Chapter 37

WATERSHED OF THE YEAR

WE set out today on the second half of the year. We stand midway between the beginning and the end. The position is emblematic of some of life’s most poignant experiences and most perplexing problems. The crucial test invariably comes halfway. It is easy to embark on a long journey; one’s vitality is fresh and one’s senses keen. It is easy to finish the tramp; the excitement of having reached one’s goal dispels all consciousness of weariness. But what of the intermediate stage? What of the hours through which no applauding voices from behind encouraged and no fingers beckoned ahead? It is the central span that tries the mettle of the man. A student under-takes his course with a light heart. As he nears the time for his final examination he finds concentration easy; it is half-way between these two exciting experiences that he is most tempted to relax.

William Wilberforce used to say that he felt dared and inspired by the antagonism that greeted his initiation of the movement for the emancipation of the slaves. But he was almost paralysed by the long lull that followed when the country accepted his principles but did nothing to hasten their realization. The beginning was stimulating and the end was glorious, but the road between was a continual crucifixion. As it is with great causes, so it is with individuals. There is no intellectual luxury so intoxicating as the formation of a noble purpose, the adoption of a sudden resolve, the making of a momentous decision. But what of the dogged fight that must inevitably follow? In telling the story of that terrible conflict with temptations and difficulties which ai: times seemed insuperable, Mark Rutherford tells us repeatedly that it was the halfway stage that nearly defeated him. ‘Neither the first step nor the last,’ he says, ‘was the difficult step with me; it was what lay between.’ The January phase of an enterprise is usually helped by the novelty of a new beginning. The December phase is illumined by the prospect of a triumphant close; it is the July phase that demands the highest courage.

All this applies with special force to middle-life. Middle-life is an isolated and distinct phase of human experience. It is out of touch both with youth and with old-age. It has a temper of its own, a mood of its own, a method of its own, and, therefore, a peril of its own. ‘Middle-life,’ as Sir J. R. Seeley says, ‘tends continually to routine, to the mechanical tracing of a contracted circle. A man finds or fancies that the care of his own family is as much as he can undertake, and excuses himself from most of his duties to humanity. How many a man who, at twenty, was full of zeal, and of high-minded designs and plans of a life devoted to the public good, changes radically with the years!’ Sir John adds that, after the cares of middle-life have come upon a man, and one or two schemes, contrived with the inexperience of youth have failed, he retains nothing of the enthusiasm with which he set out but a willingness to relieve distress whenever it crosses his path, and perhaps a habit of devoting an annual sum of money to charitable purposes.

The outstanding tendency of middle-age is towards prosiness. Young people write poetry and get sentimental; so do old people. But middle-aged people seldom betray such frailties. A middle-aged man would as soon be suspected of picking his neighbour’s pocket as of writing an ode or a sonnet. He would rather be seen walking down the street without collar or necktie than be seen shedding tears. The romance of youth has worn off; the romance of age has not arrived. He is between the poetry of the dawn and the poetry of the twilight. Midway between sunrise and sunset, like July remotely poised between the glamour of a Christmas far behind and the glamour of a Christmas far ahead, comes the panting perspiration of noon. Youth is wildly romantic; middle-age is severely practical. Youth is impulsive; middle-age is cautious. Youth is capable of passionate enthusiasms and counts the cost too little; middle-age is stolid, cannot be swept off its feet, and counts the cost too long.

Schiller argued from all this that man becomes less spiritual in the central span of life. The animal nature, he maintained, dominates the more generous qualities with the result that the least excellent ingredients of our humanity prevail. Newman held nearly the same view. In early life, he pointed out, a man finds it easy to be unselfish and will, under the spell of some vehement impulse, fling the whole world away and count that world well lost. But in middle-life, the Cardinal added, material interests inevitably submerge a man’s entire nature into selfish indifference towards everything with which self is not concerned, unless those interests are subdued by high religious and moral principles.

The explanation is simple. When a man reaches the July stage of life-the realm of middle-age-he feels that he must drop something. Having been all his life accumulating, he has become seriously overloaded. He has maintained his interest in all the things that engrossed his youth, whilst, all the way along the road, fresh claims have been made upon him. His position in the world is a much more responsible one. It makes a greater drain upon his thought and energy. He has married, too, and children have come into his home. There has been struggle and sickness and anxiety. Interests have multiplied and life has increased in seriousness. And the inevitable danger is that, becoming more serious, it will consequently become more sordid. Under the pressure of life’s complexity, he is compelled to drop something, and, unless he is particularly careful, he will drop the best. Is that why one of those old Hebrew prophets, who always seem to say the last word on every human problem, prayed that his choicest qualities-faith and hope and charity-might be awakened to fresh activity in middle-life? ‘0 Lord,’ he cried, Revive Thy work in the midst of the years: in the midst of the years make Thyself known!’ It is a suggestion that those in the July phase of human experience may pleasantly and profitably ponder.

By Dr. F. W. Boreham