ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE CEREMONY OF LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE Hcto gork State Institution for tijc IVlinß, AT BATAVIA, SEPTEMBER G, 1566. BY SAMUEL G. HOWE. BOSTON: WALKER, FULLER & COMPANY. 1 8 6 6. ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE CEREMONY OP LAYING THE CORNER-STO^E OF THE |lctu |forK State Institution for the Mr linb. AT BATAVIA, SEPTEMBER 6, 1866. BY SAMUEL G. HOWE. BOSTON: WALKER, FULLER & COMPANY. 1 8 6 6. Wright & Potter, Prs,, 4 Spring Lane. ADDRESS My Friends and Fellow-Citizens:— The ceremony which brings ns together is an uncommon one, and it suggests an uncommon train of thought. Those in whose behalf an institution is to he established .here, are blind; and we are naturally led to consider how the infirmity of blindness affects the mental condition, and the moral and social relations of men. That which distinguishes humanity—which lifts man above all created earthly beings, and to a rank a little lower than the angels, is the mind, or soul, with its powers of outlook and self-inspection. But mind, or soul, or spirit—call it as we may— would be powerless and worthless in this state of being without language. Language is to the mind more even than the right hand is to the body. Without language, we can have no knowledge of each other, save such as the brutes have; no society except gregariousness ; no affections, save those growing out of animal instinct. If language were abolished, and men 4 made dumb, the course of civilization would not only be arrested, but rolled backward; and, in a few generations, there would remain only tribes of wild men, battling among the ruins of cities and villages, with each other and with the brutes, for . mere animal existence. Language is not the mere servant of the mind, the vehicle of thought, but it is the instrument of our moral emotions, of onr social affections; of all friendship, of all love. That love which is awak- ened through the sight, passes away with the decay of the beauty which is seen. But the love which is awakened by spiritual intercourse, lasts not only while life lasts, but survives the death of the loved object; and endures while memory endures. Language, then, is the bond of union, of affec- tion, and of interest, among individual men and women,—for their intercourse is mainly by speech, audible or written. But language is of vast extent, and speech is only one of its powers. By speech and by print, men of onr generation hold intercourse with each other. There are, moreover, some sorts of language by which the generations of men hold intercourse with other generations, and by which they converse across centuries and cycles of time. Among the various forms of language between the generations, and between the ages, monuments hold a high place. As men and women unwittingly, and sometimes unwillingly, reveal their character, and even their secret motives of action, by the sort of language which they use, so the generations unwittingly 5 reveal the prevailing ideas of the men who lived in them, by the works which they leave behind them. Consider the Pjwamids of Egypt, and read the speech which they utter. Study not their hiero- glyphics, nor believe their inscriptions, for the phrase ”to lie like a tombstone,” was probably as good in the great Necropolis of Egypt as it is in a modern graveyard; but consider what the huge structures themselves tell ns of the generations which built them! What say the ten million cubic feet of solid masonry, enclosing two or three small chambers, whose entrances are so narrow that the enclosed sar- cophagus must have been placed therein before the walls were built; and those entrances afterwards closed up by huge blocks of stone, too heavy to be moved by any common force? What does all this tell? What is the language of that generation, spoken by the tongue of the pyramids to this gen- eration ? It is, that the monarchs were absolute, selfish, cruel and short-sighted. That they built these vast monuments to preserve their fame from oblivion, and their bodies from disturbance. Vain hope! Their very names are forgotten, and “ Not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops!” The monuments tell us, moreover, that the people must have been ignorant, oppressed, and like " dumb, driven cattle.” They tell us, that great multitudes of men and women were driven in from towns and villages, to toil and moil, and lift stones and carry sand for weeks and months; and when some had died and 6 all were exhausted, then that fresh gangs were driven in to take their places. And so of smaller monuments, whether the tri- umphal arch, where the chained captive walks sadly behind the sculptured conquerors; or the storied column, with its winding procession of bat- tles, assaults and sieges, leading up to the proud victor standing self-glorified on the top. And so of those which tell a better story—the aqueducts, the fountains, the bridges, the canals, the docks and the like. If we study the monuments which a generation built, and the kind of men in whose honor they raised statues, we may learn much of the character of the people themselves. You are assembled to lay the foundations of a monument which will speak to future generations; and although what yon grave upon the corner-stone, and what you put within it, should never be seen, the monument itself will talk to future generations; and what will it tell them? It will disclose that the physical condition of the human race in this country was imperfect and unfavorable, and that there were born to this gener- ation, and expected to be born in the next, sightless children, numerous enough to form a persistent class. That children of this class were not only loved and cherished by their parents and kindred, but also cared for by the public. That there was no Mount Taygetus here, on which to expose them, with other infirm folk, to perish or be devoured, but asylums into which they were gathered and nurtured. 7 It will prove that the social and political union which here leagued three million people into one powerful State, was formed and maintained not only for defence against enemies, for common com- mercial interests, for great enterprises, for social prosperity and enjoyment, nor yet for mental cul- ture and high civilization of the many, but also for the protection and care of the weak and infirm. That the State of Yew York, which could dig out a navigable river clear across her broad land,— which had just armed and sent forth three hundred thousand sturdy soldiers to serve the common country and the cause of humanity,—that this great State, while holding on in her high career of material prosperity, and providing schools for all the children, took thought also that not even the sightless little ones should he neglected. In such language will the building, whose foun- dation-stone you this day lay, speak to many gen- erations in coming time. But while thus noting with pleasure and even excusable pride, the humane impulses which prompt and which will carry forward the work, pardon me if I utter a word of warning. Good intentions, and kind impulses, do not necessarily lead to wise and truly humane measures. Yowhere is wisdom more necessary than in the guidance of charitable impulses. Meaning well is only half our duty; thinking right is the other and equally important half. Every one of you has probably learned by experience, that he may by alms or unwise aid 8 increase the very suffering which he sought to relieve. How many times have you given for the mere luxury of giving? It is not only more blessed to give than to receive, but also more pleasant. Take an extreme case, and consider how many children are positively harmed by having too much done for them; and especially by having gifts showered too profusely upon them. No people are more eager and successful than ours in pursuit of gain; but none so profuse in scattering it. We have a passion for giving gifts, especially to children. This passion waxes strong at particular seasons, the return of which is calcu- lated upon by the cunning urchins, as the farmer calculates upon the early and the latter rain. They consult the almanac which says of holi- days, Look out for presents in drops; of birthdays, for abundance of gifts; and once in the year for the great hail storm lasting from Christmas to New Year. Parents, then, as if half ashamed of their weakness, resort to the pleasant myth of Santa Claus, who pelts the eager urchins with all sorts of missiles, from sugar plums up to images of every sort of beast and bird that came out of Noah’s ark; and many beside whose strange appearance would excite wonder and admiration in any modern museum or menagerie; for they are unlike any- thing in the heaven above, on the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth. The wit of men and women is then taxed to invent new toys, and new ornaments; and many arts and trades are plied diligently for months before the 9 holidays, to supply the demand for gifts. Mean- time children are all on tip-toe of hope and expectation; and as the time approaches they can hardly think by day of anything but presents, or sleep at night without dreaming that Santa Clans is at hand. And when the day arrives, what multitude and what variety of gifts, from father, mother, brother, sister, aunt, uncle and cousin—by blood and by marriage to the third and fourth degree. Those who have wide family relations get presents enough to stock a small shop, and set up in trade. Christmas to such children is not the day when the most inspired Son of Cod was born into the world to reveal his Father’s love, and develop the divine capacity inherent in his human brethren, but the day when Santa Claas comes down the chimney to bring a new dispensation of toys and sugar plums. To older children it is a day for receiving choicer gifts, of greater value every year. Thus to the young the blessed anniversary is stripped of its most endearing associations and clad with others unfavorable in their nature. Love and affection do indeed crave to speak in language of tokens and gifts; and there is so much that is beautiful even in our Christmas festival, that rather than lose it, we would cling to all the extrava- gances, all the pranks and humors, and hold Santa Claus among our household gods. But may we not retain all that is graceful and good without the evil? 10 Be that as it may, I mention Christmas not to detract from its merits, hut only to illustrate my meaning in speaking of gifts and undue attentions to blind children. To those born of wealthy parents, Santa Claus instead of a yearly visitor is a common carrier; and the class generally suffer rather from excess of sympathy than from lack of it; more from what is done for them, than from what is left undone; more from attentions than from neglect. Better a bruise or a bump than not make their own way about. If an ordinary child falls oyer an object, you cry ” Jump up and try another! ” You should cry that to the blind. But no; those dear children must learn no hard lesson through suffering. Every obstacle must be removed from their way, which must be carpeted with velvet; and they must be cautioned against danger, instead of being encouraged to meet it. They are helped to do what they should learn to do alone; kept at home when they should be urged abroad; seated in the rocking-chair when they should be tumbling about house and grounds; helped and waited upon when they should be held to help and wait upon their elders; spared when they should be urged; ener- vated where they should be hardened, and often demoralized by the habit of receiving as gifts what they should earn by hard effort, or resolutely forego. For one blind child who is properly trained to consider the dangers, difficulties, and obstacles arising from his condition, as things to be met and overcome, by sharpened senses, by hard study, or 11 hard effort, by muscular strength and activity, by courage and presence of mind, by self-confidence and resolution—for one trained up in this spirit, a score are enervated and emasculated for life by excess of sympathy and unwise help during childhood. It frequently happens that parents refuse to send a blind child to school or to an Institution until the best years for study are passed, simply from excess of affection and anxiety for its safety. The other children may wander abroad to gather cour- age and strength from facing dangers and over- coming difficulties; but this dear pet, who has the sorest need of all to be trained to hardy self-reli- ance; who should become strong in limb, and supple in joint; who should be a good gymnast, and climb, and jump, and lift weights, and swim and row; who should saw and pile wood, and feed cattle, and be put to every possible kind of work about the house and farm, that he may become healthy in body and resolute in purpose, the better to face and travel his stony road,—he must be wrapped in flannel, and kept in the rocking chair, to grow up pale and flabby, and awkward, and timid, because his mother " loved him, not wisely but too well.” As it is with individuals, so it is with communi- ties ; because society moved by pity for some special form of suffering, hastens to build up estab- lishments which sometimes increase the very evil which it wishes to lessen. There are several such already in this country; and unless we take heed there will be many more. 12 Oar people have rather a passion for public institu- tions, and when their attention is attracted to any suffering' class, they make haste to org-anize one for its benefit. But instead of first carefully inquiring whether an institution is absolutely necessary, that is whether there is no more natural and effectual man- ner of relieving the class; and afterwards, taking care that no vicious principle be incorporated into the establishment; they hastily build a great showy building, and gather within its walls a crowd of person of like condition or infirmity; and organize a community where everything goes by clock-work and steam. If there be a vicious principle in the organization, as of closely associating persons who ought to live apart, it is forgotten in admiration of contrivances for making steam do what once was done by the good housewife, with her cook and maid; and of the big bright coppers,the garish walls, and the white floors. But no steam power, nor human power can long keep a vicious principle from cropping out. It has done so in many European institutions of charity; it will do so in many of ours. Let me cite one in Rome, a city boastful of the number and extent of its charitable institutions. There stands, in one of the retired streets, dimly lighted by night, the great Foundling Hospital, as it is called. Though really it is a sort of free nursery. In the outer wall there is a niche sheltered from the weather. At the back of the niche is a small door opening into the hospital. Then there is a 13 crane which swings out and in, and to this crane is attached a nice warm cradle, near by which hangs a bell. When a woman wishes to get rid of her infant, she goes by night and lays it in the cradle, pulls the bell and runs away. Or if she fears to make any signal, she is sure that when the babe awakes and cries, it will arouse the watch ; that the cradle will be swung into the wall, and her aband- oned little one be fed, and clad, and cared for. The impulse which prompted such an institution, and such a practice, was beautiful and good. Some kind heart had been moved by hearing of little innocents left to suffer cold and hunger in the open streets, and pity rather than wisdom prompted the building of a foundling hospital. But it is more than probable, that for one child saved from death, a score are abandoned by mothers who would have taken care of them had they not be tempted by the facili- ties held out by the hospital, for getting rid of them with safety to the infants and to themselves. It thus tends to encourage vice, and to act as a premium upon crime. iSTo class has suffered so much from this lack of wisdom in the guidance of charitable emotions, as the blind have suffered, and do suffer. And this is easily understood. Of all bodily defects or infirm- ities, blindness is the one which seems the most dreadful. We feel and comprehend at once the severity of the privation; and we imagine that it entails a great deal more suffering and unhappiness than it really does. The sight of a blind man, and still more of a blind child, touches every heart, and appeals forcibly for sympathy and aid. This sympathy and pity prompt ns at once to some outward action; they are too strong for our control, We must do something, and not knowing well what to do,—not understanding what the sufferers really need—we put onr hands in our pockets, and give money. Thence it is that in all countries and all ages, before and since ‘ Blind Bartimeus at the gate Of Jericho in darkness sate,” the blind man has been considered as the object for alms-giving. The very thought of blindness, suggests a sightless man, standing by the way-side holding out his hat for alms. So universal is this, that blindness and begging seem to some as synonymous. Indeed, afterpolice regulations become established, and vagrancy is punished, and begging is forbidden, and the streets are cleared of mendicants; still the blind man keeps his old stand at the corner, and holds out his hat. ISTo policeman is so hard-hearted as to disturb him; and he is allowed by general consent to remain at his post, where he often gathers more money than the laborers can earn by their work. In Italy they make every bridge a " Bridge of Sighs;” they stand at the city gates, and at the street crossings; or sit in their reserved seats on the steps of churches; and detecting with quick ear every approaching footstep, raise a plaintive clamor, which is changed to blessings if an alms is dropped, but sometimes to muttered curses if it is withheld. 15 Such is the general treatment which the blind as a class have received from the public in all countries. That treatment shows the existence of tender and charitable feelings the world over. But it shows, also, that those feelings, if nnguided by reason, may do as much harm as good, if not more. "With all their pity and their sympathy, people have failed to give the blind man what he most needs, and have unwittingly put obstacles in the way of his ever getting it. Aor have governments been much wiser. Some of the old establishments for the blind are merely asylums, which have become centres of idleness and vice. The larger they are the worse they become. Witness the great Lazar House for the blind at and the " Quinze Yingts” or Asylum for fifteen score of blind men at Paris. The lives led there are not a whit better than that of the spec- tacled blind musicians in the Caffe des Aveugles, whose deplorable condition attracted the attention of the Abbe Hafiy, and led to the formation of the first school for the blind. Even the modern institutions of Europe and America, greatly superior as they are, in most respects, to the old ones, and admirable as most of them are, still savor too much of being merely chari- table. They are organized too much like almshouses; and administered in such wise as to tend strongly to the formation of life asylums, disguised under other names. One of the present difficulties is to correct the prevailing notion about the real condition and wants of the blind. People suppose that blindness implies 16 not only dependence but unhappiness. That the blind are necessarily helpless, and therefore must always have direct aid if not support; and that even if educated they must still be objects of charity. Probably the popular notion about the institution whose corner-stone you to-day lay is, that of an asylum for blind children, in which they may remain for life. Let me strive to correct some of these notions; and to explain the nature and effects of the infirmity of blindness. I said, it seems to be the most dreadful one to which men are liable; but it only seems so to those who do not reflect. Sore as is the affliction, there are sorer ones, which men can and do bear patiently, and even cheerfully. Should I ask whether you would rather be blind or deaf, most would exclaim, O, deaf, by all means. And so once should I have done; but not now. On the contrary, I hold that, to a person not obliged to struggle hard for a livelihood, blind- ness would be a lighter calamity than deafness, I mean congenital blindness. ]STay, even with the superior advantage for man- ual work which a deaf mute has, I should prefer that a child of mine be blind rather than deaf. This may seem strange; but call to mind the blind persons and the deaf persons whom you have known, and I think you will find that most of the former have been not only resigned, but social and cheerful, while the latter are, for the most part, unsocial and unhappy. 17 Light is beautiful; but is darkness dreadful? JSfone of you can see in the dark; but do you expect to be unhappy to-night, even though kero- sene and candles fail? A great poet, relating his horrid dream of uni- versal darkness, when And the stars did wander through the eternal space Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth the bright sun was extinguished, Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air,: shows that all the dreadful effects came not from lack of light, but lack of heat; and that upon the brow of the last man, not darkness, but " famine, had written, fiend! ” But the darkness of which we are thinking implies no lack of warmth, and it affects not society. Our dream is of the effect upon ourselves alone, all others being in the bright sunlight. Imagine yourselves, then, sitting at twilight with your children, your family, and your friends gath- ered about you; and the light fading until you can- not see each others’ faces. You are then blind, but are you unhappy until the candles are lighted? On the contrary, do you not sit and enjoy each others’ society, and talk, and laugh, as much as before. But suppose you are all struck dumb, even before the light fades away, and you can have no more free exchange of thought, no more words of endearment and affection, no more stories and jokes, no more laughter and song, but instead thereof a dread stillness, which not even a cannon nor a thunder-clap could break; where, then, is your society ? 18 Again, imagine a man possessed of all the com- forts and refinements of outward life; with a cidti- yated mind and literary tastes; with a warm heart and pure affections; and who is blessed with de- serving objects of his love; suppose such a man to be making merry with his relations and friends, and playing blind-man’s buff with his children;—while he is blindfolded is he not as merry as ever? Does he not love the little ones whom he catches in his arms as well as though he could see them? How, suppose that he should find he could not remove the bandage for a day, a week, or a year. He would then be, for the time, a blind man. But in what would he have changed? What would he have lost? What great source of happiness would have been dried up in his bosom? He soon learns to go about his house alone, and about the neighborhood, with a guide. He finds that he can attend to any ordinary business, if he chooses to do so. The world and its affairs, his friends and their welfare, have lost none of their interest for him. His home becomes doubly dear to him, and there he finds sources of pleasure which increase as they are drawn upon. In his library he finds no essential change, because poetry, philosophy and history lose no charms by being borne to his mind on the voice of affection; and custom soon gives to the habit of dictating all the pleasure there was in writing. Conversation, by which we learn more and improve more than by any and all modes of communing with other minds, becomes to him the means of new pleasure and profit. 19 But it is mostly in the greater development of his affections, and the exercise of them, that he finds compensations which he could not have hoped for. His home is not long dark because the rays of the sun are shut out, hut, like the fabled cavern, it glows with the light of the gems which adorn it. The love and loyalty of his wife, the affection of his children, the tender regard .and tried fidelity of his friends, these jewels of the heart shine brighter for the darkness around him, and he feels that he would not lose one of them, even to recover his lost sight. Indulgence in the exercise of disinterested affec- tions and of love, is the only harmless intemper- ance; and the blind man intoxicates himself there- with by daily draughts. This is not mere theory; experience shows that persons who become blind often grow more amiable, contented, and even cheerful than before. There are exceptions of course, and it is unfortu- nate that Milton should have been one of them,— because his eminence as a poet and scholar makes his example conspicuous; and his words to he taken as the natural language of a class of unfortunates. But Milton, austere and melancholy by tempera- ment, saddened by blight of his generous and patri- otic hopes, and embittered by his domestic troubles, was already under the cloud before darkness closed around him; and he would, doubtless, have sang sadly the rest of his life, had he not " sang darkly.” At any rate, he did not bear his misfortune as bravely as some have done. He should not, in this respect, be held up as an exemplar for the blind; 20 nor should his plaintive utterances, musical as they are, be quoted as depicting faithfully their mental condition. There have been other blind men more admirable in this respect, for they set forth in their lives and conversation the sublime moral height to which men may attain by grappling courageously the nettle misfortune, and " plucking thence the flower,” happiness. If it were a simple question between the sacrifice of sight or hearing, no one who duly weighs their comparative value to his higher nature, and their importance as ministers of the mind and soul, would hesitate about which would be the greatest loss to him. He who prefers the body and its pleasures—the outer world and its beauties—would choose deaf- ness ; but he who prefers the mind and its culture, the affections and their enjoyment, would choose blindness. This preference of hearing, however, would be given only by persons of a certain mental culture, and, [in the present state of society,] of moderate competence; because, to the man obliged to labor for a livelihood, especially if others are dependent upon him, blindness becomes a more serious calamity. The eye ministers most to the body, its wants, and its pleasures; the ear to the mind, its capacities and its affections. The choice which would be made between them, were one forced to the dreadful alternative of the loss of either, would be in some measure a test of the extent to which the spirit of Christianity had pervaded the community in which he lives. 21 If society practically recognizes the right of every one to a share of labor and of its profits; if its spirit is that of human brotherhood; of mutual co-operation, aid and assistance,—then a man would choose the lesser evil,—that which affects mostly the body, and impairs not the higher nature; he would prefer to be blind. If, on the contrary, the spirit of the society in which he lives is that of sel- fish competition and antagonism; if the man has himself and his family to support, and if he must stand or fall solely by his own strength or weak- ness,—if brotherhood means only kith and kin,— then he might accept the other evil, for that Avould apparently leave a better chance of earning his living. But if you look a little closer into the matter, you will see good reason for considering blindness less dreadful than deafness—especially for children who are yet to get their education—that is, to have their mind and character developed. For all sensuous relations; for all outward, material, and mechanical purposes, sight is of the first import- ance; but for all mental, moral, and spiritual rela- tions, the hearing is the queen of the senses. And this is because the one indispensable instrument for mental development is speech. ]Not language, in its general sense, which comprehends signs and panto- mime, and which may be mastered by deaf mutes, but speech proper, which no deaf mute can ever acquire in any high degree of perfection. It is this which gives to the blind child such an immense advantage over the deaf child. He can be educated 22 just as we were educated,—just as the boys and girls who are growing np around him are educated. Bear with me if I go a little into the dry philoso- phy of this subject. Education is carried on mainly by means of lan- guage ; but by all sorts of language, looks, gestures, actions and the like ; while instruction is given chiefly through one sort of language,—speech,—that is, audible sounds, or spoken words, which are arbi- trary signs of thought; and written words, which are arbitrary signs of audible sounds. Children therefore, in order to be instructed, must first learn these arbitrary audible sounds, or words. But although the sounds or the words, which we adopt as the signs of our thoughts, are purely arbi- trary, and we select one to express our thought, for example of a fruit, and say apple, while a Frenchman selects another sound and says pomme, still, speech itself is not arbitrary, but natural; that is, man does not select audible sounds from among the possible modes of expressing his thoughts, and make that the base of his language, but that mode is the one special mode suggested by his very nature. Some writers on deaf-mute instruction seem to overlook this psychological difference, and suppose that a language of visible signs may be a perfect substitute for one of vocal sounds. Isiot so. Speech is not an accideutal attribute of humanity, but an essential one. It inheres in man as man. It is not a human inven- tion, it is a natural outgrowth. Men speak because they cannot help it. There is indeed a natural disposition to attach some supplementary signs to thought, as movement of feature and limb, or panto- 23 mime; and these prevail among tribes and nations whose language is limited, but these are only adjuncts. Speech is the natural, therefore the best mode of expressing human thought; nay! it is the only one by which there can be full freedom for the develop- ment of the intellectual and moral nature. Audible speech is immeasurably superior to any other mode of expression, as an instrument of human education and of instruction. No language of visible signs can ever approach in thoroughness and excellence, the language of audible words. As people advance in civilization they improve this language, and come to rely upon it entirely. They reject the adjuncts —the visible signs; they do not need to eke out their meaning by gestures; and they come to express every possible condition of things, and every phase of thought by a system of vocal sounds, which becomes their vernacular. Each generation of children catches the sounds or words, and almost without effort learns the language of the country; good, bad, or indifferent,—oaths and all. But, in every generation there are a certain number, who, being born deaf, do not hear these sounds; and therefore cannot imitate them. They have, however, the common human disposition and desire to express emotion and thought by some out- ward signs; and the natural tendency to use vocal speech as the readiest sign, prompts them to attempt vocal utterance. As however, they cannot hear the words which they utter, they fail to make them uni- form, and intelligible to others. They cannot mod- ulate the voice and speak distinctly; and after painful efforts they give up in despair and remain dumb. Still, the desire to express feelings and thoughts by signs and so to commune with others, remains strong within them; and though they give up attempts to use the highest forms of language, they persist in the use of the lower form of visible signs. They perceive that persons who speak do not confine themselves to making audible sounds, but use certain adjuncts of speech or interpretations of emotions, such as expressions of face and feature, gestures, and signs of various kinds. These are usually called natural signs, or natural language, though strictly speaking they are no more natural than are audible sounds. But these are the only parts of language which deaf children can seize upon, and they come to rely upon them alone. They watch eagerly the play of the features, the expression of the countenance, and the gestures of the speaker, and imitate them. They invent other signs of their own, they multiply them, they empha- size them by earnest looks, and by eager gestures; and so form a language, which hoAvever is only rudi- mentary and imperfect. But besides its imperfec- tions, this language cannot become common even among mutes,’ because no two adopt the same signs. There is a certain resemblance, indeed, because they do for the most part seize upon some supposed analogy, and make a sign resembling the thing thought of: as whirling the hand for the motion of a wheel. This answers to a certain extent for things in the concrete; hut when it comes to abstract mat- ters they are lost. One selects one sign, another another; and of course they cannot form a common language. But this is not the worst of it. Men may 25 doubtless have cognizance of facts and phenom- ena; as fire and ice and recall them to memory without attaching names thereto. But it is hardly conceivable that they should go farther, and form abstract ideas as of heat and cold, without names. Definite thought suggests a name, as substance causes shadow. At any rate, there can be no great mental development, and no high culture, without signs, and even very definite signs, for the thoughts; and there can be no precise, minute, and definite signs, except speech, oral or written. Indeed, they are necessary for the simple process of recollection; because the ideas which we have formed from impressions upon the senses, if without signs attached to them, would be like a pile of books without labels or title pages. Language is to thought, what the trellis is to the vine. This it is which gives to the blind child such meas- ureless advantage over the deaf child in acquiring knowledge. The first at eight years old comes to school fully armed with the great instruments of thought and study. You need waste no time in establishing means of communication between your mind and his; but the mute cannot understand a single word that you say. He has indeed a certain rude language of signs and gestures, to make known certain emotions and desires; but he has no sign for a word, and therefore no means of expressing definite thought. You must teach him, by a slow and tedious pro- cess, that besides the sign which he has adopted for a horse, or a house, there is another visible sign; and you draw a house or a horse upon a blackboard. 26 This sign is founded on the likeness between the house or horse, and the picture of it. This yon would do with any deaf-mute child, of whatever country; and all would understand it. Then you go farther, and make certain arbitrary marks, which to him are new and strange. Under the picture of the animal, you make five marks, which you call letters h-o-r-s-e; then under the picture of the building you make other five—h-o-u-s-e. You have then to repeat the process over and over again, until the sight of those letters, arranged in that particular order, suggests to him the idea of the thing which you have in your mind. I do not mean to say that this is the approved method used in the schools for mutes, but one which any person, not an expert, might adopt. Let me illustrate this by the method which I devised to teach letters to Laura Bridgman, who was not only quite deaf, but quite blind, and almost devoid of the sense of smell, which is usually much relied upon by persons in her sad condition. I began with single short words, as pin and pen. I took some embossed letters, such as the blind use, and placing three of them, p-e-n, on the table beside a pen, made her feel them over and over again, until they became associated in her mind with the pen. Then I introduced a fourth letter, i, and put together p-i-n, and placed these beside a pin. These were felt of over and over and over again, until the three signs, placed in that order, became associated with a pin; so that when she felt them so placed on the page of a book, the thought of a pin came up in her mind. And so on, intro- 2 7 ducing new letters, placing them in new combina- tions. Slowly and gradually sbe went on, mastering new signs or letters until she had learned twenty- six, when she began to perceive that there were no more new ones, but only new combinations of the familiar ones. Then I took a label, as s-p-o-o-n, and pasted it on a spoon, and made her feel them over again and again and again* and so with other things. You see that as soon as she got hold of the thread, as soon as she found that by putting together certain letters in certain combinations, she could make me understand what things she had in her mind, and as soon as she had learned twenty-six of these, she was mistress of the alphabet, or elements of arbitrary language, and had only to go on and learn to spell the names of all the things she could reach. This she was so eager to do, that thence- forward one could not satisfy her. But these bits of embossed paper wTere most inconvenient and unsatisfactory; and so I began by doubling one fist and putting my fingers in a certain position, and placing the hand so closed beside the letter p, and repeating it so often that she associated in her mind that position of fingers with the letter p. Then I took the same course with another letter which she had learned; and so on through twenty-six letters, irrespective of their alphabetical order, until she came to understand that by a certain position of the fingers she would make three signs, p-i-n, which would signify a pin, just as did the three bits of embossed paper. Thus she was equipped with a better instrument of inter- 28 course; a swifter telegraph from her mind out to ours, which was always at her fingers’ end. This is said in a few minutes; but the process was so slow, so long-protracted, that it would have been wearisome indeed but for the object in view, which was to lead her out of her inward darkness into our blessed light. It is easy to show the process by which she learned nouns, or names of all sensible objects, but it would take me too long to show the process by which she passed to a knowledge of words express- ing relations, and of qualities. The first step of the transition is easy; for you perceive that there are certain qualities which she could understand, as sweetness in an apple, and by analogy sweetness in temper. She did finally master the names of qualities, and of purely abstract ideas, so that she could read and write and con- verse, and thus became an intelligent, responsible moral agent, and a happy and useful member of human society, loving many, and beloved of many. The thing which prompted me to aid her in her first efforts to get out of her dark and silent isolation, and which made me sure of success in my single method, was the conviction that, though hardly having more intelligence than a dog, she showed the common human desire and capacity to associate names with things, and thoughts of things. She took hold of the thread by which I would lead her out, because she had all the special attributes of a human soul. ISTo created being devoid of these attributes could do it. Try ye, who believe that an ape or a chim- 29 panzee differs only a degree from man! and though the pupil may have the aid of fine sharp senses, and the help of an academy of philosophers, not even the threshold will be passed; while this child who could not see even a flash of lightning, or hear a crash of thunder,—who had, indeed, but one perfect sense,—went on by aid of that alone until she acquired language; could converse freely and rap- idly; could read embossed books and write legible letters; and finally came into sympathetic and affec- tionate relations with her family and friends; and felt that even her poor life was a precious boon for which she was grateful to its Great Giver, whom she learned to know as her God and Father. This was very long ago, and I may not have related, in this hasty sketch, the exact order of the different stages of instruction. But you will allow me to quote from an account which I printed con- cerning the application of this method to another child, a boy of twelve, blind and deaf and dumb. The record states that before entering school,— “ He was fond of teasing cats, and generally inclined to fun. He could make many of his wants understood by signs. He was, however, ungovernable, and when thwarted in any way, he became very violent, braying, striking and kicking furiously. “ His signs were expressive, and the strictly natural language, laughing, crying, sighing, kissing, embracing, etc., was perfect. Some of the analogical signs which (guided by his faculty of imitation,) he had contrived, were compre- hensible, such as the waving motion of his hand for the motion of a boat, the circular one for a wheel, etc. The first object was to break up the use of these signs, and to substitute therefor the use of purely arbitrary ones. 30 “ Profiting by the experience I had gained in the other cases, I omitted several steps of the process before employed, and commenced at once with the finger language. Taking, therefore, several articles having short names, such as key, cup, mug, &c., and with Laura for an auxiliary, I sat down, and taking his hand, placed it upon one of them, and then with my own made the letters, k-e-y. He felt eagerly of my hands with both of his, and on my repeating the process, he evidently tried to imitate the motions of my fingers. In a few minutes he contrived to feel the motions of my fingers with one hand, and holding out the other, lie tried to imitate them, laughing most heartily when he succeeded. Laura was by, interested even to agitation, and the two presented a sin- gular sight; her face was flushed and anxious, and her fingers twined in among ours so closely as to follow every motion, but so lightly as not to embarrass them; while Oliver stood attentive, his head a little aside, his face turned up, his left hand grasping mine, and his right held out; at every motion of my fingers his countenance betokened keen attention. There was an expression of anxiety as he tried to imitate the motions—then a smile came stealing out as he thought he could do so, and spread into a joyous laugh the moment he succeeded, and felt me pat his head, and Laura clap him heartily upon the back, and jump up and down in her joy. “He learned more than a half dozen letters in half an hour, and seemed delighted with his success, at least in gain- ing approbation. His attention then began to flag, and I commenced playing with him. It was evident that in all this he had merely been imitating the motions of my fingers, and placing his hand upon the key, cup,