THE Saxon government has undertaken an inquiry to solve the secret of old age, and in this pursuit has studied the life histories of seventy-three persons over ninety years old, living in the city of Dresden. The fruits of this investigation have been published and some of them are so appalling that only a strong journalistic instinct compels us to record them. The majority of the aged are of medium height. None of them is bald. A majority are deaf. All of them sleep eight or nine hours daily. Out of seventy only five are of serious disposition. These facts are not extraordinary. Lots of hair, good sleep, and a cheerful spirit are recognized as friends of health and wisdom. But what can we say of the other disclosures? It is a lamentable fact that nearly all these ancient souls abhor cleanliness. They wash their hands, but they are opposed to baths. Pure air has always been supposed to be an ally of good health and prolonged life. But these old rascals will none of it. Their rooms are seldom aired. They sleep in closed bedrooms. Most melancholy

fact of all, they are not total abstainers. One wicked old woman confessed that she couldn't live "unless she got drunk three times a week." The oldest man in Dresden, a man of one hundred years, likes a "little drink" on his birthdays. On the whole, though, the evidence in favor of alcohol as a preservative of life is not as strong as the evidence in favor of impure air and uncleanliness. That seems to be indisputable. The old fellows united in scorning ventilation and baths. Have the hygienic sharps been on the wrong track all these years? Has the race been really shortening the duration of life by sleeping in well-aired rooms and subjecting itself to the painful inconvenience of the bath? This is a matter that invites serious consideration. Perhaps the doctors would reply in the words of the familiar yarn: "How much older these people would be if they had bathed."

Finley Peter Dunne (“Mr. Dooley.")

GROW NOT OLD.

DOWNHILL the path of age? Oh, no!
Up, up with patient steps I go:

I watch the skies fast brightening there;
I breathe a sweeter, purer air.

Beat on, my heart, and grow not old!
And when thy pulses all are told,
Let me, though working, loving, still
Kneel as I meet my Father's will!

Louisa J. Hall.

LET US REMEMBER.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for ad

Is love,

we see them; but if you and I
Remember them, perhaps some by and by
They will not be

Faults then, grave faults, to you and me,
But just odd ways, - mistakes, or even less, —
Remembrances to bless.

BRAVE CHEER.

It is a relief to turn aside once in a while from the perennial duty of commending the good man to the diversion of praising the cheerful man. The cheerful man may or may not be an ornament to religion, but is he not a benefactor of his kind?

So long as there is life upon this planet the cheerful man will be popular. After all, he ought to be. He is a walking declaration that life is not a mistake. He is the vital principle made flesh. The principle of force rules the universe, and the cheerful man is simply force touched with geniality. Force touched with geniality becomes Providence. The cheerful man, indeed, is a minor providence.

He is a true son of the gods. There is more of the creative fire in him than in the lachrymose man whose reputation for righteousness may be appraised at a higher figure in the community. It appears to us that if he does not do more honor to his Maker, his demeanor is certainly more complimentary to Him.

The cheerful man incarnates the resolution that has made the development of humanity possible, the hopes that will pin it to this planet for a long time to come. Frivolous or shallow he is not. His is the strong combative nature that wins its joy from the sensation of victory. Within his heart are hope, courage, faith in the world, satisfaction with himself, and these are the weapons with which he takes arms against a sea of troubles. He does not lie down before fate, but buffets it right heartily.

We like him because he fights our battles as well as his own. He is the march music that starts up in front when the heavy-footed regiment begins to drag. So long as it is better to fight than to yield, to win than to lose, to live than to die, he will be favored of men and, as they hope, indulged of Heaven. What is it but an assertion of our divinity when we maintain that

The man worth while is the man who can smile
When everything goes dead wrong.

STANDS UP FOR SPINSTERS.

"Bob" Burdette replies to Miss Van Vorst.

REV. ROBERT J. BURDETTE waxes wroth over the statement of Miss Van Vorst that Jeanne d'Arc was the only old maid who ever accomplished anything. He writes:

"The gifted author had better quit writing so much and read a little more. Jeanne d'Arc is not so lonesome in the world of spinster achievement as all that. What is the matter with Queen Elizabeth, Helen Gould, Florence Nightingale, Sister Dora, Grace Darling, Clara Barton, Susan B. Anthony, Frances Willard, to say nothing of Jephtha's daughter and the Queen of Sheba? Is President Carey Thomas nobody? Is Jane Addams doing nothing?

"There is Flora MacDonald, who disguised 'Prince Charlie' in her petticoat and saved his life. What about Mary Russell Mitford, Joanna Baillie, and Miss Edgeworth? Charlotte Cushman was something that no married actress of her time approached.

"Talk about race suicide, Jeanne d'Arc's sole ambition in life was to destroy families of men as fast as other people could raise them. But other spinsters, while, of course, they have not been renowned for raising large families of their own, have been and are famed for taking care of the families of other people. Did you ever know an old maid who wasn't nurse, teacher, seamstress, and stepmother to all the children of her six married sisters, if she had so many?

"More are the children of the spinster than of the married wife,' saith the prophet. If all the women married and raised families who would take care of the children? A family without an old maid aunt is a rose garden without its perfume. And, speaking of spinsters, what's the matter with Miss Marie Van Vorst?"

FRANCIS PARKMAN, the distinguished historian, attained high rank as an author and student notwithstanding impaired health accompanied by partial blindness.

At last he was warned by his physician against insanity, and forbidden all literary labor.

The way in which he met the enemy was characteristic of his courage, cheerfulness, and common sense. Out of the most depressing circumstances he not only wrung a notable success in the conduct of his life, but contributed greatly to the happiness of others. He succeeded in horticulture without experience or training.

He nourished his cheerfulness in the most practical way. He avoided gloomy silence and often indulged in jocose exaggeration.

For instance, he invented a minister in Florida who was so ill-supported by his congregation that he had to eat crocodile eggs, which turned him into an amphibious divine.

Also a Miss Simpkins, who conducted a Sunday-school for young demons; as her pupils were rather restless, she passed their tails through holes in the bench and tied knots underneath.

During sleepless nights he often composed parodies, using these simple diversions as a mask for hiding his sufferings.