In the seven stages of man’s life, there are three epochs more distinctly marked than the rest, viz. — the departure of Boyhood — the departure of Youth — the commencement of Old Age. I consider the several dates of these epochs, in ordinary constitutions, commence at fifteen, thirty, and fifty years of age. It is of the second that I am about to treat. When I call it the epoch for the departure of youth, I do not of course intend to signify, that this, the prime and zenith of our years, is as yet susceptible of decay. Our frames are as young as they were five years before, it is the mind that has become matured. By youth I mean the growing and progressive season — its departure is only visible inasmuch as we have become, as it were, fixed and stationary. The qualities that peculiarly belong to youth — its “quick-thronging fancies” — its exuberance of energy and feeling, cease to be our distinctions at thirty. We are young but not youthful It is not at thirty that we know the wild phantasies of Romeo — scarcely at thirty that we could halt irresolute in the visionary weaknesses of Hamlet. The passions of youth may be no less felt than heretofore; it is youth’s sentiment we have lost. The muscles of the mind are firmer, but it is the nerve that is less susceptible, and vibrates no more to the lightest touch of pleasure or of pain. — Yes, it is the prime of our manhood which is the departure of our youth!
It seems to me, that to reflective and lofty minds accustomed to survey, and fitted to comprehend, the great aims of life, — this is a period peculiarly solemn and important. It is a spot on which we ought to rest for a while from our journey. It is the summit of the hill from which we look down on two even divisions of our journey. We have left behind us a profusion of bright things — never again shall we traverse such fairy fields — with such eager hopes; — never again shall we find the same
“Glory in the grass or splendour in the flower.”
The dews upon the herbage are dried up. The morning is no more.
“We made a posy while the time ran by,
But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they.
By noon most cunningly did steal away
And wither in the hand.
Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent!” (George Herbert.)
We ought then to pause for awhile — to review the past — to gather around us the memories and the warnings of experience — to feel’ that the lighter part of our destinies is completed — that the graver has begun — that our follies and our errors have become to us the monitors of wisdom: for since these are the tributes which Fate exacts from Mortality, they are not to be idly regretted, but to be solemnly redeemed. And if we are penetrated with this thought, our Past becomes the mightiest preacher to our Future. Looking back over the tombs of departed errors, we behold, by the side of each, the face of a warning Angel! It is the prayer of a foolish heart, “Oh that my time could return — Oh that this had been done, or that could be undone rather should we rejoice that so long a season of reparation yet remains to us, and that Experience has taught us the lessons of suffering which make men wise. Wisdom is an acquisition purchased in proportion to the disappointments which our own frailties have entailed upon us. For no one is taught by the sufferings of another. We ourselves must have felt the burning in order to shun the fire. To refer again to the beautiful poem I have already quoted, the flowers that were “Fit, while they lived, for smell and ornament, Serve, after death, for cures.’
At the age of thirty most men’s characters experience a revulsion. The common pleasures of the world have been tasted to the full and begin to pall. We have reduced to the sobering test of reality, the visions of youth — we no longer expect that perfection in our species which our inexperience at first foretold — we no longer chase frivolities, or hope chimæras. Perhaps one of the most useful lessons that Disappointment has taught us, is a true estimate of Love. For at first we are too apt to imagine that woman (poor partner with ourselves in the frailties of humanity) must be perfect — that the dreams of the poets have a corporeal being, and that God has ordained to us that unclouded nature — that unchanging devotion — that seraph heart, which it has been the great vice of Fiction to attribute to the daughters of clay. And, in hoping perfection, with how much excellence have we been discontented — to how many idols have we changed our worship! Thirsting for the Golden Fountain of the Fable, from how many streams have we turned away, weary and in disgust! The experience which teaches us at last the due estimate of woman, has gone far to instruct us in the claims of men. Love, once the monopolizer of our desires, gives way to more manly and less selfish passions — and we wake from a false paradise to the real earth.
Not less important is the lesson which teaches us not to measure mankind by ideal standards of morality; for to imagine too fondly that men are gods, is to end by believing that they are demons: the young pass usually through a period of misanthropy, and the misanthropy is acute in proportion to their own generous confidence in human excellence. We the least forgive faults in those from whom we the most expected excellence. But out of the ashes of misanthropy Benevolence rises again; we find many virtues where we had imagined all was vice — many acts of disinterested friendship where we had fancied all was calculation and fraud — and so gradually from the two extremes we pass to the proper medium; and feeling that no human being is wholly good, or wholly base, we learn that true knowledge of mankind which induces us to expect little and forgive much. The world cures alike the optimist and the misanthrope. Without this proper and sober estimate of men, we have neither prudence in the affairs of life, nor toleration for contrary opinions — we tempt the cheater, and then condemn him — we believe so strongly in one faith, that we would sentence dissentients as heretics. It is experience alone that teaches us that he who is discreet is seldom betrayed, and that out of the opinions we condemn, spring often the actions we admire.
At the departure of youth then, in collecting and investigating our minds, we should feel ourselves embued with these results for our future guidance, viz a knowledge of the true proportion of the passions, so as not to give to one the impetus which should be shared by all; a conviction of the idleness of petty objects which demand large cares, and that true gauge and measurement of men which shall neither magnify nor dwarf the attributes and materials of human nature. From these results we draw conclusions to make us not only wiser but better men. The years through which we have passed have probably developed in us whatever capacities we possess — they have taught us in what we are most likely to excel, and for what we are most fitted. We may come now with better success than Rasselas to the Choice of Life. And in this I incline to believe, that we ought to prefer that career from which we are convinced our minds and tempers will derive the greatest share of happiness — not disdaining the pursuit of honours, or of wealth, or the allurements of a social career — but calmly balancing the advantages and the evils of each course, whether of private life or of public — of retirement or of crowds, — and deciding on each according, not to abstract rules, not to vague maxims on the nothingness of fame, or the joys of solitude, but according to the peculiar bias and temper of our own minds. For toil to some is happiness and rest to others. This man can only breathe in crowds, and that man only in solitude. Fame is necessary to the quiet of one nature, and is void of all attraction to another. Let each choose his career according to the dictates of his own breast — and this, not from the vulgar doctrine that our own happiness, as happiness only, is to be our being’s end, and aim, (for in minds rightly and nobly constituted, there are aims out of ourselves, stronger than aught of self,) but because a mind not at ease is rarely virtuous. Happiness and Virtue react upon each other — the best are not only the happiest, but the happiest are usually the best. Drawn into pursuits, however estimable in themselves, from which our tastes and dispositions recoil, we are too apt to grow irritable, morose, and discontented with our kind; our talents do not spring forth naturally; forced by the heat of circumstance, they produce unseasonable and unwholesome fruit. The genius that is roused by things at war with it, too often becomes malignant, and retaliates upon men the wounds it receives from circumstance; but when we are engaged in that course of life which most flatters our individual bias whether it be action or seclusion, literature or business, we enjoy within us that calm which is the best atmosphere of the mind, and in which all the mind’s produce is robust and mellow. Our sense of contentment makes us kindly and benevolent to others; we are not chafed and galled by cares which are tyrannical, because ungenial. We are fulfilling our proper destiny, and those around us feel the sunshine of our own hearts. It is for this reason that happiness should be our main object in the choice of life, because out of happiness springs that state of mind which becomes virtue: — and this should be remembered by those of generous and ardent dispositions who would immolate themselves for the supposed utility of others, plunging into a war of things for which their natures are unsuited. Among the few truths which Rousseau has left us, none is more true than this—” It is not permitted to a man to corrupt, himself for the sake of mankind.” We must be useful according, not to general theories, but to our individual capacities and habits. To be practical we must call forth the qualities we are able to practise. Each star, shining in its appointed sphere, each — no matter its magnitude or its gyration, — contributes to the general light.
To different ages there are different virtues — the reckless generosity of the boy is a wanton folly in the man. At thirty there is no apology for the spendthrift. From that period to the verge of age, is the fitting season for a considerate foresight and prudence in affairs. Approaching age itself we have less need of economy. And Nature recoils from the miser, caressing Mammon with one hand, while Death plucks him by the other. We should provide for our age, in order that our age may have no urgent wants of this world, to absorb it from the meditations of the next. It is awful to see the lean hands of Dotage making a coffer of the grave! But while, with the departure of youth, we enter steadfastly into the great business of life, while our reason constructs its palaces from the ruins of our passions — while we settle into thoughtful, and resolute, and aspiring men — we should beware how thus occupied by the world, the world grow “too much with us.” It is a perilous age that of ambition and discretion — a perilous age that when youth recedes from us — if we forget that the soul should cherish its own youth through eternity! It is precisely as we feel how little laws can make us good while they forbid us to be evil — it is precisely as our experience puts a check upon our impulses — it is precisely as we sigh to own how contaminating is example, that we should be on our guard over our own hearts — not, now, lest they err — but rather lest they harden. Now is the period, when the affections can be easiest scared — when we can dispense the most with Love — when in the lustiness and hardihood of our golden prime we can best stand alone — remote alike from the ideal yearnings of youth, and the clinging helplessness of age. Now is the time, when neither the voice of woman, nor the smiles of children, touch us as they did once, and may again. We are occupied, absorbed, wrapt in our schemes and our stern designs. The world is our mistress, our projects are our children. A man is startled when he is told this truth; let him consider, let him pause — if he be actively engaged, (as few at that age are not,) and ask himself if I wrong him? — if, insensibly and unconsciously, he has not retreated into the citadel of self? — Snail-like, he walks the world, bearing about him his armour and retreat. Is not this to be guarded against? Does it not require our caution, lest caution itself block up the beautiful avenues of the heart? What can life give us if we sacrifice what is fairest in ourselves? What does experience profit, if it forbid us to be generous, to be noble — if it counterwork and blight the graces and the charities, and all that belong to the Tender and the Exalted — without which wisdom is harsh, and virtue has no music in her name. As Paley says, that we ought not to refuse alms too sternly for fear we encourage the idle, lest, on the other hand, we blunt the heart into a habit of deafness to the distressed — so with the less vulgar sympathies, shall we check the impulse and the frankness, and the kindly interpretation, and the human sensibility, (which are the alms of the soul,) because they may expose us to occasional deceit? Shall the error of softness justify the habits of obduracy? — and lest we should suffer by the faults of others, shall we vitiate ourselves?
This, then, is the age in which, while experience becomes our guide, we should follow its dictates with a certain measured, and jealous caution. We must remember how apt man is to extremes — rushing from credulity and weakness to suspicion and distrust. And still if we are truly prudent, we shall cherish, despite occasional delusions — those noblest and happiest of our tendencies — to love and to confide.
I know not indeed a more beautiful spectacle in the world than an old man, who has gone with honour through all its storms and contests, and who retains to the last the freshness of feeling that adorned his youth. This is the true green old age — this makes a southern winter of declining years, in which the sunlight warms, though the heats are gone, — such are ever welcome to the young — and sympathy unites, while wisdom guides. There is this distinction between respect and veneration — the latter has always in it something of love.
This, too, is the age in which we ought calmly to take the fitting estimate of the opinions of the world. In youth we are too apt to despise, in maturity too inclined to over-rate, the sentiments of others, and the silent influences of the public. It is right to fix the medium. Among the happiest and proudest possessions of a man is his character — it is a wealth — it is a rank of itself. It usually procures him the honours and rarely the jealousies of Fame. Like most treasures that are attained less by circumstances than ourselves, character is a more felicitous reputation than glory. The wise man therefore despises not the opinion of the world — he estimates it at its full value — he does not wantonly jeopardize his treasure of a good name — he does not rush from vanity alone, against the received sentiments of others — he does not hazard his costly jewel with unworthy combatants and for a petty stake. He respects the legislation of decorum. If he be benevolent, as well as wise, he will remember that character affords him a thousand utilities — that it enables him the better to forgive the erring, and to shelter the assailed. But that character is built on a false and hollow basis, which is formed not from the dictates of our own breast, but solely from the fear of censure. What is the essence and the life of character? Principle, integrity, independence! — or, as one of our great old writers hath it, “that inbred loyalty unto Virtue which can serve her without a livery.” These are qualities that hang not upon any man’s breath. They must be formed within ourselves; they must make ourselves — indissoluble and indestructible as the soul! If, conscious of these possessions, we trust tranquilly to time and occasion to render them known; we may rest assured that our character, sooner or later, will establish itself. We cannot more defeat our own object than by a restless and fevered anxiety as to what the world will say of us. Except, indeed, if we are tempted to unworthy compliances with what our conscience disapproves, in order to please the fleeting and capricious countenance of the time. There is a moral honesty in a due regard for character which will not shape itself to the humours of the crowd. And this if honest is no less wise. For the crowd never long esteems those who flatter it at their own expense. He who has the suppleness of the demagogue will live to complain of the fickleness of the mob.
If in early youth it is natural sometimes to brave and causelessly to affront opinion, so also it is natural, on the other hand, and not perhaps unamiable, for the milder order of spirits to incur the contrary extreme and stand in too great an awe of the voices of the world. They feel as if they had no right to be confident of their own judgment — they have not tested themselves by temptation and experience. They are willing to give way on points on which they are not assured. And it is a pleasant thing to prop their doubts on the stubborn asseverations of others. But in vigorous and tried manhood, we should be all in all to ourselves. Our own past and our own future should be our main guides. “He who is not a physician at thirty is a fool” — a physician to his mind, as to his body, acquainted with his own moral constitution — its diseases, its remedies, its diet, its conduct. We should learn so to regulate our own thoughts and actions, that while comprising the world, the world should not bias them. Take away the world — and we should think and act the same — a world to ourselves. Thus trained and thus accustomed — we can bear occasional reproach and momentary slander with little pain. The rough contact of the herd presses upon no sore — the wrongs of the hour do not incense or sadden us. We rely upon ourselves and upon time. If I have rightly said that principle is a main essence of character, principle is a thing we cannot change or shift. As it has been finely expressed, “Principle is a passion for truth,” (Hazlitt.) — and as an earlier and homelier writer hath it, “The truths of God are the pillars of the world.” (From a scarce and curious little tract called “The Simple Cobbler of Aggavvam.” 1647.
) The truths we believe in are the pillars of our world. The man who at thirty can be easily persuaded out of his own sense of right, is never respected after he has served a purpose. I do not know even if we do not think more highly of the intellectual uses of one who sells himself well, than those of one who lends himself for nothing.
Lastly, this seems to me, above all, an age which calls upon us to ponder well and thoughtfully upon the articles of our moral and our religious creed. Entering more than ever into the mighty warfare of the world, we should summon to our side whatever auxiliaries can aid us in the contest — to cheer, to comfort, to counsel, to direct. It is a time seriously to analyse the confused elements of belief — to apply ourselves to such solution of our doubts as reason may afford us. Happy he who can shelter himself with confidence under the assurance of immortality, and feel “that the world is not an Inn but a Hospital — a place not to live but to die in,” acknowledging “that piece of divinity that, is in us — that something that was before the elements, and owes no homage to the sun.” (Religio Medici, Part II. Sect ii.) For him there is indeed the mastery and the conquest, not only over death, but over life; and “he forgets that he can die if he complain of misery!”
I reject all sectarian intolerance — I affect no uncharitable jargon — frankly I confess that I have known many before whose virtues I bow down ashamed of my own errors, though they were not guided and supported by Belief. But I never met with one such, who did not own that while he would not have been worse, he would have been happier, could he have believed. I, indeed, least of all men ought harshly to search into that Realm of Opinion which no law can reach; for I, too, have had my interval of doubt, of despondency, of the Philosophy of the Garden. Perhaps there are many with whom Faith — the Saviour, — must lie awhile in darkness and the Grave of Unbelief, ere, immortal and immortalizing, it ascend from its tomb — a God!
But humbly and reverently comparing each state with each, I exclaim again, ‘Happy, thrice happy, he who relies on the eternity of the soul — who believes — as the loved fall one after one from his side — that they have returned “to their native country” — that they await the divine re-union; who feels that each treasure of knowledge he attains he carries with him through illimitable being — who sees in Virtue, the essence and the element of the world he is to inherit, and to which he but accustoms himself betimes; who comforts his weariness amidst the storms of time, by seeing, far across the melancholy seas, the haven he will reach at last — who deems that every struggle has its assured reward, and every sorrow has its balm — who knows, however forsaken or bereaved below, that he never can be alone, and never be deserted — that above him is the protection of Eternal Power, and the mercy of Eternal Love! Ah, well said the dreamer of philosophy, “How much He knew of the human heart who first called GOD our Father!”
As, were our lives limited to a single year, and we had never beheld the flower that perishes from the earth restored by the dawning spring, we might doubt the philosophy that told us it was not dead, but dormant only for a time; yet, to continue existence to another season, would be to know that the seeming miracle was but the course of nature; — even so, this life is to eternity but as a single revolution of the sun, in which we close our views with the winter of the soul, when its leaves fade and vanish, and it seems outwardly to rot away; but the seasons roll on unceasingly over the blank and barrenness of the grave — and those who, above, have continued the lease of life, behold the imperishable flower burst forth into the second spring!
This hope makes the dignity of man, nor can I conceive how he who feels it breathing its exalted eloquence through his heart, can be guilty of one sordid action, or brood over one low desire. To be immortal is to be the companion of God!