“But does not such self-knowledge make one morbid?” queried Professor Maturin. “Have I not heard of a physician who had to abandon practice because he fancied himself afflicted with every disease that be diagnosed?”
“Surely,” responded the Physician, “you refer to Ferguson—the less we think about our own anatomy and physiology the better; but your physician must know them to keep you in health, as well as to extricate you from disease. Knowledge about sanitation and hygiene, however, is both intelligible and helpful to a practical belief in personal and social health and good living. I wish that every one would preach as well as practice my favorite prescriptions of less heat and more humidity indoors, gray-green wall-papers and furniture to fit the individual, vacuum cleaners and patent filters, and, ever, more fresh air. Outdoor air is the most valuable therapeutic that we know, just as it is the cheapest and the most neglected. Forty per cent of our mortality is due to neglect of fresh air.
“If, in fine, every aspect of life were considered first from the point of view of health; or if food and sleep and exercise and good air were put even on a par with other interests, we would have so much vitality that we might practically dispense with effort and enjoy all the profit and pleasure of spontaneity. Instead, we so neglect the entire physical basis that we allow a hurried breakfast, a heavy coat, an uncomfortable chair, or a bad light to spoil a whole day’s work, and, perhaps, permanently to damage the worker. Sedentary students ignore the need for activity until interest and perception grow sluggish, memory dims, and minds that should produce snap-shots require long time-exposures. If, on the other hand, we would only practice a complete, instead of a partial, economy, we should all be twice as efficient and happy.”
“You are surely right,” said Professor Maturin thoughtfully. “Plato was called so because of his broad shoulders, Xenophon and Erasmus loved horses, and Ronsard gardening. Christopher North walked from London to Oxford after dinner. Fitzgerald sailed half the year. The Physician does well to lecture us, dominie. Let us both reform, and go in for Greek sanity and the joy of the age of chivalry. The times have changed since the Bishop of London was the licenser for physicians. But,” he continued, as we rose to go, “if the Vicar and I promise to practice your preachment this summer, what shall we do when we come back to town? My walking up and down and the Vicar’s riding evidently need something more, by way of paprika.”
“I hope eventually to convert you both to golf,” smiled the Physician, “but until then, observe your needs and invent exercises to meet them, as I have indicated. Write me out a list of your inventions this summer; in the autumn I will go over both you and them, and perhaps suggest others. Next year I may prescribe mountains and motor cars for variety. Meanwhile, use the fountain of youth and prepare to live long and prosper.”
“Good-by, good-by,” said Professor Maturin. “Many thanks. You have surely suggested a great perhaps.”
XIV
The Contemporary Fiction Company
“EXCELLENTLY well met,” said Professor Maturin, as we nearly collided on a down-town sidewalk,—“excellently well met. Come with me to the Contemporary Fiction Company.”
“And what may that be?” I inquired.
“I do not yet quite know,” he replied, “but with your kindly aid I hope soon to learn.”