itself become a
fine art. It is really the art by which the painter excludes the
commonplace and irrelevant from his landscape. Sometimes we have to do
this consciously; for the most part, it should be a natural, unconscious
selection.

I am sure it is unwise to attempt at any time the dulling of the
appreciative sense for the sake of peace and comfort. Love and
understanding of the beautiful and true is too rare and fine a thing to
be lost or diminished under any circumstances. The cure, as I see it, is
to be found in the cultivation of the faculty that finds some good in
everything and everybody. This is the saving grace--it takes great bulks
of the commonplace and distils from the mass a few drops of precious
essence; it finds in the unscholarly and the imperfect, rare traces of
good; it sees in man, any man, the image of God, to be justified and
made evident only in the sublimity of death, perhaps, but usually to be
developed in life.

The nervous person is often morose and unsocial--perhaps because he is
not understood, perhaps because he falls so short of his own ideals.
Often he does not find kindred spirits anywhere. I do not think we
should drive such a man into conditions that hurt, but I do believe that
if he is truly artistic, and not a snob, he may lead himself into a
larger social life without too much sacrifice.

The sensitive, high-strung spirit that does not give of its own best
qualities to the world of its acquaintance, that does not express itself
in some concrete way, is always in danger of harm. Such a spirit turned
in upon itself is a consuming fire. The spirit will burn a long time and
suffer much if it does not use its heat to warm and comfort the world of
need.

Real illness makes the nervous temperament a much more formidable
difficulty--all the sensitive faculties are more sensitive--irritability
becomes an obsession and idleness a terror.

The nervous temperament under irritation is very prone to become
selfish--and very likely to hide behind this selfishness, calling it
temperament. The man who flies into a passion when he is disturbed, or
who spends his days in torment from the noises of the street; the woman
of high attainment who has retired into herself, who is moody and
unresponsive,--these unfortunates have virtually built a wall about
their lives, a wall which shuts out the world of life and happiness.
From the walls of this prison the sounds of discord and annoyance are
thro