Job's soul had been submerged by a flood of sorrows and doubts till it had well nigh been overwhelmed; but when that flood passed away, among the precious and imperishable thoughts it left behind it were these ;-that an Arbiter, a Mediator, between God and man, might be looked for, who should lay his hands on them both and bring them together in judgment; and that though man must die, he may live again when touched by the quickening breath of God. And to win such gains as these, who would not be content to wade through a very sea of sorrow?

SECTION IV.

THE SECOND COLLOQUY.

CHAPTERS XV.-XXI.

IN the First Colloquy, as we have seen, the Friends of Job had contended that the Judge of all the earth must do right, that his Providence both must, and did, even in this present life, mete out to every man the due reward of his deeds,— good to the good, and evil to the evil; and from this large conclusion they had drawn the particular inference that, since Job was suffering the punishment proper to guilt, he must of necessity have incurred a guilt which, though hidden from man, was known to God. In his reply to them, Job had called even their main argument in question, and had passionately denied the inference they drew from it,-indignantly asserting his innocence of the charge which they insinuated rather than alleged against him, and even impugning the justice of the God who, knowing him to be innocent, nevertheless treated him as though he were a sinner above all men.

In the Second Colloquy, the argument of the Poem is advanced a step, though only by narrowing and defining it; the Friends having by this time discovered that they had fallen into a common fault of controversialists, that of starting from premisses larger and wider than they needed for their conclusion. And now, too, the tone of the speakers has sensibly changed, the Friends growing more bitter and impatient, while Job grows more calm and self-possessed.

As Job had refuted the arguments which they had adduced for the manifest and invariable equity of the Divine Providence, and as, moreover, they are not even yet prepared to charge him with this particular sin or that to his face, the

Friends take closer order on narrower ground. They no longer contend that the good always receive good from the hand of God; they drop that large assertion from their argument, and are content with affirming that the evil receive evil, -their implication still being that, since Job is suffering evils so many and strange, he must have provoked them by some secret but heinous sin. All they now contend for is that

"Tis the eternal law that where guilt is
Sorrow shall answer it.

And they are so indignant with him for shamelessly denying his guilt, and so terrified by his bold assaults on the justice of Heaven, that, though they will not, or cannot, bring any specific charge against him, their tone grows harsh and even sarcastic. They are as much out of sympathy with him as though they themselves had never known sin and grief, and no longer speak to him as men

Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,
Are pregnant to good pity.

They make no further effort to win him to repentance by dilating on the compassion and bounty of God, nor express any hope that he will confess and renounce his sin. They cease to assure him that the Divine judgments are corrective as well as punitive, or even to urge upon him the thought, so frequent on their lips in the previous Colloquy,—

Oh, sir, to wilful men,

The injuries which they themselves procure

Must be their schoolmasters.

At first, and while they were still in sympathy with him, they had felt it was much to be lamented that he had no such mirrors as would turn his hidden unworthiness into his eye, that he might see himself as he was; and they had tried, gently and considerately as they thought (Chap. xv. 11), to hint this hidden unworthiness to him, and to persuade him to see himself as they saw him. But he had indignantly repelled their insinuations: his constant reply to them had been,

You would have me seek into myself
For that which is not in me.

So that now they felt driven to the resolve: since he cannot see himself, we must discover to him that of himself which even yet he knows not of.1

In his replies to the Friends there is a corresponding change both in the argument and in the tone of Job. He still calls on them to charge him openly with the sins they still covertly suggest, to prove the guilt they assume. But, besides this, he meets them victoriously on the narrower ground of argument which they have taken up. So soon as he clearly sees what they would be at, he denies that the Divine Providence is retributive even in so far as the wicked are concerned. In a very noble and striking passage (Chap. xxi.) he affirms that, so far from being the most miserable, they are often the most fortunate and untroubled of men,-happy in their life, honoured in their death. And it is while he is brooding over this strange mystery that he is once more driven, and driven now once for all, to the conviction that, since this life is not retributive, there must be a retributive life to come (Chap. xix. 23-27).

Another train of thought runs through his speeches in this Second Colloquy, which fully accounts for the happy change we detect in his tone. Even in his first encounter with the Friends he had averred his persuasion that God knew he was not guilty (Chap. x. 7)-as indeed God Himself confesses that He did; and that, could he only gain access to his Divine Judge, he had no fear lest he should be not acquitted by Him (Chap. ix. 32-35, and Chap. xiii. 14-19). And now, though he still cannot see God, he is sure that "somewhere in the wide heavens" God is watching him, and testifying to his innocence (Chap. xvi. 19). He is so sure of it that he confidently calls on God Himself to be a Surety for him with Himself, since none other will stand sponsor for him (Chap. xvii. 3). Formerly, and for moments, he had lost hope of himself, because he had lost touch with God, because he doubted whether he any longer dwelt even " in the suburbs " of God's good pleasure. But now the conviction is establishing itself in his mind that, though he cannot see God, God can see him, though he cannot make out how God can be true to

1 See the dialogue between Brutus and Cassius in "Julius Cæsar." Act i. Scene 2.

him, nevertheless He is true-so true as to be both his Witness and his Surety: what wonder is it, then, that his tone grows more calm and assured? True, men have failed and disappointed him, but he is growing used to that disappointment; the first shock of it has spent itself, and he expects but little of them. True, even God Himself had failed and disappointed him, but, as he begins to see more clearly, it was only the phantom God of the current theology, not the real God who sits in heaven ruling the lives and destinies of men. He was true and just, and always had been, always would be, just and true. How natural, then, that throughout this Colloquy Job should turn more and more from the men who had failed him, revolt from the dogmas which had misrepresented God to him, and cast himself on the God who could never fail him! It was impossible to convince the Friends of his "integrity;" his assertions and pleas only confirmed them in the false conclusion they had inferred, not from his words and deeds, but from their own theories and conjectures. Say what he would, they did but

construe things, after their fashion,

Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Why, then, should he trouble himself to argue with them, or be overmuch incensed by insinuations which sprang from their own ignorance, and even ran right in the teeth of all they knew about him?

More and more, therefore, he appeals, from the men who had so misconstrued and so "misquoted" him, to the God who was watching him, and testifying to him, in heaven. Their inferences and reproaches were built in the mere air of speculation, not on any solid foundation, nor compelled to square with the facts. And hence there is less vehemence, less passion and excitement, in his tone. Not that he is altogether free from them even yet. His soul is still vexed

with passions of some difference

Which give a soil to his behaviour.

At times he is sad, as sad as ever, as impatient of truisms and platitudes, as fierce in resentment of the wrong done him both