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into the elements。 Many persons； having perfect 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 plete 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。
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 bined；
interwoven 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？
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 my metaphor。） But with training
and experience the faculties gather up the stray notes and bine them
into a full； harmonious whole。 If the person who acplishes 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。
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。
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 e only to
gratify their desire of analysis； to gather facts； but to those who see
in her manifold phenomena suggestions of lofty； delicate sentiments。
＇Illustration： Copyright； 1907； by The Whitman Studio
The Little Boy Next Door
To face page 120＇
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 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 beauty and know surely when we meet with loveliness？
Here is a son eloquent of a blind man's power of vision：
THE MOUNTAIN TO THE PINE
Thou tall； majestic monarch of the wood；
That standest where no wild vines dare to creep；
Men call thee old； and say that thou hast stood
A century upon my rugged steep；
Yet unto me thy life is but a day；
When I recall the things that I have seen；……
The forest monarchs that have passed away
Upon the spot where first I saw thy green；
For I am older than the age of man；
Or all the living things that crawl or creep；
Or birds of air； or creatures of the deep；
I was the first dim outline of God's plan：
Only the waters of the restless sea
And the infinite stars in heaven are old to me。
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 binations for his mental pictures。 Out of the knowledge and
impressions that e to him he constructs a masterpiece which hangs
upon the walls of his thought。 And into the poet's house e all the
true spirits of the world。
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 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 plas； and to
the fixed stars。 I multiply a thousand times the utmost height and width
that my touch passes； and thus I gain a deep sense of the sky's
immensity。
Move me along constantly over water； water； nothing but water； and you
give me