Such is the description of one type of case that we often meet, but there is another and a sadder class, where unfavourable circumstances through the greater part of life, pressure of poverty and ceaseless anxiety for others, produce a careworn existence, with no joy or colour in it, and often insomnia. Such as these, in spite of a sober, abstemious life, often get sclerosis. Their pulses are small and thready, but hard, and often deceive the finger. Paralysis from small cerebral hæmorrhage is the frequent end. We may take it as an axiom that happiness lowers pressure, while grief and care raise it. We must all of us feel this as a personal truth, though we may not be able to test it with a manometer. It is not only the cat that care kills. In melancholia the pressure is almost always well above normal; in maniacal conditions generally below. Few of us know how to work with our brains; psychology has as yet taught us but little of method and of practical value, though for this we must blame ourselves rather than the psychologists. We drive our conscious minds with few or no intervals of rest till brain exhaustion comes; then the machinery gets out of control and the screw races; so come insomnia and poor, confused results, with disappointment and depression. We talk glibly about the sub-conscious mind, and are now and again struck with some evidence of its working existence, but we few of us use it systematically as our servant--the most competent servant that exists, and one that never gives notice as long as life lasts. Our upper story, in which we suppose our conscious-thought machine works, is like a loft full of noisy machinery that often needs oiling and that often gets out of order. Its physical motor power gets slack or runs right down, and the output is poor or ceases. Sleep and rest alone will restore it and set it going again.