CHAPTER I

MYSELF


"My house, my affairs, my ache and my religion--"


I was fifty years old to-day. Half a century has hurried by since I
first lay in my mother's wondering arms. To be sure, I am not old; but I
can no longer deceive myself into believing that I am still young. After
all, the illusion of youth is a mental habit consciously encouraged to
defy and face down the reality of age. If, at twenty, one feels that he
has reached man's estate he, nevertheless, tests his strength and
abilities, his early successes or failures, by the temporary and
fictitious standards of youth.

At thirty a professional man is younger than the business man of
twenty-five. Less is expected of him; his work is less responsible; he
has not been so long on his job. At forty the doctor or lawyer may still
achieve an unexpected success. He has hardly won his spurs, though in
his heart he well knows his own limitations. He can still say: "I am
young yet!" And he is.

But at fifty! Ah, then he must face the facts! He either has or has not
lived up to his expectations and he never can begin over again. A
creature of physical and mental habit, he must for the rest of his life
trudge along in the same path, eating the same food, thinking the same
thoughts, seeking the same pleasures--until he acknowledges with grim
reluctance that he is an old man.