Now, said the Professor, you don’t mean to tell me that I have got to that yet? Why, bless you, I am several years short of the time when—[I knew what was coming, and could hardly keep from laughing; twenty years ago he used to quote it as one of those absurd speeches men of genius will make, and now he is going to argue from it]—several years short of the time when Balzac says that men are—most—you know—dangerous to—the hearts of—in short, most to be dreaded by duennas that have charge of susceptible females.—What age is that? said I, statistically.—Fifty-two years, answered the Professor.—Balzac ought to know, said I, if it is true that Goethe said of him that each of his stories must have been dug out of a woman’s heart. But fifty-two is a high figure. Stand in the light of the window, Professor, said I.—The Professor took up the desired position.—You have white hairs, I said.—Had ’em any time these twenty years, said the Professor.—And the crow’s-foot,—_pes anserinus_, rather.—The Professor smiled, as I wanted him to, and the folds radiated like the ridges of a half-opened fan, from the outer corner of the eyes to the temples.—And the calipers said I.—What are the _calipers_? he asked, curiously.—Why, the parenthesis, said I.—_Parenthesis_? said the Professor; what’s that?—Why, look in the glass when you are disposed to laugh, and see if your mouth isn’t framed in a couple of crescent lines,—so, my boy ( ).—It’s all nonsense, said the Professor; just look at my _biceps_;—and he began pulling off his coat to show me his arm. Be careful, said I; you can’t bear exposure to the air, at your time of life, as you could once.—I will box with you, said the Professor, row with you, walk with you, ride with you, swim with you, or sit at table with you, for fifty dollars a side.—Pluck survives stamina, I answered. The Professor went off a little out of humor. A few weeks afterwards he came in, looking very good-natured, and brought me a paper, which I have here, and from which I shall read you some portions, if you don’t object. He had been thinking the matter over, he said,—had read Cicero “De Senectute,” and made up his mind to meet old age half way. These were some of his reflections that he had written down; so here you have. THE PROFESSOR’S PAPER. There is no doubt when old age begins. The human body is a furnace which keeps in blast three-score years and ten, more or less. It burns about three hundred pounds of carbon a year, (besides other fuel,) when in fair working order, according to a great chemist’s estimate. When the fire slackens, life declines; when it goes out, we are dead.