tinguished him but for a slight scar on his brow--so completely is
his apparent personal identity lost, that it would be impossible for him
to establish an _alibi_. He sees a figure in the mirror above the
chimney-piece, but has not the slightest suspicion that the rosy-faced
Bacchanal is himself, the water-drinker; but then he takes care to
imitate the manual exercise of the phantom--lifting his glass to his
lips at the very same moment, as if they were both moved by one soul.

The Doctor then wisely remarks, that it is "impossible to lay down any
rule by which to regulate the number of miles a man may journey in a
day, or to prescribe the precise number of ounces he ought to eat; but
that nature has given us a very excellent guide in a sense of lassitude,
which is as unerring in exercise as the sense of satiety is in eating."

We say the Doctor wisely remarks, yet not altogether wisely; for the
rule does not seem to hold always good either in exercise or in eating.
What more common than to feel oneself very much fatigued--quite done up
as it were, and unwilling to stir hand or foot. Up goes a lark in
heaven--tira-lira--or suddenly the breezes blow among the clouds, who
forthwith all begin campaigning in the sky, or, quick as lightning, the
sunshine in a moment resuscitates a drowned day--or tripping along, all
by her happy self, to the sweet accompaniment of her joy-varied songs,
the woodman's daughter passes by on her way, with a basket in her hand,
to her father in the forest, who has already laid down his axe on the
meridian shadow darkening one side of the straight stem of an oak,
beneath whose grove might be drawn up five-score of plumed chivalry!
Where is your "sense of lassitude now, nature's unerring guide in
exercise?" You spring up from the mossy wayside bank, and renewed both
in mind and body, "rejoicing in Nature's joy," you continue to pass over
houseless moors, by small, single, solitary, straw-roofed huts, through
villages gathered round Stone Cross, Elm Grove, or old Monastic Tower,
till, unwearied in lith and limb, you see sunset beautifying all the
west, and drop in, perhaps, among the hush of the Cottar's Saturday
Night--for it is in sweet Scotland we are walking in our dream--and know
not, till we have stretched ourselves on a bed of rushes or of heather,
that "kind Nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep," is yet among the number
of our bosom friends--alas! daily diminishing beneath fate or fortune,
t