Chapter III: Part 3

A similar state of affairs exists in connection with the phenomena of the material-spiritual world. While vocal sounds, when properly produced, stand for all that is harmonious and pleasing, their component parts, their positive and negative elements, by themselves, offer features of a contrary nature. They also offer us, the same as elements do to the chemist while making experiments, the opportunity for making an endless number of combinations. Unless you know what _simple_ sounds--_i. e._, negative parts of vocal sounds--are, and know how to produce them, you will scarcely be able to make one class of experiments which I shall offer in great abundance to sustain my arguments.

When I shall reach the subject of vocal sounds proper, I shall more fully explain their exact nature. I will simply say this at present: A simple sound is the product of that hemisphere only to which it properly belongs. A vocal sound is aided and assisted by a complementary sound from the other hemisphere. The more perfect such aid, the more perfect will be its tone. Simple vowel sounds are short, abrupt, the same as consonant sounds when produced all by themselves and without the aid of a vowel sound uttered in conjunction with them.

POSTERIOR SURFACES

In saying, as I have, that introspection is carried on by looking into ourselves with the _inner surface of our eyes_, I meant to say, in the first instance, that we must exclude all exterior vision, and then attempt to locate and follow up the course of events going on within us. While in this state we are strictly reduced to our personal and individual existence. In thus "watching," the function of our eyes, instead of being used for external material observation, is reversed; their function now being to observe internally and spiritually.

In connection with sounds, you will not only "in your mind's eye" _see_ the places where they originate, and _feel_ the course they are taking, but you will actually, functionally (in the mode of spiritually seeing and feeling), "see" and "feel" them. This vision and this feeling is far from being perfect, however,--not being accustomed to thus seeing and feeling,--but it may, when continuously exercised, become so in the course of time. While in this state, besides seeing the places interiorly, you may also see them exteriorly, by reflection as it were, and in a reverse order, "as in a looking-glass," in which case it is still an interior vision reflected exteriorly. As a matter of fact, I not only believe, but positively _know_, that _every exterior functional surface has a corresponding posterior one_.

Whenever a thing is brought _home_ to us, either through our organs of seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, or tasting, the outer surface of such respective organ constitutes the positive factor for such action, while its inner surface constitutes the negative factor thereof. Whenever the outer world is excluded, however, as during thought, introspection, and in our sleep, the inner surface of any of these organs becomes the positive, and the outer surface the negative, factor. In thus saying, "I see with the inner surface of my eyes," I do not mean this figuratively only, but literally, functionally, as well; as I could not see these places and locate them internally nor could I see any subject or object with "my mind's eye," if the faculty of seeing were not actually given to the posterior surface of the eye.

This will become clear when you consider that you will altogether fail to see internally when you attempt to use the _anterior_ surface of your eye for the purpose of _internal_ vision. Thus, the phenomena of vision which accompany thought or dreams, during sleep as well as in our waking moments, are not merely spiritual, but, in the sense of internal functional vision, are also material, so to say. _All_ thought, in fact, is more or less of this same nature. We use the posterior surfaces of our organs of sense more frequently, in consequence, than we do their corresponding anterior surfaces. Physiologists will say there is no such a thing as an inner surface of the eye capable of seeing. This does not alter the fact that I actually, functionally, see with the posterior surface of my eyes, and that everybody else does the same thing.

I shall, in connection with vocal utterance, have occasion to call attention to numerous divisions of as positive a character as a wall of living tissue, of which there is not a trace to be seen by external vision; these divisions being channels, constantly used in one and the same direction, some for ingoing, others for outgoing streams of air and sounds. Of these channels, also, being invisible to the outer surface of the eye, science has never taken any notice. These invisible agencies are connecting links, mediating between cause and result, in connection with material-spiritual or spiritual-material phenomena of whatsoever nature brought to our consciousness. Hence the inability of science, in its ignorance of these agencies, to reconcile the one with the other by the aid of such material only as has been heretofore at its disposal. We may _see_ proceedings going on which are mediating between cause and effect, by the assistance of the inner surface of our eyes. They disappear altogether, as well as any other "vision," upon an attempt being made at seeing them with the external surface of our eyes. Yet we may see inwardly with our eyes open, as we do when absent-minded, etc.

If we could invent a microscope by the aid of which we could look into ourselves in a _spiritual_ sense, that is, through posterior surfaces, _all_ the secret springs of our nature might be revealed to us. This ability to become cognizant of physiologico-psychological processes by the aid of the inner surfaces of our organs of sense, reveals a peculiar functional exercise of their faculties. In matters of memory they are not intended to aid in conveying to our consciousness impressions made at the _present_, but those made at a previous time. These impressions having been made on the soft tablets of our brain, either during our individual existence or that of our progenitors, and transmitted to us by dint of heredity, are brought to our consciousness by the aid of these inner surfaces, _phonographically_. They are awakened by association; and that organ of sense by the aid of whose anterior surface they were first received and _recorded_, now reawakens them by the aid of its posterior surface. Visions, consequently, are reflections made on the inner surface of the eyes, from impressions previously made upon the brain, in a similar manner to that by which sounds come forth from a phonograph. They could not assume shape if they were not thus reflected. It is owing to the nature of these reflections that they are more fleeting and evanescent than those made by the objects themselves upon the external surface of the eyes.

The anterior and posterior surfaces of all organs, by whose aid we exercise our faculties, which surfaces represent their poles and dual factors, the positive and the negative, the material and the spiritual, change places in conformity with whether an object is impressed upon them exteriorly or interiorly, in the present or the past, directly or indirectly, physically or spiritually. Things which are brought to our consciousness from the exterior world and in a direct manner--through our senses--may be said to be of a _material_ nature; while those which come to us indirectly--through our inner consciousness--may be said to be of _spiritual_ origin. The clearness of our visions naturally depends upon the clearness of the impression still remaining upon the tablets of the brain. The more stirring the event in the first instance, the deeper and more lasting, of course, the impression. All this, however, does not throw any light upon the process of abstract thought; nor am I in a position to aid in so doing. Yet it appears to me to be a sister proceeding; and that a nearer approach to an explanation of those more material phenomena may finally assist in arriving at an explanation of the causes of these more recondite and apparently purely spiritual phenomena.

The correctness of the preceding remarks will become more apparent when we substitute for the faculty of seeing, that of hearing. We hear the voice of another person through the _anterior_ part of our ear, _entering_, as it does, from _without_. We hear our own voice through the _posterior_ part of our ear, _going out_, as it does, from _within_. No matter how low we may speak, we can always hear our own voice, though inaudible to others; and we can still distinctly hear it at such time, even when we fail to hear a low, though in fact relatively much louder, tone proceeding from the voice of another person. A ventriloquist, on the other hand, with whom these relations are reversed, hears his own voice reflected from without, inwardly, while, if he continues in the same condition while listening to another person's voice, he will hear the latter from within, outwardly.

For the purpose of testing the correctness of these observations, please pay attention to the following: In listening to the sounds of another person's speech, you will have no difficulty in noticing that they stream into your ear from without, inwardly. Now, substitute for this other person's voice the sounds of your own voice, _and continue to listen to the same in precisely the same manner in which you did to those of this other person_; that is, let them flow into your ear from without, inwardly. The result will be _that you will not only not hear the sounds of your own voice, but that these sounds themselves will become paralyzed, that you will not be able to produce any sound whatever_.

The cause is obvious. You attempt to listen to negative sounds with the side of your ear still tuned negatively; while, ordinarily, when we cease to listen and commence to speak, _all_ poles are reversed. Spoken sounds are positive in relation to the speaker, but negative in relation to the person listening to the same. In consequence, the producer hears them with the negative (inner) part of his ear, the receiver, or listener, hears them with the positive (exterior) part of his ear.

I copy the following from an article in the _Philadelphia Sunday Press_:

"A curious fact in regard to the effect of explosions upon the
drumhead, is that this tissue, though generally blown in, is
sometimes blown out. Just what causes the latter result has not
yet been fully explained."

In this instance, I presume, the person's ear was tuned to listen interiorly, and the effect of the explosion, which, in relation to him, was of a negative nature, took effect on the positive, the posterior, side of his ear. This person was not in expectancy of the explosion, but it came on unawares, of a sudden, while he was in a state of contemplation.

In connection with the eye, our inner consciousness acts as a "rein" upon the outer, drawing back in case of danger, checking our progress when suddenly coming upon a precipice, and _regulating our steps_ to circumvent it, but without coming to a stop, when seeing an obstacle in our way from a distance. The "rein" in such an instance reverses the poles of the eyes--the positive becomes negative and the negative positive; that is to say, in our usual mode of seeing, while walking, the exterior surface of the eye is positive, the interior negative; but when there is danger ahead and we are warned to be cautious, the exterior becomes negative and the interior positive; the activity now being exercised by the latter, the passivity by the former. The action of the "rein," however, is not direct, but crosswise; that is to say, the posterior surface of the left eye is in correspondence with the anterior of the right, and vice versa, in conformity with the "impulse" emanating from either the one or the other, while the anterior surface of the left eye is in correspondence with the posterior of the right, and vice versa.

The knowledge of the reversion of the functional exercise of our organs of sense is of signal importance in connection with motion and vocal utterance, which always go hand in hand; every utterance being accompanied by a motion, though not always visible to the eye. In truly artistic delivery these motions are brought to the highest perfection; and visibly, though often in great moderation, accompany _every_ inflection of the voice.

To be able to see a thing at all, we must be in a relatively proper position with the object to be seen; we must be on the same plane with it. We must also have light, not only for the latter, but by reflection therefrom also for ourselves. In addition we must have the inner light enabling us to comprehend what we have seen. I contend that for the study of spiritual-material as well as material-spiritual phenomena, such light has always been wanting for the thing to be seen, as well as for the orb to see and consequently for the spirit to comprehend. In attempting to comprehend, and to explain appearances, physiologically, we have been looking in our exterior world, where we cannot, in place of our interior world, where we might be able to see and to observe. We have been using the outer surface of our eye instead of the inner, with which to see spiritual things. The thing to be seen and the orb with which to see were not on the same "plane." It was impossible to perform the act of _spiritually_ seeing. The proper light once obtained, it has not only illumined for me the things to be seen, but also my capacity for seeing and comprehending them. Roentgen has taught us the method of seeing material things through opaque bodies. I have learned to recognize spiritual phenomena in opaque bodies, created, as they are, by a combination of spiritual and material factors. While I have made use of this gift for a special study--that of vocal utterance--I incline to think that it may be made use of for the study of not only all the various material-spiritual phenomena to be observed in the nature of organic bodies in general and man's in particular, but also of our relations with the unseen and unknown world and its forces, in which our essence has its being, whence it comes, and to which it returns. In minutely explaining my mode of proceeding, it is also my special desire to rob it of any appearance of "supernaturalness" some persons might be inclined to invest it with. Though I cannot explain many things connected with the voice from an entirely naturalistic standpoint, I think they are all explainable if the proper amount of study and observation be given to them. This, as a matter of course, does not, however, include the operations of the mind proper, which are governed by laws beyond any human understanding.

INSPIRATION--EXPIRATION

The entire mechanism of our being, more especially that of our faculties and functions, is primarily excited through openings into which air is inspired, from which air is expired. These openings are connected with channels and vessels which are passive or negative during inspiration; active or positive during expiration. Thus the multiform streams of air introduced into our system communicate with parts thereof, which, by their construction and intercommunication with others, are specially adapted for the exercise of any special faculty or function. Our will directs these streams of air to flow into their proper channels (and they automatically obey) for the guidance of our steps in a certain direction, for the production of a given sound, the recognition of a given sight, the sensation of a peculiar odor, taste, or feeling, or the excitation of a passion, a compassion, or any other sensation, feeling, or thought whatsoever. These streams of air, therefore, are of an order as multiform as the complex web of our material and spiritual existence, and are introduced through thousands of different channels and in thousands of different ways.

To confine our mode of physical and spiritual existence to a single stream of air introduced into the oral cavity, or the nostrils, and thence into the lungs, appears to me to be as primitive a proceeding and as narrow a view as can possibly be taken of one of the greatest subjects our understanding is called upon to deal with. In place of that, I have positive proof that the streams of air which flow into these openings are of the most multiform nature; every sight, odor, taste, touch, and every sound, and fraction of a sound even, calling for a special stream of air which no other stream can furnish or supply. Besides the oral cavity and the nostrils, the eyes, ears, and every additional opening, down to an almost invisible pore or capillary vessel, are recipients of special streams intended for special purposes. _We breathe through the soles of our feet and the palms of our hands, as well as through the skull of our heads. The closer we guard our body against the influence of the air, by means of unnaturally close-woven and air-tight clothing, the less capable we become of exercising our natural faculties and functions._

To this subject I shall devote time and attention at some future period, more especially in connection with vocal utterance, as it has everything to do with the production of sounds, which proceed in part from within, outwardly, and in part from without, inwardly. In so doing, positive becomes negative and negative positive; inspiration and expiration equalize each other, and thus a continuous flow of speech becomes possible, while if the flow were continuously in one and the same direction it would soon come to an absolute stop.

It is this that science has done for us: It has clogged up all these natural avenues to our existence by teaching that we breathe through the trachea alone, in consequence of the muscle of the diaphragm forming an air-tight partition between the upper and lower compartments of our bodies; being ignorant of the fact of that other great tube of the œsophagus, also opening into the oral cavity, performing the same functions for the abdomen which the trachea does for the thorax. In place of all these millions of openings through which we inspire and expire, science teaches that we breathe through a single tube, into and out of an _air-tight sack_,--a mechanically impossible proceeding. By some ill-defined process, air is supposed to find its way into the thorax and out again after depositing its oxygen in the blood-vessels. Meanwhile, the balance of our body is left to shift for itself, not the slightest particle of fresh food ever finding its way into any portion thereof, except indirectly through the blood-vessels. To my simple and untaught understanding it appears that if such a state of affairs really existed--no matter how rapid the circulation of the blood--the entire hemisphere of the abdomen would be given over to putrefaction in an exceedingly short space of time.

Breathing, however, as we do, through the œsophagus, in like measure with the trachea, and through every other opening in our epidermis in addition, our body is constantly, uninterruptedly, permeated with fresh air in its every avenue, vessel, capillary tube, cell, etc., which sustains us by its life-giving qualities, and takes away with it the constantly accumulating refuse.

The muscle of the diaphragm has been the air-tight door to the cell of the condemned, whose portal has been guarded by ignorance and every oppression, suppression, fear, superstition, anxiety, bigotry, narrowness, prejudice, etc., that the human mind is capable of. It has given us over to self-accusation as a natural and vital element. It has shut us up into the narrowest limits, and kept us from communing with the universe and the spirit of the universe. It has excluded from us the grace, the beauty, the light, the liberty, the eternity of the _spirit_, and prevented us from recognizing ourselves as integral parts of the universe and of the causes which sustain it and sustain us. It has prevented us from communing with them as free agents _in our own name and by our own right_, without interference or the intercession of any person or agency whatsoever, in the past or the present.

Have I placed too great a value on the discovery of the "voice of the œsophagus"?

I feel convinced that the further exposition of my observations will justify me in all I have said.

DIAPHRAGMS

As the trunk has its diaphragm, dividing thorax and abdomen, so do all dual hemispheres representing a faculty or function have their diaphragms, performing duties of an analogous nature. _Every_ opening, in fact, has its diaphragm. Where there is none visible, it is formed by contraction, whenever needed, and but for the time being. All these various diaphragms, more particularly the one specially bearing that name, are of the greatest importance in connection with vocal utterance,--the sounds of the vessels of the abdomen being produced by an expansion of the thorax and consequent contraction of the abdomen, those of the vessels of the thorax by an expansion of the abdomen and a consequent contraction of the thorax.

For the purposes of vocal utterance, inspiration into the thorax produces an expiration from the abdomen by way of the œsophagus, accompanied by vocal sound, while an inspiration into the abdomen produces an expiration from the thorax by way of the trachea, accompanied by vocal sound; the special _mode_ of inspiration regulating the special sound to be produced.

This proceeding has reference to outgoing sounds only. For ingoing sounds the opposite proceeding takes place; an expiration from the thorax producing an inspiration into the abdomen, and an expiration from the abdomen an inspiration into the thorax, both accompanied by sound. Every original inspiration into thorax or abdomen, of course, must have been preceded by an expiration from these parts, while every original expiration must have been preceded by an inspiration into the same. The utterance of every sound, therefore, requires at least three movements on the part of the respiratory organs. But for the action of the diaphragm, such sounds could not be produced.

All these various diaphragms fall or recede for inspiration, rise or advance for expiration; the function of a diaphragm being exercised in conformity with the manner in which it is approached. This may be done by way of the œsophagus or the trachea, _i. e._, from the side of the hemisphere of the abdomen, or from that of the thorax. The outward movement of the abdomen during respiration, therefore, is not caused by a pressure brought to bear on its contents by the diaphragm, but it advances and recedes in conformity with a direct process of inspiration and expiration by way of the œsophagus and the trachea; the œsophagus and trachea sustaining each other and acting reciprocally and in conjunction. This presumed pressing forward and subsequent receding of the entrails, in consequence of the descent and ascent of the diaphragm, presents a spectacle as repugnant as it is impossible of execution; the extension of the abdomen, more particularly in connection with special sounds, being so great that no pressure whatever brought to bear upon the entrails could possibly produce it.

In place of this theory, now so generally entertained, the simple fact obtains that the diaphragm descends in consequence of an influx of air into and subsequent expansion of the thorax, causing a contraction of the abdomen and an efflux of air from the same; that it ascends in consequence of an influx of air into and expansion of the abdomen, causing a contraction of the thorax and an efflux of air from the same.

IMPRESSION AND EXPRESSION

All vocal expression is but an echo, the echo of a thought. Thought _must_ precede vocal expression. It is not possible to produce a vocal sound, not the simplest, without thought. There is no such thing as a voice _ipso facto_, no more than there is music in a musical instrument unless it is called forth by the hand of the player. Try it. Come upon a sound suddenly, around the corner, as it were, and then express it. Do not give it a moment's time for its development; that is, do not give thought time to mould a form for it, but try to utter it in embryo, so to say, the very moment you think of it, and you will not be able to do it. You will not produce any sound whatever.

It is as necessary to form a mould for a sound as it is for any shaped and moulded material article. Out of this mould it comes forth in conformity with the form we have given it: harsh, abrupt, discordant--rhythmical, beautiful, soulful. Such as the thought is, so will be the expression. In ordinary conversation this proceeding is automatic and mechanical, in elocution or song more or less volitional and artistic. That is to say, for ordinary speech it acts automatically, for artistic utterance it acts designedly. Materially, the mould is convex, shut, for ingoing; concave, open, for outgoing sounds. It expands for the former, it contracts for the latter. Vocal sounds are a product of matter as well as mind; the act itself which produces them being a connecting link between matter and mind. The soul calls on the body to aid it in giving form to its desires and intentions; the body instantly obeys and assumes the form from which the expected sound or action is to arise.

No matter how great a soul may be, unless it can give form and consequent utterance to its greatness, it will be helpless, far more so than the simplest soul capable of giving expression to its simplicity. Confined to our own limits, like the congenital deaf, our faculties become dwarfed and useless. We do not know ourselves, do not know our own souls. We must expand, go out into the world and take it in, if we want to grow and give our faculties a chance to develop.

The greater our horizon, the more we can take in, the more we can give out. Our soul is scarcely ours when enchained; the greater its liberty, the more it belongs to us. Hence our just pity for the congenital deaf, and our desire to assist them in their efforts at expression. Those among them who are being, or have been, tutored, receive their impressions through their eyes in the form assumed by the speaker's mouth; the eye assuming the function of the ear. The form assumed by their teacher's mouth, however, not being perfect, a perfect impression cannot be made. Hence the expression of the deaf is in conformity with the impression they have obtained: mechanical, material, soulless. The exterior lines of the mouth of the teacher, or any other speaker's from which the deaf draw their inspiration, are those of the material side of the medal. Failing to see the reverse side thereof, namely, the interior of the mouth, which is its spiritual side, the lines of the latter make no impression upon them. These fine lines on the interior side of the speaker's mouth, representing the rhythm, the soul of the voice, not being seen, fail to make that impression from which alone a soulful expression could arise.

That an _impression_ may be made through the eye will scarcely require a defense, in view of the fact that in reading aloud or in singing from notes the _entire_ impression is made through the eye. The reader or singer, knowing the _value_ of every sound, is impressed by the sight of a letter or a note as he would be by the sound itself. Not so with the congenital deaf, who, being ignorant of such value, cannot reproduce it. Nor will it be contended, I suppose, that the deaf knowingly, designedly, or volitionally attempt to imitate the forms assumed by the teacher's mouth, but it will be admitted that this is done spontaneously, and that vocal sounds with them arise from this imperfect mechanism, thus involuntarily reproduced.

With the congenital deaf, with persons attempting to speak a foreign language, etc., the material form, as well as the spiritual impetus, being imperfect, the expression will be in conformity therewith. In how far and in what manner these investigations may become helpful to the deaf will be a matter for the not distant future to develop. That they will eventually become of the greatest aid to them I have every reason to believe. Those who have made a study of matters of this kind understand the difficulties surrounding the same. These difficulties are increased manifold where the ear of the scholar absolutely refuses to come to his own and his teacher's aid.

There are forms in which vocal sounds move, well defined and capable of material representation, which are not fully expressed by the shape of the teacher's mouth, nor are they thus expressed by impressions taken by the aid of the camera. Regarding the latter, it is necessary to note that photographic representations of vocal sounds are the result of the combined action of the voice of the œsophagus and of that of the trachea, of material and immaterial factors. Just in how far the latter are capable of being thus represented must, as yet, remain a matter of conjecture.

An attempt at reconciling photographic representations of vocal sounds with the oscillations of the vocal cords is, at most, a one-sided proceeding. To arrive at any correct conclusion at all, it would be necessary to take the vibrations of the "vocal lip" and the frænum into equal consideration.

Regarding our capacity for improving the natural physical and psychical capabilities of the musical instrument of the voice, that depends upon the manner in which we play upon it. As it yields to the slightest pressure of the air, either for good or for evil, we must, above all things, learn how to guide the tip of our tongue in touching its aërial strings or keys, which are far more sensitive than those of any instrument ever produced by the hand of man. It takes years to attain a mastery over the simplest musical instrument; yet it is often expected that the instrument of the voice should yield to the most careless efforts made in the most wilful and indiscriminate manner.

The _thought_ of a sound, after _producing_ an impression, _guides_ the tongue in _releasing_ such impression. Unless the tongue touches or moves towards the exact spot which will effect such release, the expression or the sound will not be forthcoming. That the impression, as well as its release, should be properly made, it is necessary to _think_ of the sound which is to be produced, in the most precise and correct manner. I cannot sufficiently impress upon the reader's mind the importance this simple lesson conveys. If he will shape his manner of vocal utterance, especially his mode of singing, in conformity therewith, he will be able to improve his voice to a far greater extent than he would by following any or all of the realistic methods now in vogue. This _thinking_ of the correct sound must be carried on for the _next_ syllable during the _production_ of the previous one; and care must be taken not to think of more than one syllable at one and the same time. Unless this is done, no pure sound will ever be produced, the impression made by thinking of a second or third syllable overlapping that for the next following; thus producing a muddle and a discord. Rhythm being the basis for all perfect vocal utterance, a rhythmic impression must be made in order to obtain a rhythmic expression. This cannot be done when the former is not preserved in its entire purity until it is released.

All of us, either during our ordinary speech or during our efforts at artistic expression, are guided by the process just described; unknowingly, unwittingly, properly or improperly, for good or for evil, pursuing this same course. I cannot enter upon these matters to any greater extent at this time, as it will be necessary to first treat of other matters with which they are intimately connected.

THE PHONOGRAPH

In trying the experiment of coming upon a sound unawares, simply endeavor to divest yourself of all thought, and then suddenly, without any preparation whatever, say "a," or "b," or "it," or any word you wish, and you will not be able to produce such sound or sounds--or, in fact, any sound whatsoever. Or, you may get some one to, of a sudden, produce sounds embodied in letters before your eyes; and you will find you will be unable to utter them instantly. While you cannot thus produce a vocal sound, or vocal sounds embodied in words, you can produce _simple_ sounds without preparation. As they belong to but one hemisphere, and are consequently not the product of a compound impression, they may be uttered the very moment we think of them. While they are being uttered, our organs of speech are "shut," far more so than they are for _vocal_ sounds.

Consonant sounds cannot be uttered "vocally" without a vowel sound. When they appear in a syllable their _accompanying_ vowel sound carries them and permeates them. When they appear singly we add a vowel sound to them. We say: "ar," "be," "en," "ka," etc.; unless we do so we cannot pronounce them. Without such accompanying vowel sound they would be inert.

"Simple" _consonant_ sounds are unaccompanied, not "leavened," by a vowel sound. "Simple" _vowel_ sounds, on the other hand, are unaccompanied by the element which constitutes consonant sounds; while "vocal" _vowel_ sounds _are_ accompanied thereby.

The word "surd," used in connection with non-vocal sounds, does not express the meaning of what I call "simple" sounds, as all sounds may be either "vocal" or "simple," while "surd" applies only to special sounds.

The necessity of making an impression for vocal utterance also prevails in connection with motion. You cannot lift your right foot or your left arm, or make any given motion whatever, the very moment you think of making it. It requires some preparation; though you may lift _part_ of a limb without preparation. A part of a limb in this sense may be compared to a _simple_, the entire limb to a _vocal_, sound. The thought must make an impression by expansion or contraction, which, when released, will express the desired motion; no matter whether such motion is made unconsciously or deliberately. It is more difficult to watch this proceeding in connection with sight; the operations of light being so rapid that the expression seems to be simultaneous with the impression.

Contraction and expansion for motion are of the same order as they are for vocal utterance. In fact, both are so closely connected that we cannot utter a sound unless it is accompanied by a motion. In stopping the motion accompanying a sound, we stop our ability of uttering such sound. I shall have occasion to call attention to numerous conditions under which it will be impossible to utter sounds, either separate or connected, by stopping the motion necessary to produce such sounds. It is all due to the fact that we are homogeneous beings, _whose powers are interdependent upon one another_.

The effect of the teacher's _voice_ upon his or her scholar's organization is of a _similar_ order to that made by _thought_ upon the teacher's own organization. That it is not of the _same_ order is due to the fact that the organization upon which it is made is but rarely constituted the same, is not as highly organized and developed or "schooled," as the one from which the voice emanated. The impression made by the singing-teacher's _voice_ is of the same order as that made upon the deaf by the _features_ of their instructor which are representative of his voice. We are living, breathing _phonographs_. Every impression we receive through any of our senses must be made in a material manner before it can have its immaterial expression. We engrave upon living tissue, instead of on rubber or wax.

I repeat that, to obtain a pure sound, the _thought_ underlying such sound or sounds must be _purely, clearly defined_. We cannot obtain a clear impression from a seal whose engraving is blurred, or when the sealing-wax is not in a proper condition of softness, or when the hand is not steady which makes the impression. The same conditions prevail with vocal utterance. Thought makes the impression; the æther, passing through its narrowed passages at a rate as swift as thought, creates the sound. The impression is made as _thought_ progresses, the expression as _sound_ progresses. While the _impression is thoughtful, the expression is thoughtless_. While we think for a sound during the impression, we do not think for it during its expression; _but we think, during the latter, for the next sound_. If this were not the case, consecutive speech would be a matter of impossibility. The artist's thought is embodied in the creation of the model for his statue from which a mould is made. The casting of the statue, equal to its expression, is mechanical, thoughtless.

In this connection the brain is of the same order as the tablets of the phonograph. For ordinary use, however, the lines engraved upon it are evanescent; they disappear again with the sound or thought which releases them. Impressions, however, of a deeper nature remain--some forever. The thought or sounds they represent, the same as the lines on the tablets of the phonograph, are released but for the time being and while such thought and sounds (through association) are recalled to memory. The thought and sounds are evanescent, but the lines which represent them remain for further use, the same as the lines on the tablets of the phonograph and the strings of a musical instrument. If we could read aright the lines which the voice makes on the tablets of the phonograph or on the negative plates of the photographer, we would obtain a correct insight into their character. These studies, when fully developed, may lead to a comprehension of these hieroglyphics, the same as the Greek translation on the Rosetta stone furnished the cue to the comprehension of the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian monuments.

STUTTERING, STAMMERING

What is all this I am writing?

It is an endeavor at giving expression to an impression obtained of a great subject imperfectly understood. The general ideas underlying it all are on the lines of truth, but the contours are evanescent, the lines representing special features ill-defined, while the finer shadings are almost entirely wanting. It is a stuttering, a stammering, in matters my mind is too narrow to grasp, incapable of comprehending in all their bearings, impotent to take in in their ultimate relations. Still, I am doing what I can with such material as nature has placed at my disposal. Thought failing to make a clear impression, my pen, I fear, cannot give a clear expression to it all.

Regarding the subject of stuttering proper, I must still preface it with some remarks of a general nature. The influx and efflux of streams of air into and out of our system, called breathing, is of a very complicated nature. While we designate the same by the general terms of inspiration and expiration, these streams are of as multiform a nature as the ethereal fabrics they are intended to weave, whose weft they form, and whose warp is of a more material nature. Call these fabrics what you please--actions, speech, feelings, passions, fancies, sensations, etc. While these streams form innumerable separate systems, they are all subject to one and the same law--rhythm. The more perfect the rhythm the higher the development and consequent performance.

While we always breathe, or should breathe, in the same rhythmic order (the octave) for the sustenance of life in general, we unconsciously breathe in various other measures for an endless number of other purposes. Our dual nature, and the duality of the manner in which we breathe, as a rule enable us to go through these various performances without a disturbance as to the harmonious character of our existence. It is a great orchestral performance by instruments of various kinds and orders, each performer playing his own notes, specially adapted to his particular part and instrument; yet all coming together in one harmonious _ensemble_. This fact finds expression, clearly defined, in the various measures in which metre and rhythm are clad for poetry and song. The introduction into our system of a rhythmic flow of streams of air for the various purposes of vocal utterance is conditioned upon a rhythmic flow of thought.

To perfectly render a poetical conception by words either spoken or sung, the performer's _mind_ must be in accord with the rhythm underlying such conception. In that case only will he breathe and, consequently, speak or sing in the requisite manner for such production. I should have prefaced all this by saying that, in the same manner as inspiration and expiration succeed each other in regular rotation, so do the ordinary measures of long and short (¯˘), or short and long (˘¯), in simple forms of poetry, succeed each other in regular rotation; long (¯), or stress, always standing for expiration, short (˘), or repose, for inspiration. _As a matter of fact, however, inspiration is of longer duration than expiration._

All other forms are artistic, and are produced by a mode of thinking, and consequent breathing, as variable as the subject may suggest or demand. For ordinary speech, while the rhythm is not of the same order as that for poetry, a rhythmic order of some kind must be, and always is, observed. That the rhythm is not noticeable is due to the fact that, while inspiration and expiration in prose writing and ordinary conversation follow each other in regular rotation, they are not always accompanied by sound. Hence the rhythmic irregularities of speech exist only in appearance and in the inartistic manner in which speech is generally, and prose writing often, produced. A person who speaks and writes his language _well_, speaks and writes it rhythmically, always. Good style is synonymous with correct rhythmical expression, superinduced by correct breathing; rhythmic expression depending entirely upon rhythmic impression, and the latter upon rhythmic thought, accompanied by rhythmic breathing.

To write well (that is, a good style), to speak well (as an orator, actor, or elocutionist), to sing well, it is, above all things, necessary that the performer's mind should be in a state of conformity with the situation which is to be described. His flow of thought, and consequent breathing and mode of expression, will then correspond with the scope, drift, and circumstance underlying his performance. Unless this is the case, the latter will be unsatisfactory, unimpressive, unsympathetic. To prove that for a satisfactory performance this _must_ be the case, it will but be necessary to call attention to the fact that under various emotions our mode of breathing undergoes great changes--as under fear, hate, jealousy, indignation, excitement, love, enthusiasm, benevolence, languor, apathy, etc. Our breathing under these different circumstances will, the same as the manner of our expression, undergo various stages of change as to time and measure, as well as to rhythm, emphasis and intonation.

The character and rapidity of the flow of our blood is of the same order as our manner of breathing. It is, in fact, as I expect to prove later on, not only of the same order, but of the same origin and regulated by the same causes. The flow of the blood is not merely of a material order, but of a spiritual one as well. While it is acted upon by the mind it reacts upon the mind.

The thought must be measured and restricted as to time, so as to enable it to make the proper impression and produce a corresponding expression _before_ another thought comes along crowding in upon the preceding one and in so doing _blurring_ the impression made by the latter before it had been given the time to be expressed. If the necessary time is not granted for an impression to be made and for the expression thereof to obliterate the same, the premature flow of another thought, coming on top of the first, will make a new impression over the previous one, causing confusion and making a clear expression a matter of impossibility. Unless our professor, while standing in front of his blackboard demonstrating before his class, has a sponge in his hand, and before again writing in the same place wipes out that which he had written before, the new writing will not be of such a nature that it can be understood. The slate endures; but the thought and the writing are always new. Yet, when such writing is of an _impressive_ nature, it is like that of a palimpsest; though apparently obliterated, its lines remain, and their meaning can be recalled to memory as often as the occasion may demand it.

The "muddle" of which I have spoken is oftentimes so great that no sound of any kind can ensue, the rhythmic flow of sound-producing streams having been disturbed and prevented from assuming the necessary shape for their formation into proper sound-waves by this hasty mode of thinking. The consequence is a hiatus in the natural flow of speech, which prevents the thought from materializing in the shape of the word intended to be spoken. This hiatus the victim of such precipitate mode of thinking generally attempts to bridge over by spasmodic efforts, which but serve to aggravate the situation, increasing, as they do, the disorder in the sound-producing lines.

Stuttering being caused by a disorder in these lines, the remedy is to again restore them to order. The disorder having been caused by a too hasty mode of thinking, superinduced, as a rule, by a desire _not_ to stutter, or a _fear_ of stuttering, the remedy lies in allaying this fear. The fear of stuttering, or the anxiety not to stutter, which obtains while the speaker is producing thought, _itself being thought_, and coming on top of the thought intended to be uttered, brings about, or at least aggravates, the very difficulty he was trying to overcome. Mere thought may wander off and again return to its theme, unrestrained, and without causing disturbance; but thought which is to be _vocally_ uttered must strictly adhere to its subject. There is no impression to be made by the former which must remain until it is released by vocal sound; impression and expression being almost simultaneous. In place of making a spasmodic effort, therefore, the stutterer should endeavor to be calm, and to then calmly _think_ the word or sentence over again which has become a stumbling-block in his way. After doing so, he will have no trouble uttering it.

The fact that stutterers experience no difficulty in singing is a proof of the correctness of these assertions. While singing, the performer's streams of life and organs of speech are all _tuned_ to one harmonious measure. His frame of mind being securely in accord with his theme, his thought, devoid of fear, flows evenly along with his song. There is no occasion for haste or trepidation in this instance,--there cannot be, haste being the opposite to and the enemy of harmony, the latter meaning a continuous return of the same measure and the same mode of breathing, the former irregularity and disorder in the mode of breathing.

Besides, song, belonging to the pharynx, is spiritual; it is of our inner nature, and therefore restful and continuous. While speech, which belongs to the oral cavity, is material; it is of our outer nature, and therefore subject to every impression, influence, and consequent change. Elocution, declamation, or recitation, on the other hand, partake of both our inner and our outer nature. They belong in part to the pharynx and in part to the oral cavity.

Experiments may be made by means of making these respective parts rigid which will establish the correctness of these assertions.

These experiments can also be made by the application of mechanical pressure. When pressing your hand or fingers against your throat you will be unable to speak, though it will not prevent you from singing. By pressing them against the back of your neck you will be unable to sing, though you may speak. By pressing them against either side of your neck you will be unable to recite, though you may both speak and sing. The slightest pressure, even, will produce these results. Let me remark, however, that unless the _thought_ of the performance accompanies it, a mere mechanical pressure will not suffice.

That _thought_, improperly exercised, is the cause of stuttering or stammering, obtains from the fact, that the utterance of the singer, elocutionist or actor, being a matter of memory, and not of original thought, is _not_ subject to these troubles; though the utterance of the same persons while speaking, and in so doing, _thinking_, may be subject thereto.

Not appreciating its significance, I used to laugh with everybody else at the anecdote of a stuttering boy in an apothecary shop, who had been sent down after some article in the cellar. Returning, pale, trembling, and _stammering_, his master cried out, "Sing, sing!" whereupon he delivered himself thus:

"Der spiritus im keller brennt,
Und alles steht in flammen."
("The spirits, master, are aflame,
And all things are a-burning.")

In a recent number of _Cosmopolis_, Prof. Max Müller said:

"Charles Kingsley was a great martyr to stammering, and it was
torture to him to keep conversation waiting until he could put
his thoughts into words. Singularly enough, at church, Kingsley
did not stammer at all in reading or speaking; but on his way
home from church he would say to one with whom he was walking:
'Oh, let me stammer now; you won't mind it!'"

While his thoughts were concentrated on his subject, which had probably been elaborated beforehand and was expressed in rhythmic language, besides being obliged to speak slowly and deliberately so as to be heard and understood, he experienced no difficulty. Still, he was under a restraint. As soon as he was by himself again, he commenced to think impulsively, as probably was his habit, and gave vent to a torrent of thoughts, which overleaped each other like waters rushing through a broken dam.

There are two main forms in which this trouble manifests itself. The one is a surfeit, a crowding together of sounds, all of which want to come to the surface at one and the same time, like a crowd of people during a panic trying to rush out through the same door, thus causing a jam. This form, creating a hiatus in vocal utterance, is generally designated by the term "stammering." That which is called "stuttering," on the other hand, consisting, as it does, in a repetition of the same sound, is due to the opposite cause. While the former is due to too great an effort, this is due to a paucity of effort. The sound-furnishing element is not under control; it leaks out against the will, it runs away with you. Hence a repetition of the form once assumed, in consequence of a lack of nerve force, of a rein to keep it in check, of a brake preventing it from rushing down-hill with you; in contradistinction to the act of stammering, in which the brake had been too forcibly applied, the watch wound up too firmly and beyond its requirements.

In the case of stammering the impression has been too quick in shaping itself into words; in the other it has been too slow in so doing. In the former case too many moulds have been formed for proper impression; while in the latter the sound is spoken before the mould has been properly and _completely_ formed; that part only which had been formed being uttered and repeated. In the case of stammering there is a surfeit of impression but a want of sound; in that of stuttering there is a want of impression but a surfeit of sound. A stammerer is one who takes in too much, a stutterer one who takes in too little, air for his hasty way of thinking.

When this trouble happens with one and the same person--as it sometimes does--it first assumes one shape and then the other; it turns a complete somersault in so doing. The balance, the equilibrium, the point of gravitation, previously overleaped on one side, is again overleaped, and the person lands on its extreme other side. While a stammerer he had too much ballast on board, now he has too little.

A stammerer can return to the point of gravitation by throwing some of his surplus ballast overboard. _His tongue being tied to his lower jaw, in which position he is constantly taking in more air than he needs, he must raise it in order to let the surplus out from beneath the same._