"According to the theory of the anti-Naturalists," says Dr. Oswald, "a man's instincts conspire for his ruin; whatever is pleasant to our senses must be injurious; repulsiveness and health-fulness are synonymous terms. To every poison known to chemistry or botany they attribute remedial virtues; to sweet-meats, fruits, fresh air, and cold spring-water all possible morbific qualities. But for consistency's sake, they make an exception in favor of mineral springs. Spas impregnated with a sufficient quantity of iron or sulphur to be shockingly nauseous, must therefore be highly salubrious. Solitary mountain regions afflicted with such spas become the favorite resort of invalids; dyspeptics travel thousands of miles to reach a spring that tastes like a mixture of rotten eggs and turpentine."

Saline and sulphur spring waters are purgative, since the alvine canal hastens to rid itself of these injurious waters. A stay at the watering place teaches the colon to rely upon the mineral excitant, hence the chronic constipation that so often follows upon the return from the spa; the excitant being withdrawn, the tired organs lie down for a rest. "From a hygienic standpoint," says Dr. Oswald, "a sanitarium without a spa is therefore by no means a Hamlet-drama minus the Prince."

In 1930 the town boosters of Seaton Delaval, England, desiring to advertise the curative properties of their water supply, hired a chemist to analyze it. The chemist found that its peculiar flavor was due to near-by miners washing their pedigreed dogs in the reservoir with kitchen soap. Some years ago a wonderful health-spring in one of Gotham's many suburbs was curing its patrons daily. It achieved a great reputation as a cure-all. So great was its reputation, a movement was started to improve the property. While improving the grounds a break in the sewer was found. This was quickly repaired and, to the sorrow of the exploiters and disgust of the drinkers, the spring promptly dried up.

So come and go the cures and neither the curing professions nor the people ever forsake their superstitious belief in cure. Those who were drinking the leaking sewerage and those who took Fido's bath water, like those who pin their faith in poisonous drugs, filthy pus, diseased animal serums, marvellous machines and apparatuses, colored lights, electrical currents, metaphysical formulas, and punches in the back, simply went elsewhere for a cure.

The poodle soup of Seaton Delaval and the Gotham sewerage effected their cures in the same way that the famous mineral waters from the mineral wells and springs effect theirs. All methods of cure, however absurd or fantastic, however impotent for good or potent for harm, could point to apparent cures. But sooner or later in the march of experience all cures are exploded.