"Now look yourself straight in the eye," said he.
I did so, and truly it was as if I looked upon the page of a book printed in the largest and clearest type. I hesitate to say what I saw written there, since the glass was strong enough to reach not only the mind itself, but further into the very depths of my subself-consciousness. On the surface, man thinks well of himself; this continues in modified intensity to his self-consciousness, but the fool does not live who, in his subself-consciousness, the Holy of Holies of Realization, does not know that he is a fool.
"Take 'em off," I cried, for they seemed to burn into the very depths of my soul.
"That isn't necessary," said Æsculapius, kindly. "Just turn your eyes away from the glass a moment and they won't bother you. I want to cure this trouble of yours."
I stopped looking at myself in the mirror and the tense condition of my nerves was immediately relieved.
"Feel better right away, eh?" he asked.
"Yes," I admitted.
"So I thought," he said. "You've momentarily given up self-contemplation. Now lower your gaze. Look at your chest a moment."
Just what were the properties of the glass I do not know, nor do I know how one's chest should look, but, as I looked down, I found that just as I could penetrate to the depths of my mind through my eyes, so was it possible for me to inspect myself physically.
"Nothing the matter there, eh?" said Æsculapius.