If they cannot otherwise become accustomed to bearing such distasteful and unpleasant things, the best course is generally to avoid them. In consultation 229, Montanus advises the Earl of Montfort, a courtier and his melancholy patient, to leave court because of its continual discontents, setbacks, insults, cares, suspicions, rivalries, ambition, anger, and jealousy—the very things that had surely made him melancholy in the first place. “Every great house is full of arrogant servants.”

A crowd of scoffers and arrogant fellows commonly frequent and attend such places. Once they begin playing upon a gentle, quiet man’s peculiarities, they can turn him “from a fool into a madman”—as they often do—make him an utter simpleton or drive him completely mad. This is all too common in social groups: they can find no better amusement than to entertain themselves by tormenting some simple fellow or taking advantage of another man’s weakness.

In such cases, as in a plague, the best remedy is “quickly, far away, slowly”: get him away quickly, send him far enough off, and do not let him hurry back. For such a person, especially if he is sensitive to what is happening, there can be no greater misery. If he is too uncomprehending to recognize it, his friends should arrange matters and use their judgement to supply what he lacks, as they should in every other case.

If they see a man inclined to melancholy, solitary and averse to company, pleasing himself with these private, empty meditations, they should try by every means to divert and discourage him, however much he enjoys them, and tell him what consequences and dangers may follow. If they see an idle man who, because he has an independent income, will take up no occupation, they should seriously warn him that he is making a noose to ensnare himself: his lack of employment will be his undoing.

If he has sustained a great loss, suffered rejection or disgrace, or the like, relieve him if possible. If he wants something, satisfy him; if he is in uncertainty, fear, or suspicion, reassure him. Where it can reasonably be done, give him his heart’s desire, for the body cannot be cured until the mind is at ease. In Plato, Socrates would prescribe no medicine for Charmides’ headache until he had first eased his troubled mind: body and soul must be cured together, just as head and eyes must.

You will not cure the eye without the whole head, Nor the head without the whole body, Nor the whole body without the soul.

If that cannot be hoped for or expected, still give him relief through comfort, cheerful conversation, encouraging promises, and kind words; persuade and advise him. Many, says Galen, have been cured by good counsel and persuasion alone. “Heaviness in a person’s heart brings it down, but a good word gladdens it,” Proverbs 12:25. And there is one “whose words stab like a sword, but the tongue of a wise person brings healing,” verse 18.

“Speech is a remedy for the wounded mind”: gentle words are the true cure of a wounded soul, as Plutarch argues from Aeschylus and Euripides. Wisely administered, they ease grief and pain, just as different remedies relieve other diseases. They are “like an incantation,” a charm, “refreshment for an agitated mind”—Homer’s true nepenthe. As Macrobius in book 7 of the Saturnalia, Goropius in book 9 of the Hermathena, Gregory Nazianzen, and others interpret it, this was no Indian plant or imaginary medicine sent by Epidamna, Thonis’ wife, to Helen as a gift, but speech suited to the occasion.

For Helen’s bowl, Medea’s ointment, Venus’s girdle, and Circe’s cup cannot enchant, move, or transform so powerfully. A letter sent or read can do as much: “I find great relief when I read your letters”—I am much eased, as Cicero wrote to Pomponius Atticus, when I read your letters.

And as Julian the Apostate once told Maximus the philosopher: just as Alexander slept with Homer’s works, so I sleep with your letters, “as with healing medicines, and read them continually as though they were fresh and new. Write, then, and keep on writing”—or else come yourself: “you will come as a friend to a friend.”

Surely a wise and eloquent person can accomplish whatever he wishes in such a case. A good orator alone, as Cicero maintains, can change emotions through the power of eloquence: comfort the afflicted, raise up the downcast, banish and moderate fear, desire, anger, and so forth. And how powerful is the charm of a prudent, dear friend! “He rules their minds with words and calms their anger.” What can he not accomplish?

As Chremes told Menedemus: “Do not fear or hide it, my friend; tell me what troubles you, and I will surely help through comfort, counsel, or practical action.” Arnoldus, in book 1, chapter 18 of the Breviary, speaks of a moneylender in his time who had become deeply melancholy and discontented after a loss, and was cured in this way.

Just as imagination, fear, and grief cause such passions, so thoughts alone, set right by good hope, counsel, and the like, can in turn bring relief. It is incredible how much they can accomplish in such a case, as Trincavelli illustrates through one of his patients.

The philosopher Porphyry relates, in his Life of Plotinus, that, distressed by unbearable mental anguish, he was about to take his own life. But he happened to meet his teacher Plotinus, who saw from his distracted expression that something was wrong and urged him to disclose his grief. After hearing it, Plotinus spoke with such comfort that he rescued him “from the jaws of the underworld” and calmed his troubled mind. He was readily reconciled to himself and afterwards felt deeply ashamed that he had ever entertained so base an impulse.