My lady’s cheek can boast no more
  The cranberry white and pink it wore;
  And where her shining locks divide,
  The parting line is all too wide——­

No, no,—­this will never do.  Talk about men, if you will, but spare the poor women.

We have a brief description of seven stages of life by a remarkably good observer.  It is very presumptuous to attempt to add to it, yet I have been struck with the fact that life admits of a natural analysis into no less than fifteen distinct periods.  Taking the five primary divisions, infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, old age, each of these has its own three periods of immaturity, complete development, and decline.  I recognize an old baby at once,—­with its “pipe and mug,” (a stick of candy and a porringer,)—­so does everybody; and an old child shedding its milk-teeth is only a little prototype of the old man shedding his permanent ones.  Fifty or thereabouts is only the childhood, as it were, of old age; the graybeard youngster must be weaned from his late suppers now.  So you will see that you have to make fifteen stages at any rate, and that it would not be hard to make twenty-five; five primary, each with five secondary divisions.

The infancy and childhood of commencing old age have the same ingenuous simplicity and delightful unconsciousness about them that the first stage of the earlier periods of life shows.  The great delusion of mankind is in supposing that to be individual and exceptional which is universal and according to law.  A person is always startled when he hears himself seriously called an old man for the first time.

Nature gets us out of youth into manhood, as sailors are hurried on board of vessels,—­in a state of intoxication.  We are hustled into maturity reeling with our passions and imaginations, and we have drifted far away from port before we awake out of our illusions.  But to carry us out of maturity into old age, without our knowing where we are going, she drugs us with strong opiates, and so we stagger along with wide open eyes that see nothing until snow enough has fallen on our heads to rouse our comatose brains out of their stupid trances.

There is one mark of age that strikes me more than any of the physical ones;—­I mean the formation of Habits.  An old man who shrinks into himself falls into ways that become as positive and as much beyond the reach of outside influences as if they were governed by clockwork.  The animal functions, as the physiologists call them, in distinction from the organic, tend, in the process of deterioration to which age and neglect united gradually lead them, to assume the periodical or rhythmical type of movement.  Every man’s heart (this organ belongs, you know, to the organic system) has a regular mode of action; but I know a great many men whose brains, and all their voluntary existence flowing from their brains, have a systole and diastole as regular as that of the heart itself.  Habit is the approximation of the animal system to the organic.  It is a confession of failure in the highest function of being, which involves a perpetual self-determination, in full view of all existing circumstances.  But habit, you see, is an action in present circumstances from past motives.  It is substituting a vis a tergo for the evolution of living force.