Our Anglo-Saxon forefathers had great faith in mysterious words. The less they understood these the more they believed in the curative power. Thus the name of foreign idols and gods brought terror to the local demons that enter one's body, and when Christianity first entered England, and its meanings were but dimly understood, the names of saints, apostles and even the Latin and Greek forms of "God" and "Jesus" were enemies to all germs. Then, too, what comfort a jumbling of many languages brought to the patient, especially if the polyglot cure were expressed in rhythmic lines. Here, for instance, in at least five languages, is a twelfth century cure for gout: Meu, treu, mor, phor, Teux, za, zor, Phe, lou, chri Ge, ze, on. Perhaps to our forefathers suffering from over-indulgence in the good things of this world, this wondrous group of sounds brought more comfort than the nauseous drugs of the modern practitioner. Any mysterious figure or letter was exceedingly helpful in the sick room of a thousand years ago. The Greek letters "Alpha" and "Omega" had reached England almost as soon as Christianity had, and the old-time doctor triumphantly used them in his pow-wows. Geometric figures in a handful of sand or seeds would prophesy the fate of the ills--and do we not to this day tell our fortune in the geometric figures made by the dregs in our tea-cups? Paternosters, snatches of Latin hymns, bits of early Church ritual were used by quacks of the olden days for much the same reason as the geometric figures--because they were unusual and little understood. It would have been well had our Anglo-Saxon forefathers confined their healing practices to such gentle homeopathic methods as those mentioned above; but instead desperate remedies were sometimes administered by the determined medicine-man. Diseases were supposed to be caused mainly by demons--probably the ancestors of our present germs--and the physician of Saxon days used all the power of flattery and threat to induce the little monsters to come forth. When the cattle became ill, for instance, the old-time veterinarian shrieked, "Fever, depart; 917,000 angels will pursue you!" If the obstinate cow refused to be cured by such a mild threat, the demons were sometimes whipped out of her, and, if this failed to restore her health, a hole was pierced in her left ear, and her back was struck with a heavy stick until the evil one was compelled to flee through the hole in her ear. Nor was such treatment confined to cattle. The muscular doctors of a thousand years ago claimed they could cure insanity by laying it on lustily with a porpoise-skin whip, or by putting the maniac in a closed room and smoking out the pestering fiends. One did well to retain one's sanity in those good old days.