyn the confession at the moment of success—‘I have grasped a shadow! Mistake not, then, the glare of this world’s glory for solid happiness. God would have us rejoice in our labour—enjoy our earthly blessings, but not rest in them—“Rejoice, as though we rejoiced not. A momentary pleasure is all that can be looked for. Let earth be the cistern only, not the fountain.

Let its best blessing be loved after him—for him—as the sunbeam of his love. Let nothing of earth be our rest—God never intended so poor a portion for his redeemed ones. Our rest is built upon unchangeable promises. Meanwhile the real joy is, when God is the centre, and the Saviour (as one of the German Reformers beautifully expresses it) is to us “the treasure and the key of all the good things of God.

What were the pleasures of Solomon’s earthly Paradise, compared with the unspeakable delight of “eating of the tree of life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God!” (Rev. 2:7.)

Solomon had tried wisdom and folly—both separately and together—as independent sources of happiness. He had pronounced judgment upon them as vanity and vexation. But might he not have passed over some matters of weight in the decision? A second review might discover some error. He turns himself, therefore, as he had done before (Ecclesiastes 1:17), to behold the two things, and compare together his contrary experiments of wisdom and folly.

But here is no retractation—no modifying of his judgment. Though it was only the judgment of one man; yet who could come after the King—with such a vast mind and treasure? The trial would only be what had been already done. The search of happiness in anything beside God must be disappointment. Yet though wisdom, as a source of rest, bears the stamp of vanity, we must not underrate its relative value.

It is the gift of God, opening to us channels of rich pleasure and important usefulness to our fellow-creatures. It excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness. The wise man’s eyes are in his head—looking as from a watch-tower—ready for instant use—discovering distant or unexpected trial. Thus when the trial comes—‘Do not I know who hath appointed it? Shall not I commune with him about it? Cannot he who sent it, stay me under it?

Here, Christian, is your straight, clear, onward course. If sometimes “faint,” always “pursuing” (Judg. 8:4), going through darkness and light—storm and sunshine—one object in view—knowing that there is no progress without unlimited confidence, and that nothing can be the way of duty, that is contrary to any other known duty. Now turn our eyes to the fool—walking in darkness (be it remembered—responsible darkness).

It is as if his eyes—instead of being in his head—were at his back. He blunders on as if he were blind, or in the dark; his steps going backward, running in his own folly. ‘He wants the lantern of God’s Word and Spirit to direct him into a right path. Whatever be his earthly wisdom, an angel would say of such a man—“There goes a poor blind creature, groping his way to hell.

But a melancholy sight it is—to see natural light breaking in upon the mind, without one ray of spiritual light dawning upon the heart! the want of reality—of Divine impression—laborious trifling in the letter of Scripture—knowing nothing of His teaching, whom Augustine beautifully designates as the ‘inner master of the inner man—teaching in the school of the breast. But wide as is the difference between the wise man and the fool, on some points they are one.

Solomon himself was on the same level with his meanest pauper. Both were subject to the same vicissitudes of Providence. The same last event laid them low together. “Why was I then more wise? What is the use of my wisdom, if at the last it brings me to no higher level than the fool? Here surely the wise man becomes the fool—disputing the ways of God—looking for some elevation above his fellow-creatures. Such is the depth of selfishness and depravity yet to be purged out!

Only another picture! This is also vanity. O my God! how does every view within bring fresh matter for self-loathing in thy sight! Where is the natural heart, without some niche to the chosen idol? Is the renewed heart gaining ground in the struggle—the hard and fierce struggle—with its deadly influence?

We have been before reminded how fleeting is the remembrance of names mighty in their generation. The great actors, that fixed the eyes of their fellow-men, and kept the world awake—where are they? ‘Time is a depth, that swallows up all things. The man of science hoped to secure—though not his body—yet his name from decay. But to the mass there is often no remembrance of the wise more than the fool. Every new generation raises up a new race of rivals for renown.

But after a short-lived day, that which now is, in the days to come shall all be forgotten. Few, comparatively, survive the wreck of time. Such a phantom of life is posthumous fame. Soon comes the levelling stroke—How dieth the wise man? As the fool. The grave is the “long home” (Ecclesiastes 12:4) for both till the resurrection morn. But take another contrast of the two classes—how different the issue!

For the one is secured “everlasting remembrance;” the other is doomed to degraded oblivion. (Ps. 112:6; Prov. 10:7.)—Does the one die as the other? Darkness and light are not more different. Hear the wise man’s history of them both. “The wicked is driven away in his wickedness: but the righteous hath hope in his death. (Prov. 14:32.) ‘The one is dead, even while he is alive. The other lives even in death.

Yet this equalizing level was a source of deep exercise to the Preacher. Estranged as he now was from God, fretfulness stirred up—if not an hatred—yet a disgust and weariness of life. All was now become a grievous vanity. To die and be forgotten as the fool—to the man of wisdom—this seems living to no purpose. He would almost as soon be blotted out of life, as be disappointed of his airy vision—an enduring name.

When self is thus the centre of happiness—the great end of life—what a treasure of vanity do we lay in store for ourselves! Would it not have been better for Solomon—instead of being weary of his life, ‘rather to have been weary of his sin in seeking happiness in earthly things? Again—the contrast forces itself upon us—Solomon once consecrating his high wisdom to the glory of God—now alienating it from the great object, and all his life vanity and vexation of spirit!

This disrelish of life belongs both to the ungodly and the godly, though on very different grounds. ‘I hate life’—wrote Voltaire to his friend—‘and yet I am afraid to die. Can we wonder? The infidel’s bosom, so full of disappointed ambition—tormenting conscience—a dark eternity! Hell seemed to have begun on earth. Thus it is with the mass of the world—burdened with present evils—no sunbeam in the prospect—either not believing the life beyond—or with no hope of attaining it.

And even in minds cast in a better mould, the revolt still remains in fretfulness and impatience. Nothing can set things right, or keep them so, but the clear confidence that God’s will is our happiness, and that all is ordered in the school of discipline, so as to “work together for our good.” (Rom. 8:28.) ‘Thou bruisest me, O Lord’—said the dying Calvin, in a moment of intense suffering—‘but it amply sufficeth me, that it is thy hand.

‘My affliction’—said another saint at the same crisis—‘is but the smiting of his merciful hand, and therefore it is an ointment savouring of heaven. This tædium of life in a Christian habit is in a heavenly mould. It is the weariness of the man of God in the conflict.

Happy though he be, “he groans, being burdened”—a tempting enemy, a corrupt heart—a disappointing world—all quicken the “desire to depart, and to be with Christ, which is very far better.” (Philip. 1:23, Gr.) Oh! let not the cry be dormant or feeble—‘Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly.’ (Rev. 22:20.)

This passage presents another aspect of vanity, and to the wise man a great grief. All his great works of wisdom and labour, which had ministered to him a temporary satisfaction, after a while became to him objects of disgust. They must be left, and to whom he could not tell. David had no such anxieties. His heart had not been set upon his treasures, and therefore it was no sacrifice to him to part with them.

Besides, he well knew the consecrated use to which his wise son would apply them. (1 Chron. 28:11–21; 29:1–22.) But Solomon probably had his forebodings of the man who should come after him. And the history of the son fully justified the anxious question—Who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool? (Ps. 49:10. Comp. 39:6.) So deeply did this trial touch the Preacher, that he again adverts to it.

Must he—after a life of labour in wisdom, knowledge, and equity—must he after all become a drudge to his successor, of whom he knows nothing with any certainty? What advantage hath he of all his labour? He heaps up his words one upon another (labour, sorrow, grief, travail), to describe more emphatically the painfulness of his exercise. And yet this great evil may have been overruled for Solomon’s good.

His heart had clung to the world, and it required sharp discipline to break it away. ‘Often had he bored and sunk into the earth for some rich mine of satisfaction. But repeated failures caused his heart to despair. And might not this restlessness of earthly rest have been his Father’s restoring discipline? This is the canker on the supreme pursuit of this world’s portion.

We may possess the creature, but never shall we enjoy it, till God is on the throne above it. (Ps. 73:25.) There will be no cleaving to God, till the vanity of all, in comparison with him, has been experimentally acknowledged. O my God! may I feel the vanity of everything that turns away my heart from thee! We must have an holdfast somewhere; and we sought it in the creature, because we knew not where else to look for it.

But when we have once gained an everlasting footing on an unchangeable covenant—better promises—higher privileges—richer prospects, fix our hearts, and “give us peace: not as the world giveth.” (John 14:27.) The special trial, however, to which Solomon here alludes, presses heavily upon many a Christian heart.

The fruits of our labour—in wisdom and knowledge—or in providential gifts—will they descend from us into worthy, or unworthy hands? to a wise man, or a fool? will they be devoted to the Church, or be desecrated to the world? Shall we be able to perpetuate a good name in godly, well-doing children, and to commit our trust into their hands with peaceful confidence? How does this anxious exercise urge upon us the obligation of training our children for God!

Hence a lively glow to our last act of parental faith. If there be a cloud upon our setting sun, behind that cloud will be “a sun that goeth down no more”—the display of eternal love and faithfulness. If this be a sore “trial of faith” to the Christian, what is the threatened chastisement to the ungodly! (v. 26; Deut. 28:30–33.) Without a refuge—without covenant promises—without sustaining support! All his labour barren!

All his days—not sorrowful only, but actual sorrow—the very mass of sorrow and grief—a mind racked with care. Even night brings no rest. ‘See what fools they are, that make themselves drudges to the world, and do not make God their rest’—all is vanity. Who will not listen to the pleading voice of the Saviour—contrasting this field of fruitless disappointment with his own offer of solid peace and satisfaction?

“Wherefore spend ye your money for that which is not bread, and your labour for that which satisfieth not? Hearken diligently unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.” (Isa. 55:2.) Welcome every sinner, that feels his need of this precious remedy!

The surface view of this passage might seem to savour of the rule—“Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.” (1 Cor. 15:32. Comp. Luke, 12:19.) But did Solomon really mean, that there was nothing better for a man—for a sinner—with an immortal soul—with an eternal stake at issue—nothing better for him than sensual indulgence? Far from it! The case before us determines and limits his true meaning.

Solomon is not here ‘speaking of the Supreme good, but of that greatest good, which may be had from earthly things. A man is brooding over his disappointments. Let him take a brighter, and a more thankful view and enjoyment of his mercies. (1 Tim. 6:17. Comp. 4:3–5; Deut. 16:11.) Let him give diligence to prove his character—good before God; and then, in the confidence of the Divine favour, let him rejoice in his temporal blessings.

This pleasure of eating and drinking is totally distinct from the mere animal appetite. It recognizes the Christian principle—“whether ye eat or drink—do all to the glory of God. “The world”—with all its legitimate enjoyments—is the Christian’s portion. (1 Cor. 3:22.)—None beside have right to them. And he only with this reserve—“using the world, as not abusing it.” (1 Cor 7:31.)—making its pleasures subordinate—not primary.

For ill does it become us to give our first joy to an earthly feast, with the bright prospect before us—“of eating and drinking with our Lord in his kingdom.” (Luke 22:28–30.) We might ask also—Whence this present enjoyment? Is it not reached out to us from the hand of God—that most loving Father, whose blessing puts love into all our outward mercies? Can we think anything ill, that comes from this source?

Here we receive—not only the good things themselves, but the power to make a right use of them. The Preacher himself could speak with a deep-toned experience.—For who can eat, or who haste hereunto, more than he? ‘What power could others have to enjoy them, when he could not? And yet in the path of wandering how barren—yea—how poisonous was the sum total!

“The pleasant plants were planted, and set with strange slips; and the harvest was a heap in the day of grief and of desperate sorrow.” (Isa. 17:11.) This seems to be the Divine dispensation. Good and evil are portioned out according to character. Where the stamp—Good in his sight—is broadly marked, gifts and grace flow out abundantly. Wisdom and knowledge brighten the path heavenward. Joy gladdens the heart. Common mercies are sealed with covenant love.

Two words suffice to describe the man of God’s present happiness—“Godliness with contentment.” (1 Tim. 6:6.) ‘This only makes him master of the utmost comfort worldly things can afford. Here is the substance of “the promise of the life that now is,” and the earnest “of that which is to come.” (1 Tim. 4:8.) In this school of Divine instruction (Philip. 4:11, 12, Gr.) the man of God is disciplined for heaven. No such brightness beams upon the sinner’s lot.

Prudent and prosperous he may be. But God giveth to him travail as his portion—to gather and heap up—not to enjoy. The unfaithful steward is cast out. His privileges are transferred, for better improvement, to him that is good before God. Yes—he is the man accepted and honoured. To all beside the burden of the song is still the same—This also is vanity and vexation of spirit. “But to him that soweth righteousness shall be a sure reward.” (Prov. 11:18.)