Now take another significant fact: letter after letter from the front
says, "We are all very fit." The average "fitness" in the trenches is,
broadly speaking, higher than that of training camps at home, especially
of those where little or no supervision is exercised as to strong drink.
How plainly this shows that hardness, even of an extreme character,
braces up the body; softness and self-indulgence enfeeble it.

S. Paul affords a wonderful illustration of this; obviously a man of
very delicate health, frequently ill (probably this was the thorn in the
flesh), yet accomplishing vast labours, and, in addition, buffeting his
own flesh lest it should get the upper hand.

Here, then, we reach the first great principle in the discipline of the
body. It must not have its own way, or it will infallibly assert its
sway over the man's real self.

That is what happens in the case of the habitual drunkard or the slave
of lust. That which at first is a temptation, perfectly capable of being
resisted, becomes at last what the doctors call a "physical" craving
that, humanly speaking, cannot be overcome. By constant yielding the
will has been weakened to such an extent that the personal "I" no longer
reigns; the usurping body has taken its place and rules supreme.

Let us take the main thought of self-control, which is the true
rendering of the word temperance, the state in which, as S. James says,
the man is "able to bridle the whole body" (S. James iii. 2), and test
ourselves by it this Lent. Am I retaining my dominion over my body, or
is it gradually pushing itself into my place?

Self-examination, honestly performed, will reveal this at once, for