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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 02:35:48 -0700 |
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diff --git a/27683-h/27683-h.htm b/27683-h/27683-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..403936d --- /dev/null +++ b/27683-h/27683-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4595 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The World I Live In, by Helen Keller</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: justify;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .right {text-align: right;} + .poem {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .sig {margin-right: 10%; text-align: right;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align:baseline; + position: relative; + bottom: 0.33em; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + .hang1 {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;} +.cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; + margin: -0.2em 0.1em 0; margin-top: 0%; + padding: 0; + line-height: .75em; font-size: 300%; text-align: justify;} + .cap {text-align: justify;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 27683 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The World I Live In, by Helen Keller</h1> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> + +<h1>THE WORLD I LIVE IN</h1> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> +<div class='bbox'> +<h3>HELEN KELLER</h3> + + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"The autobiography of Helen Keller is unquestionably +one of the most remarkable records ever +published."—<i>British Weekly.</i></p> + +<p>"This book is a human document of intense +interest, and without a parallel, we suppose, in +the history of literature."—<i>Yorkshire Post.</i></p> + +<p>"Miss Keller's autobiography, well written and +full of practical interest in all sides of life, literary, +artistic and social, records an extraordinary victory +over physical disabilities."—<i>Times.</i></p> + +<p>"This book is a record of the miraculous. No +one can read it without being profoundly touched +by the patience and devotion which brought the +blind, deaf-mute child into touch with human life, +without being filled with wonder at the quick +intelligence which made such communication with +the outside world possible."—<i>Queen.</i></p></div> + +<div class='center'> +<i>Illustrated, price 7s. 6d.</i><br /> +<br /> +<span class="smcap">Popular Edition</span>, <i>net, 1s.</i><br /> +</div> + +<h3>The Story of My Life</h3> +<div class='center'> +By HELEN KELLER<br /> +————<br /> +<big>The Practice of Optimism</big><br /> +<br /> +<i>Cloth, net, 1s. 6d.; paper, net, 1s.</i><br /> +————<br /> +<span class="smcap">London: Hodder & Stoughton, E.C.</span><br /></div> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 377px;"><a name="front" id="front"></a> +<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="377" height="500" alt="Copyright, 1907, by The Whitman Studio Helen Keller in Her Study" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Helen Keller in Her Study</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>THE WORLD I LIVE IN</h2> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>HELEN KELLER</h2> + +<div class='center'>AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF MY LIFE," ETC.<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +ILLUSTRATED<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +HODDER AND STOUGHTON<br /> +LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> + + +<div class='copyright'><i>Copyright 1904, 1908, by The Century Co.</i></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> + +<div class='copyright'> +TO<br /> +<br /> +<big>HENRY H. ROGERS</big><br /> +<br /> +MY DEAR FRIEND OF<br /> +<br /> +MANY YEARS<br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> + +<h2>PREFACE</h2> + + +<div class='cap'>THE essays and the poem in this book +appeared originally in the "Century +Magazine," the essays under the +titles "A Chat About the Hand," "Sense +and Sensibility," and "My Dreams." +Mr. Gilder suggested the articles, and I +thank him for his kind interest and encouragement. +But he must also accept +the responsibility which goes with my +gratitude. For it is owing to his wish +and that of other editors that I talk so +much about myself.</div> + +<p>Every book is in a sense autobiographical. +But while other self-recording +creatures are permitted at least to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> +seem to change the subject, apparently +nobody cares what I think of the tariff, +the conservation of our natural resources, +or the conflicts which revolve +about the name of Dreyfus. If I offer +to reform the education system of the +world, my editorial friends say, "That is +interesting. But will you please tell us +what idea you had of goodness and +beauty when you were six years old?" +First they ask me to tell the life of the +child who is mother to the woman. +Then they make me my own daughter +and ask for an account of grown-up +sensations. Finally I am requested to +write about my dreams, and thus I become +an anachronical grandmother; for +it is the special privilege of old age to +relate dreams. The editors are so kind +that they are no doubt right in thinking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span> +that nothing I have to say about the +affairs of the universe would be interesting. +But until they give me opportunity +to write about matters that are not-me, +the world must go on uninstructed and +unreformed, and I can only do my best +with the one small subject upon which I +am allowed to discourse.</p> + +<p>In "The Chant of Darkness" I did not +intend to set up as a poet. I thought I +was writing prose, except for the magnificent +passage from Job which I was +paraphrasing. But this part seemed to +my friends to separate itself from the +exposition, and I made it into a kind of +poem.</p> + +<div class='sig'> +H. K.<br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER I</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Seeing Hand</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER II</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Hands of Others</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER III</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Hand of the Race</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER IV</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Power of Touch</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER V</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span><span class="smcap">The Finer Vibrations</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER VI</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Smell, the Fallen Angel</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER VII</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Relative Values of the Senses</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER VIII</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Five-sensed World</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER IX</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Inward Visions</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER X</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Analogies in Sense Perception</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER XI</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Before the Soul Dawn</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER XII</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</a></span><span class="smcap">The Larger Sanctions</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_153">153</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER XIII</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Dream World</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER XIV</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Dreams and Reality</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><br />CHAPTER XV</td><td></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Waking Dream</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><br />A CHANT OF DARKNESS</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations"> +<tr><td align='left'>HELEN KELLER IN HER STUDY</td><td align='right' colspan='3'><a href="#front"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE MEDALLION</td><td align='right'><i>Facing</i> </td><td align='right'><i>page</i> </td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>"LISTENING" TO THE TREES</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>THE LITTLE BOY NEXT DOOR</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='center'>"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<h2>THE SEEING HAND</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> +<h2>I</h2> + +<h3>THE SEEING HAND</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>I HAVE just touched my dog. He was +rolling on the grass, with pleasure in +every muscle and limb. I wanted to +catch a picture of him in my fingers, and +I touched him as lightly as I would cobwebs; +but lo, his fat body revolved, +stiffened and solidified into an upright +position, and his tongue gave my hand a +lick! He pressed close to me, as if he +were fain to crowd himself into my +hand. He loved it with his tail, with his +paw, with his tongue. If he could +speak, I believe he would say with me +that paradise is attained by touch; for +in touch is all love and intelligence.</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> + +<p>This small incident started me on a +chat about hands, and if my chat is +fortunate I have to thank my dog-star. +In any case, it is pleasant to have something +to talk about that no one else has +monopolized; it is like making a new +path in the trackless woods, blazing the +trail where no foot has pressed before. +I am glad to take you by the hand and +lead you along an untrodden way into a +world where the hand is supreme. But +at the very outset we encounter a difficulty. +You are so accustomed to light, +I fear you will stumble when I try to +guide you through the land of darkness +and silence. The blind are not supposed +to be the best of guides. Still, though I +cannot warrant not to lose you, I promise +that you shall not be led into fire or +water, or fall into a deep pit. If you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +will follow me patiently, you will find +that "there's a sound so fine, nothing +lives 'twixt it and silence," and that +there is more meant in things than meets +the eye.</p> + +<p>My hand is to me what your hearing +and sight together are to you. In large +measure we travel the same highways, +read the same books, speak the same +language, yet our experiences are different. +All my comings and goings +turn on the hand as on a pivot. It is the +hand that binds me to the world of men +and women. The hand is my feeler with +which I reach through isolation and +darkness and seize every pleasure, every +activity that my fingers encounter. With +the dropping of a little word from +another's hand into mine, a slight flutter +of the fingers, began the intelligence,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +the joy, the fullness of my life. Like +Job, I feel as if a hand had made me, +fashioned me together round about and +moulded my very soul.</p> + +<p>In all my experiences and thoughts I +am conscious of a hand. Whatever +moves me, whatever thrills me, is as a +hand that touches me in the dark, and +that touch is my reality. You might as +well say that a sight which makes you +glad, or a blow which brings the stinging +tears to your eyes, is unreal as to say +that those impressions are unreal which +I have accumulated by means of touch. +The delicate tremble of a butterfly's +wings in my hand, the soft petals of +violets curling in the cool folds of their +leaves or lifting sweetly out of the +meadow-grass, the clear, firm outline of +face and limb, the smooth arch of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +horse's neck and the velvety touch of his +nose—all these, and a thousand resultant +combinations, which take shape in +my mind, constitute my world.</p> + +<p>Ideas make the world we live in, and +impressions furnish ideas. My world is +built of touch-sensations, devoid of +physical colour and sound; but without +colour and sound it breathes and throbs +with life. Every object is associated in +my mind with tactual qualities which, +combined in countless ways, give me a +sense of power, of beauty, or of incongruity: +for with my hands I can feel the +comic as well as the beautiful in the +outward appearance of things. Remember +that you, dependent on your +sight, do not realize how many things +are tangible. All palpable things are +mobile or rigid, solid or liquid, big or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +small, warm or cold, and these qualities +are variously modified. The coolness of +a water-lily rounding into bloom is different +from the coolness of an evening +wind in summer, and different again +from the coolness of the rain that soaks +into the hearts of growing things and +gives them life and body. The velvet +of the rose is not that of a ripe peach +or of a baby's dimpled cheek. The +hardness of the rock is to the hardness +of wood what a man's deep bass +is to a woman's voice when it is low. +What I call beauty I find in certain +combinations of all these qualities, and +is largely derived from the flow of +curved and straight lines which is over +all things.</p> + +<p>"What does the straight line mean to +you?" I think you will ask.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> + +<p>It <i>means</i> several things. It symbolizes +duty. It seems to have the quality +of inexorableness that duty has. When +I have something to do that must not be +set aside, I feel as if I were going forward +in a straight line, bound to arrive +somewhere, or go on forever without +swerving to the right or to the left.</p> + +<p>That is what it means. To escape this +moralizing you should ask, "How does +the straight line feel?" It feels, as I +suppose it looks, straight—a dull +thought drawn out endlessly. Eloquence +to the touch resides not in +straight lines, but in unstraight lines, or +in many curved and straight lines +together. They appear and disappear, +are now deep, now shallow, now broken +off or lengthened or swelling. They +rise and sink beneath my fingers, they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +are full of sudden starts and pauses, and +their variety is inexhaustible and wonderful. +So you see I am not shut out +from the region of the beautiful, though +my hand cannot perceive the brilliant +colours in the sunset or on the mountain, +or reach into the blue depths of the sky.</p> + +<p>Physics tells me that I am well +off in a world which, I am told, knows +neither cold nor sound, but is made in +terms of size, shape, and inherent +qualities; for at least every object +appears to my fingers standing solidly +right side up, and is not an inverted +image on the retina which, I understand, +your brain is at infinite though +unconscious labour to set back on +its feet. A tangible object passes complete +into my brain with the warmth of +life upon it, and occupies the same place<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +that it does in space; for, without egotism, +the mind is as large as the universe. +When I think of hills, I think of the upward +strength I tread upon. When +water is the object of my thought, I feel +the cool shock of the plunge and the +quick yielding of the waves that crisp +and curl and ripple about my body. The +pleasing changes of rough and smooth, +pliant and rigid, curved and straight in +the bark and branches of a tree give the +truth to my hand. The immovable rock, +with its juts and warped surface, bends +beneath my fingers into all manner of +grooves and hollows. The bulge of a +watermelon and the puffed-up rotundities +of squashes that sprout, bud, and +ripen in that strange garden planted +somewhere behind my finger-tips are +the ludicrous in my tactual memory and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +imagination. My fingers are tickled to +delight by the soft ripple of a baby's +laugh, and find amusement in the lusty +crow of the barnyard autocrat. Once I +had a pet rooster that used to perch on +my knee and stretch his neck and crow. +A bird in my hand was then worth two +in the—barnyard.</p> + +<p>My fingers cannot, of course, get the +impression of a large whole at a glance; +but I feel the parts, and my mind puts +them together. I move around my +house, touching object after object in +order, before I can form an idea of the +entire house. In other people's houses I +can touch only what is shown to me—the +chief objects of interest, carvings on the +wall, or a curious architectural feature, +exhibited like the family album. Therefore +a house with which I am not familiar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +has for me, at first, no general effect +or harmony of detail. It is not a complete +conception, but a collection of +object-impressions which, as they come +to me, are disconnected and isolated. +But my mind is full of associations, sensations, +theories, and with them it constructs +the house. The process reminds +me of the building of Solomon's temple, +where was neither saw, nor hammer, nor +any tool heard while the stones were +being laid one upon another. The +silent worker is imagination which decrees +reality out of chaos.</p> + +<p>Without imagination what a poor +thing my world would be! My garden +would be a silent patch of earth strewn +with sticks of a variety of shapes and +smells. But when the eye of my mind +is opened to its beauty, the bare ground<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +brightens beneath my feet, and the +hedge-row bursts into leaf, and the rose-tree +shakes its fragrance everywhere. I +know how budding trees look, and I +enter into the amorous joy of the mating +birds, and this is the miracle of imagination.</p> + +<p>Twofold is the miracle when, through +my fingers, my imagination reaches +forth and meets the imagination of an +artist which he has embodied in a sculptured +form. Although, compared with +the life-warm, mobile face of a friend, +the marble is cold and pulseless and unresponsive, +yet it is beautiful to my +hand. Its flowing curves and bendings +are a real pleasure; only breath is +wanting; but under the spell of the +imagination the marble thrills and becomes +the divine reality of the ideal.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +Imagination puts a sentiment into every +line and curve, and the statue in my touch +is indeed the goddess herself who breathes +and moves and enchants.</p> + +<p>It is true, however, that some sculptures, +even recognized masterpieces, do +not please my hand. When I touch +what there is of the Winged Victory, +it reminds me at first of a headless, limbless +dream that flies towards me in an +unrestful sleep. The garments of the +Victory thrust stiffly out behind, and do +not resemble garments that I have felt +flying, fluttering, folding, spreading in +the wind. But imagination fulfils these +imperfections, and straightway the Victory +becomes a powerful and spirited +figure with the sweep of sea-winds in +her robes and the splendour of conquest +in her wings.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> + +<p>I find in a beautiful statue perfection +of bodily form, the qualities +of balance and completeness. The +Minerva, hung with a web of poetical +allusion, gives me a sense of exhilaration +that is almost physical; and I like the +luxuriant, wavy hair of Bacchus and +Apollo, and the wreath of ivy, so suggestive +of pagan holidays.</p> + +<p>So imagination crowns the experience +of my hands. And they learned their +cunning from the wise hand of another, +which, itself guided by imagination, led +me safely in paths that I knew not, +made darkness light before me, and +made crooked ways straight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE HANDS OF OTHERS</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> +<h2>II</h2> + +<h3>THE HANDS OF OTHERS</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>THE warmth and protectiveness of +the hand are most homefelt to me +who have always looked to it for aid and +joy. I understand perfectly how the +Psalmist can lift up his voice with +strength and gladness, singing, "I put +my trust in the Lord at all times, and +his hand shall uphold me, and I shall +dwell in safety." In the strength of the +human hand, too, there is something +divine. I am told that the glance of a +beloved eye thrills one from a distance; +but there is no distance in the touch of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +a beloved hand. Even the letters I receive +are—</div> + +<div class='poem'> +Kind letters that betray the heart's deep history,<br /> +In which we feel the presence of a hand.<br /> +</div> + +<p>It is interesting to observe the differences +in the hands of people. They +show all kinds of vitality, energy, stillness, +and cordiality. I never realized +how living the hand is until I saw those +chill plaster images in Mr. Hutton's +collection of casts. The hand I know in +life has the fullness of blood in its veins, +and is elastic with spirit. How different +dear Mr. Hutton's hand was from its +dull, insensate image! To me the cast +lacks the very form of the hand. Of +the many casts in Mr. Hutton's collection +I did not recognize any, not even<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +my own. But a loving hand I never +forget. I remember in my fingers the +large hands of Bishop Brooks, brimful +of tenderness and a strong man's joy. +If you were deaf and blind, and could +have held Mr. Jefferson's hand, you +would have seen in it a face and heard a +kind voice unlike any other you have +known. Mark Twain's hand is full of +whimsies and the drollest humours, and +while you hold it the drollery changes to +sympathy and championship.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 285px;"> +<img src="images/fp22.jpg" width="285" height="500" alt="Copyright, 1907, by the Whitman Studio The Medallion The bas-relief on the wall is a portrait of the Queen Dowager of Spain, which Her Majesty had made for Miss Keller To face page 22" title="" /> +<span class="caption">The Medallion<br />The bas-relief on the wall is a portrait of the Queen Dowager of Spain, which Her Majesty had made for Miss Keller<br /><small><span style="margin-left: 12em;">To face page 22</span></small></span> +</div> + +<p>I am told that the words I have just +written do not "describe" the hands of +my friends, but merely endow them with +the kindly human qualities which I +know they possess, and which language +conveys in abstract words. The criticism +implies that I am not giving the +primary truth of what I feel; but how<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +otherwise do descriptions in books I +read, written by men who can see, render +the visible look of a face? I read +that a face is strong, gentle; that it is +full of patience, of intellect; that it is +fine, sweet, noble, beautiful. Have I +not the same right to use these words in +describing what I feel as you have in +describing what you see? They express +truly what I feel in the hand. I am seldom +conscious of physical qualities, and +I do not remember whether the fingers +of a hand are short or long, or the skin +is moist or dry. No more can you, without +conscious effort, recall the details of +a face, even when you have seen it many +times. If you do recall the features, +and say that an eye is blue, a chin sharp, +a nose short, or a cheek sunken, I fancy +that you do not succeed well in giving<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +the impression of the person,—not so +well as when you interpret at once to the +heart the essential moral qualities of +the face—its humour, gravity, sadness, +spirituality. If I should tell you in physical +terms how a hand feels, you would +be no wiser for my account than a blind +man to whom you describe a face in detail. +Remember that when a blind man +recovers his sight, he does not recognize +the commonest thing that has been familiar +to his touch, the dearest face intimate +to his fingers, and it does not help +him at all that things and people have +been described to him again and again. +So you, who are untrained of touch, do +not recognize a hand by the grasp; and +so, too, any description I might give +would fail to make you acquainted with +a friendly hand which my fingers have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +often folded about, and which my affection +translates to my memory.</p> + +<p>I cannot describe hands under any +class or type; there is no democracy of +hands. Some hands tell me that they do +everything with the maximum of bustle +and noise. Other hands are fidgety and +unadvised, with nervous, fussy fingers +which indicate a nature sensitive to the +little pricks of daily life. Sometimes I +recognize with foreboding the kindly +but stupid hand of one who tells with +many words news that is no news. I +have met a bishop with a jocose hand, a +humourist with a hand of leaden gravity, +a man of pretentious valour with a +timorous hand, and a quiet, apologetic +man with a fist of iron. When I was +a little girl I was taken to see<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> a woman<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +who was blind and paralysed. I shall +never forget how she held out her small, +trembling hand and pressed sympathy +into mine. My eyes fill with tears as I +think of her. The weariness, pain, darkness, +and sweet patience were all to be +felt in her thin, wasted, groping, loving +hand.</p> + +<p>Few people who do not know me will +understand, I think, how much I get of +the mood of a friend who is engaged in +oral conversation with somebody else. +My hand follows his motions; I touch +his hand, his arm, his face. I can tell +when he is full of glee over a good joke +which has not been repeated to me, or +when he is telling a lively story. One<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +of my friends is rather aggressive, and +his hand always announces the coming +of a dispute. By his impatient jerk I +know he has argument ready for some +one. I have felt him start as a sudden +recollection or a new idea shot through +his mind. I have felt grief in his hand. +I have felt his soul wrap itself in darkness +majestically as in a garment. Another +friend has positive, emphatic hands +which show great pertinacity of opinion. +She is the only person I know who +emphasizes her spelled words and accents +them as she emphasizes and accents +her spoken words when I read her lips. I +like this varied emphasis better than +the monotonous pound of unmodulated +people who hammer their meaning into +my palm.</p> + +<p>Some hands, when they clasp yours,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +beam and bubble over with gladness. +They throb and expand with life. +Strangers have clasped my hand like +that of a long-lost sister. Other people +shake hands with me as if with the fear +that I may do them mischief. Such persons +hold out civil finger-tips which they +permit you to touch, and in the moment +of contract they retreat, and inwardly +you hope that you will not be called +upon again to take that hand of "dormouse +valour." It betokens a prudish +mind, ungracious pride, and not seldom +mistrust. It is the antipode to the +hand of those who have large, lovable +natures.</p> + +<p>The handshake of some people makes +you think of accident and sudden death. +Contrast this ill-boding hand with the +quick, skilful, quiet hand of a nurse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +whom I remember with affection because +she took the best care of my +teacher. I have clasped the hands of +some rich people that spin not and toil +not, and yet are not beautiful. Beneath +their soft, smooth roundness what a +chaos of undeveloped character!</p> + +<p>I am sure there is no hand comparable +to the physician's in patient skill, merciful +gentleness and splendid certainty. +No wonder that Ruskin finds in the sure +strokes of the surgeon the perfection of +control and delicate precision for the +artist to emulate. If the physician is a +man of great nature, there will be healing +for the spirit in his touch. This +magic touch of well-being was in the +hand of a dear friend of mine who was +our doctor in sickness and health. His +happy cordial spirit did his patients<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +good whether they needed medicine or +not.</p> + +<p>As there are many beauties of the face, +so the beauties of the hand are many. +Touch has its ecstasies. The hands +of people of strong individuality and +sensitiveness are wonderfully mobile. +In a glance of their finger-tips they +express many shades of thought. Now +and again I touch a fine, graceful, +supple-wristed hand which spells with +the same beauty and distinction that you +must see in the handwriting of some +highly cultivated people. I wish you +could see how prettily little children +spell in my hand. They are wild flowers +of humanity, and their finger motions +wild flowers of speech.</p> + +<p>All this is my private science of +palmistry, and when I tell your fortune<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +it is by no mysterious intuition or gipsy +witchcraft, but by natural, explicable +recognition of the embossed character in +your hand. Not only is the hand as easy +to recognize as the face, but it reveals its +secrets more openly and unconsciously. +People control their countenances, but +the hand is under no such restraint. It +relaxes and becomes listless when the +spirit is low and dejected; the muscles +tighten when the mind is excited or the +heart glad; and permanent qualities +stand written on it all the time.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE HAND OF THE RACE</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> +<h2>III</h2> + +<h3>THE HAND OF THE RACE</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>LOOK in your "Century Dictionary," or +if you are blind, ask your teacher +to do it for you, and learn how many +idioms are made on the idea of hand, +and how many words are formed from +the Latin root <i>manus</i>—enough words to +name all the essential affairs of life. +"Hand," with quotations and compounds, +occupies twenty-four columns, +eight pages of this dictionary. The +hand is defined as "the organ of apprehension." +How perfectly the definition +fits my case in both senses of the word +"apprehend"! With my hand I seize<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +and hold all that I find in the three +worlds—physical, intellectual, and spiritual.</div> + +<p>Think how man has regarded the +world in terms of the hand. All life is +divided between what lies <i>on one hand</i> +and on the other. The products of skill +are <i>manu</i>factures. The conduct of affairs +is <i>man</i>agement. History seems to +be the record—alas for our chronicles of +war!—of the <i>man</i>œuvres of armies. +But the history of peace, too, the narrative +of labour in the field, the forest, and +the vineyard, is written in the victorious +sign <i>manual</i>—the sign of the hand that +has conquered the wilderness. The +labourer himself is called a <i>hand</i>. In +<i>man</i>acle and <i>manu</i>mission we read the +story of human slavery and freedom.</p> + +<p>The minor idioms are myriad; but I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +will not recall too many, lest you cry, +"Hands off!" I cannot desist, however, +from this word-game until I have set +down a few. Whatever is not one's own +by first possession is <i>second-hand</i>. That +is what I am told my knowledge is. But +my well-meaning friends come to my +defence, and, not content with endowing +me with natural <i>first-hand</i> knowledge +which is rightfully mine, ascribe to me +a preternatural sixth sense and credit to +miracles and heaven-sent compensations +all that I have won and discovered with +my good right hand. And with my left +hand too; for with that I read, and it is +as true and honourable as the other. By +what half-development of human power +has the left hand been neglected? +When we arrive at the acme of civilization +shall we not all be ambidextrous,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +and in our <i>hand-to-hand</i> contests against +difficulties shall we not be doubly triumphant? +It occurs to me, by the way, +that when my teacher was training my +unreclaimed spirit, her struggle against +the powers of darkness, with the stout +arm of discipline and the light of the +manual alphabet, was in two senses a +hand-to-hand conflict.</p> + +<p>No essay would be complete without +quotations from Shakspere. In the +field which, in the presumption of my +youth, I thought was my own he has +reaped before me. In almost every +play there are passages where the hand +plays a part. Lady Macbeth's heart-broken +soliloquy over her little hand, +from which all the perfumes of Arabia +will not wash the stain, is the most pitiful +moment in the tragedy. Mark Antony<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +rewards Scarus, the bravest of his soldiers, +by asking Cleopatra to give him her hand: +"Commend unto his lips thy favouring +hand." In a different mood he +is enraged because Thyreus, whom he +despises, has presumed to kiss the +hand of the queen, "my playfellow, +the kingly seal of high hearts." +When Cleopatra is threatened with the +humiliation of gracing Cæsar's triumph, +she snatches a dagger, exclaiming, +"I will trust my resolution and my +good hands." With the same swift instinct, +Cassius trusts to his hands when +he stabs Cæsar: "Speak, hands, for me!" +"Let me kiss your hand," says the blind +Gloster to Lear. "Let me wipe it first," +replies the broken old king; "it smells of +mortality." How charged is this single +touch with sad meaning! How it opens<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +our eyes to the fearful purging Lear +has undergone, to learn that royalty is +no defence against ingratitude and +cruelty! Gloster's exclamation about +his son, "Did I but live to see thee in my +touch, I'd say I had eyes again," is as +true to a pulse within me as the grief he +feels. The ghost in "Hamlet" recites the +wrongs from which springs the tragedy:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand.<br /> +At once of life, of crown, of queen dispatch'd.<br /> +</div> + +<p>How that passage in "Othello" stops +your breath—that passage full of bitter +double intention in which Othello's suspicion +tips with evil what he says about +Desdemona's hand; and she in innocence +answers only the innocent meaning of +his words: "For 'twas that hand that +gave away my heart."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span></p> + +<p>Not all Shakspere's great passages +about the hand are tragic. Remember +the light play of words in "Romeo and +Juliet" where the dialogue, flying nimbly +back and forth, weaves a pretty +sonnet about the hand. And who knows +the hand, if not the lover?</p> + +<p>The touch of the hand is in every +chapter of the Bible. Why, you could +almost rewrite Exodus as the story of +the hand. Everything is done by the +hand of the Lord and of Moses. The +oppression of the Hebrews is translated +thus: "The hand of Pharaoh was heavy +upon the Hebrews." Their departure +out of the land is told in these vivid +words: "The Lord brought the children +of Israel out of the house of bondage +with a strong hand and a stretched-out +arm." At the stretching out of the hand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +of Moses the waters of the Red Sea part +and stand all on a heap. When the +Lord lifts his hand in anger, thousands +perish in the wilderness. Every act, +every decree in the history of Israel, as +indeed in the history of the human race, +is sanctioned by the hand. Is it not used +in the great moments of swearing, blessing, +cursing, smiting, agreeing, marrying, +building, destroying? Its sacredness +is in the law that no sacrifice is valid +unless the sacrificer lay his hand upon +the head of the victim. The congregation +lay their hands on the heads of those +who are sentenced to death. How +terrible the dumb condemnation of their +hands must be to the condemned! +When Moses builds the altar on Mount +Sinai, he is commanded to use no tool, +but rear it with his own hands. Earth,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +sea, sky, man, and all lower animals are +holy unto the Lord because he has +formed them with his hand. When the +Psalmist considers the heavens and the +earth, he exclaims: "What is man, O +Lord, that thou art mindful of him? +For thou hast made him to have dominion +over the works of thy hands." The supplicating +gesture of the hand always accompanies +the spoken prayer, and with +clean hands goes the pure heart.</p> + +<p>Christ comforted and blessed and +healed and wrought many miracles with +his hands. He touched the eyes of the +blind, and they were opened. When +Jairus sought him, overwhelmed with +grief, Jesus went and laid his hands on +the ruler's daughter, and she awoke +from the sleep of death to her father's +love. You also remember how he healed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +the crooked woman. He said to her, +"Woman, thou art loosed from thine infirmity," +and he laid his hands on her, +and immediately she was made straight, +and she glorified God.</p> + +<p>Look where we will, we find the hand +in time and history, working, building, +inventing, bringing civilization out of +barbarism. The hand symbolizes power +and the excellence of work. The mechanic's +hand, that minister of elemental +forces, the hand that hews, saws, cuts, +builds, is useful in the world equally +with the delicate hand that paints a wild +flower or moulds a Grecian urn, or the +hand of a statesman that writes a law. +The eye cannot say to the hand, "I have +no need of thee." Blessed be the hand! +Thrice blessed be the hands that work!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE POWER OF TOUCH</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> +<h2>IV</h2> + +<h3>THE POWER OF TOUCH</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>SOME months ago, in a newspaper +which announced the publication of +the "Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the +Blind," appeared the following paragraph:</div> + +<p>"Many poems and stories must be +omitted because they deal with sight. +Allusion to moonbeams, rainbows, starlight, +clouds, and beautiful scenery may +not be printed, because they serve to +emphasize the blind man's sense of his +affliction."</p> + +<p>That is to say, I may not talk about +beautiful mansions and gardens because<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +I am poor. I may not read about Paris +and the West Indies because I cannot +visit them in their territorial reality. I +may not dream of heaven because it is +possible that I may never go there. Yet +a venturesome spirit impels me to use +words of sight and sound whose meaning +I can guess only from analogy and +fancy. This hazardous game is half the +delight, the frolic, of daily life. I glow +as I read of splendours which the eye +alone can survey. Allusions to moonbeams +and clouds do not emphasize the +sense of my affliction: they carry my +soul beyond affliction's narrow actuality.</p> + +<p>Critics delight to tell us what we cannot +do. They assume that blindness and +deafness sever us completely from the +things which the seeing and the hearing +enjoy, and hence they assert we have no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +moral right to talk about beauty, the +skies, mountains, the song of birds, and +colours. They declare that the very sensations +we have from the sense of touch +are "vicarious," as though our friends +felt the sun for us! They deny <i>a priori</i> +what they have not seen and I have felt. +Some brave doubters have gone so far +even as to deny my existence. In order, +therefore, that I may know that I exist, +I resort to Descartes's method: "I +think, therefore I am." Thus I am metaphysically +established, and I throw upon +the doubters the burden of proving my +non-existence. When we consider how +little has been found out about the mind, +is it not amazing that any one should presume +to define what one can know or +cannot know? I admit that there are +innumerable marvels in the visible universe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +unguessed by me. Likewise, O +confident critic, there are a myriad sensations +perceived by me of which you do +not dream.</p> + +<p>Necessity gives to the eye a precious +power of seeing, and in the same way it +gives a precious power of feeling to the +whole body. Sometimes it seems as if +the very substance of my flesh were so +many eyes looking out at will upon a +world new created every day. The +silence and darkness which are said to +shut me in, open my door most hospitably +to countless sensations that distract, +inform, admonish, and amuse. +With my three trusty guides, touch, +smell, and taste, I make many excursions +into the borderland of experience +which is in sight of the city of Light. +Nature accommodates itself to every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +man's necessity. If the eye is maimed, +so that it does not see the beauteous face +of day, the touch becomes more poignant +and discriminating. Nature proceeds +through practice to strengthen +and augment the remaining senses. +For this reason the blind often hear with +greater ease and distinctness than other +people. The sense of smell becomes +almost a new faculty to penetrate the +tangle and vagueness of things. Thus, +according to an immutable law, the +senses assist and reinforce one another.</p> + +<p>It is not for me to say whether we see +best with the hand or the eye. I only +know that the world I see with my +fingers is alive, ruddy, and satisfying. +Touch brings the blind many sweet certainties +which our more fortunate fellows +miss, because their sense of touch<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +is uncultivated. When they look at +things, they put their hands in their +pockets. No doubt that is one reason +why their knowledge is often so vague, +inaccurate, and useless. It is probable, +too, that our knowledge of phenomena +beyond the reach of the hand is equally +imperfect. But, at all events, we behold +them through a golden mist of fantasy.</p> + +<p>There is nothing, however, misty or +uncertain about what we can touch. +Through the sense of touch I know the +faces of friends, the illimitable variety +of straight and curved lines, all surfaces, +the exuberance of the soil, the delicate +shapes of flowers, the noble forms of +trees, and the range of mighty winds. +Besides objects, surfaces, and atmospherical +changes, I perceive countless +vibrations. I derive much knowledge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +of everyday matter from the jars and +jolts which are to be felt everywhere in +the house.</p> + +<p>Footsteps, I discover, vary tactually +according to the age, the sex, and the +manners of the walker. It is impossible +to mistake a child's patter for the tread +of a grown person. The step of the +young man, strong and free, differs +from the heavy, sedate tread of the +middle-aged, and from the step of the old +man, whose feet drag along the floor, or +beat it with slow, faltering accents. On +a bare floor a girl walks with a rapid, +elastic rhythm which is quite distinct +from the graver step of the elderly +woman. I have laughed over the creak +of new shoes and the clatter of a stout +maid performing a jig in the kitchen. +One day, in the dining-room of an hotel,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +a tactual dissonance arrested my attention. +I sat still and listened with my +feet. I found that two waiters were +walking back and forth, but not with +the same gait. A band was playing, +and I could feel the music-waves along +the floor. One of the waiters walked in +time to the band, graceful and light, +while the other disregarded the music +and rushed from table to table to the +beat of some discord in his own +mind. Their steps reminded me of a +spirited war-steed harnessed with a cart-horse.</p> + +<p>Often footsteps reveal in some measure +the character and the mood of the +walker. I feel in them firmness and indecision, +hurry and deliberation, activity +and laziness, fatigue, carelessness, timidity, +anger, and sorrow. I am most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +conscious of these moods and traits in +persons with whom I am familiar.</p> + +<p>Footsteps are frequently interrupted +by certain jars and jerks, so that I know +when one kneels, kicks, shakes something, +sits down, or gets up. Thus I +follow to some extent the actions of people +about me and the changes of their +postures. Just now a thick, soft patter +of bare, padded feet and a slight jolt +told me that my dog had jumped on the +chair to look out of the window. I do +not, however, allow him to go uninvestigated; +for occasionally I feel the same +motion, and find him, not on the chair, +but trespassing on the sofa.</p> + +<p>When a carpenter works in the house +or in the barn near by, I know by the +slanting, up-and-down, toothed vibration, +and the ringing concussion of blow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +upon blow, that he is sawing or hammering. +If I am near enough, a certain +vibration, travelling back and forth +along a wooden surface, brings me the +information that he is using a plane.</p> + +<p>A slight flutter on the rug tells me +that a breeze has blown my papers off +the table. A round thump is a signal +that a pencil has rolled on the floor. If +a book falls, it gives a flat thud. A +wooden rap on the balustrade announces +that dinner is ready. Many of these +vibrations are obliterated out of doors. +On a lawn or the road, I can feel only +running, stamping, and the rumble of +wheels.</p> + +<p>By placing my hand on a person's lips +and throat, I gain an idea of many specific +vibrations, and interpret them: a +boy's chuckle, a man's "Whew!" of surprise,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +the "Hem!" of annoyance or perplexity, +the moan of pain, a scream, a +whisper, a rasp, a sob, a choke, and a +gasp. The utterances of animals, though +wordless, are eloquent to me—the cat's +purr, its mew, its angry, jerky, scolding +spit; the dog's bow-wow of +warning or of joyous welcome, its yelp +of despair, and its contented snore; the +cow's moo; a monkey's chatter; the +snort of a horse; the lion's roar, and the +terrible snarl of the tiger. Perhaps I +ought to add, for the benefit of the critics +and doubters who may peruse this essay, +that with my own hands I have felt all +these sounds. From my childhood to +the present day I have availed myself +of every opportunity to visit zoological +gardens, menageries, and the circus, and +all the animals, except the tiger, have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +talked into my hand. I have touched +the tiger only in a museum, where he is +as harmless as a lamb. I have, however, +heard him talk by putting my hand on +the bars of his cage. I have touched +several lions in the flesh, and felt them +roar royally, like a cataract over rocks.</p> + +<p>To continue, I know the <i>plop</i> of liquid +in a pitcher. So if I spill my milk, I +have not the excuse of ignorance. I am +also familiar with the pop of a cork, the +sputter of a flame, the tick-tack of the +clock, the metallic swing of the windmill, +the laboured rise and fall of the +pump, the voluminous spurt of the hose, +the deceptive tap of the breeze at door +and window, and many other vibrations +past computing.</p> + +<p>There are tactual vibrations which do +not belong to skin-touch. They penetrate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +the skin, the nerves, the bones, like +pain, heat, and cold. The beat of a +drum smites me through from the chest +to the shoulder-blades. The din of the +train, the bridge, and grinding machinery +retains its "old-man-of-the-sea" +grip upon me long after its cause has +been left behind. If vibration and motion +combine in my touch for any length +of time, the earth seems to run away +while I stand still. When I step off the +train, the platform whirls round, and I +find it difficult to walk steadily.</p> + +<p>Every atom of my body is a vibroscope. +But my sensations are not infallible. +I reach out, and my fingers +meet something furry, which jumps +about, gathers itself together as if to +spring, and acts like an animal. I pause +a moment for caution. I touch it again<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +more firmly, and find it is a fur coat fluttering +and flapping in the wind. To +me, as to you, the earth seems motionless, +and the sun appears to move; for +the rays of the afternoon withdraw more +and more, as they touch my face, until +the air becomes cool. From this I +understand how it is that the shore seems +to recede as you sail away from it. +Hence I feel no incredulity when you +say that parallel lines appear to converge, +and the earth and sky to meet. +My few senses long ago revealed to me +their imperfections and deceptivity.</p> + +<p>Not only are the senses deceptive, but +numerous usages in our language indicate +that people who have five senses +find it difficult to keep their functions +distinct. I understand that we hear +views, see tones, taste music. I am told<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +that voices have colour. Tact, which I +have supposed to be a matter of nice perception, +turns out to be a matter of +taste. Judging from the large use of +the word, taste appears to be the most +important of all the senses. Taste governs +the great and small conventions of +life. Certainly the language of the +senses is full of contradictions, and my +fellows who have five doors to their house +are not more surely at home in themselves +than I. May I not, then, be +excused if this account of my sensations +lacks precision?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE FINER VIBRATIONS</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> +<h2>V</h2> + +<h3>THE FINER VIBRATIONS</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>I HAVE spoken of the numerous jars +and jolts which daily minister to my +faculties. The loftier and grander vibrations +which appeal to my emotions +are varied and abundant. I listen with +awe to the roll of the thunder and the +muffled avalanche of sound when the sea +flings itself upon the shore. And I love +the instrument by which all the diapasons +of the ocean are caught and released in +surging floods—the many-voiced organ. +If music could be seen, I could point +where the organ-notes go, as they rise +and fall, climb up and up, rock and +sway, now loud and deep, now high and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +stormy, anon soft and solemn, with +lighter vibrations interspersed between +and running across them. I should say +that organ-music fills to an ecstasy the act +of feeling.</div> + +<p>There is tangible delight in other instruments, +too. The violin seems beautifully +alive as it responds to the lightest +wish of the master. The distinction between +its notes is more delicate than +between the notes of the piano.</p> + +<p>I enjoy the music of the piano most +when I touch the instrument. If I keep +my hand on the piano-case, I detect tiny +quavers, returns of melody, and the hush +that follows. This explains to me how +sound can die away to the listening ear:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">... How thin and clear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And thinner, clearer, farther going!</span><br /> +O sweet and far from cliff and scar<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!</span><br /> +</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> + +<div class='unindent'>I am able to follow the dominant spirit +and mood of the music. I catch the +joyous dance as it bounds over the keys, +the slow dirge, the reverie. I thrill to +the fiery sweep of notes crossed by +thunderous tones in the "Walküre," +where <i>Wotan</i> kindles the dread flames +that guard the sleeping <i>Brunhild</i>. +How wonderful is the instrument on +which a great musician sings with his +hands! I have never succeeded in distinguishing +one composition from another. +I think this is impossible; but the +concentration and strain upon my attention +would be so great that I doubt if +the pleasure derived would be commensurate +to the effort.</div> + +<p>Nor can I distinguish easily a tune +that is sung. But by placing my hand +on another's throat and cheek, I enjoy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +the changes of the voice. I know when +it is low or high, clear or muffled, sad or +cheery. The thin, quavering sensation +of an old voice differs in my touch from +the sensation of a young voice. A +Southerner's drawl is quite unlike the +Yankee twang. Sometimes the flow +and ebb of a voice is so enchanting that +my fingers quiver with exquisite pleasure, +even if I do not understand a word +that is spoken.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, I am exceedingly +sensitive to the harshness of noises like +grinding, scraping, and the hoarse creak +of rusty locks. Fog-whistles are my vibratory +nightmares. I have stood near +a bridge in process of construction, and +felt the tactual din, the rattle of heavy +masses of stone, the roll of loosened +earth, the rumble of engines, the dumping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +of dirt-cars, the triple blows of vulcan +hammers. I can also smell the fire-pots, +the tar and cement. So I have a +vivid idea of mighty labours in steel and +stone, and I believe that I am acquainted +with all the fiendish noises which can be +made by man or machinery. The whack +of heavy falling bodies, the sudden +shivering splinter of chopped logs, the +crystal shatter of pounded ice, the crash +of a tree hurled to the earth by a hurricane, +the irrational, persistent chaos of +noise made by switching freight-trains, +the explosion of gas, the blasting of stone, +and the terrific grinding of rock upon +rock which precedes the collapse—all +these have been in my touch-experience, +and contribute to my idea of Bedlam, of a +battle, a waterspout, an earthquake, and +other enormous accumulations of sound.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p> + +<p>Touch brings me into contact with the +traffic and manifold activity of the city. +Besides the bustle and crowding of people +and the nondescript grating and electric +howling of street-cars, I am conscious +of exhalations from many different kinds +of shops; from automobiles, drays, +horses, fruit stands, and many varieties +of smoke.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +Odours strange and musty,<br /> +The air sharp and dusty<br /> +With lime and with sand,<br /> +That no one can stand,<br /> +Make the street impassable,<br /> +The people irascible,<br /> +Until every one cries,<br /> +As he trembling goes<br /> +With the sight of his eyes<br /> +And the scent of his nose<br /> +Quite stopped—or at least much diminished—<br /> +"Gracious! when will this city be finished?"<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a><br /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> +<div class="figright" style="width: 318px;"> +<img src="images/fp70.jpg" width="318" height="500" alt="Copyright, 1907, by The Whitman Studio "Listening" to the Trees" title="" /> +<span class="caption">"Listening" to the Trees<br /><small><span style="margin-left: 12em;">To face page 70</span></small></span> +</div> + +<p>The city is interesting; but the tactual +silence of the country is always most +welcome after the din of town and +the irritating concussions of the train. +How noiseless and undisturbing are the +demolition, the repairs and the alterations, +of nature! With no sound of +hammer or saw or stone severed from +stone, but a music of rustles and ripe +thumps on the grass come the fluttering +leaves and mellow fruits which the wind +tumbles all day from the branches. +Silently all droops, all withers, all is +poured back into the earth that it may +recreate; all sleeps while the busy architects +of day and night ply their silent +work elsewhere. The same serenity +reigns when all at once the soil yields +up a newly wrought creation. Softly +the ocean of grass, moss, and flowers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +rolls surge upon surge across the earth. +Curtains of foliage drape the bare +branches. Great trees make ready in +their sturdy hearts to receive again birds +which occupy their spacious chambers +to the south and west. Nay, there is no +place so lowly that it may not lodge +some happy creature. The meadow +brook undoes its icy fetters with rippling +notes, gurgles, and runs free. +And all this is wrought in less than two +months to the music of nature's orchestra, +in the midst of balmy incense.</p> + +<p>The thousand soft voices of the earth +have truly found their way to me—the +small rustle in tufts of grass, the +silky swish of leaves, the buzz of insects, +the hum of bees in blossoms I have +plucked, the flutter of a bird's wings +after his bath, and the slender rippling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +vibration of water running over pebbles. +Once having been felt, these loved voices +rustle, buzz, hum, flutter, and ripple in +my thought forever, an undying part of +happy memories.</p> + +<p>Between my experiences and the experiences +of others there is no gulf of +mute space which I may not bridge. +For I have endlessly varied, instructive +contacts with all the world, with life, +with the atmosphere whose radiant activity +enfolds us all. The thrilling +energy of the all-encasing air is warm +and rapturous. Heat-waves and sound-waves +play upon my face in infinite +variety and combination, until I am able +to surmise what must be the myriad +sounds that my senseless ears have not +heard.</p> + +<p>The air varies in different regions, at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +different seasons of the year, and even +different hours of the day. The odorous, +fresh sea-breezes are distinct from +the fitful breezes along river banks, +which are humid and freighted with inland +smells. The bracing, light, dry air +of the mountains can never be mistaken +for the pungent salt air of the ocean. +The air of winter is dense, hard, compressed. +In the spring it has new vitality. +It is light, mobile, and laden with a +thousand palpitating odours from earth, +grass, and sprouting leaves. The air of +midsummer is dense, saturated, or dry +and burning, as if it came from a furnace. +When a cool breeze brushes the +sultry stillness, it brings fewer odours +than in May, and frequently the odour +of a coming tempest. The avalanche of +coolness which sweeps through the low-hanging<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +air bears little resemblance to +the stinging coolness of winter.</p> + +<p>The rain of winter is raw, without +odour, and dismal. The rain of spring is +brisk, fragrant, charged with life-giving +warmth. I welcome it delightedly as +it visits the earth, enriches the streams, +waters the hills abundantly, makes the +furrows soft with showers for the seed, +elicits a perfume which I cannot breathe +deep enough. Spring rain is beautiful, +impartial, lovable. With pearly drops +it washes every leaf on tree and bush, +ministers equally to salutary herbs and +noxious growths, searches out every +living thing that needs its beneficence.</p> + +<p>The senses assist and reinforce each +other to such an extent that I am not +sure whether touch or smell tells me the +most about the world. Everywhere the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +river of touch is joined by the brooks +of odour-perception. Each season has its +distinctive odours. The spring is earthy +and full of sap. July is rich with the +odour of ripening grain and hay. As the +season advances, a crisp, dry, mature +odour predominates, and golden-rod, +tansy, and everlastings mark the onward +march of the year. In autumn, +soft, alluring scents fill the air, floating +from thicket, grass, flower, and tree, +and they tell me of time and change, of +death and life's renewal, desire and its +fulfilment.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> +<h2>SMELL, THE FALLEN ANGEL</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> +<h2>VI</h2> + +<h3>SMELL, THE FALLEN ANGEL</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>FOR some inexplicable reason the +sense of smell does not hold the +high position it deserves among its sisters. +There is something of the fallen +angel about it. When it woos us with +woodland scents and beguiles us with +the fragrance of lovely gardens, it is admitted +frankly to our discourse. But +when it gives us warning of something +noxious in our vicinity, it is treated as if +the demon had got the upper hand of +the angel, and is relegated to outer +darkness, punished for its faithful service. +It is most difficult to keep the true<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +significance of words when one discusses +the prejudices of mankind, and I find it +hard to give an account of odour-perceptions +which shall be at once dignified +and truthful.</div> + +<p>In my experience smell is most important, +and I find that there is high +authority for the nobility of the sense +which we have neglected and disparaged. +It is recorded that the Lord +commanded that incense be burnt before +him continually with a sweet savour. +I doubt if there is any sensation arising +from sight more delightful than the odours +which filter through sun-warmed, wind-tossed +branches, or the tide of scents +which swells, subsides, rises again wave +on wave, filling the wide world with invisible +sweetness. A whiff of the universe +makes us dream of worlds we have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +never seen, recalls in a flash entire +epochs of our dearest experience. I +never smell daisies without living over +again the ecstatic mornings that my +teacher and I spent wandering in the +fields, while I learned new words and +the names of things. Smell is a potent +wizard that transports us across a thousand +miles and all the years we have +lived. The odour of fruits wafts me +to my Southern home, to my childish +frolics in the peach orchard. Other +odours, instantaneous and fleeting, cause +my heart to dilate joyously or contract +with remembered grief. Even as I +think of smells, my nose is full of scents +that start awake sweet memories of +summers gone and ripening grain fields +far away.</p> + +<p>The faintest whiff from a meadow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +where the new-mown hay lies in the hot +sun displaces the here and the now. I +am back again in the old red barn. My +little friends and I are playing in the haymow. +A huge mow it is, packed with +crisp, sweet hay, from the top of which +the smallest child can reach the straining +rafters. In their stalls beneath are the +farm animals. Here is Jerry, unresponsive, +unbeautiful Jerry, crunching +his oats like a true pessimist, resolved to +find his feed not good—at least not so +good as it ought to be. Again I touch +Brownie, eager, grateful little Brownie, +ready to leave the juiciest fodder for a +pat, straining his beautiful, slender neck +for a caress. Near by stands Lady +Belle, with sweet, moist mouth, lazily +extracting the sealed-up cordial from +timothy and clover, and dreaming of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +deep June pastures and murmurous +streams.</p> + +<p>The sense of smell has told me of a +coming storm hours before there was +any sign of it visible. I notice first a +throb of expectancy, a slight quiver, a +concentration in my nostrils. As the +storm draws nearer, my nostrils dilate +the better to receive the flood of earth-odours +which seem to multiply and extend, +until I feel the splash of rain +against my cheek. As the tempest +departs, receding farther and farther, +the odours fade, become fainter and +fainter, and die away beyond the bar +of space.</p> + +<p>I know by smell the kind of house we +enter. I have recognized an old-fashioned +country house because it has several +layers of odours, left by a succession of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +families, of plants, perfumes, and draperies.</p> + +<p>In the evening quiet there are fewer +vibrations than in the daytime, and then +I rely more largely upon smell. The +sulphuric scent of a match tells me +that the lamps are being lighted. Later +I note the wavering trail of odour that +flits about and disappears. It is the +curfew signal; the lights are out for the +night.</p> + +<p>Out of doors I am aware by smell and +touch of the ground we tread and the +places we pass. Sometimes, when there +is no wind, the odours are so grouped +that I know the character of the country, +and can place a hayfield, a country +store, a garden, a barn, a grove of pines, +a farmhouse with the windows open.</p> + +<p>The other day I went to walk toward a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +familiar wood. Suddenly a disturbing +odour made me pause in dismay. Then +followed a peculiar, measured jar, followed +by dull, heavy thunder. I understood +the odour and the jar only too well. +The trees were being cut down. We +climbed the stone wall to the left. It +borders the wood which I have loved so +long that it seems to be my peculiar possession. +But to-day an unfamiliar rush +of air and an unwonted outburst of sun +told me that my tree friends were gone. +The place was empty, like a deserted +dwelling. I stretched out my hand. +Where once stood the steadfast pines, +great, beautiful, sweet, my hand touched +raw, moist stumps. All about lay +broken branches, like the antlers of +stricken deer. The fragrant, piled-up +sawdust swirled and tumbled about me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +An unreasoning resentment flashed +through me at this ruthless destruction +of the beauty that I love. But there is +no anger, no resentment in nature. The +air is equally charged with the odours of +life and of destruction, for death equally +with growth forever ministers to all-conquering +life. The sun shines as ever, and +the winds riot through the newly opened +spaces. I know that a new forest will +spring where the old one stood, as beautiful, +as beneficent.</p> + +<p>Touch sensations are permanent and +definite. Odours deviate and are fugitive, +changing in their shades, degrees, +and location. There is something else +in odour which gives me a sense of distance. +I should call it horizon—the line +where odour and fancy meet at the +farthest limit of scent.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> + +<p>Smell gives me more idea than touch +or taste of the manner in which sight +and hearing probably discharge their +functions. Touch seems to reside in the +object touched, because there is a contact +of surfaces. In smell there is no +notion of relievo, and odour seems to reside +not in the object smelt, but in the +organ. Since I smell a tree at a distance, +it is comprehensible to me that a person +sees it without touching it. I am +not puzzled over the fact that he receives +it as an image on his retina without +relievo, since my smell perceives the +tree as a thin sphere with no fullness or +content. By themselves, odours suggest +nothing. I must learn by association to +judge from them of distance, of place, +and of the actions or the surroundings +which are the usual occasions for them,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +just as I am told people judge from +colour, light, and sound.</p> + +<p>From exhalations I learn much about +people. I often know the work they are +engaged in. The odours of wood, iron, +paint, and drugs cling to the garments +of those that work in them. Thus I can +distinguish the carpenter from the ironworker, +the artist from the mason or the +chemist. When a person passes quickly +from one place to another I get a scent +impression of where he has been—the +kitchen, the garden, or the sick-room. I +gain pleasurable ideas of freshness and +good taste from the odours of soap, toilet +water, clean garments, woollen and silk +stuffs, and gloves.</p> + +<p>I have not, indeed, the all-knowing +scent of the hound or the wild animal. +None but the halt and the blind need<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +fear my skill in pursuit; for there are +other things besides water, stale trails, +confusing cross tracks to put me at +fault. Nevertheless, human odours are +as varied and capable of recognition as +hands and faces. The dear odours of +those I love are so definite, so unmistakable, +that nothing can quite obliterate +them. If many years should elapse before +I saw an intimate friend again, I +think I should recognize his odour instantly +in the heart of Africa, as +promptly as would my brother that +barks.</p> + +<p>Once, long ago, in a crowded railway +station, a lady kissed me as she hurried +by. I had not touched even her dress. +But she left a scent with her kiss +which gave me a glimpse of her. +The years are many since she kissed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +me. Yet her odour is fresh in my +memory.</p> + +<p>It is difficult to put into words the thing +itself, the elusive person-odour. There +seems to be no adequate vocabulary +of smells, and I must fall back on +approximate phrase and metaphor.</p> + +<p>Some people have a vague, unsubstantial +odour that floats about, mocking +every effort to identify it. It is the will-o'-the-wisp +of my olfactive experience. +Sometimes I meet one who lacks a distinctive +person-scent, and I seldom find +such a one lively or entertaining. On +the other hand, one who has a pungent +odour often possesses great vitality, energy, +and vigour of mind.</p> + +<p>Masculine exhalations are as a rule +stronger, more vivid, more widely differentiated +than those of women. In<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +the odour of young men there is something +elemental, as of fire, storm, and +salt sea. It pulsates with buoyancy and +desire. It suggests all things strong +and beautiful and joyous, and gives me +a sense of physical happiness. I wonder +if others observe that all infants have +the same scent—pure, simple, undecipherable +as their dormant personality. +It is not until the age of six or seven +that they begin to have perceptible individual +odours. These develop and mature +along with their mental and bodily +powers.</p> + +<p>What I have written about smell, especially +person-smell, will perhaps be +regarded as the abnormal sentiment of +one who can have no idea of the "world +of reality and beauty which the eye perceives." +There are people who are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +colour-blind, people who are tone-deaf. +Most people are smell-blind-and-deaf. +We should not condemn a musical composition +on the testimony of an ear +which cannot distinguish one chord from +another, or judge a picture by the verdict +of a colour-blind critic. The sensations +of smell which cheer, inform, and +broaden my life are not less pleasant +merely because some critic who treads +the wide, bright pathway of the eye has +not cultivated his olfactive sense. Without +the shy, fugitive, often unobserved +sensations and the certainties which taste, +smell, and touch give me, I should be +obliged to take my conception of the +universe wholly from others. I should +lack the alchemy by which I now infuse +into my world light, colour, and the +Protean spark. The sensuous reality<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +which interthreads and supports all the +gropings of my imagination would be +shattered. The solid earth would melt +from under my feet and disperse itself +in space. The objects dear to my +hands would become formless, dead +things, and I should walk among them as +among invisible ghosts.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p> +<h2>RELATIVE VALUES OF THE SENSES</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> +<h2>VII</h2> + +<h3>RELATIVE VALUES OF THE SENSES</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>I WAS once without the sense of smell +and taste for several days. It seemed +incredible, this utter detachment from +odours, to breathe the air in and observe +never a single scent. The feeling was +probably similar, though less in degree, +to that of one who first loses sight +and cannot but expect to see the light +again any day, any minute. I knew I +should smell again some time. Still, +after the wonder had passed off, a loneliness +crept over me as vast as the air +whose myriad odours I missed. The +multitudinous subtle delights that smell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +makes mine became for a time wistful +memories. When I recovered the lost +sense, my heart bounded with gladness. +It is a fine dramatic touch that Hans +Andersen gives to the story of Kay and +Gerda in the passage about flowers. +Kay, whom the wicked magician's glass +has blinded to human love, rushes away +fiercely from home when he discovers +that the roses have lost their sweetness.</div> + +<p>The loss of smell for a few days gave +me a clearer idea than I had ever had +what it is to be blinded suddenly, helplessly. +With a little stretch of the imagination +I knew then what it must be +when the great curtain shuts out suddenly +the light of day, the stars, and +the firmament itself. I see the blind +man's eyes strain for the light, as he +fearfully tries to walk his old rounds,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +until the unchanging blank that everywhere +spreads before him stamps the +reality of the dark upon his consciousness.</p> + +<p>My temporary loss of smell proved +to me, too, that the absence of a sense +need not dull the mental faculties and +does not distort one's view of the world, +and so I reason that blindness and +deafness need not pervert the inner +order of the intellect. I know that if +there were no odours for me I should +still possess a considerable part of the +world. Novelties and surprises would +abound, adventures would thicken in the +dark.</p> + +<p>In my classification of the senses, +smell is a little the ear's inferior, and +touch is a great deal the eye's superior. +I find that great artists and philosophers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +agree with me in this. Diderot +says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Je trouvais que de tous les sens, l'œil était +le plus superficiel; l'oreille, le plus orgueilleux; +l'odorat, le plus voluptueux; le goût, +le plus superstitieux et le plus inconstant; le +toucher, le plus profond et le plus philosophe.<a name="FNanchor_C_3" id="FNanchor_C_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a></p></div> + +<p>A friend whom I have never seen +sends me a quotation from Symonds's +"Renaissance in Italy":</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Lorenzo Ghiberti, after describing a piece +of antique sculpture he saw in Rome adds, +"To express the perfection of learning, +mastery, and art displayed in it is beyond +the power of language. Its more exquisite +beauties could not be discovered by the sight, +but only by the touch of the hand passed over +it." Of another classic marble at Padua he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +says, "This statue, when the Christian faith +triumphed, was hidden in that place by some +gentle soul, who, seeing it so perfect, fashioned +with art so wonderful, and with such power +of genius, and being moved to reverent pity, +caused a sepulchre of bricks to be built, and +there within buried the statue, and covered +it with a broad slab of stone, that it might +not in any way be injured. It has very +many sweet beauties which the eyes alone +can comprehend not, either by strong or +tempered light; only the hand by touching +them finds them out."</p></div> + +<p>Hold out your hands to feel the luxury +of the sunbeams. Press the soft blossoms +against your cheek, and finger their +graces of form, their delicate mutability +of shape, their pliancy and freshness. +Expose your face to the aerial floods +that sweep the heavens, "inhale great +draughts of space," wonder, wonder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +at the wind's unwearied activity. +Pile note on note the infinite music +that flows increasingly to your soul +from the tactual sonorities of a thousand +branches and tumbling waters. +How can the world be shrivelled when +this most profound, emotional sense, +touch, is faithful to its service? I +am sure that if a fairy bade me choose +between the sense of light and that of +touch, I would not part with the warm, +endearing contact of human hands or +the wealth of form, the nobility and +fullness that press into my palms.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE FIVE-SENSED WORLD</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> +<h2>VIII</h2> + +<h3>THE FIVE-SENSED WORLD</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>THE poets have taught us how full +of wonders is the night; and the +night of blindness has its wonders, too. +The only lightless dark is the night of +ignorance and insensibility. We differ, +blind and seeing, one from another, not +in our senses, but in the use we make of +them, in the imagination and courage +with which we seek wisdom beyond our +senses.</div> + +<p>It is more difficult to teach ignorance +to think than to teach an intelligent +blind man to see the grandeur of Niagara. +I have walked with people whose eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +are full of light, but who see nothing +in wood, sea, or sky, nothing in city +streets, nothing in books. What a witless +masquerade is this seeing! It were +better far to sail forever in the night of +blindness, with sense and feeling and +mind, than to be thus content with the +mere act of seeing. They have the sunset, +the morning skies, the purple of distant +hills, yet their souls voyage through +this enchanted world with a barren +stare.</p> + +<p>The calamity of the blind is immense, +irreparable. But it does not take away +our share of the things that count—service, +friendship, humour, imagination, +wisdom. It is the secret inner will that +controls one's fate. We are capable of +willing to be good, of loving and being +loved, of thinking to the end that we may<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +be wiser. We possess these spirit-born +forces equally with all God's children. +Therefore we, too, see the lightnings +and hear the thunders of Sinai. We, +too, march through the wilderness and +the solitary place that shall be glad for us, +and as we pass, God maketh the desert +to blossom like the rose. We, too, go +in unto the Promised Land to possess +the treasures of the spirit, the unseen +permanence of life and nature.</p> + +<p>The blind man of spirit faces the unknown +and grapples with it, and what +else does the world of seeing men do? +He has imagination, sympathy, humanity, +and these ineradicable existences +compel him to share by a sort of proxy +in a sense he has not. When he meets +terms of colour, light, physiognomy, he +guesses, divines, puzzles out their meaning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +by analogies drawn from the senses +he has. I naturally tend to think, reason, +draw inferences as if I had five senses +instead of three. This tendency is beyond +my control; it is involuntary, habitual, +instinctive. I cannot compel my mind +to say "I feel" instead of "I see" +or "I hear." The word "feel" proves +on examination to be no less a convention +than "see" and "hear" when I seek +for words accurately to describe the +outward things that affect my three +bodily senses. When a man loses a leg, +his brain persists in impelling him to +use what he has not and yet feels to be +there. Can it be that the brain is so constituted +that it will continue the activity +which animates the sight and the +hearing, after the eye and the ear have +been destroyed?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> + +<p>It might seem that the five senses +would work intelligently together only +when resident in the same body. Yet +when two or three are left unaided, they +reach out for their complements in another +body, and find that they yoke +easily with the borrowed team. When +my hand aches from overtouching, I +find relief in the sight of another. +When my mind lags, wearied with the +strain of forcing out thoughts about +dark, musicless, colourless, detached substance, +it recovers its elasticity as soon +as I resort to the powers of another +mind which commands light, harmony, +colour. Now, if the five senses will not +remain disassociated, the life of the +deaf-blind cannot be severed from the +life of the seeing, hearing race.</p> + +<p>The deaf-blind person may be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +plunged and replunged like Schiller's +diver into seas of the unknown. But, +unlike the doomed hero, he returns triumphant, +grasping the priceless truth +that his mind is not crippled, not limited +to the infirmity of his senses. The +world of the eye and the ear becomes to +him a subject of fateful interest. He +seizes every word of sight and hearing +because his sensations compel it. Light +and colour, of which he has no tactual evidence, +he studies fearlessly, believing that +all humanly knowable truth is open +to him. He is in a position similar to +that of the astronomer who, firm, patient, +watches a star night after night +for many years and feels rewarded if he +discovers a single fact about it. The +man deaf-blind to ordinary outward +things, and the man deaf-blind to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +immeasurable universe, are both limited +by time and space; but they have made +a compact to wring service from their +limitations.</p> + +<p>The bulk of the world's knowledge is +an imaginary construction. History is +but a mode of imagining, of making us +see civilizations that no longer appear +upon the earth. Some of the most significant +discoveries in modern science +owe their origin to the imagination of +men who had neither accurate knowledge +nor exact instruments to demonstrate +their beliefs. If astronomy had +not kept always in advance of the telescope, +no one would ever have thought +a telescope worth making. What great +invention has not existed in the inventor's +mind long before he gave it tangible +shape?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> + +<p>A more splendid example of imaginative +knowledge is the unity with which +philosophers start their study of the +world. They can never perceive the +world in its entire reality. Yet their +imagination, with its magnificent allowance +for error, its power of treating uncertainty +as negligible, has pointed the +way for empirical knowledge.</p> + +<p>In their highest creative moments the +great poet, the great musician cease to +use the crude instruments of sight and +hearing. They break away from their +sense-moorings, rise on strong, compelling +wings of spirit far above our misty +hills and darkened valleys into the region +of light, music, intellect.</p> + +<p>What eye hath seen the glories of the +New Jerusalem? What ear hath heard +the music of the spheres, the steps of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +time, the strokes of chance, the blows of +death? Men have not heard with their +physical sense the tumult of sweet voices +above the hills of Judea nor seen the +heavenly vision; but millions have +listened to that spiritual message +through many ages.</p> + +<p>Our blindness changes not a whit the +course of inner realities. Of us it is +as true as it is of the seeing that the +most beautiful world is always entered +through the imagination. If you wish +to be something that you are not,—something +fine, noble, good,—you shut +your eyes, and for one dreamy moment +you are that which you long to be.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> +<h2>INWARD VISIONS</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> +<h2>IX</h2> + +<h3>INWARD VISIONS</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>ACCORDING to all art, all nature, all +coherent human thought, we know +that order, proportion, form, are essential +elements of beauty. Now order, +proportion, and form, are palpable to +the touch. But beauty and rhythm are +deeper than sense. They are like love +and faith. They spring out of a spiritual +process only slightly dependent upon +sensations. Order, proportion, form, +cannot generate in the mind the abstract +idea of beauty, unless there is already +a soul intelligence to breathe life into the +elements. Many persons, having perfect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +eyes, are blind in their perceptions. +Many persons, having perfect ears, are +emotionally deaf. Yet these are the very +ones who dare to set limits to the vision +of those who, lacking a sense or two, have +will, soul, passion, imagination. Faith +is a mockery if it teaches us not that +we may construct a world unspeakably +more complete and beautiful than the +material world. And I, too, may construct +my better world, for I am a child of God, +an inheritor of a fragment of the Mind +that created all worlds.</div> + +<p>There is a consonance of all things, a +blending of all that we know about the +material world and the spiritual. It +consists for me of all the impressions, vibrations, +heat, cold, taste, smell, and the +sensations which these convey to the +mind, infinitely combined, interwoven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +with associated ideas and acquired +knowledge. No thoughtful person will +believe that what I said about the meaning +of footsteps is strictly true of mere +jolts and jars. It is an array of the +spiritual in certain natural elements, +tactual beats, and an acquired knowledge +of physical habits and moral traits of +highly organized human beings. What +would odours signify if they were not associated +with the time of the year, the +place I live in, and the people I know?</p> + +<p>The result of such a blending is sometimes +a discordant trying of strings far +removed from a melody, very far from +a symphony. (For the benefit of those +who must be reassured, I will say that I +have felt a musician tuning his violin, +that I have read about a symphony, and +so have a fair intellectual perception of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +my metaphor.) But with training and +experience the faculties gather up the +stray notes and combine them into a +full, harmonious whole. If the person +who accomplishes this task is peculiarly +gifted, we call him a poet. The blind +and the deaf are not great poets, it is +true. Yet now and again you find one +deaf and blind who has attained to his +royal kingdom of beauty.</p> + +<p>I have a little volume of poems by +a deaf-blind lady, Madame Bertha Galeron. +Her poetry has versatility of +thought. Now it is tender and sweet, +now full of tragic passion and the sternness +of destiny. Victor Hugo called +her "La Grande Voyante." She has +written several plays, two of which +have been acted in Paris. The French +Academy has crowned her work.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> + +<p>The infinite wonders of the universe +are revealed to us in exact measure as +we are capable of receiving them. The +keenness of our vision depends not on +how much we can see, but on how much +we feel. Nor yet does mere knowledge +create beauty. Nature sings her +most exquisite songs to those who love +her. She does not unfold her secrets to +those who come only to gratify their desire +of analysis, to gather facts, but to +those who see in her manifold phenomena +suggestions of lofty, delicate sentiments.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 338px;"> +<img src="images/fp120.jpg" width="338" height="500" alt="Copyright, 1907, by The Whitman Studio The Little Boy Next Door" title="" /> +<span class="caption">The Little Boy Next Door<br /><small><span style="margin-left: 12em;">To face page 120</span></small></span> +</div> + +<p>Am I to be denied the use of such adjectives +as "freshness" and "sparkle," +"dark" and "gloomy"? I have walked +in the fields at early morning. I have +felt a rose-bush laden with dew and +fragrance. I have felt the curves and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +graces of my kitten at play. I have +known the sweet, shy ways of little children. +I have known the sad opposites +of all these, a ghastly touch picture. +Remember, I have sometimes travelled +over a dusty road as far as my feet could +go. At a sudden turn I have stepped +upon starved, ignoble weeds, and reaching +out my hands, I have touched a fair +tree out of which a parasite had taken +the life like a vampire. I have touched +a pretty bird whose soft wings hung limp, +whose little heart beat no more. I have +wept over the feebleness and deformity +of a child, lame, or born blind, or, worse +still, mindless. If I had the genius of +Thomson, I, too, could depict a "City +of Dreadful Night" from mere touch +sensations. From contrasts so irreconcilable +can we fail to form an idea of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +beauty and know surely when we meet +with loveliness?</p> + +<p>Here is a sonnet eloquent of a blind +man's power of vision:</p> + + +<div class='center'><br /><br />THE MOUNTAIN TO THE PINE<br /><br /></div> + +<div class='poem'> +Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That standest where no wild vines dare to creep,</span><br /> +Men call thee old, and say that thou hast stood<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A century upon my rugged steep;</span><br /> +Yet unto me thy life is but a day,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When I recall the things that I have seen,—</span><br /> +The forest monarchs that have passed away<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the spot where first I saw thy green;</span><br /> +For I am older than the age of man,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or all the living things that crawl or creep,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep;</span><br /> +I was the first dim outline of God's plan:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only the waters of the restless sea</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the infinite stars in heaven are old to me.</span><br /> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> + +<p>I am glad my friend Mr. Stedman +knew that poem while he was making +his Anthology, for knowing it, so fine a +poet and critic could not fail to give it a +place in his treasure-house of American +poetry. The poet, Mr. Clarence Hawkes, +has been blind since childhood; yet he +finds in nature hints of combinations +for his mental pictures. Out of the +knowledge and impressions that come +to him he constructs a masterpiece +which hangs upon the walls of his +thought. And into the poet's house +come all the true spirits of the world.</p> + +<p>It was a rare poet who thought of the +mountain as "the first dim outline of +God's plan." That is the real wonder +of the poem, and not that a blind man +should speak so confidently of sky and +sea. Our ideas of the sky are an accumulation<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +of touch-glimpses, literary allusions, +and the observations of others, +with an emotional blending of all. My +face feels only a tiny portion of the atmosphere; +but I go through continuous +space and feel the air at every point, +every instant. I have been told about +the distances from our earth to the sun, +to the other planets, and to the fixed +stars. I multiply a thousand times the +utmost height and width that my touch +compasses, and thus I gain a deep sense +of the sky's immensity.</p> + +<p>Move me along constantly over +water, water, nothing but water, and +you give me the solitude, the vastness +of ocean which fills the eye. I have +been in a little sail-boat on the sea, when +the rising tide swept it toward the +shore. May I not understand the poet's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +figure: "The green of spring overflows +the earth like a tide"? I have felt the +flame of a candle blow and flutter in the +breeze. May I not, then, say: "Myriads +of fireflies flit hither and thither in +the dew-wet grass like little fluttering +tapers"?</p> + +<p>Combine the endless space of air, the +sun's warmth, the clouds that are described +to my understanding spirit, the +frequent breaking through the soil of a +brook or the expanse of the wind-ruffled +lake, the tactual undulation of the hills, +which I recall when I am far away from +them, the towering trees upon trees as I +walk by them, the bearings that I try to +keep while others tell me the directions of +the various points of the scenery, and you +will begin to feel surer of my mental +landscape. The utmost bound to which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +my thought will go with clearness is the +horizon of my mind. From this horizon +I imagine the one which the eye marks.</p> + +<p>Touch cannot bridge distance,—it is +fit only for the contact of surfaces,—but +thought leaps the chasm. For this +reason I am able to use words descriptive +of objects distant from my senses. +I have felt the rondure of the infant's +tender form. I can apply this perception +to the landscape and to the far-off +hills.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ANALOGIES IN SENSE PERCEPTION</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> +<h2>X</h2> + +<h3>ANALOGIES IN SENSE PERCEPTION</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>I HAVE not touched the outline of a +star nor the glory of the moon, but +I believe that God has set two lights in +mind, the greater to rule by day and +the lesser by night, and by them I know +that I am able to navigate my life-bark, +as certain of reaching the haven as he +who steers by the North Star. Perhaps +my sun shines not as yours. The colours +that glorify my world, the blue of the +sky, the green of the fields, may not correspond +exactly with those you delight +in; but they are none the less colour to +me. The sun does not shine for my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +physical eyes, nor does the lightning +flash, nor do the trees turn green in the +spring; but they have not therefore +ceased to exist, any more than the landscape +is annihilated when you turn your +back on it.</div> + +<p>I understand how scarlet can differ +from crimson because I know that the +smell of an orange is not the smell of +a grape-fruit. I can also conceive that +colours have shades, and guess what +shades are. In smell and taste there are +varieties not broad enough to be fundamental; +so I call them shades. There +are half a dozen roses near me. They +all have the unmistakable rose scent; yet +my nose tells me that they are not the +same. The American Beauty is distinct +from the Jacqueminot and La +France. Odours in certain grasses fade<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +as really to my sense as certain colours do +to yours in the sun. The freshness of a +flower in my hand is analogous to the +freshness I taste in an apple newly +picked. I make use of analogies like +these to enlarge my conceptions of +colours. Some analogies which I draw +between qualities in surface and vibration, +taste and smell, are drawn by +others between sight, hearing, and touch. +This fact encourages me to persevere, +to try and bridge the gap between the +eye and the hand.</p> + +<p>Certainly I get far enough to sympathize +with the delight that my kind feel +in beauty they see and harmony they +hear. This bond between humanity and +me is worth keeping, even if the idea on +which I base it prove erroneous.</p> + +<p>Sweet, beautiful vibrations exist for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +my touch, even though they travel +through other substances than air to +reach me. So I imagine sweet, delightful +sounds, and the artistic arrangement +of them which is called music, and I remember +that they travel through the air +to the ear, conveying impressions somewhat +like mine. I also know what tones +are, since they are perceptible tactually +in a voice. Now, heat varies greatly in +the sun, in the fire, in hands, and in the +fur of animals; indeed, there is such a +thing for me as a cold sun. So I think +of the varieties of light that touch the +eye, cold and warm, vivid and dim, soft +and glaring, but always light, and I +imagine their passage through the air +to an extensive sense, instead of to a +narrow one like touch. From the experience +I have had with voices I guess<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +how the eye distinguishes shades in the +midst of light. While I read the lips of +a woman whose voice is soprano, I note +a low tone or a glad tone in the midst of +a high, flowing voice. When I feel my +cheeks hot, I know that I am red. I +have talked so much and read so much +about colours that through no will of my +own I attach meanings to them, just as +all people attach certain meanings to +abstract terms like hope, idealism, monotheism, +intellect, which cannot be represented +truly by visible objects, but +which are understood from analogies between +immaterial concepts and the +ideas they awaken of external things. +The force of association drives me to +say that white is exalted and pure, green +is exuberant, red suggests love or shame +or strength. Without the colour or its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +equivalent, life to me would be dark, +barren, a vast blackness.</p> + +<p>Thus through an inner law of completeness +my thoughts are not permitted +to remain colourless. It strains my mind +to separate colour and sound from objects. +Since my education began I have +always had things described to me with +their colours and sounds by one with keen +senses and a fine feeling for the significant. +Therefore I habitually think of +things as coloured and resonant. Habit +accounts for part. The soul sense accounts +for another part. The brain with +its five-sensed construction asserts its +right and accounts for the rest. Inclusive +of all, the unity of the world demands +that colour be kept in it, whether I +have cognizance of it or not. Rather +than be shut out, I take part in it by discussing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +it, imagining it, happy in the +happiness of those near me who gaze at +the lovely hues of the sunset or the rainbow.</p> + +<p>My hand has its share in this multiple +knowledge, but it must never be forgotten +that with the fingers I see only a +very small portion of a surface, and that +I must pass my hand continually over it +before my touch grasps the whole. It +is still more important, however, to remember +that my imagination is not +tethered to certain points, locations, and +distances. It puts all the parts together +simultaneously as if it saw or knew instead +of feeling them. Though I feel +only a small part of my horse at a time,—my +horse is nervous and does not submit +to manual explorations,—yet, because +I have many times felt hock, nose,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +hoof and mane, I can see the steeds of +Phœbus Apollo coursing the heavens.</p> + +<p>With such a power active it is impossible +that my thought should be vague, +indistinct. It must needs be potent, +definite. This is really a corollary of +the philosophical truth that the real +world exists only for the mind. That is +to say, I can never touch the world in its +entirety; indeed, I touch less of it than +the portion that others see or hear. But +all creatures, all objects, pass into my +brain entire, and occupy the same extent +there that they do in material space. I +declare that for me branched thoughts, +instead of pines, wave, sway, rustle, +make musical the ridges of mountains +rising summit upon summit. Mention +a rose too far away for me to smell it. +Straightway a scent steals into my nostril,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +a form presses against my palm in +all its dilating softness, with rounded +petals, slightly curled edges, curving +stem, leaves drooping. When I would +fain view the world as a whole, it rushes +into vision—man, beast, bird, reptile, +fly, sky, ocean, mountains, plain, rock, +pebble. The warmth of life, the reality +of creation is over all—the throb of +human hands, glossiness of fur, lithe +windings of long bodies, poignant buzzing +of insects, the ruggedness of the +steeps as I climb them, the liquid mobility +and boom of waves upon the rocks. +Strange to say, try as I may, I cannot +force my touch to pervade this universe +in all directions. The moment I try, the +whole vanishes; only small objects or +narrow portions of a surface, mere +touch-signs, a chaos of things scattered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +at random, remain. No thrill, no delight +is excited thereby. Restore to the +artistic, comprehensive internal sense its +rightful domain, and you give me joy +which best proves the reality.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>BEFORE THE SOUL DAWN</h2><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> +<h2>XI</h2> + +<h3>BEFORE THE SOUL DAWN</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>BEFORE my teacher came to me, I +did not know that I am. I lived in +a world that was a no-world. I cannot +hope to describe adequately that unconscious, +yet conscious time of nothingness. +I did not know that I knew +aught, or that I lived or acted or desired. +I had neither will nor intellect. +I was carried along to objects and acts +by a certain blind natural impetus. I +had a mind which caused me to feel +anger, satisfaction, desire. These two +facts led those about me to suppose that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +I willed and thought. I can remember +all this, not because I knew that it was +so, but because I have tactual memory. +It enables me to remember that I never +contracted my forehead in the act of +thinking. I never viewed anything beforehand +or chose it. I also recall tactually +the fact that never in a start of the +body or a heart-beat did I feel that I +loved or cared for anything. My inner +life, then, was a blank without past, +present, or future, without hope or anticipation, +without wonder or joy or +faith.</div> + +<div class='poem'><br /> +It was not night—it was not day.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;"><b>. . . . .</b></span><br /> +But vacancy absorbing space,<br /> +And fixedness, without a place;<br /> +There were no stars—no earth—no time—<br /> +No check—no change—no good—no crime.<br /></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> + +<p>My dormant being had no idea of +God or immortality, no fear of death.</p> + +<p>I remember, also through touch, that +I had a power of association. I felt +tactual jars like the stamp of a foot, the +opening of a window or its closing, the +slam of a door. After repeatedly smelling +rain and feeling the discomfort of +wetness, I acted like those about me: I +ran to shut the window. But that was +not thought in any sense. It was the +same kind of association that makes animals +take shelter from the rain. From +the same instinct of aping others, I +folded the clothes that came from the +laundry, and put mine away, fed the +turkeys, sewed bead-eyes on my doll's +face, and did many other things of +which I have the tactual remembrance. +When I wanted anything I liked,—ice-cream,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +for instance, of which I was very +fond,—I had a delicious taste on my +tongue (which, by the way, I never have +now), and in my hand I felt the turning +of the freezer. I made the sign, and my +mother knew I wanted ice-cream. I +"thought" and desired in my fingers. +If I had made a man, I should certainly +have put the brain and soul in his finger-tips. +From reminiscences like these I +conclude that it is the opening of the +two faculties, freedom of will, or choice, +and rationality, or the power of thinking +from one thing to another, which +makes it possible to come into being first +as a child, afterwards as a man.</p> + +<p>Since I had no power of thought, I +did not compare one mental state with +another. So I was not conscious of any +change or process going on in my brain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +when my teacher began to instruct me. +I merely felt keen delight in obtaining +more easily what I wanted by means of +the finger motions she taught me. I +thought only of objects, and only objects +I wanted. It was the turning of +the freezer on a larger scale. When I +learned the meaning of "I" and "me" +and found that I was something, I +began to think. Then consciousness +first existed for me. Thus it was not +the sense of touch that brought me +knowledge. It was the awakening of +my soul that first rendered my senses +their value, their cognizance of objects, +names, qualities, and properties. +Thought made me conscious of love, +joy, and all the emotions. I was eager +to know, then to understand, afterward +to reflect on what I knew and understood,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +and the blind impetus, which had +before driven me hither and thither at +the dictates of my sensations, vanished +forever.</p> + +<p>I cannot represent more clearly than +any one else the gradual and subtle +changes from first impressions to abstract +ideas. But I know that my +physical ideas, that is, ideas derived +from material objects, appear to me +first an idea similar to those of touch. +Instantly they pass into intellectual +meanings. Afterward the meaning finds +expression in what is called "inner +speech." When I was a child, my inner +speech was inner spelling. Although I +am even now frequently caught spelling +to myself on my fingers, yet I talk +to myself, too, with my lips, and it is +true that when I first learned to speak,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +my mind discarded the finger-symbols +and began to articulate. However, +when I try to recall what some one has +said to me, I am conscious of a hand +spelling into mine.</p> + +<p>It has often been asked what were +my earliest impressions of the world in +which I found myself. But one who +thinks at all of his first impressions +knows what a riddle this is. Our impressions +grow and change unnoticed, so +that what we suppose we thought as +children may be quite different from +what we actually experienced in our +childhood. I only know that after my +education began the world which came +within my reach was all alive. I spelled +to my blocks and my dogs. I sympathized +with plants when the flowers were +picked, because I thought it hurt them,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +and that they grieved for their lost blossoms. +It was two years before I could be +made to believe that my dogs did not +understand what I said, and I always +apologized to them when I ran into or +stepped on them.</p> + +<p>As my experiences broadened and +deepened, the indeterminate, poetic feelings +of childhood began to fix themselves +in definite thoughts. Nature—the +world I could touch—was folded +and filled with myself. I am inclined to +believe those philosophers who declare +that we know nothing but our own feelings +and ideas. With a little ingenious +reasoning one may see in the material +world simply a mirror, an image of permanent +mental sensations. In either +sphere self-knowledge is the condition +and the limit of our consciousness. That<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +is why, perhaps, many people know +so little about what is beyond their +short range of experience. They look +within themselves—and find nothing! +Therefore they conclude that there is +nothing outside themselves, either.</p> + +<p>However that may be, I came later to +look for an image of my emotions and +sensations in others. I had to learn the +outward signs of inward feelings. The +start of fear, the suppressed, controlled +tensity of pain, the beat of happy muscles +in others, had to be perceived and +compared with my own experiences before +I could trace them back to the intangible +soul of another. Groping, uncertain, +I at last found my identity, and +after seeing my thoughts and feelings +repeated in others, I gradually constructed +my world of men and of God.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +As I read and study, I find that this is +what the rest of the race has done. Man +looks within himself and in time finds +the measure and the meaning of the universe.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE LARGER SANCTIONS</h2><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> +<h2>XII</h2> + +<h3>THE LARGER SANCTIONS</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>SO, in the midst of life, eager, imperious +life, the deaf-blind child, +fettered to the bare rock of circumstance, +spider-like, sends out gossamer +threads of thought into the measureless +void that surrounds him. Patiently he +explores the dark, until he builds up a +knowledge of the world he lives in, and +his soul meets the beauty of the world, +where the sun shines always, and the +birds sing. To the blind child the dark +is kindly. In it he finds nothing extraordinary +or terrible. It is his familiar +world; even the groping from place to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +place, the halting steps, the dependence +upon others, do not seem strange to him. +He does not know how many countless +pleasures the dark shuts out from him. +Not until he weighs his life in the scale +of others' experience does he realize +what it is to live forever in the dark. +But the knowledge that teaches him this +bitterness also brings its consolation—spiritual +light, the promise of the day +that shall be.</div> + +<p>The blind child—the deaf-blind child—has +inherited the mind of seeing and +hearing ancestors—a mind measured to +five senses. Therefore he must be influenced, +even if it be unknown to himself, +by the light, colour, song which have been +transmitted through the language he is +taught, for the chambers of the mind +are ready to receive that language. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +brain of the race is so permeated with +colour that it dyes even the speech of the +blind. Every object I think of is +stained with the hue that belongs to it +by association and memory. The experience +of the deaf-blind person, in a +world of seeing, hearing people, is like +that of a sailor on an island where the +inhabitants speak a language unknown +to him, whose life is unlike that he has +lived. He is one, they are many; there +is no chance of compromise. He must +learn to see with their eyes, to hear with +their ears, to think their thoughts, to +follow their ideals.</p> + +<p>If the dark, silent world which surrounds +him were essentially different +from the sunlit, resonant world, it would +be incomprehensible to his kind, and +could never be discussed. If his feelings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +and sensations were fundamentally +different from those of others, they +would be inconceivable except to those +who had similar sensations and feelings. +If the mental consciousness of the deaf-blind +person were absolutely dissimilar +to that of his fellows, he would have no +means of imagining what they think. +Since the mind of the sightless is essentially +the same as that of the seeing in +that it admits of no lack, it must supply +some sort of equivalent for missing physical +sensations. It must perceive a likeness +between things outward and things +inward, a correspondence between the +seen and the unseen. I make use of +such a correspondence in many relations, +and no matter how far I pursue +it to things I cannot see, it does not +break under the test.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> + +<p>As a working hypothesis, correspondence +is adequate to all life, through the +whole range of phenomena. The flash of +thought and its swiftness explain the +lightning flash and the sweep of a comet +through the heavens. My mental sky +opens to me the vast celestial spaces, and +I proceed to fill them with the images of +my spiritual stars. I recognize truth by +the clearness and guidance that it gives +my thought, and, knowing what that +clearness is, I can imagine what light is +to the eye. It is not a convention of +language, but a forcible feeling of the +reality, that at times makes me start +when I say, "Oh, I see my mistake!" +or "How dark, cheerless is his life!" I +know these are metaphors. Still, I must +prove with them, since there is nothing +in our language to replace them. Deaf-blind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +metaphors to correspond do not +exist and are not necessary. Because +I can understand the word "reflect" +figuratively, a mirror has never perplexed +me. The manner in which my +imagination perceives absent things enables +me to see how glasses can magnify +things, bring them nearer, or remove +them farther.</p> + +<p>Deny me this correspondence, this internal +sense, confine me to the fragmentary, +incoherent touch-world, and lo, I +become as a bat which wanders about on +the wing. Suppose I omitted all words +of seeing, hearing, colour, light, landscape, +the thousand phenomena, instruments +and beauties connected with them. +I should suffer a great diminution of +the wonder and delight in attaining +knowledge; also—more dreadful loss—my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +emotions would be blunted, so that I +could not be touched by things unseen.</p> + +<p>Has anything arisen to disprove the +adequacy of correspondence? Has any +chamber of the blind man's brain been +opened and found empty? Has any +psychologist explored the mind of the +sightless and been able to say, "There is +no sensation here"?</p> + +<p>I tread the solid earth; I breathe the +scented air. Out of these two experiences +I form numberless associations +and correspondences. I observe, I feel, +I think, I imagine. I associate the +countless varied impressions, experiences, +concepts. Out of these materials +Fancy, the cunning artisan of the +brain, welds an image which the sceptic +would deny me, because I cannot see +with my physical eyes the changeful,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +lovely face of my thought-child. He +would break the mind's mirror. This +spirit-vandal would humble my soul and +force me to bite the dust of material +things. While I champ the bit of circumstance, +he scourges and goads me +with the spur of fact. If I heeded him, +the sweet-visaged earth would vanish +into nothing, and I should hold in my +hand nought but an aimless, soulless +lump of dead matter. But although the +body physical is rooted alive to the Promethean +rock, the spirit-proud huntress +of the air will still pursue the shining, +open highways of the universe.</p> + +<p>Blindness has no limiting effect upon +mental vision. My intellectual horizon is +infinitely wide. The universe it encircles +is immeasurable. Would they +who bid me keep within the narrow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +bound of my meagre senses demand of +Herschel that he roof his stellar universe +and give us back Plato's solid firmament +of glassy spheres? Would they command +Darwin from the grave and bid +him blot out his geological time, give +us back a paltry few thousand years? +Oh, the supercilious doubters! They +ever strive to clip the upward daring +wings of the spirit.</p> + +<p>A person deprived of one or more +senses is not, as many seem to think, +turned out into a trackless wilderness +without landmark or guide. The blind +man carries with him into his dark environment +all the faculties essential to +the apprehension of the visible world +whose door is closed behind him. He +finds his surroundings everywhere homogeneous +with those of the sunlit world;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +for there is an inexhaustible ocean of +likenesses between the world within, and +the world without, and these likenesses, +these correspondences, he finds equal to +every exigency his life offers.</p> + +<p>The necessity of some such thing as +correspondence or symbolism appears +more and more urgent as we consider +the duties that religion and philosophy +enjoin upon us.</p> + +<p>The blind are expected to read the +Bible as a means of attaining spiritual +happiness. Now, the Bible is filled +throughout with references to clouds, +stars, colours, and beauty, and often the +mention of these is essential to the meaning +of the parable or the message in +which they occur. Here one must needs +see the inconsistency of people who believe +in the Bible, and yet deny us a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +right to talk about what we do not see, +and for that matter what <i>they</i> do not +see, either. Who shall forbid my heart +to sing: "Yea, he did fly upon the wings +of the wind. He made darkness his +secret place; his pavilion round about +him were dark waters and thick clouds +of the skies"?</p> + +<p>Philosophy constantly points out the +untrustworthiness of the five senses and +the important work of reason which corrects +the errors of sight and reveals its +illusions. If we cannot depend on five +senses, how much less may we rely on +three! What ground have we for discarding +light, sound, and colour as an integral +part of our world? How are we +to know that they have ceased to exist +for us? We must take their reality for +granted, even as the philosopher assumes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> +the reality of the world without +being able to see it physically as a whole.</p> + +<p>Ancient philosophy offers an argument +which seems still valid. There is +in the blind as in the seeing an Absolute +which gives truth to what we know to be +true, order to what is orderly, beauty to +the beautiful, touchableness to what is +tangible. If this is granted, it follows +that this Absolute is not imperfect, incomplete, +partial. It must needs go beyond +the limited evidence of our sensations, +and also give light to what is invisible, +music to the musical that silence +dulls. Thus mind itself compels us to +acknowledge that we are in a world of +intellectual order, beauty, and harmony. +The essences, or absolutes of these ideas, +necessarily dispel their opposites which +belong with evil, disorder and discord.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +Thus deafness and blindness do not exist +in the immaterial mind, which is philosophically +the real world, but are banished +with the perishable material senses. +Reality, of which visible things are the +symbol, shines before my mind. While +I walk about my chamber with unsteady +steps, my spirit sweeps skyward on eagle +wings and looks out with unquenchable +vision upon the world of eternal +beauty.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DREAM WORLD</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> +<h2>XIII</h2> + +<h3>THE DREAM WORLD</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>EVERYBODY takes his own dreams +seriously, but yawns at the breakfast-table +when somebody else begins to +tell the adventures of the night before. I +hesitate, therefore, to enter upon an account +of my dreams; for it is a literary +sin to bore the reader, and a scientific sin +to report the facts of a far country with +more regard to point and brevity than +to complete and literal truth. The psychologists +have trained a pack of theories +and facts which they keep in leash, +like so many bulldogs, and which they +let loose upon us whenever we depart<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +from the straight and narrow path of +dream probability. One may not even +tell an entertaining dream without being +suspected of having liberally edited +it,—as if editing were one of the seven +deadly sins, instead of a useful and +honourable occupation! Be it understood, +then, that I am discoursing at +my own breakfast-table, and that no +scientific man is present to trip the +autocrat.</div> + +<p>I used to wonder why scientific men +and others were always asking me about +my dreams. But I am not surprised +now, since I have discovered what some +of them believe to be the ordinary waking +experience of one who is both deaf and +blind. They think that I can know very +little about objects even a few feet beyond +the reach of my arms. Everything<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +outside of myself, according to them, +is a hazy blur. Trees, mountains, cities, +the ocean, even the house I live in +are but fairy fabrications, misty unrealities. +Therefore it is assumed that my +dreams should have peculiar interest for +the man of science. In some undefined +way it is expected that they should reveal +the world I dwell in to be flat, +formless, colourless, without perspective, +with little thickness and less solidity—a +vast solitude of soundless space. But +who shall put into words limitless, +visionless, silent void? One should be a +disembodied spirit indeed to make anything +out of such insubstantial experiences. +A world, or a dream for that +matter, to be comprehensible to us, +must, I should think, have a warp of +substance woven into the woof of fantasy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +We cannot imagine even in +dreams an object which has no counterpart +in reality. Ghosts always resemble +somebody, and if they do not appear +themselves, their presence is indicated +by circumstances with which we are perfectly +familiar.</p> + +<p>During sleep we enter a strange, +mysterious realm which science has +thus far not explored. Beyond the +border-line of slumber the investigator +may not pass with his common-sense +rule and test. Sleep with softest touch +locks all the gates of our physical senses +and lulls to rest the conscious will—the +disciplinarian of our waking +thoughts. Then the spirit wrenches itself +free from the sinewy arms of reason +and like a winged courser spurns +the firm green earth and speeds away<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +upon wind and cloud, leaving neither +trace nor footprint by which science +may track its flight and bring us +knowledge of the distant, shadowy +country that we nightly visit. When +we come back from the dream-realm, +we can give no reasonable report of what +we met there. But once across the +border, we feel at home as if we had +always lived there and had never made +any excursions into this rational daylight +world.</p> + +<p>My dreams do not seem to differ very +much from the dreams of other people. +Some of them are coherent and safely +hitched to an event or a conclusion. +Others are inconsequent and fantastic. +All attest that in Dreamland there is no +such thing as repose. We are always +up and doing with a mind for any adventure.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +We act, strive, think, suffer +and are glad to no purpose. We leave +outside the portals of Sleep all troublesome +incredulities and vexatious speculations +as to probability. I float wraith-like +upon clouds in and out among the +winds, without the faintest notion that I +am doing anything unusual. In Dreamland +I find little that is altogether strange +or wholly new to my experience. No +matter what happens, I am not astonished, +however extraordinary the circumstances +may be. I visit a foreign land +where I have not been in reality, and I +converse with peoples whose language I +have never heard. Yet we manage to +understand each other perfectly. Into +whatsoever situation or society my wanderings +bring me, there is the same +homogeneity. If I happen into Vagabondia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +I make merry with the jolly +folk of the road or the tavern.</p> + +<p>I do not remember ever to have met +persons with whom I could not at once +communicate, or to have been shocked +or surprised at the doings of my dream-companions. +In its strange wanderings +in those dusky groves of Slumberland +my soul takes everything for granted +and adapts itself to the wildest phantoms. +I am seldom confused. Everything +is as clear as day. I know events +the instant they take place, and wherever +I turn my steps, Mind is my faithful +guide and interpreter.</p> + +<p>I suppose every one has had in a +dream the exasperating, profitless experience +of seeking something urgently +desired at the moment, and the aching, +weary sensation that follows each failure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +to track the thing to its hiding-place. +Sometimes with a singing dizziness +in my head I climb and climb, I +know not where or why. Yet I cannot +quit the torturing, passionate endeavour, +though again and again I reach out +blindly for an object to hold to. Of +course according to the perversity of +dreams there is no object near. I clutch +empty air, and then I fall downward, +and still downward, and in the midst of +the fall I dissolve into the atmosphere +upon which I have been floating so precariously.</p> + +<p>Some of my dreams seem to be traced +one within another like a series of concentric +circles. In sleep I think I cannot +sleep. I toss about in the toils of +tasks unfinished. I decide to get up +and read for a while. I know the shelf in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +my library where I keep the book I want. +The book has no name, but I find +it without difficulty. I settle myself +comfortably in the morris-chair, the +great book open on my knee. Not a +word can I make out, the pages are utterly +blank. I am not surprised, but +keenly disappointed. I finger the pages, +I bend over them lovingly, the tears fall +on my hands. I shut the book quickly +as the thought passes through my mind, +"The print will be all rubbed out if I +get it wet." Yet there is no print tangible +on the page!</p> + +<p>This morning I thought that I awoke. +I was certain that I had overslept. +I seized my watch, and sure enough, it +pointed to an hour after my rising time. +I sprang up in the greatest hurry, +knowing that breakfast was ready.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +I called my mother, who declared that +my watch must be wrong. She was +positive it could not be so late. I +looked at my watch again, and lo! the +hands wiggled, whirled, buzzed and disappeared. +I awoke more fully as my +dismay grew, until I was at the antipodes +of sleep. Finally my eyes opened actually, +and I knew that I had been dreaming. +I had only waked into sleep. +What is still more bewildering, there is +no difference between the consciousness +of the sham waking and that of the +real one.</p> + +<p>It is fearful to think that all that we +have ever seen, felt, read, and done may +suddenly rise to our dream-vision, as the +sea casts up objects it has swallowed. I +have held a little child in my arms in the +midst of a riot and spoken vehemently,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +imploring the Russian soldiers not to +massacre the Jews. I have re-lived the +agonizing scenes of the Sepoy Rebellion +and the French Revolution. Cities have +burned before my eyes, and I have +fought the flames until I fell exhausted. +Holocausts overtake the world, and I +struggle in vain to save my friends.</p> + +<p>Once in a dream a message came +speeding over land and sea that winter +was descending upon the world from +the North Pole, that the Arctic zone +was shifting to our mild climate. Far +and wide the message flew. The ocean +was congealed in midsummer. Ships +were held fast in the ice by thousands, +the ships with large, white sails were held +fast. Riches of the Orient and the +plenteous harvests of the Golden West +might no more pass between nation and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +nation. For some time the trees and +flowers grew on, despite the intense +cold. Birds flew into the houses for +safety, and those which winter had +overtaken lay on the snow with wings +spread in vain flight. At last the foliage +and blossoms fell at the feet of Winter. +The petals of the flowers were turned +to rubies and sapphires. The leaves froze +into emeralds. The trees moaned and +tossed their branches as the frost pierced +them through bark and sap, pierced +into their very roots. I shivered +myself awake, and with a tumult +of joy I breathed the many sweet +morning odours wakened by the summer +sun.</p> + +<p>One need not visit an African jungle +or an Indian forest to hunt the tiger. +One can lie in bed amid downy pillows<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +and dream tigers as terrible as any in +the pathless wild. I was a little girl +when one night I tried to cross the garden +in front of my aunt's house in +Alabama. I was in pursuit of a large +cat with a great bushy tail. A few +hours before he had clawed my little +canary out of its cage and crunched it +between his cruel teeth. I could not see +the cat. But the thought in my mind +was distinct: "He is making for the +high grass at the end of the garden. +I'll get there first!" I put my hand on +the box border and ran swiftly along +the path. When I reached the high +grass, there was the cat gliding into the +wavy tangle. I rushed forward and +tried to seize him and take the bird +from between his teeth. To my horror +a huge beast, not the cat at all, sprang<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +out from the grass, and his sinewy +shoulder rubbed against me with palpitating +strength! His ears stood up and +quivered with anger. His eyes were +hot. His nostrils were large and wet. +His lips moved horribly. I knew it was +a tiger, a real live tiger, and that I +should be devoured—my little bird and +I. I do not know what happened after +that. The next important thing seldom +happens in dreams.</p> + +<p>Some time earlier I had a dream +which made a vivid impression upon me. +My aunt was weeping because she +could not find me. But I took an impish +pleasure in the thought that she and +others were searching for me, and making +great noise which I felt through my feet. +Suddenly the spirit of mischief gave way +to uncertainty and fear. I felt cold.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +The air smelt like ice and salt. I tried +to run; but the long grass tripped +me, and I fell forward on my face. +I lay very still, feeling with all my +body. After a while my sensations +seemed to be concentrated in my fingers, +and I perceived that the grass blades +were sharp as knives, and hurt my +hands cruelly. I tried to get up cautiously, +so as not to cut myself on the +sharp grass. I put down a tentative +foot, much as my kitten treads for the +first time the primeval forest in the +backyard. All at once I felt the stealthy +patter of something creeping, creeping, +creeping purposefully toward me. I do +not know how at that time the idea +was in my mind; I had no words for intention +or purpose. Yet it was precisely +the evil intent, and not the creeping<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +animal that terrified me. I had no +fear of living creatures. I loved my +father's dogs, the frisky little calf, the +gentle cows, the horses and mules that +ate apples from my hand, and none +of them had ever harmed me. I lay +low, waiting in breathless terror for the +creature to spring and bury its long claws +in my flesh. I thought, "They will +feel like turkey-claws." Something warm +and wet touched my face. I shrieked, +struck out frantically, and awoke. Something +was still struggling in my arms. I +held on with might and main until I was +exhausted, then I loosed my hold. I +found dear old Belle, the setter, shaking +herself and looking at me reproachfully. +She and I had gone to sleep together +on the rug, and had naturally wandered +to the dream-forest where dogs and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +little girls hunt wild game and have +strange adventures. We encountered +hosts of elfin foes, and it required +all the dog tactics at Belle's command +to acquit herself like the lady and +huntress that she was. Belle had her +dreams too. We used to lie under the +trees and flowers in the old garden, and +I used to laugh with delight when the +magnolia leaves fell with little thuds, +and Belle jumped up, thinking she had +heard a partridge. She would pursue +the leaf, point it, bring it back to +me and lay it at my feet with a humorous +wag of her tail as much as to say, +"This is the kind of bird that waked +me." I made a chain for her neck +out of the lovely blue Paulownia +flowers and covered her with great heart-shaped +leaves.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dear old Belle, she has long been +dreaming among the lotus-flowers and +poppies of the dogs' paradise.</p> + +<p>Certain dreams have haunted me +since my childhood. One which recurs +often proceeds after this wise: A spirit +seems to pass before my face. I feel an +extreme heat like the blast from an engine. +It is the embodiment of evil. I +must have had it first after the day that +I nearly got burnt.</p> + +<p>Another spirit which visits me often +brings a sensation of cool dampness, +such as one feels on a chill November +night when the window is open. The +spirit stops just beyond my reach, sways +back and forth like a creature in grief. +My blood is chilled, and seems to freeze +in my veins. I try to move, but my body +is still, and I cannot even cry out.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +After a while the spirit passes on, +and I say to myself shudderingly, "That +was Death. I wonder if he has taken +her." The pronoun stands for my +Teacher.</p> + +<p>In my dreams I have sensations, +odours, tastes and ideas which I do not +remember to have had in reality. Perhaps +they are the glimpses which my +mind catches through the veil of sleep +of my earliest babyhood. I have heard +"the trampling of many waters." Sometimes +a wonderful light visits me in +sleep. Such a flash and glory as it is! +I gaze and gaze until it vanishes. I +smell and taste much as in my waking +hours; but the sense of touch plays a +less important part. In sleep I almost +never grope. No one guides me. Even +in a crowded street I am self-sufficient,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +and I enjoy an independence quite foreign +to my physical life. Now I seldom +spell on my fingers, and it is still rarer +for others to spell into my hand. My +mind acts independent of my physical +organs. I am delighted to be thus endowed, +if only in sleep; for then my +soul dons its winged sandals and joyfully +joins the throng of happy beings who +dwell beyond the reaches of bodily sense.</p> + +<p>The moral inconsistency of dreams is +glaring. Mine grow less and less accordant +with my proper principles. I +am nightly hurled into an unethical +medley of extremes. I must either defend +another to the last drop of my blood +or condemn him past all repenting. +I commit murder, sleeping, to save +the lives of others. I ascribe to those I +love best acts and words which it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +mortifies me to remember, and I cast +reproach after reproach upon them. +It is fortunate for our peace of mind +that most wicked dreams are soon forgotten. +Death, sudden and awful, +strange loves and hates remorselessly +pursued, cunningly plotted revenge, are +seldom more than dim haunting recollections +in the morning, and during the +day they are erased by the normal activities +of the mind. Sometimes immediately +on waking, I am so vexed at the +memory of a dream-fracas, I wish I +may dream no more. With this wish +distinctly before me I drop off again +into a new turmoil of dreams.</p> + +<p>Oh, dreams, what opprobrium I heap +upon you—you, the most pointless things +imaginable, saucy apes, brewers of odious +contrasts, haunting birds of ill omen,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +mocking echoes, unseasonable reminders, +oft-returning vexations, skeletons in my +morris-chair, jesters in the tomb, death's-heads +at the wedding feast, outlaws of +the brain that every night defy the mind's +police service, thieves of my Hesperidean +apples, breakers of my domestic peace, +murderers of sleep. "Oh, dreadful +dreams that do fright my spirit from +her propriety!" No wonder that Hamlet +preferred the ills he knew rather +than run the risk of one dream-vision.</p> + +<p>Yet remove the dream-world, and the +loss is inconceivable. The magic spell +which binds poetry together is broken. +The splendour of art and the soaring +might of imagination are lessened because +no phantom of fadeless sunsets +and flowers urges onward to a goal. +Gone is the mute permission or connivance<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +which emboldens the soul to mock +the limits of time and space, forecast +and gather in harvests of achievement +for ages yet unborn. Blot out dreams, +and the blind lose one of their chief +comforts; for in the visions of sleep +they behold their belief in the seeing +mind and their expectation of light beyond +the blank, narrow night justified. +Nay, our conception of immortality is +shaken. Faith, the motive-power of +human life, flickers out. Before such +vacancy and bareness the shocks of +wrecked worlds were indeed welcome. +In truth, dreams bring us the thought +independently of us and in spite of us +that the soul</p> + +<div class='poem'> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">"may right</span><br /> +Her nature, shoot large sail on lengthening cord,<br /> +And rush exultant on the Infinite."<br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> + +<h2>DREAMS AND REALITY</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> +<h2>XIV</h2> + +<h3>DREAMS AND REALITY</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>IT is astonishing to think how our real +wide-awake world revolves around +the shadowy unrealities of Dreamland. +Despite all that we say about the inconsequence +of dreams, we often reason by +them. We stake our greatest hopes +upon them. Nay, we build upon them +the fabric of an ideal world. I can recall +few fine, thoughtful poems, few +noble works of art or any system of +philosophy in which there is not evidence +that dream-fantasies symbolize +truths concealed by phenomena.</div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p> + +<p>The fact that in dreams confusion +reigns, and illogical connections occur +gives plausibility to the theory which +Sir Arthur Mitchell and other scientific +men hold, that our dream-thinking is +uncontrolled and undirected by the will. +The will—the inhibiting and guiding +power—finds rest and refreshment in +sleep, while the mind, like a barque without +rudder or compass, drifts aimlessly +upon an uncharted sea. But curiously +enough, these fantasies and inter-twistings +of thought are to be found +in great imaginative poems like +Spenser's "Færie Queene." Lamb was +impressed by the analogy between +our dream-thinking and the work of +the imagination. Speaking of the +episode in the cave of Mammon, Lamb +wrote:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is not enough to say that the whole +episode is a copy of the mind's conceptions +in sleep; it is—in some sort, but +what a copy! Let the most romantic of +us that has been entertained all night +with the spectacle of some wild and +magnificent vision, re-combine it in the +morning and try it by his waking judgment. +That which appeared so shifting +and yet so coherent, when it came under +cool examination, shall appear so reasonless +and so unlinked, that we are +ashamed to have been so deluded, and to +have taken, though but in sleep, a monster +for a god. The transitions in +this episode are every whit as violent +as in the most extravagant dream, +and yet the waking judgment ratifies +them."</p> + +<p>Perhaps I feel more than others the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +analogy between the world of our waking +life and the world of dreams because +before I was taught, I lived in a +sort of perpetual dream. The testimony +of parents and friends who +watched me day after day is the only +means that I have of knowing the actuality +of those early, obscure years of +my childhood. The physical acts of going +to bed and waking in the morning alone +mark the transition from reality to +Dreamland. As near as I can tell, +asleep or awake I only felt with my +body. I can recollect no process which +I should now dignify with the term of +thought. It is true that my bodily sensations +were extremely acute; but beyond +a crude connection with physical +wants they are not associated or +directed. They had little relation to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +each other, to me or the experience +of others. Idea—that which gives identity +and continuity to experience—came +into my sleeping and waking existence +at the same moment with the awakening +of self-consciousness. Before +that moment my mind was in a +state of anarchy in which meaningless +sensations rioted, and if thought +existed, it was so vague and inconsequent, +it cannot be made a part of +discourse. Yet before my education +began, I dreamed. I know that I must +have dreamed because I recall no break +in my tactual experiences. Things fell +suddenly, heavily. I felt my clothing +afire, or I fell into a tub of cold water. +Once I smelt bananas, and the odour in +my nostrils was so vivid that in the +morning, before I was dressed, I went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +to the sideboard to look for the bananas. +There were no bananas, and no odour of +bananas anywhere! My life was in fact +a dream throughout.</p> + +<p>The likeness between my waking state +and the sleeping one is still marked. +In both states I see, but not with my +eyes. I hear, but not with my ears. I +speak, and am spoken to, without the +sound of a voice. I am moved to +pleasure by visions of ineffable beauty +which I have never beheld in the physical +world. Once in a dream I held in +my hand a pearl. The one I saw in +my dreams must, therefore, have been a +creation of my imagination. It was a +smooth, exquisitely moulded crystal. +As I gazed into its shimmering deeps, +my soul was flooded with an ecstasy of +tenderness, and I was filled with wonder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +as one who should for the first time +look into the cool, sweet heart of a rose. +My pearl was dew and fire, the velvety +green of moss, the soft whiteness of +lilies, and the distilled hues and sweetness +of a thousand roses. It seemed to +me, the soul of beauty was dissolved in +its crystal bosom. This beauteous vision +strengthens my conviction that the +world which the mind builds up out of +countless subtle experiences and suggestions +is fairer than the world of the +senses. The splendour of the sunset my +friends gaze at across the purpling hills +is wonderful. But the sunset of the +inner vision brings purer delight because +it is the worshipful blending of all +the beauty that we have known and +desired.</p> + +<p>I believe that I am more fortunate in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +my dreams than most people; for as I +think back over my dreams, the pleasant +ones seem to predominate, although +we naturally recall most vividly and tell +most eagerly the grotesque and fantastic +adventures in Slumberland. I have +friends, however, whose dreams are always +troubled and disturbed. They +wake fatigued and bruised, and they +tell me that they would give a kingdom +for one dreamless night. There is one +friend who declares that she has never +had a felicitous dream in her life. The +grind and worry of the day invade the +sweet domain of sleep and weary her +with incessant, profitless effort. I feel +very sorry for this friend, and perhaps +it is hardly fair to insist upon the pleasure +of dreaming in the presence of one +whose dream-experience is so unhappy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +Still, it is true that my dreams have uses +as many and sweet as those of adversity. +All my yearning for the strange, the +weird, the ghostlike is gratified in dreams. +They carry me out of the accustomed and +commonplace. In a flash, in the winking +of an eye they snatch the burden +from my shoulder, the trivial task from +my hand and the pain and disappointment +from my heart, and I behold +the lovely face of my dream. It dances +round me with merry measure and darts +hither and thither in happy abandon. +Sudden, sweet fancies spring forth from +every nook and corner, and delightful +surprises meet me at every turn. A happy +dream is more precious than gold and +rubies.</p> + +<p>I like to think that in dreams we +catch glimpses of a life larger than our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +own. We see it as a little child, or as a +savage who visits a civilized nation. +Thoughts are imparted to us far above +our ordinary thinking. Feelings nobler +and wiser than any we have known thrill +us between heart-beats. For one fleeting +night a princelier nature captures us, +and we become as great as our aspirations. +I daresay we return to the +little world of our daily activities with +as distorted a half-memory of what we +have seen as that of the African who +visited England, and afterwards said he +had been in a huge hill which carried +him over great waters. The comprehensiveness +of our thought, whether we +are asleep or awake, no doubt depends +largely upon our idiosyncrasies, constitution, +habits, and mental capacity. +But whatever may be the nature of our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +dreams, the mental processes that characterize +them are analogous to those +which go on when the mind is not held +to attention by the will.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> +<h2>A WAKING DREAM</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> +<h2>XV</h2> + +<h3>A WAKING DREAM</h3> + + +<div class='cap'>I HAVE sat for hours in a sort of reverie, +letting my mind have its way +without inhibition and direction, and +idly noted down the incessant beat of +thought upon thought, image upon image. +I have observed that my thoughts +make all kinds of connections, wind in +and out, trace concentric circles, and +break up in eddies of fantasy, just as in +dreams. One day I had a literary frolic +with a certain set of thoughts which +dropped in for an afternoon call. I +wrote for three or four hours as they arrived, +and the resulting record is much<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +like a dream. I found that the most disconnected, +dissimilar thoughts came in +arm-in-arm—I dreamed a wide-awake +dream. The difference is that in waking +dreams I can look back upon the +endless succession of thoughts, while in +the dreams of sleep I can recall but few +ideas and images. I catch broken +threads from the warp and woof of a +pattern I cannot see, or glowing leaves +which have floated on a slumber-wind +from a tree that I cannot identify. In +this reverie I held the key to the company +of ideas. I give my record of +them to show what analogies exist between +thoughts when they are not +directed and the behaviour of real +dream-thinking.</div> + +<p>I had an essay to write. I wanted my +mind fresh and obedient, and all its<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +handmaidens ready to hold up my hands +in the task. I intended to discourse +learnedly upon my educational experiences, +and I was unusually anxious to +do my best. I had a working plan in +my head for the essay, which was to be +grave, wise, and abounding in ideas. +Moreover, it was to have an academic +flavour suggestive of sheepskin, and the +reader was to be duly impressed with +the austere dignity of cap and gown. I +shut myself up in the study, resolved to +beat out on the keys of my typewriter +this immortal chapter of my life-history. +Alexander was no more confident of +conquering Asia with the splendid army +which his father Philip had disciplined +than I was of finding my mental house +in order and my thoughts obedient. +My mind had had a long vacation, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +I was now coming back to it in an hour +that it looked not for me. My situation +was similar to that of the master +who went into a far country and expected +on his home coming to find +everything as he left it. But returning he +found his servants giving a party. Confusion +was rampant. There was fiddling +and dancing and the babble of many +tongues, so that the voice of the master +could not be heard. Though he shouted +and beat upon the gate, it remained +closed.</p> + +<p>So it was with me. I sounded the +trumpet loud and long; but the vassals +of thought would not rally to my standard. +Each had his arm round the waist +of a fair partner, and I know not what +wild tunes "put life and mettle into +their heels." There was nothing to do.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +I looked about helplessly upon my +great retinue, and realized that it is not +the possession of a thing but the ability +to use it which is of value. I settled +back in my chair to watch the pageant. +It was rather pleasant sitting there, +"idle as a painted ship upon a painted +ocean," watching my own thoughts at +play. It was like thinking fine things +to say without taking the trouble to write +them. I felt like Alice in Wonderland +when she ran at full speed with the +red queen and never passed anything +or got anywhere.</p> + +<p>The merry frolic went on madly. +The dancers were all manner of +thoughts. There were sad thoughts and +happy thoughts, thoughts suited to +every clime and weather, thoughts bearing +the mark of every age and nation,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +silly thoughts and wise thoughts, +thoughts of people, of things, and of +nothing, good thoughts, impish thoughts, +and large, gracious thoughts. There +they went swinging hand-in-hand in corkscrew +fashion. An antic jester in green +and gold led the dance. The guests +followed no order or precedent. No +two thoughts were related to each other +even by the fortieth cousinship. There +was not so much as an international +alliance between them. Each thought +behaved like a newly created poet.</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"His mouth he could not ope,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">But there flew out a trope."</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>Magical lyrics—oh, if I only had written +them down! Pell-mell they came down +the sequestered avenues of my mind, +this merry throng. With bacchanal +song and shout they came, and eye<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +hath not since beheld confusion worse +confounded.</div> + +<p>Shut your eyes, and see them come—the +knights and ladies of my revel. +Plumed and turbaned they come, clad in +mail and silken broideries, gentle maids +in Quaker gray, gay princes in scarlet +cloaks, coquettes with roses in their hair, +monks in cowls that might have covered +the tall Minster Tower, demure little +girls hugging paper dolls, and rollicking +school-boys with ruddy morning +faces, an absent-minded professor carrying +his shoes under his arms and looking +wise, followed by cronies, fairies, +goblins, and all the troops just loosed +from Noah's storm-tossed ark. They +walked, they strutted, they soared, they +swam, and some came in through fire. +One sprite climbed up to the moon on a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +ladder made of leaves and frozen dew-drops. +A peacock with a great hooked +bill flew in and out among the branches +of a pomegranate-tree pecking the rosy +fruit. He screamed so loud that Apollo +turned in his chariot of flame and from his +burnished bow shot golden arrows at +him. This did not disturb the peacock +in the least; for he spread his gem-like +wings and flourished his wonderful, fire-tipped +tail in the very face of the sun-god! +Then came Venus—an exact copy +of my own plaster cast—serene, calm-eyed, +dancing "high and disposedly" +like Queen Elizabeth, surrounded by a +troop of lovely Cupids mounted on +rose-tinted clouds, blown hither and +thither by sweet winds, while all around +danced flowers and streams and queer +little Japanese cherry-trees in pots!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +They were followed by jovial Pan +with green hair and jewelled sandals, +and by his side—I could scarcely believe +my eyes!—walked a modest nun counting +her beads. At a little distance were seen +three dancers arm-in-arm, a lean, +starved platitude, a rosy, dimpled joke, +and a steel-ribbed sermon on predestination. +Close upon them came a whole +string of Nights with wind-blown +hair and Days with faggots on their +backs. All at once I saw the ample figure +of Life rise above the whirling mass +holding a naked child in one hand and +in the other a gleaming sword. A bear +crouched at her feet, and all about her +swirled and glowed a multitudinous host +of tiny atoms which sang all together, +"We are the will of God." Atom wedded +atom, and chemical married chemical,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +and the cosmic dance went on in +changing, changeless measure, until my +head sang like a buzz-saw.</p> + +<p>Just as I was thinking I would leave +this scene of phantoms and take a stroll +in the quiet groves of Slumber I noticed +a commotion near one of the entrances +to my enchanted palace. It was evident +from the whispering and buzzing that +went round that more celebrities had arrived. +The first personage I saw was +Homer, blind no more, leading by a +golden chain the white-beaked ships of +the Achaians bobbing their heads and +squawking like so many white swans. +Plato and Mother Goose with the numerous +children of the shoe came next. +Simple Simon, Jill, and Jack who had +had his head mended, and the cat that +fell into the cream—all these danced in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +a giddy reel, while Plato solemnly discoursed +on the laws of Topsyturvy +Land. Then followed grim-visaged +Calvin and "violet-crowned, sweet-smiling +Sappho" who danced a Schottische. +Aristophanes and Molière joined for a +measure, both talking at once, Molière +in Greek and Aristophanes in German. +I thought this odd, because it occurred +to me that German was a dead language +before Aristophanes was born. Bright-eyed +Shelley brought in a fluttering +lark which burst into the song of +Chaucer's chanticleer. Henry Esmond +gave his hand in a stately minuet to +Diana of the Crossways. He evidently +did not understand her nineteenth century +wit; for he did not laugh. Perhaps +he had lost his taste for clever women. +Anon Dante and Swedenborg came together<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +conversing earnestly about things +remote and mystical. Swedenborg said +it was very warm. Dante replied that it +might rain in the night.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there was a great clamour, +and I found that "The Battle of the +Books" had begun raging anew. Two +figures entered in lively dispute. One +was dressed in plain homespun and the +other wore a scholar's gown over a suit +of motley. I gathered from their conversation +that they were Cotton Mather +and William Shakspere. Mather insisted +that the witches in "Macbeth" +should be caught and hanged. Shakspere +replied that the witches had already +suffered enough at the hands of +commentators. They were pushed aside +by the twelve knights of the Round +Table, who marched in bearing on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +a salver the goose that laid golden +eggs. "The Pope's Mule" and "The +Golden Bull" had a combat of history +and fiction such as I had read of in +books, but never before witnessed. These +little animals were put to rout by a +huge elephant which lumbered in with +Rudyard Kipling riding high on its +trunk. The elephant changed suddenly +to "a rakish craft." (I do not know +what a rakish craft is; but this was very +rakish and very crafty.) It must have +been abandoned long ago by wild +pirates of the southern seas; for clinging +to the rigging, and jovially cheering as +the ship went down, I made out a man +with blazing eyes, clad in a velveteen +jacket. As the ship disappeared from +sight, Falstaff rushed to the rescue of +the lonely navigator—and stole his purse!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +But Miranda persuaded him to give +it back. Stevenson said, "Who steals +my purse steals trash." Falstaff laughed +and called this a good joke, as good +as any he had heard in his day.</p> + +<p>This was the signal for a rushing swarm +of quotations. They surged to and fro, +an inchoate throng of half finished +phrases, mutilated sentences, parodied +sentiments, and brilliant metaphors. I +could not distinguish any phrases or +ideas of my own making. I saw a +poor, ragged, shrunken sentence that +might have been mine own catch the +wings of a fair idea with the light of +genius shining like a halo about its head.</p> + +<p>Ever and anon the dancers changed +partners without invitation or permission. +Thoughts fell in love at sight, +married in a measure, and joined hands<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +without previous courtship. An incongruity +is the wedding of two thoughts +which have had no reasonable courtship, +and marriages without wooing are apt +to lead to domestic discord, even to the +breaking up of an ancient, time-honoured +family. Among the wedded couples +were certain similes hitherto inviolable +in their bachelorhood and spinsterhood, +and held in great respect. Their +extraordinary proceedings nearly broke +up the dance. But the fatuity of their +union was evident to them, and they +parted. Other <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'similies'">similes</ins> seemed to have +the habit of living in discord. They had +been many times married and divorced. +They belonged to the notorious society +of Mixed Metaphors.</p> + +<p>A company of phantoms floated in +and out wearing tantalizing garments<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +of oblivion. They seemed about to +dance, then vanished. They reappeared +half a dozen times, but never unveiled +their faces. The imp Curiosity pulled +Memory by the sleeve and said, "Why +do they run away? 'Tis strange knavery!" +Out ran Memory to capture +them. After a great deal of racing and +puffing and collision it apprehended +some of the fugitives and brought them +in. But when it tore off their masks, +lo! some were disappointingly commonplace, +and others were gipsy quotations +trying to conceal the punctuation +marks that belonged to them. Memory +was much chagrined to have had such a +hard chase only to catch this sorry lot of +graceless rogues.</p> + +<p>Into the rabble strode four stately +giants who called themselves History,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +Philosophy, Law, and Medicine. They +seemed too solemn and imposing to join +in a masque. But even as I gazed at +these formidable guests, they all split +into fragments which went whirling, +dancing in divisions, subdivisions, re-subdivisions +of scientific nonsense! History +split into philology, ethnology, +anthropology, and mythology, and these +again split finer than the splitting of +hairs. Each speciality hugged its bit of +knowledge and waltzed it round and +round. The rest of the company began +to nod, and I felt drowsy myself. To +put an end to the solemn gyrations, a +troop of fairies mercifully waved poppies +over us all, the masque faded, my +head fell, and I started. Sleep had +wakened me. At my elbow I found my +old friend Bottom.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Bottom," I said, "I have had a +dream past the wit of man to say what +dream it was. Methought I was—there +is no man can tell what. The eye of +man hath not heard, the ear of man hath +not seen, his hand is not able to taste, his +tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report +what my dream was."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> +<h2>A CHANT OF DARKNESS</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span></p> +<h2>A CHANT OF DARKNESS</h2> + +<div class='poem'> +"<i>My wings are folded o'er mine ears,</i><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><i>My wings are crossèd o'er mine eyes,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><i>Yet through their silver shade appears,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><i>And through their lulling plumes arise,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;"><i>A Shape, a throng of sounds.</i>"</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class='sig'> +<i>Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound."</i><br /><br /> +</div> + + +<div class='poem2'><div class='cap'> +I DARE not ask why we are reft of light,<br /> +Banished to our solitary isles amid the unmeasured seas,<br /> +Or how our sight was nurtured to glorious vision,<br /> +To fade and vanish and leave us in the dark alone.<br /> +The secret of God is upon our tabernacle;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>Into His mystery I dare not pry. Only this I know:<br /> +With Him is strength, with Him is wisdom,<br /> +And His wisdom hath set darkness in our paths.<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /></div> +<br /> +O Dark! thou awful, sweet, and holy Dark!<br /> +In thy solemn spaces, beyond the human eye,<br /> +God fashioned His universe; laid the foundations of the earth,<br /> +Laid the measure thereof, and stretched the line upon it;<br /> +Shut up the sea with doors, and made the glory<br /> +Of the clouds a covering for it;<br /> +Commanded His morning, and, behold! chaos fled<br /> +Before the uplifted face of the sun;<br /> +Divided a water-course for the overflowing of waters;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>Sent rain upon the earth—<br /> +Upon the wilderness wherein there was no man,<br /> +Upon the desert where grew no tender herb,<br /> +And, lo! there was greenness upon the plains,<br /> +And the hills were clothed with beauty!<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /> +<br /> +O Dark! thou secret and inscrutable Dark!<br /> +In thy silent depths, the springs whereof man hath not fathomed,<br /> +God wrought the soul of man.<br /> +O Dark! compassionate, all-knowing Dark!<br /> +Tenderly, as shadows to the evening, comes thy message to man.<br /> +Softly thou layest thy hand on his tired eyelids,<br /> +And his soul, weary and homesick, returns<br /> +Unto thy soothing embrace.<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /> +<br /> +O Dark! wise, vital, thought-quickening Dark!<br /> +In thy mystery thou hidest the light<br /> +That is the soul's life.<br /> +Upon thy solitary shores I walk unafraid;<br /> +I dread no evil; though I walk in the valley of the shadow,<br /> +I shall not know the ecstasy of fear<br /> +When gentle Death leads me through life's open door,<br /> +When the bands of night are sundered,<br /> +And the day outpours its light.<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /> +<br /> +The timid soul, fear-driven, shuns the dark;<br /> +But upon the cheeks of him who must abide in shadow<br /> +Breathes the wind of rushing angel-wings,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>And round him falls a light from unseen fires.<br /> +Magical beams glow athwart the darkness;<br /> +Paths of beauty wind through his black world<br /> +To another world of light,<br /> +Where no veil of sense shuts him out from Paradise.<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /> +<br /> +O Dark! thou blessèd, quiet Dark!<br /> +To the lone exile who must dwell with thee<br /> +Thou art benign and friendly;<br /> +From the harsh world thou dost shut him in;<br /> +To him thou whisperest the secrets of the wondrous night;<br /> +Upon him thou bestowest regions wide and boundless as his spirit;<br /> +Thou givest a glory to all humble things;<br /> +With thy hovering pinions thou coverest all unlovely objects;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>Under thy brooding wings there is peace.<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /> +</div> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<div class='poem2'> +<span class='smcap'>Once</span> in regions void of light I wandered;<br /> +In blank darkness I stumbled,<br /> +And fear led me by the hand;<br /> +My feet pressed earthward,<br /> +Afraid of pitfalls.<br /> +By many shapeless terrors of the night affrighted,<br /> +To the wakeful day<br /> +I held out beseeching arms.<br /> +<br /> +Then came Love, bearing in her hand<br /> +The torch that is the light unto my feet,<br /> +And softly spoke Love: "Hast thou<br /> +Entered into the treasures of darkness?<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>Hast thou entered into the treasures of the night?<br /> +Search out thy blindness. It holdeth<br /> +Riches past computing."<br /> +<br /> +The words of Love set my spirit aflame.<br /> +My eager fingers searched out the mysteries,<br /> +The splendours, the inmost sacredness, of things,<br /> +And in the vacancies discerned<br /> +With spiritual sense the fullness of life;<br /> +And the gates of Day stood wide.<br /> +<br /> +I am shaken with gladness;<br /> +My limbs tremble with joy;<br /> +My heart and the earth<br /> +Tremble with happiness;<br /> +The ecstasy of life<br /> +Is abroad in the world.<br /> +<br /> +Knowledge hath uncurtained heaven;<br /> +On the uttermost shores of darkness there is light;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>Midnight hath sent forth a beam!<br /> +The blind that stumbled in darkness without light<br /> +Behold a new day!<br /> +In the obscurity gleams the star of Thought;<br /> +Imagination hath a luminous eye,<br /> +And the mind hath a glorious vision.<br /> +</div> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div class='poem2'> +"<span class='smcap'>The</span> man is blind. What is life to him?<br /> +A closed book held up against a sightless face.<br /> +Would that he could see<br /> +Yon beauteous star, and know<br /> +For one transcendent moment<br /> +The palpitating joy of sight!"<br /> +<br /> +All sight is of the soul.<br /> +Behold it in the upward flight<br /> +Of the unfettered spirit! Hast thou seen<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>Thought bloom in the blind child's face?<br /> +Hast thou seen his mind grow,<br /> +Like the running dawn, to grasp<br /> +The vision of the Master?<br /> +It was the miracle of inward sight.<br /> +<br /> +In the realms of wonderment where I dwell<br /> +I explore life with my hands;<br /> +I recognize, and am happy;<br /> +My fingers are ever athirst for the earth,<br /> +And drink up its wonders with delight,<br /> +Draw out earth's dear delights;<br /> +My feet are charged with the murmur,<br /> +The throb, of all things that grow.<br /> +<br /> +This is touch, this quivering,<br /> +This flame, this ether,<br /> +This glad rush of blood,<br /> +This daylight in my heart,<br /> +This glow of sympathy in my palms!<br /> +Thou blind, loving, all-prying touch,<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>Thou openest the book of life to me.<br /> +<br /> +The noiseless little noises of the earth<br /> +Come with softest rustle;<br /> +The shy, sweet feet of life;<br /> +The silky mutter of moth-wings<br /> +Against my restraining palm;<br /> +The strident beat of insect-wings,<br /> +The silvery trickle of water;<br /> +Little breezes busy in the summer grass;<br /> +The music of crisp, whisking, scurrying leaves,<br /> +The swirling, wind-swept, frost-tinted leaves;<br /> +The crystal splash of summer rain,<br /> +Saturate with the odours of the sod.<br /> +<br /> +With alert fingers I listen<br /> +To the showers of sound<br /> +That the wind shakes from the forest.<br /> +I bathe in the liquid shade<br /> +Under the pines, where the air hangs cool<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>After the shower is done.<br /> +My saucy little friend the squirrel<br /> +Flips my shoulder with his tail,<br /> +Leaps from leafy billow to leafy billow,<br /> +Returns to eat his breakfast from my hand.<br /> +Between us there is glad sympathy;<br /> +He gambols; my pulses dance;<br /> +I am exultingly full of the joy of life!<br /> +<br /> +Have not my fingers split the sand<br /> +On the sun-flooded beach?<br /> +Hath not my naked body felt the water sing<br /> +When the sea hath enveloped it<br /> +With rippling music?<br /> +Have I not felt<br /> +The lilt of waves beneath my boat,<br /> +The flap of sail,<br /> +The strain of mast,<br /> +The wild rush<br /> +Of the lightning-charged winds?<br /> +Have I not smelt the swift, keen flight<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>Of winged odours before the tempest?<br /> +Here is joy awake, aglow;<br /> +Here is the tumult of the heart.<br /> +<br /> +My hands evoke sight and sound out of feeling,<br /> +Intershifting the senses endlessly;<br /> +Linking motion with sight, odour with sound<br /> +They give colour to the honeyed breeze,<br /> +The measure and passion of a symphony<br /> +To the beat and quiver of unseen wings.<br /> +In the secrets of earth and sun and air<br /> +My fingers are wise;<br /> +They snatch light out of darkness,<br /> +They thrill to harmonies breathed in silence.<br /> +<br /> +I walked in the stillness of the night,<br /> +And my soul uttered her gladness.<br /> +O Night, still, odorous Night, I love thee!<br /> +O wide, spacious Night, I love thee!<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>O steadfast, glorious Night!<br /> +I touch thee with my hands;<br /> +I lean against thy strength;<br /> +I am comforted.<br /> +<br /> +O fathomless, soothing Night!<br /> +Thou art a balm to my restless spirit,<br /> +I nestle gratefully in thy bosom,<br /> +Dark, gracious mother!<br /> +Like a dove, I rest in thy bosom.<br /> +<i>Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came,<br /> +And in a little time we shall return again<br /> +Into the vast, unanswering dark.</i><br /></div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class='center'> +PRINTED BY<br /> +WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.<br /> +PLYMOUTH<br /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> The excellent proof-reader has put a query to my use +of the word "see." If I had said "visit," he would have +asked no questions, yet what does "visit" mean but +"see" (<i>visitare</i>)? Later I will try to defend myself for +using as much of the English language as I have succeeded +in learning.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> George Arnold.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_C_3" id="Footnote_C_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_3"><span class="label">[C]</span></a> I found that of the senses, the eye is the most superficial, +the ear the most arrogant, smell the most voluptuous, +taste the most superstitious and fickle, touch the +most profound and the most philosophical.</p></div></div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<div class='tnote'>Transcriber's Note: The one correction made is indicated by a dotted +line under the word that was changed.</div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 27683 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/27683-h/images/fp120.jpg b/27683-h/images/fp120.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..070df08 --- /dev/null +++ b/27683-h/images/fp120.jpg diff --git a/27683-h/images/fp22.jpg b/27683-h/images/fp22.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d13f3f --- /dev/null +++ b/27683-h/images/fp22.jpg diff --git a/27683-h/images/fp70.jpg b/27683-h/images/fp70.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..304f9ba --- /dev/null +++ b/27683-h/images/fp70.jpg diff --git a/27683-h/images/frontis.jpg b/27683-h/images/frontis.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..61b3563 --- /dev/null +++ b/27683-h/images/frontis.jpg |
