of a town-bred dog minds when his faithful hound drives a whole street
beyond their patience. It is a matter of sound health and untaxed
brains. If we always gave our minds a rest, none of us would dread the
noises of the nights of summer.



ON HYPOCHONDRIACS.


A nice state we are in, according to the _Medical Times_. If the secrets
of our "casebooks"--that is, we suppose, our medical _dossiers_, doctors'
records of the condition of their patients--could be revealed, it would
be shown that many clever people have a fancy skeleton in their
cupboards. By a fancy skeleton we mean, not some dismal secret of crime
or shame, but a melancholy and apprehensiveness without any ground in
outward facts. With the real skeleton doctors have nothing to do. He
rather belongs to the province of Scotland Yard. If a man has
compromised himself in some way, if he has been found out by some
scoundrel, if he is compelled to "sing," as the French say, or to pay
"blackmail," then the doctor is not concerned in the business. A
detective, a revolver, or a well-planned secret flight may be prescribed
to the victim. Other real skeletons men possess which do not come of
their own misdeeds. One of their friends or one of their family may be
the skeleton, or the consciousness of coming and veritable misfortune,
pecuniary or what-not. But the _Medical Times_, which no doubt ought to
know, refers purely to cases of vague melancholy and hypochondriac
foreboding. Apparently "The Spleen," the "English Disease," is as bad
now as when Green wrote in verse and Dr. Cheyne in prose. Prosperous
business men, literary gents in active employment, artists, students,