they get used up, body and mind, in a few months. Depend upon it,
the same thing is true in other arts. I once taught a fiddler that
used to get a hundred guineas for playing two or three tunes; and he
told me that it was just the same thing with the fiddle--that when
you laid a tight hold on your fiddle-stick, or even set your teeth
hard together, you could do nothing but rasp like the fellows that
play in bands for a few shillings a night."

"How much more of this nonsense must we endure?" said Lucian,
audibly, as Cashel stopped for breath. Cashel turned and looked at
him.

"By Jove!" whispered Lord Worthington to his companion, "that fellow
had better be careful. I wish he would hold his tongue."

"You think it's nonsense, do you?" said Cashel, after a pause. Then
he raised one of the candles, and illuminated a picture that hung on
the wall, "Look at that picture," he said. "You see that fellow in
armor--St. George and the dragon, or whatever he may be. He's jumped
down from his horse to fight the other fellow--that one with his
head in a big helmet, whose horse has tumbled. The lady in the
gallery is half crazy with anxiety for St. George; and well she may
be. THERE'S a posture for a man to fight in! His weight isn't
resting on his legs; one touch of a child's finger would upset him.
Look at his neck craned out in front of him, and his face as flat as
a full moon towards his man, as if he was inviting him to shut up
both his eyes with one blow. You can all see that he's as weak and
nervous as a cat, and that he doesn't know how to fight. And why
does he give you that idea? Just because he's all strain and
stretch; because he isn't at his ease; because he carries the weight