What became of him I never knew; but the one certain thing about him was, that he had not nerves which could be expected to stand the stress of life for its ordinary term.
There are physicians who are much to blame in the counsel they give to persons who place themselves under artificial conditions for the sake of study.
When I was young, and under a course of hard literary work, a physician said to me one day in my study:
“You have a convenient cupboard there, at your elbow. You ought to keep a bottle of hock and a glass there (I would not recommend an alcoholic-wine). You should help yourself with a glass of hock when you feel exhausted—say, by eleven o’clock at night, or when you feel a sinking.”
“No, I thank you,” said I. “If I begin with a glass by myself, will you warrant my not getting on to a bottle? Cold water is my restorative; only that I never want one, beyond regular meals.”
What would not a physician have had to answer for who should have advised the West Point student to chew tobacco? And how much less rash is it to recommend a recourse to wine in solitude, as a consequence of preceding intemperance in study? If some physicians were more careful in their advice, no one perhaps could say, as a London literary clergyman said to me twenty years ago,—that he did not know one single author except our two selves who did not resort habitually to some sort of stimulant or sedative,—strong coffee or tea, snuff, wine, or spirits, or opium in some form,—as a necessity of student life. We may hope that the intervening twenty years have made a great difference; but the true preventive—muscular exercise, securing good digestion and circulation—is not nearly so much valued as it will be hereafter.
Here comes in the question, how much of the day may be given to study—book and pen-work—without injury to health?
It would be absurd to offer any precise answer to this, because much depends on individual constitution and intellectual habit, and much more on the way in which the rest of the day is spent.
As to the constitutional and habitual differences—we have seen how Eichhorn lived; and a good many scholars have approached very near to him in devotion to books. Dr. Chalmers tried, above a quarter of a century since, to induce me to promise that I would not write, nor study, more than two hours per day. He said, he had tried various proportions; and that he was satisfied nobody could write or study more without injury. He was right to confine himself to that limit, under such an experience: but the case might be, and is, very different to others. I had to reply to a similar remark from Dr. Channing afterwards. He was about to write an essay when I was his guest in Rhode Island, and he told me that he could not keep well enough to write at all if he did not stop at the end of every hour, and walk round the garden or converse with the family. I could not promise what either adviser wished, for the fact is, I have never felt seven or eight hours’ continuous work too much; and moreover have always found that, up to this limit, each hour was worth about two of the preceding. It is a matter in which no one can lay down a rule for another. Due provision being made for the exercise of other faculties than those engaged in study, the student must decide for himself how soon he ought to quit his desk.
The preliminary arrangements are very simple. Good meals at moderate intervals, and the stomach left at rest between. Some interval—an interval of active exercise is best—between books and food. A leisure hour for dinner, and cheerful conversation after it. A short nap, for those who need or like it, after dinner. Light occupation in the evening—literature, or correspondence, with more or less social intercourse, music, or other recreation. These are each and all highly desirable; but the most indispensable of all is strenuous and varied bodily exercise.
Many men believe, even now, that they are fully discharging their duty by quitting their books an hour or so before dinner; buttoning up their coat, taking their umbrella, and going forth for a constitutional walk. A man who goes out in this way, alone, along a familiar stretch of road, and unable to escape from the same thoughts he has been engaged with all the morning, had really better be asleep at home. His brain would get more varied action by sleep than by such exercise as this.
A man who does nothing more or better than this for his muscles, and the part of the brain which is appropriate to them, will find but few dinners which he can digest. He must not touch this or that which he sees other people enjoying. After dinner he cannot sit upright or get any ease for hours. He craves an easy chair or a sofa; and if they relieve his back, there is still the miserable uneasy stomach,—the headache, the spell of troubled and anxious sleep. Then tea and coffee make him sleepless; yet he does not know how to do without them. Then follows the night, with nightmare, fearful dreams, intellectual labour without any fruit but nonsense; or a leaden sleep which portends a morrow lost for study, or strongly unfavourable to it. What moral trials attend a suffering of this kind I need not show.
All considerate and good-natured people are ready to make allowance for the moods and tempers of a dyspeptic man; but the most generous treatment cannot give him self-respect under his frailties, nor such affection from those about him as is enjoyed by the amiable and cheerful friend who is not at the mercy of his own moods.
It is now the middle-aged student only (or chiefly) who can do nothing for exercise but walk. Boys and young men can either ride or row, or play cricket or fives. Those who cannot may derive much increased benefit from their walks, if the exercise is not expressly one merely for health’s sake, but for some ulterior object; and if the object be benevolent the gain is great. Active business is a good antagonism to close study; and if the business be in the service of others, so much the more complete is the truce to besetting thoughts.
