Friday
Buckle, in his “History of Civilization,” claims that men and women are divided into three classes. The first and lowest talks of persons, the second of things, and the third and highest, of ideas. I should divide the human race into four, instead of three classes, and name as the lowest those persons who discuss their symptoms. The patients here are counseled not to do it, so the vice is reduced to a minimum, being practiced, say, not more than three out of the fourteen waking hours.
Swinging in a hammock in a shady nook this afternoon the conversation that floated to me under my distant tree was somewhat after this fashion.
Mrs. A. “Once I had neurasthenia. For three months I couldn’t be moved in bed, and for nine weeks I couldn’t turn my head on the pillow.”
Mrs. B. } “Mercy!”
Mrs. C. } “Oh, Mrs. A.!”
Mrs. D. } “Good gracious!”
Mrs. E. “Cerebro-spinal meningitis is worse than neurasthenia. I had it four years ago, and the doctor said he’d never seen a woman live that was as ill as I was. One night my temperature was 167.”
Mrs. C. } “Goodness!”
Mrs. B. } “That’s pretty high!”