drugs, without a shadow of benefit. Of course not. Why don't they apply the remedies to the part affected? If he had a sore toe they would not bandage his finger. They should cure him by odors.
"I have a cousin, no nervous invalid but a hardy sailor, who hasn't seen thirty summers, but has ploughed every ocean and trodden every continent on this globe. Bring him into a room where there is a watermelon, and he is at once seized with such paroxysms of sneezing and coughing that he can hardly speak a word. You don't approve of infinitesimals. Do those who believe in them ever divide medicines more minutely, think you, than these odors?"
"Hold!" exclaimed we, goaded by this last thrust from our design to let him talk himself out as quickly as possible, "hold, you don't understand the subject. We will explain it in two words. The Schneiderian membrane when in a condition of hyperæsthesia—"
"Enough," replies our incorrigible friend, "I grant it. At any rate I would rather die in ignorance, than hear an explanation which begins in that manner. Pardon the hit. I thought you looked bored, and I wanted to stir you up to listen to my theory of perfumery as a fine art. The ear has music; the eye its complementary and contrasted colors; so there is a music to the sense of smell, a sweet accord of odors, as fixed, as much under law, as the sonatas of Beethoven. In some riper civilization we shall have operas of
