every 58, before that period, one in every 46 persons annually. In Germany, since 1825, one in every 45. In the Roman States, which in this and in many other instances afford the lowest (and highest) number in statistical inquiry of the states of Europe, we find one death in 28. Turning to Asia, we have in Bombay one in every 20.

But these inquiries have made us to deviate slightly from our track. How long ought we to live? That is the great question. Individual instances, those of Parr, Jenkins, Cornaro, and many others amongst the moderns, and the patriarchs of the lower age only-amongst the ancients, prove that a greater age has in individual instances been constantly attained. Thomas Parr, a Shropshire labourer, lived till he was 150. He was an abstemious man, and of very strong make. He married firstly at 80, secondly at 120. Golour M‘Crain, of the Isle of Jura, who died in the reign of Charles I., is said to have kept 180 Christmases in his own house, and was the oldest man on record for upwards of 3000 years. Henry Jenkins, produced as a witness in a court of law, swore to a hundred and fifty years' memory: he died at 169, or thereabouts. The old Countess of Desmond was known by Sir Walter Raleigh, yet she had lived in Edward the Fourth's time. Lord Bacon sums up her age to have been 140 at the least. He adds, ter per vices dentisset -she had cut three sets of teeth. Galen, the physician,

lived till he was 140.

lived till he was 120.

Platerus tells us that his grandfather When Sir Walter Raleigh discovered

Guiana he saw an old king of Aromaia who was then 110

years of age, and who had come to see him, the same morning, fourteen miles on foot.

In our own modern times we could-should we not tire our readers-quote very many instances of centenarians, and of those of greater ages. Upon some one disputing the fact, a prominent newspaper was overwhelmed with instances. Certainly, at the very least, the "threescore years and ten" span of life is continually exceeded. In the obituary of The Times, 8th December, 1859, 'there were nine deaths of an average of 85 years each. On the 19th of the same month, taking the paper hap-hazard, we find seven deaths giving an average of above 80 years each. The males in these predominate over the females. These instances of longevity are so common that every now and then The Times calls attention to its obituary by a paragraph. Of a score or so of the peers of England who died during 1859, the united ages of sixteen amounted to 1229 years, giving an average of 76 years to each. Our hereditary legislators generally live to a great age; so do our clergy: our artists are short-lived, our literary men still shorter.

The only secrets of long life appear to be temperance, sobriety, chastity-three virtues strongly inculcated by the Christian religion. Calmness and evenness of temper, faith and its concomitants, cheerfulness and hope, are great conducers to a long life, and also to a happy one. The old adage of a short life being a merry one is very false.

Accidents excepted, the short lives are generally the most miserable; the shortest lives on the average being those of the over

S

worked factory people. Neither drunkards nor gluttons, nor the idle, dissolute, and lazy, can hope legitimately for length of days. Cornaro, who was wild in his youth, lived to a great age by reforming his excess, and eating so little that at last an egg per day sufficed him. The rich man, says Sir W. Temple, who wishes to live happily, must live like a poor one. Reflecting that in our society, since the invention of cooking, each of us eats annually fourteen hundred and sixty meals—not counting luncheons—in the course of the year, it behoves us to eat sparingly. Many of us, too many, dig our graves with our teeth, according to the old saying. But, did we prize life as we ought, did we use our time as we should, there is little doubt but that, as we have shown, we should be able not only to render human life more worthy of its allwise Creator, but also to extend the sum of our existence very materially. And who will deny but that life in any state or class is a blessing which we may all legitimately desire to prolong?

::

SOMETHING SUPERIOR.

T is not without reason, as it is fit that it should not be, that our pastors and masters are continually preaching to us the necessity of being humble and lowly. It is, perhaps, not a very pleasant thing to insist on, but there is hardly one of us who does not wish that he were somewhat higher than he is. Women wish it as a matter of course; their ambition being, as a rule, greater than man's. A man may, as an exception, be content to be nothing; a woman never is and never can be she worships and loves power, rises more easily into it than man, and when in power bears herself better than man. Writers of comedy and of novels have often drawn pictures of very vulgar, coarse women, and no doubt there are many such. But woman is neither so coarse, nor so vulgar, nor so awkward as man; that is to say, a great big girl is not so awkward as a hobbledehoy; nor is a grown-up woman so coarse as a man in the same circumstances; and even in the midst of their coarseness some of these women will give a genuine touch of love and feeling which will make a man forgive them for their want of politeness. If a woman has had,

in society or elsewhere, any chance of observing what good manners really are, she at once catches at them, because she at once perceives how gracious really good manners are, and also because she wishes to rise above her level.

But, rise as high as we can-we men or women-we shall always find at a point above us certain "superior" people. You constantly hear and see such people. They are perhaps not so rich, so good-looking, nor so clever as yourself, but they are "superior people." They are born such, and such. they continue. It is not because their birth is high, or their connections are high, although they always make believe that they have a little of both of these advantages; nor that their power is actually greater-but there they are. If you are an author, you will find such men hard-hearted, cruel, and often very stupid critics, who multiply faults, and who are quite blind to beauties—but who habitually look down on the writer. They have the entry everywhere: you have not. They have never written a clever book: you have: they meet you at a party and patronize you, that is all. They are at all Literary Fund dinners; they take the chair at charities; their names are mentioned in the papers; and you are— nowhere! It is the same in all the ranks of life.

Now this is sadly annoying. It is all the more so because it is so true. It is only the old story over again of the Preacher's lament, that the race was not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that time and chance have happened and will happen to all men.

In Mr. Trollope's story of the Small House at Allington,