From running the universe at thirty the man of forty finds himself
running with it, paced before, behind, and beside, by other runners and
by the very stars in their courses. He has struck the universal gait,
a strong steady stride that will carry him to the finish, but not among
the medals. This is an evil thing. Forty is a dangerous age. The
wild race of twenty, the staggering step of eighty, are full of peril,
but not so deadly as the even, mechanical going of forty; for youth has
the dash in hand; old age has ceased to worry and is walking in; while
the man of forty is right in the middle of the run, grinding along on
his second wind with the cheering all ahead of him.

In fact, the man of forty finds himself half-way across the street with
the baby carriage in his hands, and touring cars in front of him, and
limousines behind him, and the hand-of-the-law staying and steadying
him on his perilous course.

Life may be no busier at forty than at thirty, but it is certainly more
expensive. Work may not be so hard, but the facts of life are a great
deal harder, the hardest, barest of them being the here-and-now of all
things, the dead levelness of forty--an irrigated plain that has no
hill of vision, no valley of dream. But it may have its hill in
Hingham with a bit of meadow down below.

Mullein Hill is the least of all hills, even with the added stump; but
looking down through the trees I can see the gray road, and an
occasional touring car, like a dream, go by; and off on the Blue Hills
of Milton--higher hills than ours in Hingham--hangs a purple mist that
from our ridge seems the very robe and veil of vision.