The nervous dyspeptic has ever been a joy to the quack, the bête noire of the honest surgeon and internist, and a mystery to all three. Some have treated him as a hypochondriac, others so seriously as vainly to explore his interior, and yet others have sought to enfold him in that ample but threadbare diagnostic cloak which we term neurasthenia. He has been sanguinely drugged by some, abandoned as hopeless by others, and passed from hand to hand until travelling has become a fixed habit of the well to do of his species.
Those who have read the delightful lectures of Louis Bourget will recall his deliciously satirical yet true picture of the extreme form of this ailment. We also have encountered the patient with the notebook which by its copious entries of intimate yet trivial events so well expresses the vicious introspection of the unfortunate autobiographist. We have