ul, I presume. Yes, it
must be the soul that raps out the 'Quick march!' to the body.--'Halt!
Stand at ease!' interposes the brain, and 'To what destination,'
it suavely asks the soul, 'and on what errand, are you sending the
body?'--'On no errand whatsoever,' the soul makes answer, 'and to no
destination at all. It is just like you to be always on the look-out for
some subtle ulterior motive. The body is going out because the mere fact
of its doing so is a sure indication of nobility, probity, and rugged
grandeur of character.'--'Very well, Vagula, have your own wayula! But
I,' says the brain, 'flatly refuse to be mixed up in this tomfoolery.
I shall go to sleep till it is over.' The brain then wraps itself up
in its own convolutions, and falls into a dreamless slumber from which
nothing can rouse it till the body has been safely deposited indoors
again.

Even if you go to some definite place, for some definite purpose, the
brain would rather you took a vehicle; but it does not make a point of
this; it will serve you well enough unless you are going for a walk. It
won't, while your legs are vying with each other, do any deep thinking
for you, nor even any close thinking; but it will do any number of small
odd jobs for you willingly--provided that your legs, also, are making
themselves useful, not merely bandying you about to gratify the pride
of the soul. Such as it is, this essay was composed in the course of
a walk, this morning. I am not one of those extremists who must have a
vehicle to every destination. I never go out of my way, as it were, to
avoid exercise. I take it as it comes, and take it in good part. That
valetudinarians are always chattering about it, and indulging in it to
excess, is no reason for despising it. I am inclined to think that in
moderation it is rather good for one, physically. But, pending a time
when no people wish me to go and see them, and I have no wish to go
and see any one, and there is nothing whatever for me to do off my own
premises, I never will go out for a walk.

QUIA IMPERFECTUM 1918.

I have often wondered that no one has set himself to collect unfinished
works of art. There is a peculiar charm for all of us in that which was
still in the making when its maker died, or in that which he laid aside
because he was tired of it, or didn't see his way to the end of it, or
wanted to go on to something else. Mr. Pickwick and the Ancient Mariner
are valued friends of ours, but