BY REV. EDWIN. F. HATFIELD, D.D.,

NEW YORK CITY.

LOVE OF LIFE IN THE MIDDLE AGED.

"I said, O my God; take me not away in the midst of my days!" Psalm cii. 24.

MAN loves to live-dreads to die. The love of life is born with us. It is one of those instincts that serve, in the wisest manner, to display at once the wisdom and the goodness of the Creator. It comes into being at our birth, and never leaves us but with our breath. It animates the aged as well as the young, and glows in the bosom of the poor and wretched, as well as of the rich and joyous. It prompts to the exercise of our various faculties both of body and mind; sets the machinery of life at work, and keeps it in motion; nerves the arm of industry; urges on the innumerable enterprises of busy life; seeks out, from all the realms of nature, the various medical remedies by which disease may be removed from the system, or its progress checked; furnishes food, raiment, shelter, and the ten thousand comforts of civilized life; and puts far away, as much as the creature can, the hour of death and dissolution.

The prolongation of life is man's great business on earth. All ages, conditions, ranks, and races, toil to live. With a vast multitude it is the all engrossing thought. What shall we eat, and drink, and wear, and how shall we secure the necessaries of life, are the great questions of their being; the aim and end of all their thought and care and toil. We love to live, though in poverty, pain, and grief. No one loves to die. It is not natural to long

for death. It is only under the pressure of excruciating pain and heart rending grief, that the soul in its wretchedness cries out for death; and even then shrinks back from the near approach of the king of terrors. It is true of the Christian as well as of the infidel. "The grace of God, which bringeth salvation," does not extinguish the love of life, but quickens it rather. It makes the man alive to every duty-self-preservation, as well as selfrenunciation. He who has received this grace has more to live for, and has more reason to cherish the love of life; inasmuch as life is now more purely a joy ; is now enjoyed as never before; and inasmuch as he can now accomplish more by living. Death it is true, has no terror to him who abides under the shadow of the Almighty; it is robbed of its sting, and can no more injure him who has eternal life in possession. Yet it is not natural for the Christian, any more than for the unbeliever, to love to die. He may, and often does, have indescribable longings for the heavenly world; but still the love of life remains; it is not extinguished, but subdued, by the hope of a more exalted and glorious life beyond the grave. Nature still reigns within his breast, and points to the loved and fondly-cherished scenes and endearments of life, for which he is willing to bear the trials of this probationary period. To the saint as well as to the sinner life is dear.

While, however, the dread of dying and the love of living are. natural to the aged as well as to the young, it is to those who are in the midst of their days that life is peculiarly dear. None so ardently desire life as they, and none so instinctively shrink from the approach of death. It is to the illustration of this theme that I now design to call your earnest attention.

THE INTENSITY OF THE LOVE OF LIFE IN THE MIDDLE-AGED.

No definite limitation of this class can be given. The term of human life is endlessly various. Age is not always to be determined by years. Some reach their maturity at an early period, and are as old at five-and-twenty as others are at thirty years of age. Others are as young at sixty as some are at fifty. The lines which separate this class from the young manhood of life on the one hand. and old age on the other, are, like the lines of light which divide the night from the day, so imperceptibly shaded, that none can tell where the one ends and the other begins. Ordinarily it is our custom to speak of men as middle-aged, who have exceeded their thirty years, and still come short of fifty. An earlier period introduces the other sex into the same class, and also into the ranks of the aged. A very large proportion of our hearers, it will be seen, are to be enumerated among the middleaged. Let me hope for a patient, if not an earnest, hearing on a subject of great importance. What I wish to show is, that,

unwilling as mankind ordinarily are to leave the world and bid adieu to mortal life, none are so unwilling to die as those who are in the midst of their days; that with few exceptions the middle-aged are characterized by an intense love of life. This may be accounted for by the fact that they, more than others I. Have great confidence in the vitality of their physical frames.

Confidence is of slow growth. When we enter upon our earthly career, our experience is of course very limited. We know not what we can do, bear, or suffer, until we are put to the trial. We are distrustful of success, fearful of failure, and liable to be discouraged by unexpected difficulties. But, as we progress in our plans and pursuits, as we obtain more enlarged views, and more accurate, too, of our own powers, and of the world without, we become less fearful, and more confident. We learn that we can expose ourselves with impunity to the constantly-recurring vicissitudes of climate, or that we can guard against them. Each successive experiment gives us increased confidence in the endurance of our physical systems, and every year finds us more courageous, more venturous.

The very dangers through which we pass serve to make us more confident. In early life we were subjected, in common with others, to the numerous epidemics and diseases of childhood; but, through the kind providence of God, we passed safely through them all. A large number of our coevals were cut off, but we were spared. To us, and to our fond friends, it was an evidence of the strength of our constitutions, perhaps; of the great vigor of our bodies, and of their peculiar powers of endurance. In later years, too, death has entered our neighbourhood in the form of malignant fevers, contagious disorders, and deadly pestilence, and cut off our neighbours and friends; but had no power over us. Others died, and we lived. The plague comes not nigh unto us, or, if it does, we survive its assaults. A thousand fall at our side, and ten thousand at our right hand, but we escape.

This very fact, therefore, that we have passed through so many dangers, and overcome so many assaults of disease, increases vastly our confidence in the vitality of our physical system. We learn to laugh at danger, whether from disaster or disease. We become bold and fearless. We journey from place to place, and no harm befals us. Others are killed, but we are unharmed. The soldier who survives the battle-field; the sailor who survives the loss of his ship and its crew; the traveller who survives the wreck of a train of cars; and all, in short, who have been exposed to great peril, without damage to their own life or limbs, are apt to be hardened against the ordinary dangers to which they are subjected, and to look upon themselves as the possessors of a

charmed life. Every successive escape does but render them less apprehensive, and more confident of life. We, who have looked into the graves of a whole generation, who have outlived our juniors as well as our seniors and coevals, have become habituated to death. While the young are easily alarmed, and deeply impressed at the sudden decease of an intimate or other friend; and while the aged tottering on the brink of the grave, lay the matter to heart, we, who are in the midst of our days, are often but slightly affected, and scarcely at all alarmed for ourselves. It is in accordance with the laws of our intellectual natures, to look with comparative indifference on familiar objects, especially of terror or of danger. Familiarity, in this respect, breeds contempt. The sailor soon accustoms himself to the reeling mast, and learns to glory in the storm and the tempest, that fills the timid landsman with indescribable terror. The soldier learns to exult in the martial array of contending armies, to shout at the sight of blood, and to riot in the flashes and thunders of the dogs of war. On the same principle, the middle-aged rise above the ordinary apprehensions of death, and learn to confide in their own vitality-their own prospect of long life and health.

Their love of life is further strengthened by reason of the very obvious fact that they

II. Are most fully occupied with the concerns of the present life.

They who are in the midst of their days are emphatically the business people of the world. Year by year they have added to their cares and occupations, until their whole time and thoughts are demanded by business. They have been constantly advancing too, in the knowledge of their own powers, and of the world without, and increasing in the vigor both of body and mind. They have arrived at an age when they are expected to enjoy the full development of their energies. Now, if ever, they must do something.

The young are comparatively free from care and anxious thought. Life to them is all a balmy morning of the early summer, Unfettered with the galling chains of busy toil and anxious care, they give themselves, with a buoyant spirit, to the pursuits of pleasure, scarcely heeding what shall be on the morrow. They are easily directed, and ready for any and every change; from one round of amusements or recreations to another; from play to work from work to play.

But, as we advance in years, we become more and more accustomed to business, care, perplexity, toil. We embark in various attractive enterprises; lay out numerous plans for pecuniary advancement; enter upon schemes of considerable magnitude, requiring great energy of mind, close and fixed attention, and the absorption of all our powers; occupy ourselves with fore

casting our own lot and the lot of others also; assume burdens of no inconsiderable weight, and heavy responsibilities connected with public as well as private affairs; and scarcely know how to find a moment's leisure for domestic duties, or for the concerns of religion. As years increase, our knowledge also increases. We learn what we can accomplish. We gain confidence in our own powers. Every addition to our experience fits us the better to bear our part in the bustle and noise and stir of the busy world. A thousand avenues to wealth and fame are opened before us. We become sensible that, by intense application, we may rise to the enviable distinctions of social rank, and be numbered among the favoured children of fame and fortune. At least so we flatter ourselves. Our plans are laid. We set out to be rich; to be great; to be known, and read, and spoken of; to climb the ladder of ambition; to push our way through all difficulties, and over every obstacle; to distance all our competitors, and become the first in our callings, professions, and pursuits. However it may be abroad, it is so here. Whatever may be the state of the case in the obscure village, it certainly is the case in the opulent town, and in the swarming marts of trade. It is not for day or two, a year or so, but for the long years of middle life, that we lay ourselves out. Our schemes are not bounded by any very distinct lines, but extend onward through the long vista of coming years, laying all our resources of mind and body under contribution. We expect to retire from these all-engrossing cares and occupations, only when the grasshopper shall become a burden and desire shall fail.

As we advance into the midst of our days, we advance also in influence-in moral power. We take the place of our seniors, and become the principal pillars of the domestic, social, commercial, and political state. The young look up to us as their leaders, counsellors, guides, and exemplars. They seek our patronage, value our opinions, and respect our example. We give the tone to the coming age. The aged also, as they withdraw from the scenes of busy life, and seek in retirement the repose so long denied them, and the preparation for another world so long deferred, look back to us, their juniors of the next generation, to carry forward to completion their unaccomplished plans and enterprises. Go through these thoroughfares; enter your market-places, stores, shops, and counting-rooms; mingle with the crowd in the in the exchange, along the wharves, or in the halls of legislation and justice; join the hurrying throng that fill our steamers and railway cars, as they fly on the wings of the wind from town to town, from state to state, from the river to the sea, from continent to continent, and tell me who are they that compose these crowds, that give impulse to these quick-moving masses, that occupy the chief places in this wonderful panorama, so instinct with life? They are the middle-aged, the men and women of