r part of mankind are so far from
perfect moral or physical religion that they cannot even form a
conception of the blessing beyond them.

The mass of good, well-meaning Christians are not yet advanced enough to
guess at the change which a perfect fidelity to Christ's spirit and
precepts would produce in them. And the majority of people who call
themselves well, because they are not, at present, upon any particular
doctor's list, are not within sight of what perfect health would be.
That fulness of life, that vigorous tone, and that elastic cheerfulness,
which make the mere fact of existence a luxury, that suppleness which
carries one like a well-built boat over every wave of unfavorable
chance,--these are attributes of the perfect health seldom enjoyed. We
see them in young children, in animals, and now and then, but rarely, in
some adult human being, who has preserved intact the religion of the
body through all opposing influences. Perfect health supposes not a
state of mere quiescence, but of positive enjoyment in living. See that
little fellow, as his nurse turns him out in the morning, fresh from his
bath, his hair newly curled, and his cheeks polished like apples. Every
step is a spring or a dance; he runs, he laughs, he shouts, his face
breaks into a thousand dimpling smiles at a word. His breakfast of plain
bread and milk is swallowed with an eager and incredible delight,--it is
_so good_, that he stops to laugh or thump the table now and then in
expression of his ecstasy. All day long he runs and frisks and plays;
and when at night the little head seeks the pillow, down go the
eye-curtains, and sleep comes without a dream. In the morning his first
note is a laugh and a crow, as he sits up in his crib and tries to pull
papa's eyes open with his fat fingers. He is an embodied joy,--he is
sunshine and music and laughter for all the house. With what a
magnificent generosity does the Author of life endow a little mortal
pilgrim in giving him at the outset of his career such a body as this!
How miserable it is to look forward twenty years, when the same child,
now grown a man, wakes in the morning with a dull, heavy head, the
consequence of smoking and studying till twelve or one the night before;
when he rises languidly to a late breakfast, and turns from this, and
tries that,--wants a devilled bone, or a cutlet with Worcestershire
sauce, to make eating possible; and then, with slow and plodding step,
finds his way