Member 6 Subsection 1 Disturbances of the mind corrected Through the sufferer’s own efforts in resisting as strongly as possible and confiding his grief to a friend and so forth

Anyone who hopes to cure this illness in himself or another must first correct these passions and disturbances of the mind: the principal cure lies in dealing with them. A quiet mind is the “pleasure,” or “highest good,” of Epicurus: “to be free from pain, free from cares, tranquil in mind.” Not to grieve, but to have no cares and a peaceful soul, is the world’s only pleasure, as Seneca accurately reports his opinion. It is not the pleasure of eating and drinking, which unjust Aristotle maliciously attributes to him, and for which he is still misunderstood: “ill spoken of and beaten,” slandered without cause and scourged by all posterity.

Fear and sorrow, therefore, must especially be avoided, and the mind soothed with cheerfulness, steadfastness, and good hope. Groundless terrors and distressing sights must be removed, as must anyone whose company displeases them. Walter Bruele, Fernel in consultation 43, Mercurialis in consultation 6, Piso, Iacchinus in chapter 15 on book 9 of Rhazes, Capivaccius, Hildesheim, and others all insist on this as a principal means of cure: their minds must be gently calmed and, if possible, diverted from empty fancies, terrors, cares, obsessive studies and thoughts, and whatever else may distress or trouble the soul. Otherwise nothing can be done.

The body’s troubles, as Plato demonstrates, proceed from the soul; and unless the mind is first set at ease, the body can never be cured. Alcibiades raves, says Maximus of Tyre, and is sick: his furious desires carry him from the Lyceum to the place of public debate, then to sea, on to Sicily, then to Sparta, Persia, Samos, and back to Athens. Critias tyrannizes over the whole city; Sardanapalus is lovesick. All these men are in a disordered state and can never be cured until their minds are differently disposed.

Crato, therefore, in that often-cited consultation for his noble patient, after sufficiently instructing him about diet, air, exercise, sexual activity, and sleep, concludes with these matters as the most important: “For the rest, let the affections of the soul be corrected.” From these alone melancholy proceeds; they are its source, its underlying matter, the hinges on which it turns, and must necessarily be put right.

For anger stirs up bile and heats the blood and vital spirits. Sorrow, on the other hand, cools the body, extinguishes its natural heat, destroys appetite, hinders digestion, dries out the bodily constitution, and distorts the understanding. Fear disperses the spirits, taints the heart, and weakens the soul. For these reasons we must make every serious effort within our power to remove all such passions and disturbances.

Aelianus Montalto attributes so much importance to these emotions that he considers their correction alone enough to cure melancholy in most patients. Many are fully cured when they have seen or heard something, and so forth, attained what they desire, or been reassured and satisfied in their minds. Galen, the common master of them all, from whose fountain they draw their water, boasts in book 1 of On the Preservation of Health that he himself has cured several people of this illness “solely by putting their minds on the right course”—by rightly settling their minds alone.

Yes, but you will object here that this would indeed be excellent if it could be done. But how is it to be achieved, by whom, through what skill, by what means? “Here is the labour, here the task.” This is a natural infirmity, a most powerful adversary. Everyone is subject to passions, and melancholy people above all others, disordered as they are by their inborn humours, an excess of burnt bile, weakness of the organs, and external events. How are such passions to be avoided?

The wisest men, the greatest philosophers, with outstanding intelligence, reason, and judgement—divine spirits—cannot control themselves in this respect. People sound in body and mind, Stoics, heroes, Homer’s gods: all are subject to passions and sometimes swept furiously away. How, then, can we resist, already impaired as we are, “broken in spirit,” sick in body and sick in mind? We cannot do it. You may offer advice and sound precepts—who cannot? But how are they to be put into practice?

I cannot deny that our passions are violent and tyrannize over us. Yet there are ways to curb them. Though headstrong, they may be tamed and moderated if the sufferer himself or his friends will make an earnest effort, or use the ordinary kinds of help commonly prescribed.

He himself, I say: the first and principal remedy must come from the patient. If he is unwilling, obstinate, irritable, yields wholly to his passions, refuses to seek help or to be guided by his friends, how can he possibly be cured? But if at last he is willing, gentle, receptive, and desires his own good, then undoubtedly he may “lay aside a great part of the illness”—at least find relief, if not a cure.

He must make every effort to resist and withstand the beginnings. “Resist at the outset.” “Give water no passage, not even a little,” Ecclesiasticus 25:27. If a small opening is allowed, in time it will become a larger breach.

Whatever runs through his mind—some empty fancy, pleasing or displeasing, that so deeply affects or troubles him—he must resist it by every possible means. He must drive out those empty, false, frivolous imaginings, absurd notions, and imagined fears and sorrows from which, says Piso, this disease chiefly proceeds and takes its first occasion or beginning: by doing something contrary to them, thinking of something else, reasoning with himself, or in any way bringing about a sudden change in them.