To give a simple example which would perhaps seem absurd if it had
not been proved true so many times: A man was so annoyed by his
friend's state of nervous excitability that in taking a regular
morning walk with him, which he might have enjoyed heartily, he
always returned fagged out He tried whilst walking beside his friend
to put himself in imagination on the other side of the street The
nervous irritation lessened, and finally ceased; the walk was
delightful, and the friend--never suspected!

A Japanese crowd is so well-bred that no one person touches another;
one need never jostle, but, with an occasional "I beg your pardon,"
can circulate with perfect ease. In such a crowd there can be no
irritation.

There is a certain good-breeding which leads us to avoid friction
with another's nervous system. It must, however, be an avoidance
inside as well as outside. The subterfuge of holding one's tongue
never works in the end. There is a subtle communication from one
nervous system to another which is more insinuating than any verbal
intercourse. Those nearest us, and whom we really love best, are
often the very persons by whom we are most annoyed. As we learn to
keep a courteous distance from their personal peculiarities our love
grows stronger and more real; and an open frankness in our relation
is more nearly possible. Strangely enough, too, the personal
peculiarities sometimes disappear. It is possible, and quite as
necessary, to treat one's own nervous system with this distant
courtesy.

This brings us to the second simple truth. In nine cases out of ten