been expected, with the whole paraphernalia of a dosing and
drugging campaign.

Among other troubles, or rather to cap the climax of his troubles, he
was exceedingly low-spirited. Confined as he had been to the house
almost all winter, and seeing nobody to converse with,--no new faces, I
mean,--was it very strange that his mind turned, involuntarily, to his
complaints, and preyed upon itself, and that he was evidently
approaching the deep vortex of hypochondria? Medicine did him no good,
and could do him none. It is true he had, after three months, almost
left off its use; but the little to which he still clung was most
evidently a source of irritation.

My own occasional visits, as I soon found out, did him more good than
any thing else. This gave me a needful hint. Near him was an old
Revolutionary soldier, full of mirthfulness, and a capital story teller.
Unknown to my father, and even to the family, I employed this old
soldier to visit my father a certain number of evenings in each week,
and tell stories to him.

Sergeant K. complied faithfully with the terms of the contract, and was
at my father's house three evenings of each week for a long time. This
gave the old gentleman something else to think of besides himself, and
it was easy to see, did him much good. During the progress of the fourth
month his improvement became quite perceptible; and in another month he
was nearly recovered.

But, as I have repeatedly said of cold water, and indeed of all other
remedial efforts or applications, whether external or internal, and
whether moral, mental, or physical, too much credit should not be given,
at least hastily, to a single thing. The opening spring was in my
father's favor, as well as the story telling. The bow, so long retained
in an unnatural position, on having an opportunity, sprung back and
resumed its wonted condition. Still, I could never help awarding much
credit to the Revolutionary soldier.

Most persons must have observed the effects which cheerfulness in a
medical man has on his patients. The good-natured, jolly doctor, who
tells a story now and then, and cracks a joke and has occasionally a
hearty laugh _with you_, or _at_ you, about something or nothing, will
do you much more good, other things being equal, than the grave, staid,
sombre practitioner, who thinks it almost a sin to smile, especially at
the sick-bed or in the sick-room.

I think story telling, as an art, should be cultivated, wer