THE VALUE OF EXERCISE.
LTO THE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR."]
Sin,—Those must be exceptionally-constituted persons who will not endorse the views of your correspondent (L. E. Scarth) last week. Almost every one who has done any real brain-work, or has lived with those who did, knows by experience that much physical exercise is incompatible with it; and incompatible in proportion as the brain-work is creative. It follows that great responsibility lies with those doctors who enjoin an excessive amount of exercise on all persons, irrespective of their mode of life, and more particularly on those who press it on the class of women likely to frequent lectures on sanitary reform.
The studious among our girls work now, as a role, even harder, in comparison to their brain-power, than their brothers do, owing to their being more eager and excitable. To insist on several hours of hard exercise daily in addition would be, I fear, to add frightfully to the amount of nervous disease already too rife among them. Doubtless, some amount of exer- cise of all the muscles is a necessity to health, but the amount varies so much in different constitutions, and with the amount taken out of them by mental work, that it is very dangerous to lay down fixed rules on the subject. What with lawn-tennis, riding, walking, gardening, &c., girls who do not use their brains often get eight hours of real exercise daily for the mere plea- sure of it. To exact any large proportion of that quantity from those who use their brains fully would soon produce exhaustion, and all the evils that ensue to the race from the
exhaustion of the physique of its women. The glow produced by gentle exercise on delicate persons and on those of sedentary habits is of the same kind as that produced by violent exercise on robust people. It means that the blood is circulating freely, the congested brain or other organs relieved, and the physical frame in a healthy state. Sufficient exercise to attain this object is, of course, necessary for everybody.
I believe that you hit the nail on the head, when you wrote that " to sit for an hour daily in the open air is the best restor- ative for persons who must lead sedentary lives." I should go farther, and say, let them do some of their work in the open air, or at least by an open window. We cannot live in the open air, as so many people do all the summer in countries that enjoy a drier climate ; but in England, it is possible to work on most days for some hours out of doors. Even in winter one can often read and write in a sheltered nook on the south side of a house during the middle of the day, provided one is wrapped up, and has the knees and ears well covered, wearing a slouch hat to protect the eyes from glare. Much health might even be gained from our London balconies, in the quieter parts of the town, if it were more habitual to use them.
Any one who tries a morning's reading or writing in the open air will feel no exhaustion, compared with what the same work indoors would have produced; and, moreover, he will feel the wish for exercise, as well as the power to take it, and will pace up and down his balcony, if he cannot get farther. (You speak contemptuously of " deck-pacing,"* but it is the natural resource of delicate persons, who know that though the walk out is refreshing, the return journey means exhaustion, and wisely accept an alternative, which enables them to stop before over- fatigue is involved.) A small conservatory is very helpful where a balcony is unattainable, or " le grand air " too much for the constitution. In either case, all that is wanted to make a comfortable, open-air study is a folding garden-chair, which throws up the knees so as to form a desk ; and a low stool, for inkstand, books, &c. Care should be taken to close the windows into the room behind, or draught is inevitable. What are called "French windows" are the most convenient, as being most easily opened from without.
Having had twenty-five years of invalidism, through working the brain and the body simultaneously, I hope you will not think these few words of warning superfluous.—I am, Sir, &c.,
A VICTIM TO EXERCISE.
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