somehow, the incredible seniority of an antediluvian seemed his. Not the
years of the calendar wholly, but also the years of sapience. His white
hairs and mild brow, spoke of the future as well as the past. He seemed
to be seven score years old; that is, three score and ten of prescience
added to three score and ten of remembrance, makes just seven score
years in all.

But when Israel stepped within the chamber, he lost the complete effect
of all this; for the sage's back, not his face, was turned to him.

So, intent on his errand, hurried and heated with his recent run, our
courier entered the room, inadequately impressed, for the time, by
either it or its occupant.

"Bon jour, bon jour, monsieur," said the man of wisdom, in a cheerful
voice, but too busy to turn round just then.

"How do you do, Doctor Franklin?" said Israel.

"Ah! I smell Indian corn," said the Doctor, turning round quickly on his
chair. "A countryman; sit down, my good sir. Well, what news? Special?"

"Wait a minute, sir," said Israel, stepping across the room towards a
chair.

Now there was no carpet on the floor, which was of dark-colored wood,
set in lozenges, and slippery with wax, after the usual French style.
As Israel walked this slippery floor, his unaccustomed feet slid about
very strangely as if walking on ice, so that he came very near falling.