The Anatomy of Melancholy

There is no better way to reassure him than to remove the object, cause, or occasion of his trouble, if we can discover it by any possible skill or means. If he grieves, fears, suspects, waits in uncertainty, or is distressed in any way, make him feel secure: “the trouble is resolved.” Give him reassurance and the cure is complete; change his way of life and no other medicine is needed.

If the person is sad or otherwise troubled, consider, says Trallianus, the nature of the trouble and all its circumstances, and immediately bring about a sudden change by removing its occasions. Avoid everything frightening to hear or see: monstrous and unnatural sights, tales of devils, spirits, and ghosts, and tragic stories. These make a powerful impression on fearful people, often renewing and recalling such chimeras and terrifying inventions to their minds.

Do not even mention them in private conversation or make a gesture suggesting them: such things, says Galateus, distress their imaginations. For those who are already sorrowful, Seneca forbids gloomy companions and people who lament: a groaning companion is an enemy to peace of mind.

If anyone is present whom the patient dislikes, that person must be removed. Gentle words and mild methods must be tried first; use no harsh language or discouraging words. Do not, as some do, drive out one madness with another: anyone who does so is madder than the patient himself. Everything must be settled calmly: “what has been thrown down must not be overthrown, but raised up”—things already down must be lifted, not cast down further, as Crato advises. The patient must be treated calmly and gently; we should accomplish things gradually instead of acting against his wishes.

A horse that shies at a drum or trumpet and cannot endure gunfire may be so skilfully trained and encouraged that it not only tolerates these sounds but becomes more spirited and courageous on hearing them, and takes great pleasure in them. In the same way, these people must not be changed “all at once”; through every skilful and gradual approach, they must be accustomed to company, sights, and objects they formerly could not bear.

Many who at first cannot bear the sight of a fresh wound or a sick person later become good surgeons and confident practitioners. A horse shies at a rotten post in the distance, yet passes it calmly when it comes nearer. Much depends on how such people are trained: however averse to company, bashful, solitary, or fearful they may be, they may eventually, like those Roman matrons, desire nothing more than to see an entire company of gladiators breathe their last in a public show.