It seems to me that the constructive age of man begins when he has
passed fifty. Not until then can he be a master builder. As I sped past
the fifty-fifth milestone life itself became better, broader, fuller. My
plans were wider, the distances I wanted to go stretched before me,
beyond the normal strength of an average lifetime. This I knew, but
still I pressed on, indifferent of the speed or strain. There were
indications that my strength had not been dissipated, that the years
were merely notches that had not cut deep, that had scarcely scarred the
surface of the trunk. The soul, the mind, the zest of doing--all were
keen and eager.

The conservation of the soul is not so profound a matter as it is
described. It consists in a guardianship of the gateways through which
impressions enter, or pass by; it consists in protecting one's inner
self from wasteful associations.

The influence of what we read is of chief importance to character. At
the beginning of 1888 I received innumerable requests from people all
over New York and Brooklyn for advice on the subject of reading. In the
deluge of books that were beginning to sweep over us many readers were
drowned. The question of what to read was being discussed everywhere.

I opposed the majority of novels because they were made chiefly to set
forth desperate love scrapes. Much reading of love stories makes one
soft, insipid, absent-minded, and useless. Affections in life usually
work out very differently. The lady does not always break into tears,
nor faint, nor do the parents always oppose the situation, so that a
romantic elopement is possible. Excessive reading of these stories makes
fools of men and women. Neither is it advisable to read a book because