er his
quiet.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.

The great refinement of many poetical gentlemen has rendered
them practically unfit for the jostling and ugliness of life.
STEVENSON.

It has been my fortune as a physician to deal much with the so-called
nervous temperament. I have come both to fear and to love it. It is the
essence of all that is bright, imaginative, and fine, but it is as
unstable as water. Those who possess it must suffer--it is their lot to
feel deeply, and very often to be misunderstood by their more practical
friends. All their lives these people will shed tears of joy, and more
tears of sorrow. I would like to write of their joy, of the perfect
satisfaction, the true happiness that comes in creating new and
beautiful things, of the deep pleasure they have in the appreciation of
good work in others. But with the instinct of a dog trained for a
certain kind of hunting I find myself turning to the misfortunes and the
ills.

The very keenness of perception makes painful anything short of
perfection. What will such people do in our clanging streets? What of
those fine ears tuned to the most exquisite appreciation of sweet sound?
What of that refinement of hearing that detects the least departure from
the rhythm and pitch in complex orchestral music? And must they bear the
crash of steel on stone, the infernal clatter of traffic? Well, yes,--as
a matter of fact--they must, at least for a good many years to come,
until advancing civilization eliminates the city noise. But it is not
always great noises that disturb and distract. There is a story told of
a woman who became so sensitive to noise that she had her house made
sound-proof: there were thick carpets and softly closing doors;
everything was padded. The house was set back from a quiet street, but
that street was strewn with tanbark to check the sound of carriages.
Surely here was bliss for the sensitive soul. I need not tell the rest
of the story, how absolutely necessary noises became intolerable, and
the poor woman ended by keeping a man on the place to catch and silence
the tree toads and crickets.

There is nothing to excuse the careless and unnecessary noises of the
world--we shall dispose of them finally as we are disposing of
flamboyant signboards and typhoid flies. But meanwhile, and always, for
that matter, the sensitive soul must learn to adjust itself to
circumstances and conditions. This adjustment may in