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, tradesmen, “are all visited by melancholy, revealed only to their doctors, and sometimes to their domestic circle.”

Unhappy domestic circle, brooded over by a gloomy parent, who thinks that life is too short, or faith too much a matter of speculation, or that the country is going to the dogs!  Then the doctor, it seems, hears his patient, and recommends him only to drink a very little whisky and potash water, or to take two bottles of port every day, or to take to angling, or to give up smoking, or to work less or to work more, or to go to bed early or to get up late, or to ride, or to fence, or to play golf, or to go to Upper Egypt or the Engadine, or anything that fancy may dictate and opportunity suggest.  So the kind physician advises his mournful self-tormentor, and then he himself flies round the corner and consults some brother-healer about his own subjective gloom.

Old ladies, in speaking of the misdeeds of youth, are apt to recommend “a good shaking” as a panacea.  Really those victims of whom our contemporary speaks, appear to be persons on whom “a good shaking,” mental or physical, would produce a salutary effect.  Cowardice, vanity, overweening self-consciousness, are the causes of most melancholy.  No doubt it has physical causes too.  Dr. Johnson suffered,—­one of the best and bravest of men.  But most of us suffer—­if suffer we do—­because we over-estimate ourselves and our own importance.  Mr. Matthew Arnold has tried to enforce this lesson.  After a horrible murder in a railway carriage, Mr. Arnold observed, with pain, the “almost bloodthirsty clinging to life” of his fellow-passengers.  In vain he pointed out to them that even if they were to depart, “the great mundane movement” would go on as usual.  But they refused to be comforted.  Every man was afraid of meeting his own Muller; and as to the great mundane movement, no one cared a pin.  This selfishness is among the chief causes of melancholy.  A man persuades himself that he will not live long, or that his prospects in this world or the next are gloomy; or he takes views as absurdly far-reaching as those of the spinsters in the old tale, who wept