Another form of nervousness, not always recognised as such, is of an emotional character, and depends rather on constitution and habit than on any general impairment of health and strength. Many persons of not unkindly disposition and generally fair health yet suffer from a nervous irascibility of temper. It seems as if the friction of daily happenings was exaggerated for them, and small things rasp painfully upon their feelings, rendering them querulous and unreasonable, uncomfortable themselves and disagreeable to others. Or it may be that on slight occasion they burst into uncontrollable passion, saying and doing things that are absurd as well as wicked, repenting, perhaps, almost immediately, but none the less repeating the offence on the very next occasion. This state of things is not commonly regarded as a disorder of health, yet it is certainly a departure from that sound mind in a sound body which constitutes perfect health. Many conditions come to be well-marked diseases that in their beginnings are but vicious habits, and indeed every habit which in its exercise involves a change for the worse in some nervous or other function must be considered, in so far, a departure from health. Perfect health has relation to the moral as well as to the mental and physical functions. Notwithstanding this, the responsibility for such outbreaks of temper remains, for the moral sense is by no means lost, and, moreover, this is a form of nervousness which is more readily controlled than many others. Each indulgence increases it; but if a constant watch is kept upon the temper, and a strong effort at repression made, improvement will be certain and rapid. Above all, it is important to avoid giving voluntary expression in any way to the irritated feeling, and this can very readily be done if one really desires it. Some take much credit to themselves for "speaking what they think," as they term it, but really for speaking what they feel. This is altogether wrong. It is a mistake to suppose that anger is lessened by "having it out," or that "it is better to say it than to keep it to one's self." Every strong outburst of emotion is followed by some degree of reaction, which, in the case of anger, may for a time make it seem as if the outburst had done good in clearing away the clouds of ill-feeling, as a discharge of electricity may remove the mists from the air; but this benefit is only apparent and temporary, and the outburst has, in fact, prepared the way for a more violent one on the next opportunity. The feeling of vexation or anger is involuntary, and reflex. Words on the contrary, are voluntary, and thoughts, strictly speaking, are also. No matter how "passionate" or nervously irritable one may be, these intrinsic distinctions remain. We can, then, control our words and thoughts, and, by controlling these, we can remove from our

minds in large part the impressions that give rise to the feeling of vexation. It is on this principle that it has been said that an angry person should count ten before speaking, and if very angry, a hundred. If we give voluntary expression to the angry feeling in words, or even in thought, every such expression acts as a renewed impression on the brain to maintain and intensify the angry feeling until the capacity of the emotion for exercise is for the time exhausted, so that it is no figure of speech to describe a person in such circumstances as "nursing his wrath to keep it warm.”

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The same rule applies to that lesser degree of irritation which results in fretfulness or general crossness." Whether it is a creaking door, an idle question, or any other petty annoyance that brings the frown to our brow and the snarl to our lips, if we remark, audibly or mentally, on every repetition of it, the frown will surely grow deeper and the snarl more habitual; while if we always let the annoyance pass with as little speech or thought as possible, resolutely repressing the snarl and smoothing out the frown, we shall soon find that it has ceased to affect us as an annoyance. We shall find that we have grown less nervous, and our friends will find that we have grown better tempered.

A form of nervousness that is often derided. but is very distressing to those who are afflicted by it, is manifested by fear or dread of certain things. This is not the reasonable fear of things known to be unsafe, which may be a mere matter of prudence, nor is it a cowardly shrinking from danger, but it is an unreasoning dread with which the question of danger has really little or nothing to do.

Often this dread is felt for some object that is entirely harmless, and is known to be so by the person dreading it. Again, the object of dread may be in itself more or less dangerous, yet, that the feeling of dread is not caused by the actual danger may be shown in the fact that the person subject to it is perfectly courageous in the presence of all other dangers. So, many persons of undoubted bravery are beside themselves with fear at sight of a mouse. Others have the same uncontrollable terror of a cat or of some other

animal. It is impossible for them to give any reason for their dread. They do not commonly fear that the object of it will really hurt them, but its presence excites in them an intense horror that reason and will are powerless against, because it is not born of reason or will-being purely reflex in its operation. There is no more reason apparent why a strong and brave man, or even a girl neither very strong nor very brave, should tremble and turn pale at sight of a little mouse that one slight blow would crush out of existence, than there is why either of them should laugh immoderately if a finger be drawn over the ribs

or across the sole of the foot. In either case there is a peculiar nervous susceptibility to a certain form of reflex action. In one case the presence of the mouse causes a nervous sensation of terror. In the other case, the motion of the finger causes a nervous sensation of tickling. Though the exciting causes as well as the effects are different, the two operations are very similar; and as, in the case of the tickling, if the will is strong enough to resist the prompting to laugh, and keep the body quiet, the susceptibility to tickling will be much lessened, and may in a little time be lost altogether: so in the other case, if the will is able to repress the manifestation of terror, the susceptibility to terror from such will be lessened and may wholly disappear. On the contrary, if the will cannot or does not repress the manifestation of terror, the susceptibility to the terror will grow; so every time, for example, one screams or starts at sight of a mouse or other object of nervous dread, that dread is increased for the future, just as every tickling that cannot be resisted renders one more ticklish. For this

reason, it is cruel as well as unwise to force on the attention of persons who have this nervous weakness the object of their dread, especially when it is done suddenly so that they are taken mawares, or when the object is brought into personal contact with them, or a pretence is nade of so doing. Such things are often done thoughtlessly by friends or acquaintances who nd pleasure in laughing at the distress that eems to them but a foolish fear, or sometimes with good intentions, in the erroneous supposiion that all that is necessary to cure the dread 3 familiarity with its cause. Very serious results have sometimes followed such acts.

The same kind of nervous dread often has for ts object other things than those just mentioned. in fact, it may be caused by any object, animate r inanimate, or by the idea of an object, as well is by the thing itself. The poet Gray, for nstance, is said to have suffered acutely from a ervous dread of fire, and while in college his ife was made miserable by his fellow-students, who knew of his weakness, and amused themelves by giving false alarms of fire under his vindow at night and in other ways playing upon is fear.

There is, however, a distinction to be made between this unavoidable nervous dread and mple cowardice or affectation of fear, which is often mistaken for it by the person affected. A cow or a spider may excite in some persons a nervous horror, but in a far larger number of persons the fear of the cow is a reasoning fear of its horns and hoofs, originating in a wellgrounded knowledge of the animal's power and ignorance of its docility, or in cowardly distrust of the person's superiority; while the dread of

the spider is either a dislike of its ungainly shape and objectionable habits, an ill-founded belief that it is venomous, or an affectation of what is fancied to be delicate and lady-like.

There are many forms of nervousness more or less closely allied to that which has just been considered. Even the inferior animals are subject to some of them. It is said that the elephant will tremble with fright at sight of a mouse; and monkeys shriek and chatter with terror at any slight rustling sound occurring at night, although in daylight they would take no notice of it. Very similar occurrences are often observed among our domestic animals and those which in a state of nature make their dwellings near men. The rage of bulls and turkey-cocks on seeing a red cloth flutter, and the alarm of chickens at seeing a bird or a piece of paper fly through the air above them are familiar to most persons. Many dogs howl dismally whenever they see the full moon, and others do the same on hearing thunder or the report of fire-arms, the tolling of a bell, or certain chords of a piano or of some other musical instrument.

Mice and some other animals are sometimes strangely influenced by musical sounds, in a manner quite opposite to their common habits and instincts. In some cases the influence seems to be an agreeable one, and in others the reverse. Many instances are related of naturally shy animals being drawn from their hiding-places by the strains of a flute or other musical instrument, and remaining unconscious of danger, and in a state of apparent ecstasy, during the continuance of the music. On the other hand, bats are said to suffer acutely from the strains of a violin; and a recent writer* gives the following account of the effect produced on these animals by the sound of another instrument: "The upper story of the Salzburg Acropolis is infested with innumerable horseshoe bats, and the steward often uses them for a curious experiment. He claps one into a wire cage, puts the cage on the top of a desk, and on a lower shelf of the desk a Hackbrett, or Styrian zither. At every twang of the zither the bat will start as if a fine needle had pierced its body, and a prolonged performance will throw it into a fit, a convulsive twitching of the whole flying membrane."

In some of these instances we can see a cause, or at least a reason, for the nervous manifestation, while in others we cannot. We are told that the elephant has good ground for his fear of the mouse, in the fact that the small animal is liable to make its way into the nostril of the larger one, thereby, of course, causing intense suffering and perhaps danger of life. But it does not seem likely that the elephant should

*Felix L. Oswald, in "Lippincott's Magazine," for February 1882. Several of the incidents in this article are on the authority of the same author.

know this fact if he has never experienced it, and, not knowing it, his terror of the mouse is inexplicable, unless we suppose that the experience of past generations of elephants has impressed his nervous system with an instinctive horror of mice.

That an animal may thus blindly inherit some peculiar nervous susceptibility as a result of the experience of many generations of its ancestors, is abundantly proved. A familiar illustration of it is found among dogs. Pointers, setters, hounds, etc., are varieties of dogs that for many generations have been trained to hunt certain animals. Puppies of any one of these varieties show great nervous excitement at the first sight or smell of an animal of the particular kind that their ancestors have hunted, although the puppies have as yet no knowledge of their true relations to this animal, and must themselves be carefully trained before they can properly hunt it. On the same principle it has been suggested that the nervousness of monkeys at night is probably due to the fact that, as these animals cannot see in the dark, they are, in their native forests, quite at the mercy of night-prowling beasts of prey; and the frequent visits of such nocturnal enemies, amid rustling leaves and crackling branches, to successive generations of monkeys, have developed in the whole monkey race instinctive night-terrors which the slightest rustling or crackling sound will awaken to shuddering and shrieking expression, though the terrified creatures do not seem to have any idea of a specific danger, but rather to be like children cowering and crying in the dark. We do not know why moonlight or a tolling bell should make a dog howl, why a mouse should be entranced by the music of a flute, or a bat thrown into convulsions by the sound of a zither, and the same is true of many other forms of nervousness that animals are subject to. It may be that explanations will be found for these, not dissimilar from the explanations proposed in the case of the elephant and that of the monkey; and it may be quite otherwise. We can as yet see only the immediate cause and the effect; and, whatever may be the remote cause, so far as we can see, the phenomena are very similar in all these forms of nervousness. find a variety of such forms affecting man in much the same way as they do the lower animals.

We

The dread of darkness common to children-and which, by the way, is not confined to children-has already been alluded to. It is not simple cowardice, although it may have a greater influence on cowards than on those who are naturally courageous. Neither is it probably due to stories of night-horrors heard or read by children, as many persons have supposed, though these undoubtedly aggravate it. It is a form of

nervousness like those we have been considering. Of course it is very inconvenient and undesirable, and fortunately it can nearly always be overcome

a

not, however, by violent means. To force child who is afraid of the dark to go alone into a dark room while in a state of nervous excite ment, and especially to terrify such a child with weird tales and suggestions, or with unexpectel noises and movements made under cover of darkness, is cruel, and certain to increase i nervousness. Self-control in such circumstanos is hardly possible, and self-control is the prime necessity in overcoming this and similar forms of nervousness.

Familiarity with the object of dread is essenti to effect this end, but this familiarity must e gained in a manner that will not of itself deepen the impression of dread. In other words, if we are to be cured of fearing the dark, we ma become accustomed to darkness in circumstance that will not associate in our minds other an pleasant or terrifying ideas with that of darkness We should avoid getting our imaginations excit by ghost stories or other horrors at any ti and especially just before going into the de On the contrary, we should, so far as possi before retiring to a dark room, fill the mind w wholesome and practical ideas by cheerful com versation or reading. If it can be avoided, w should never delay such retirement until we a very weary in either mind or body, because s a condition unfits us to exercise self-control, and favours the formation of weird mental image We should, if about to sleep in a strange r take careful note of every part of it, and position of doors, windows, furniture, etc., befo extinguishing the light; not that we are actual safer for making this observation, but bec we shall then have a sense of controlling surroundings and not of being controlled by the and because we shall be better able to recog individual objects in the dim light of nigh of dawn, and to avoid seeing in them unreal grotesque shapes. By such means as these, aide by reason and will, even very timid or nerv persons can soon rid themselves of a dread darkness. Wanting the knowledge or the w to make a proper effort to this end, some grow to womanhood with the dread fastele upon them, to the great annoyance of themsel and their friends, perhaps so far yielding to as to keep a light always burning in their ro at night, a practice on many accounts undesira except in sickness.

We may notice here the not uncommon pro tice of looking under the bed before retiring. In itself it is a trivial thing, yet such trivial th largely affect one's comfort and usefulness. I very habit of looking keeps alive a nervous fer that there may be something to look for, expe

if occasionally the looking has been forget..

until after the light is put out-by the thought, "I haven't looked under the bed! What if there should be?" While, then, it is better to look than to suffer continually from such a fear, yet, if we have sufficient self-control to refrain from looking, we shall probably find, after a short time, that we have ceased to feel the need of looking, that our consciousness has received what reason has long told us-viz., that our resting-place is secure; in short, that we are freed from a petty nervous tyranny, and are therefore so much stronger, more self-centred, and happier.

Many people are affected by certain sounds in much the same way as some of the animals we have spoken of. The sound of filing a saw, the creak of a rusty hinge, and various other noises, produce in many an unpleasant thrill, apparently in the nerves of the teeth, which is commonly described as "setting the teeth on edge." Again, certain musical instruments, or sometimes certain notes on almost any musical instrument, affect some persons in peculiar ways, in some cases causing nausea, in others producing a curious thrilling sensation that may be either pleasant or unpleasant, or may have elements of both pleasure and pain; and so on.

Some persons are sensitive in a similar way to certain colours or shades of colour, to odours, or to impressions conveyed by the sense of touch. Indeed, nearly every one feels a nervous shiver on touching the down of a green peach or stroking velvet the wrong way, and there are many other instances in which the sense of touch produces a peculiar effect on the nervous system in some individuals. The smell of tobacco makes some persons deathly sick. Others are affected in the same way by the smell of roses, of strawberries, melons, apples, cheese, or some one of a score of other articles of common food. There is scarcely a flower, fruit, or other odorous substance known that does not have this effect on some. Manufactured perfumes are especially apt to produce it. On the other hand, the same odours produce on the nerves of some people an effect which is not unpleasant, or which is unpleasant only in its intensity. These peculiar nervous effects, whether painful or pleasant, do not bear any close relation to the annoyance or gratification felt by the sense of smell. That is to say, one may like the smell of roses, for example, and yet faint at it; or one may dislike the smell of musk, and yet experience a certain kind of nervous delight in it. Probably, the nervous susceptibility to colours among mankind is less common than that to odours, at least as regards any great degree of its manifestation, though in a general way nearly every one is subject to the cheering and depressing influences of various colours and their combinations, even without understanding the reasons, and here and

there will be found an individual on whose nervous organisation certain colours have a very remarkable influence.

Moonlight, water flowing strongly, or deep water resting in shadow, the silence of a forest, or the sound of wind rushing through its branches, and many other phenomena of nature, have a marked influence on some nervous organisations. In some they produce a feeling of exultation, in others one of sadness; and again they excite feelings that are not easily described, but that involve a kind of awed fascination, a consciousness of profound power affecting us, or which may affect us, yet incomprehensible and beyond our control.

Perhaps this sense of subjection to a mysterious power is the principal cause of the influence exerted upon the nerves by such natural phenomena; and indeed it is probable that something like this is a large element in nearly all the nervous influences just considered as belonging to many odours, sounds, etc. Generally, we may free ourselves from any of these forms of nervousness by becoming accustomed to the objects which excite it. Familiarity with the object, whether it be a sight, sound, odour, or anything else, soon enables us to regard it without the feeling that it possesses and controls our being; and, as soon as this point is reached, although the object may still be agreeable or otherwise to our senses, it no longer makes us nervous, because, instead of being mastered by it, we now master it. This mastery is sooner effected if our familiarity with the object is associated in some way with practical service or use. Thus, if we could utilise Niagara Falls for the running of a cotton mill, we would far sooner learn to stand beside it with unshaken nerves than if we merely accustom ourselves to look upon it with wonder and admiration.

On the other hand, if on each occasion of our coming into contact with the object, we yield to its peculiar influence, either through inclination or inability to avoid yielding, we strengthen the bonds of that influence and deepen its effect. Therefore, in such a case, if the influence is an undesirable one, as nearly all such influences are, we shall do wisely in avoiding the cause of it as far as we possibly can. On this principle, those who find that they are excited to nervous melancholy by certain scenes or associations, and yet are strongly fascinated by such scenes or associations, should carefully avoid them. It matters not whether that which exercises such a growing mastery over us is the grave of a friend or only the reflection of the moon from a frog-pond, or any other object; if we continue to place ourselves under its spell, we are in danger of hopelessly impairing our nervous organisations, if not of adding to the list of tragedies in life or in death that have grown out of such influences.

ANETTE had been down to the "Point." On the narrow strip of land that stretched out, tongue-like, into the bay, she had stood for one full half hour -a lonesome little figure, simply for the opportunity of fluttering a handkerchief at a misty something in the distance, and getting in return a momentary white glimmer that was at once the fulfilment of her joy and pain.

The white glimmer had come, and Nanette knew for a certainty that her lover had goneas she also knew that wistful eyes like her own had been watching their chance for a last mute farewell.

They had loved each other, these two, since they were children; and when Nanette grew out of her sweet childhood into a sweeter maidenhood, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Christopher Warwick to ask her to be his wife.

The only unnatural thing was that, before marriage was possible, the would-be husband must go out into the world to make his fortune. Pottering round the farm, and being John's right-hand man, and the best brother-in-law in the world to Jane, would not answer any longer for Chris-he must make a nest for his own little bird-and the chance coming opportunely to join a company bound for the Canadian wilds and a sure thing in furs, he jumped at it promptly. Nanette could not object. The farm belonged to John, not to Chris; and though Jane was good-natured enough to say there was plenty of room for both, Nanette was too sensible to accept any such arrangement, even if her lover had been willing.

Another home was open to the young couple -the home where Nanette herself had been made welcome ever since Aunt Lisbeth and Cousin Robert had taken her in, a little uncaredfor orphan child. For Nan's sake, and to keep the light of their home in it still, they would not have grudged bed and board to Christopher. But the little maid was too wise for that, also. She would not have her husband a mere hangeron in another man's house, and there was no work to be done in Bellevue to make him independent. It was a necessity-strange and painful, but positive-for him to go away, and for her to learn to live without him, for a time,

at least. It would only be a short time, of course, a year or two at the most.

Chris was so clever! He was sure to succeed in anything he gave his mind to, and meanwhile Nan could wait. Waiting was woman's work. Nevertheless, as she turned her back upon the strip of yellow sand, it was a very sadeyed and hopeless little Nan who walked homeward through the brown autumn fields. Aunt Lisbeth, and grave, silent Cousin Robert tried to offer sympathy; but for one night the girl wanted to be all alone with her new sorrow. So by and by, she lighted her lamp and said good-night, with a little remorseful feeling at her impatience of their tenderness.

"She will cry herself to sleep ;" and Aunt Lisbeth looked after her with wistful eyes; "but she doesn't want us now."

"No," said Robert, under his breath; "and yet I would give my life to save her from sorrow. As Chris Warwick deals with her, may Heaven deal with him !"

Robert brought home a letter by and by, with a Toronto post-mark. It was short. He was just starting out into the wilds, Chris wrote. He was hopeful of success. He loved and longed for her, yet was selfishly comforted by the thought that she missed him. of her love gave added strength to all his efforts; and she would wait for him. This was signed, "Your loving Chris."

The memory

That was all; but it brought the pink bloom back into Nan's cheeks; and Robert's love was too unselfish not to rejoice in her happiness. Nan knew the letter by heart. It helped her through long days and weary nights; but not even the daily deferred hope of another prevented her from fulfilling all the old duties. Little by little she took upon herself all the household cares, and Aunt Lisbeth's failing strength gave them up willingly.

She was but a shadow of the blooming maiden Chris had wooed, but Cousin Robert's cough troubled her far more than any weakness of her own.

"It will get better when spring comes," said, listening to the dry, hacking cough.

The days grew longer, and the sky bright and blue again, yet he seemed to lose rather than gain strength. May came, and brought with it fierce, sudden heat that prostrated the sick man, and revealed how great the ravages disease had