our children, from the world's derision, scorn, and flagrant acts of reprehensible presumption."

Mr. Parvenew, on the termination of his speech, turned and quitted the room, leaving his wife in a pitiable condition of agitation. Surprise had given place to fear and respect, and now tears coursed down her cheeks; their flow was arrested only by the affectionate hand of Jane, who, while performing the loving office, mingled her own, and murmuringly whispered, as she led her mother from the room, "Come, mamma, come to рара!"

The change that took place in the Parvenews family was not happier in its results to them than it was to my self, for one of Mr. Parvenew's acts was to insist on my being disposed of, as I was intimately associated with one of his wife's "follies." Jane had only to suggest to her father the occasion of paying a delicate compliment to Miss Lingard, and he instantly entered into her scheme of presenting me as a loving gift to her dear friend Alice. It were needless to describe my own enchanted delight at | finding myself under the charge of her I had so long loved and admired. True, I quitted the Parvenews at the very time I was beginning to find them more worthy my interest, and Jane was awakening even a deeper sentiment; but then I knew I should often see the latter in her visits to the Lingards: besides, I was too happy to give way to regret, in the knowledge that I was now in the possession of one who so eminently appreciated me, and whose musical endowments so peculiarly befitted her to do So. Alice was as enthusiastic as myself; for the first few days she could scarcely be induced to quit me, and only did so without regret when she was called on to greet her father on his return in the evening from his daily labour.

Mr. Lingard and his daughter lived alone, and, I might say, lived solely for each other. The affection subsisting between them had nothing of the parental character in its conventional phase; there was, indeed, a reverential respect on the part of Alice for her father, but there was such an ease of companionship established, that it precluded anything like reserve. They saw but little society, for caring only for that which was of an intellectual and refined order, they were compelled to indulge only in a most limited circle. Thus my life in this family was a very quiet one, but I needed nothing to make me happier than I was in the case of Alice. My young mistress, how I loved her! How proud, how honoured I felt when touched by her! But not alone when she was playing on me I loved her always, and watched her blithe figure moving about, or listened to her discoursing with her father in the evening, finding in all and everything some fresh cause for an increase of love.

As I had imagined, I often saw Jane here, and each time remarked a greater improvement. There was a look of happiness on her face that shed on her whole person a species of beaming smile, imparting to her splendid eyes the life and animation that was all that had been wanting. Miss Lingard said to her one day, "Why, Jane, you look so different that I shall become quite amiable, for you never give me an occasion to scold you now."

"Indeed," retorted Jane, "I won't marry until you do, Alice."

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I was startled to see the sudden change of expression in Miss Lingard. Face and neck glowed with crimson emotion, and it was some time ere she recovered sufficiently to answer Jane's vehement demands for pardon at having thoughtlessly recalled an agitating subject. "Not at all, my dear Jane," said Alice at last, with almost all her wonted composure; my cousin Walter and I are under no engagement, and live only in the mutual trust of our tacitly understood affection. My father sent him to India as his principal banking agent, and I well know waits only for time and experience to develop Walter's character to permit the realisation of our hopes."

"And then you will leave us, Alice, and lead the life of a nabob's lady in that horrid climate," said Jane in a murmuringly sad tone.

"What! go to India and leave my father," exclaimed Alice. "Oh! Jane, what are you dreaming of?" "Indeed I don't know," replied the repentant Jane; "and, as I seem to have said nothing right to-day, I had better return home and endeavour to restore the equilibrium of my sensible faculties." And so saying, the honest-hearted, candid girl embraced her friend and took her departure.

THE PLAYHOUSE OF LIFE.

My eyes had been closed and my senses drowsy, as I sat in the playhouse of life, when it was whispered to me that "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." I awoke and looked: the curtain was up and the play was on. The stage was crowded with actors, but the drama seemed to have no plot; or, a hundred dramas, with as many differing plots, were being played at once, and intermingled with each other. Here was a lively episode-a marketing or frolicking, or squabbling; here a quiet scene-a group of idlers, a homely gathering, a solitary thinker, a lonely watcher. Here were two meeting with glowing smiles of welcome; here two parting with sorrowful glances. Around-a faction fight, a church filled with worshippers, a student's silent room, a drinking booth at a fair, a jovial entertainment, a hushed and darkened chamber; a company of merry youths; a band of careworn, grey-haired sires; a clown in cap and bells; a monk, counting beads in his cell; a preacher, fulminating from a pulpit; a scoffer, sneering from a pew; a troubled girl, her story of betrayal written in a face lined with despair; a furtive sinner, hiding from the sun-all had their place, and seemed to play their part; but the meaning of the play was unrevealed.

Now and again all was transformed. A shadow falling on the stage; some that had walked with righteous mien and looks constrained shrank from their company and joined the revellers; while some, who in the sunshine had revelled with the wildest, rose, looked troubled, and

betook themselves to action more sedate and sober.

One

would advance to the centre of a crowd, with firm tread and flashing eye, as though some mighty purpose stirred his soul; another trip lightly to his side, with sparkling cup or glittering bauble; the earnest purpose would dissolve in the flood of liberated appetite or lust; and the

promise withered in the bud. A jostling of the multi

tude, a heaving to and fro, the tempter and his prey swept out of sight, and some timid youth is thrust into the vacant place.. Suddenly the purpose all had fancied lost grows up within him, and the performance expected otherwise is made none comprehending. It was strange to see how some, designing evil, wrought only good, to their own chagrin; and how others, intending good, failed ever to do well. Sometimes 'twas sad, and sometimes reassuring, to observe how each seemed to act for himself and do what he would, and yet how some secret power controlled the deeds of all, weaving the million threads of diverse purpose and direction into a vast fabric of orderly and beautiful design.

I saw a slave, in manacles, lie grovelling beneath a hard-faced tyrant's whip. Shuddering with indignation, I looked around for sympathy. He who stood next to me was rising excitedly, but as I listened for his shout of rage, he cried out in admiration, applauding the tyrant's power. As thus I grieved and he rejoiced, another, seeing the same sight, burst into laughter, and, convulsed with merriment, pointed to the writhing face and limbs of the sufferer, which were to him, who saw not their cause, but so many grotesque contortions. Thus, what to me was tragic, to another was heroic, and to a third was farcical. I rose, and moved about the house-went up above, went down below; and at each change of place I saw a change of scene. What made me weep, seen from below, was food for laughter, seen from above; what seemed contemptible, viewed from an upper tier, moved my compassion, or admiring sympathy, when I stood upon its level. Strangely, too, did the lights and shadows change the semblance of the actors: the same form seeming grand and mean, the same face wise and foolish, the same position noble or revolting, as the light was strong or weak, and the shadows fell upon it from around. Thus it was that rarely two, witnessing the same exploit, or looking upon the same face, agreed to praise or blame.

Once, a simultaneous applauding shout burst from all parts of the playhouse, and all the spectators rose as once, giving voice to the thunderous acclaim. A hero stood in the midst of the stage, crushing with his foot a vanquished foe; waving in one hand a dripping, blood-red sword, holding aloft with the other the withered garland of liberty he had torn from the brow of him that lay stricken, and celebrating, with flow of eloquent words, the blessing and beauty of peace. I had seen the conqueror, not long before, crawl stealthily upon the outskirts of the throng, scorned by honest men and spurned by all; and I had seen his victim, amidst approving smiles, buy freedom for the slave whose suffering had moved me to grief and my neighbour to merriment. When I askedWhy all this praise?-the answer was like the tongues of Babel.

One said, the vanquished had been pestilent, disturbing order. Another said-no, he had meant well, but had failed; that he who failed in good did worse than he who made no effort; and that, being weak, he had deserved to fall. One said, the conqueror was the nobler of the two in form, in manner, in descent, in name. Another saidno, but he was more powerful, and might must win sucOne said, the conqueror was brave, and had well

cess.

At length, an impulse seized me to go among the players. Spurred by ambition, I stepped upon the stage, and moved amongst the crowd. But, instantly, all parts reversed, and their relations changed. The stage, on which I stood, rose, sank, extended, and formed, of itself, tier upon tier of seats; the auditorium, from which I had watched the play, fell into the form of a stage, and those who, with me, had gazed upon the players, now played in turn. Like a gay mirage, the drama, into which I sought to thrust myself, passed from me as I seemed to reach it, and still was opposite and apart. So, too, the people changed in look and character: faces that had won my heart fell off as masks, and in their places were left visages of fashion evil and repulsive; while masks that had made my soul revolt when seen from a distance now dropped, revealing features that won my simple adoration.

The play began again-now yonder, as before here. To and fro moved the hosts of men; plot met with counterplot; men achieved what they did not need, and failed to discover what they sought; and the puppets worked kindness, treachery, love, deceit, with the same disorderly regulation and admirable perplexity.

My mind was in a maze: I had seen too much. The notes were gladsome and sorrowful, cheerful and depressed, wildly gleeful and madly despairing, from the same instruments, in the same air, at the same instant. My absent, bewildered, inquisitive manner, natural to me, was mysterious to those around me, who had greeted me with friendly words and warm regard; and they fell from me, or passed me coldly by. Weary with a problem that I could not solve, I closed my eyes again; and, as the light faded, I remembered that, for the moral, one must wait till the end of the play.

THE WINE CUP.

FILL the wine cup, let life be One fair round of revelry; Raise it to our thirsting lips, Banish grief, whoever sips.

Fill the wine cup, pass it round: Can a truer friend be found? Always trusty, always sureSmiling on us, rich or poor.

Deck it not with gaudy gem, But with flowery diadem; Wreath around its smiling rim, Roses sweet and jasmine slim.

So that when the wine we quaff, Scented flowers around it laugh, And its end be like to ours; Pass away amid the flowers.

No. 5.-VOL. I.

TRUISMS ABOUT MIND AND BODY. WE claim no credit for the candour and modesty of the avowal that we are about to write truisms; but, on the other hand, we wish to escape the blame which is usually the righteous portion of those who write what everyone ought to know, and nobody can dispute. There is only one excuse for publishing truisms: it is the forgetfulness of men that they are true. A man whose business it is to write, would often prefer to give the reins to his fancy, or to indulge in new moral or political speculations. But it is frequently his humbler, wearier duty to deal with the mistakes and nonsense he hears around him, and to repeat, with unwelcome iteration, things which have been often said, and which were always obvious.

Perhaps on no subject has more rubbish been talked and written than on physical education, as it is now the fashion to denominate systematic bodily exercise. The nonsense is easily accounted for by the protracted dormancy of the topic. There have, perhaps, always been preceptors of youth and healers of maturer age, who have advocated and insisted on the continuous and complete exercise of the bodily faculties; but the world is proverbially unbelieving and disrespectful towards its Hopleys; and for a manner of life to be called a system, or inculcated on exact principles of sanatory conduct, is for it to be despised by the bulk of the educated community as only fit for valetudinarians and members of mutual improvement societies. Of late years, however, a school has arisen, and been nicknamed the school of Muscular Christianity. From its début dates the revival of "physical education ;" and, if you will remember what it was that the muscular Christians revealed to "this nineteenth century," you will understand how benighted the people of England were on physical subjects when it arose. Muscular Christianity revealed to us that it was a fine thing to be six feet high, and strong in proportion, and that the only atonement a short man could make to society for not being tall was to "peel" as well or rather better than the man of six feet, and to be able, under the influence of a powerful and of course proper feeling, to throw the tall bully, if he lifted his head and lied, or otherwise misbehaved himself, down stairs or out of the window. Well, you say, there's nothing very new in this. Englishmen have always admired physical prowess. They never had any special indisposition to "peel," and they were never conspicuous for peeling badly. And as to gentlemanly men of marvellous strength, have we not read of them in stories wherein Bulwer apotheosised dandyism? If this is your new evangel, Jasper in "What will he do with it?" must be a prototype of its finest examples. Not exactly. Bulwer's athletes were not conspicuous for a vein of latent but sterling piety, and his stories, therefore, never commended themselves to the hearts and homes of the English, as those of the Messrs.

PRICE 2D.

Kingsley and the author of "Sword and Gown" would, if, in addition to being muscular, their Christianity were a little more orthodox. Even in spite of its weakness on this head, their new form of religious teaching has greatly impregnated the public mind, and English gentlemen have "peeled" more eagerly, if not better, ever since Mr. Charles Kingsley and Tom Brown revealed to them that, so far from its being wrong to fight, and frivolous to row and race, such occupations were cæteris paribu very encouraging symptoms of being in a state of grace.

If you do not see here a fine soil and atmosphere for a rank growth of absurdity, you must have a faint and inadequate sense of human proneness to be absurd. Think, for a moment, how many times you have heard, since the first appearance of this physical theology, of "hitting straight out from the shoulder," and other favourite symbols of the new creed. Is there a reader of books who is not sick of this cant? Yet there was need of it. There is of everything; only people who believe so about black beetles, don't admit it as to human frailties and follies. Let us who now write and read these lines be more discerning. Let us understand how much a generation must have needed an impulse in the direction of athletic pursuits, which could find a new revelation in the nobleness of hitting out straight from the shoulder; and let us follow, with due attention to its merits, the further progress of the new "movement." There have always been gymnasiums, and the cult espoused by Mr. Kingsley led to their being more employed. A new pursuit being adopted by the jaded victims of civilization, there was a demand for the tools with which it must be followed. Just as croquet mallets and irons came into demand when croquet was invented, so gymnasiums were called for when men began to find out that, if they were to live in towns, they could not always be riding across country;" and that even if they were always riding across country it would not enable them to hit straight out from the right shoulder, or to "peel," if need were, to the admiration of all beholders. Gymnasiums arose at the universities and in many towns. In some places professional athletes opened them as speculations. In others, gentlemen amateurs established them as public institutions. In Liverpool, a gentleman amateur turned professional, or nearly so, and conducted a gymnasium with more than professional skill and more than amateur enthusiasm. Thus, once more, we had a fine soil and atmosphere for the production of absurdity. We were told in the press and in prize essays that the complete development of every muscle was essential to a healthy state of being, and that no man could pretend to be sound in mind while any portion of his frame was not in training.

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Any one who deprecated this view of matters as exagge rated, was charged with not only deliberately encourag

66

ing muscular atrophy," but assisting to keep mankind at a low state of mental and moral, as well as physical development. Nor was it so easy as some might think to rebut these accusations. If you set down an athlete as a man of strong body and no mind, it is very easy to "pooh pooh" him, or laugh at him, or pass him over; but if you come into conversation with him, you may find his nonsense a great deal like sense, and his supposed absence of intellect may bear an extraordinary resemblance to the power of advancing unanswerable arguments. The fact is that unless he derides mental cultivation-which of course no athlete admissible into society does-he is on very strong ground as compared with those who deride his pursuits, which, unfortunately, a great many intelligent people are in the constant habit of doing.

The other day, a highly intellectual and open-minded friend remarked to the writer-who, unfortunately, has nothing of the athlete in his composition, and was, therefore, expected to sympathise heartily-that a common acquaintance was another illustration of the fact that gymnastics weakened the brain. There was no truth either in the general principle or the particular illustra tion. The gentleman spoken of as an illustration of the weakness of the intellects of gymnasts, has no symptom of such weakness, except a one-ideaed enthusiasm on the subject of physical education, and a few eccentricities far more indicative of wayward vigour than of the languor and purposelessness of mental decay; while, notwithstanding an aversion to sedentary study, he keeps his mind so actively and incisively employed on men and things, that there is no subject not requiring (as art does) a special knowledge, on which, in conversational discussion, he could not hold his own creditably with the average of studious men. So much for the illustration. As to the general rule, there are no facts whatever from which any such induction could be drawn. Yet it is a common supposition that athletic exercises weaken the brain, and the prayer of Juvenal for a sound mind in a sound body is regarded as a very proper petition, supposing the gods were about to distribute afresh the blessings of life, but a hopeless one on the supposition that bodily soundness is to be prized as in any way contributing to health and vigour of mind. This is no new idea. People are apt to talk of the classic times and of classic devotion to athletic pursuits, as if all the classic centuries had the same manners, and as if Pindar lived in the same age as Cicero. If we glance, how ever, at the classic ages which were most productive of intellectual achievements, we shall find them very much like our own times. The Romans had little respect for bodily achievements, and those who excelled in them professionally were little better than our prize-fighters. In their great writings we have read remarks more extravagantly depreciatory of bodily prowess than any writer of our time was guilty of, even before the muscular Christians discovered the virtue of hitting out straight from the shoulder. Sallust reminds his readers that they share body with the beasts, while they share mind with the gods-a saying not less at variance with athletic ideas than inferior to the remarkable Christian sentiment that the body should be kept pure and sound, because it is the temple of divinity. Cicero speaks of corpus with undisguised contempt, and advises his readers not to think of it, but of the divinity which animates its frail substance, and which directs it as absolutely as the Supreme Being governs the perishing universe-"ut mundum ex quâdam parte mortalem ipse Deus æternus, sic fragile

corpus animus sempiternus movet." Nay, such slight regard has Cicero for the body, that he descends to a gross and transparent quibble in order to exalt the mind by comparison. "Corpora quidem defatigatione," says he, "et exercitatione ingravescunt; animi autem exercitando levantur"-as if it could be for a moment maintained that the mind is not amenable to the same law of fatigue as the body, and becomes just as heavy and jaded by over-exercise. Ovid, again, is careful to tell us that the mind can even communicate health to the body; but he glories over athletes as utterly inferior and mindless beings. The strongest prejudices of the present day against athletic pursuits could hardly find more emphatic expression than he gave them by anticipation; and Dryden entered con amore into his spirit when he thus translated and amplified his lines:

:

"Thy boisterous hands are then of use when I
With this directing head those hands apply.
Brawn without brain is thine; my prudent care
Foresees, provides, administers the war.
Thy province is to fight, but when shall be
The time to fight the king consults with me.
No dram of judgment with thy force is joined ;
Thy body is of profit and my mind.

By how much more the ship her safety owes
To him who steers, than him who only rows;
By how much more the captain merits praise,
Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys;
By so much greater is my worth than thine,
Who canst but execute what I design.
What gain'st thou, brutal man, if I confess
Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less?
Mind is the man; I claim my whole desert

From the mind's vigour and th' immortal part."

If we read this apart from its argument, which we probably may, as the poet's opinion on the relative value of body and mind, it must immediately occur to us that there was just as much proneness to nonsense in Ovid's time, and in Dryden's, as there is in ours, and common sense will at once suggest the truism that, whatever a sickly and mor bid poet may say, a man must be all the better mentally for having a sound body. There are minds which wear out bodies as surely as a hand of iron would wear out a glove of silk, or dissolve them as surely as a heart of fire would melt a body of ice. But these are rare cases. The common-sense rule as to the majority is, that a man will be better able to work efficiently with his mind if his body is in good health. So long as exercise, therefore, contributes to bodily health, without engrossing the attention or producing inordinate fatigue, exercise contributes to mental efficiency. But it may go far beyond that point without lessening a man's mental soundness. For we ought to escape the common error that it is essential for a man's well-being that his mind should be thoroughly up to the work he has to do. Many of us work a great deal too much, and although it may be practically inevitable that a barrister or a newspaper editor should do his work, whatever number of hours it takes him, and however unhealthily those hours may be arranged, it is equally inevitable that he must do a great portion of his work in a highly morbid state of body and mind. Everyone who has been so placed knows the luxurious sort of unhealthiness that comes upon a man at work in the dead of night, when he knows he ought to be in bed, but when he can only bring himself to rejoice that other people are; when his eyes feel as if they were burning the paper on which he writes, and when the reflection that his wife or mother is lying awake mourning that he is sapping his constitution, does not sensibly lessen his delight at the feeling that he is getting through

more work than he ever did in three times the duration of regular office hours. Now when this man goes to bed, he tosses about restlessly, and probably sees all sorts of creatures floating before his eyes, and undergoing innumerable horrid transformations. You cannot pretend that the state in which he has been working is healthy; yet it is while it lasts the finest for mental efficiency, and as a matter of business it is rather coveted than avoided by hundreds of over-wrought professional men in these high-pressure days. Just as the morbid acuteness of a little London street Arab, though arising out of thorough unhealthiness, is priceless to him as a means of getting along, so unwholesome brilliancy, when found in a literary or legal man's mind, is none the less acceptable, in a business point of view, for being the result of an abnormal condition of body and mind.

Now what can gymnastics do for such men? Objectors say that if they kept their bodies in sound training their minds would wither. Gymnasts say that, on the contrary, their minds would enjoy a continual strength and elasticity, which would enable them to get through their work with far greater rapidity, ease, and comfort. Both are wrong. There is no intrinsic tendency in gymnastics to weaken the intellect. Instances, public and private, are too numerous to quote of men who are engaged on the highest and hardest intellectual work, and who constantly exercise their bodies. When you point to the shallowness and narrowness of the minds of athletic enthusiasts, you forget that the same is true of actors, cricketers, chessplayers, musicians, and all others who devote themselves to one pursuit. It is not that gymnastics or music or chess weakens the brain; it is that when a man is really intellectual he does not give himself up exclusively or conspicuously to any such pursuit, and that the fact of a man being an enthusiastic amateur in any one thing, almost always proves either that his mind is of small calibre, or that from laziness or inertness he is letting its faculties lie idle. But it would be most rash and contrary to speak even thus of men whose devotion to gymnastics takes a public spirited turn; for, undoubtedly, the bent of this generation is so largely to unhealthy inaction, that it is a service to the community, of which an intellectual man may well be proud, to give a better inclination to our manner of life. It would be equally unjust to say that ardent gymnastic amateurs are not intellectually successful in the professions in which they are employed. Men actively engaged in the most intellectual professions have no time for such pursuits, even were this the only argument against their engaging in them; but in clerkships, commerce, and general trade, the best amateur athletes are, as a matter of fact—and the writer now speaks from knowledge-almost invariably rising and successful men. Nay, go into the professional ranks, and you will still fail to find proof that gymnasts are stupid or mindless. If a runner or a prize-fighter comes from the bricklayer, bargee, or navvy class, he is generally superior in intelligence to other men of his original grade; if he comes from any more elevated rank, his descent from it is proof enough that he never had a mind which gymnastics or anything else could much deteriorate.

So much for the allegation that if a man engaged in a mental occupation took to gymnastics, his brain would suffer. But it is equally nonsensical to say that such a man would find a hearty participation in gymnastics an assistance in his work. This is mainly a matter of constitution, and every one must judge for himself; but the majority of men who really work hard with the mind will

find that, for purely physical reasons, very quiet and moderate exercise will best harmonise, not with their health in a beau ideal point of view, but with such health as is consistent with the sort of work to which the exigencies of life condemn them. A brisk walk home by moonlight, or a good ride before breakfast, is derided by the prize essays as a very poor and inefficacious sort of physical culture; but depend upon it such an amount and kind of exercise is much more consistent with hard mental work than thorough gymnastic practice, except in excep|tional cases of very strong physique. But mark, the writer advises this, not because he thinks bodily exercise soddens or weakens the mind, but simply because, being of a constitution which may be esteemed among sedentary men an average one, and knowing many men similarly constituted, he has found that a good deal of athletic exercise is usually accompanied by great physical incapacity for mental exertion—if an expression may be used, though seemingly absurd, in order exactly to express an important distinction.

The principle just laid down applies only to people who work seriously with their brains, but a modification of it applies to many others who may be tempted to take sys. tematic gymnastic exercise.

Every one admits that there is such a thing as overtraining. We all suppose that it leads both in men and horses to consumption; and the melancholy failure of Heenan, in his last combat with King, was considered an example of its injurious effects. It should be equally evident, then, that what in extreme cases produces these effects, must in a lesser degree operate in many others. Grant that it is impossible for men engaged in ordinary avocations to live in that condition in which a prize-fighter is affectionately described as "beautiful," and technically as "fit," and you have already conceded that many persons who are training themselves to a much less extent, are taking more exercise than their constitutions will stand. The phrase we have just used is one that will never be expelled from the language by any amount of athletic indignation, for it expresses an indubitable truth. No impartial man can deny that exercise may be carried to such an extent as to damage even a very strong constitution. It follows that the damage derivable from excessive exercise varies indefinitely with the strength of the constitution and the nature and the amount of the exercise. The majority of men being strong enough, and having average good health, may take any amount of exercise in reason, and will probably suffer no worse inconvenience than a disposition for sleep, and an indisposition for study. But there must be a great many to whom very gentle gymnastics will prove amply sufficient, and whose muscular powers could not be greatly increased except at the expense of the vital force. To both classes of men, and to the many grades between them, a perfectly managed gymnasium may be of genuine service. But let weak and unmuscular men beware of the certaminis gaudium, of the wish to make muscle, and of the natural tendency of "gymnasiarchs"-the pen has not refused its office, and the word is written-to render their pupils' arms, shoulders, and chests a credit to their establishments. Over exercise produces a generally jaded condition of body, and in this condition gymnastics act as an excitement, a support, | a physical renovation. Acccordingly, when men are in this condition, they constantly crave for bodily exercise, and think themselves vastly benefited by the effect it has upon them. But it may be said, without hesitationdifficult as it is to predicate anything certainly as to the