(_b_) It seems to me that a very widespread mistake among my colleagues is the idea that the technique of the investigation for the causes of the disease and the removal of the manifestations by this investigation is easy and self-evident. I concluded this from the fact that of the many who interest themselves in my therapy and express a definite opinion on the same, no one has yet asked me how I do it. There can only be one reason for it, they believe there is nothing to ask, that it is a matter of course. I occasionally also hear with surprise that in this or that division of the hospital a young interne is requested by his chief to undertake a “psychoanalysis” with a hysterical woman. I am convinced that he would not entrust him with the examination of an extirpated tumor without previously assuring himself that he is acquainted with the histological technique. Likewise I am informed that this or that colleague has made appointments with a patient for psychic treatment, whereas I am certain that he does not know the technique of such a treatment. He must, therefore, expect that the patient will bring him her secrets, or he seeks salvation in some kind of a confession or confidence. I should not wonder if the patient thus treated would rather be harmed than benefited. The mental instrument is really not at all easy to play. On such occasions I can not help but think of the speech of a world-renowned neurotic, who really never came under a doctor’s treatment, and only lived in the fancy of the poet. I mean Prince Hamlet of Denmark. The king has sent the two courtiers, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, to investigate him and rob him of his secret. While he defended himself, pipes were brought on the stage. Hamlet took a pipe and requested one of his tormentors to play on it, saying that it is as easy to play as lying. The courtier hesitated because he knew no touch of it, and as he could not be moved to attempt to play the pipe, Hamlet finally burst forth: “Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet you cannot make it speak. ’Sblood! do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.” (Act III, Scene 2.)