horse, poor thing, swallowed mine!"

"And what was the result?" asked my father.

"The horse died!" answered Roland, mournfully, "a valuable beast, bright
bay, with a star!"

"And you?"

"Why, the doctor said it ought to have killed me; but it took a great
deal more than a paltry bottle of physic to kill a man in my regiment."

"Nevertheless, we arrive at the same conclusion," pursued my father,--"
I with my theory, you with your experience,--that the physic we take
must not be chosen haphazard, and that a mistake in the bottle may kill
a horse. But when we come to the medicine for the mind, how little do
we think of the golden rule which common-sense applies to the body!"

"Anan," said the Captain, "what medicine is there for the mind?
Shakspeare has said something on that subject, which, if I recollect
right, implies that there is no ministering to a mind diseased."

"I think not, brother; he only said physic (meaning boluses and black
draughts) would not do it. And Shakspeare was the last man to find
fault with his own art; for, verily, he has been a great physician to
the mind."

"Ah! I take you now, brother,--books again! So you think when a man
breaks his heart or loses his fortune or his daughter (Blanche, child,
come here), that you have only to clap a plaster of print on the sore