from a random passage; in discussing methods for procuring sleep he writes: 'Gentle rubbing of the feet with oil, patting of the head, and particularly stroking of the temples and ears is an effectual means; for by the stroking of their ears and temples wild beasts are overcome, so as to cease from their anger and fury. But whatever is familiar to anyone is to him a provocative of sleep. Thus, to the sailor, repose in a boat, and being carried about on the sea, the sound of the beach, the murmur of the waves, the boom of the winds, and the scent of the sea and the ship. But to the musician the accustomed notes of his flute in stillness; or playing on the harp or lyre, or the exercise of musical children with song. To a teacher, intercourse with the tattle of children. Different persons are soothed to sleep by different means.'

Here is a bit of psychology which every medical man will endorse: This is a mighty wonder, that in hemorrhage from the lungs, which is particularly dangerous, patients do not despair, even when near their end. The insensibility of the lungs to pain appears to me to be the cause of this; for pain even when slight makes one fear death. In most cases pain 7 is more dreadful than pernicious, whereas the absence of it, even in serious illness, is unaccompanied by fear of death and is more dangerous than dreadful.'

There is another sentence which we wish to quote, as it will arouse a response from every physician who has been called at the last moment or when there was no hope for recovery: 'If you give a medicine at the height of the dyspnea, or when death is at hand, you may be blamed for the patient's death by the vulgar.' What a world of reserve and dignity is in this simple remark! The shoulders of Aretæus the Cappadocian were broad enough to wear becomingly the mantle of Hippocrates.

Twenty centuries ago Aretæus knew the knack of driving a point home by a good story. Wishing to illustrate that the gout may intermit, he relates that a person subject to gout won the race in the Olympic games during the interval of

the disease. And he closes his chapter on melancholy thus: 'A story is told that a certain person, incurably affected, fell in love with a girl; and when the physicians could bring him no relief, love cured him. But I think that he was originally in love, and that he was dejected and spiritless from being unsuccessful with the girl, and appeared to the common people to be melancholic. He then did not know that it was love; but when he imparted the love to the girl, he ceased from his dejection, and dispelled his passion and sorrow; and with joy he awoke from his lowness of spirits, and he became restored to understanding, love being his physician.'

Aretaus shows himself a true physician by his concern and sympathy for the patient, in small matters and great: 'Inunctions are more agreeable and efficacious than fomentations; for an ointment does not run down and stain the bed clothes -a thing very disagreeable to the patient- but it adheres, and being by the heat of the body, is absorbed. Thus its effects are persistent, whereas liquid preparations run off.'

Elsewhere occurs this noble phrase, rarely equalled and never bettered: ' When he can render no further aid, the physician alone can still mourn as a man with his incurable patient: this is the physician's sad lot.'

Some authors call their work a confession'; this is unnecessary, as all writing is autobiographical. Write, and in spite of your best efforts at concealment, your feelings, passions, prejudices, your good qualities, failings, sympathies, will become apparent; where you least expect it, you will give yourself most away; your true self will lurk between the lines, and it will peep from the pages.

We are confident that from the excerpts here given, the reader has already formed a high opinion of Aretæus. If ever a man cast credit on the art of healing, it was the loftysouled Cappadocian. He was a disciple who not only followed in the footsteps, but caught the spirit of the immortal Father of Medicine. Aretæus should not be a forgotten

physician, for no one better than he could repeat with decorum, the Hippocratic Oath:

'With purity and with holiness I will pass my life and practise my art. Into whatever houses I enter, I will go into them for the benefit of the sick, and will abstain from every voluntary act of mischief and corruption; and, further, from the seduction of females and males, of freemen and slaves. Whatever, in connection with my professional practice, or not in connection with it, I see or hear, I will not divulge, as reckoning that all things should be kept secret. While I continue to keep this oath inviolate, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and the practice of my art, respected by all men at all times. But should I trespass and violate this oath, may the reverse be my lot!'