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into the hearts of growing things and gives them life and body。 The
velvet of the rose is not that of a ripe peach or of a baby's dimpled
cheek。 The hardness of the rock is to the hardness of wood what a man's
deep bass is to a woman's voice when it is low。 What I call beauty I
find in certain binations of all these qualities； and is largely
derived from the flow of curved and straight lines which is over all
things。
〃What does the straight line mean to you？〃 I think you will ask。
It _means_ several things。 It symbolizes duty。 It seems to have the
quality of inexorableness that duty has。 When I have something to do
that must not be set aside； I feel as if I were going forward in a
straight line； bound to arrive somewhere； or go on forever without
swerving to the right or to the left。
That is what it means。 To escape this moralizing you should ask； 〃How
does the straight line feel？〃 It feels； as I suppose it looks；
straight……a dull thought drawn out endlessly。 Eloquence to the touch
resides not in straight lines； but in unstraight lines； or in many
curved and straight lines together。 They appear and disappear； are now
deep； now shallow； now broken off or lengthened or swelling。 They rise
and sink beneath my fingers； they are full of sudden starts and pauses；
and their variety is inexhaustible and wonderful。 So you see I am not
shut out from the region of the beautiful； though my hand cannot
perceive the brilliant colours in the sunset or on the mountain； or
reach into the blue depths of the sky。
Physics tells me that I am well off in a world which； I am told； knows
neither cold nor sound； but is made in terms of size； shape； and
inherent qualities； for at least every object appears to my fingers
standing solidly right side up； and is not an inverted image on the
retina which； I understand； your brain is at infinite though unconscious
labour to set back on its feet。 A tangible object passes plete into
my brain with the warmth of life upon it； and occupies the same place
that it does in space； for； without egotism； the mind is as large as the
universe。 When I think of hills； I think of the upward strength I tread
upon。 When water is the object of my thought； I feel the cool shock of
the plunge and the quick yielding of the waves that crisp and curl and
ripple about my body。 The pleasing changes of rough and smooth； pliant
and rigid； curved and straight in the bark and branches of a tree give
the truth to my hand。 The immovable rock； with its juts and warped
surface； bends beneath my fingers into all manner of grooves and
hollows。 The bulge of a watermelon and the puffed…up rotundities of
squashes that sprout； bud； and ripen in that strange garden planted
somewhere behind my finger…tips are the ludicrous in my tactual memory
and imagination。 My fingers are tickled to delight by the soft ripple
of a baby's laugh； and find amusement in the lusty crow of the barnyard
autocrat。 Once I had a pet rooster that used to perch on my knee and
stretch his neck and crow。 A bird in my hand was then worth two in
the……barnyard。
My fingers cannot； of course； get the impression of a large whole at a
glance； but I feel the parts； and my mind puts them together。 I move
around my house； touching object after object in order； before I can
form an idea of the entire house。 In other people's houses I can touch
only what is shown to me……the chief objects of interest； carvings on the
wall； or a curious architectural feature； exhibited like the family
album。 Therefore a house with which I am not familiar has for me； at
first； no general effect or harmony of detail。 It is not a plete
conception； but a collection of object…impressions which； as they e
to me； are disconnected and isolated。 But my mind is full of
associations； sensations； theories； and with them it constructs the
house。 The process reminds me of the building of Solomon's temple； where
was neither saw； nor hammer； nor any tool heard while the stones were
being laid one upon another。 The silent worker is imagination which
decrees reality out of chaos。
Without imagination what a poor thing my world would be！ My garden would
be a silent patch of earth strewn with sticks of a variety of shapes and
smells。 But when the eye of my mind is opened to its beauty； the bare
ground brightens beneath my feet； and the hedge…row bursts into leaf；
and the rose…tree shakes its fragrance everywhere。 I know how budding
trees look； and I enter into the amorous joy of the mating birds； and
this is the miracle of imagination。
Twofold is the miracle when； through my fingers； my imagination reaches
forth and meets the imagination of an artist which he has embodied in a
sculptured form。 Although； pared with the life…warm； mobile face of a
friend； the marble is cold and pulseless and unresponsive； yet it is
beautiful to my hand。 Its flowing curves and bendings are a real
pleasure； only breath is wanting； but under the spell of the imagination
the marble thrills and bees the divine reality of the ideal。
Imagination puts a sentiment into every line and curve； and the statue
in my touch is indeed the goddess herself who breathes and moves and
enchants。
It is true； however； that some sculptures； even recognized masterpieces；
do not please my hand。 When I touch what there is of the Winged Victory；
it reminds me at first of a headless； limbless dream that flies towards
me in an unrestful sleep。 The garments of the Victory thrust stiffly out
behind； and do not resemble garments that I have felt flying；
fluttering； folding； spreading in the wind。 But imagination fulfils
these imperfections； and straightway the Victory bees a powerful and
spirited figure with the sweep of sea…winds in her robes and the
splendour of conquest in her wings。
I find in a beautiful statue perfection of bodily form； the qualities of
balance and pleteness。 The Minerva； hung with a web of poetical
allusion； gives me a sense of exhilaration that is almost physical； and
I like the luxuriant； wavy hair of Bacchus and Apollo； and the wreath of
ivy； so suggestive of pagan holidays。
So imagination crowns the experience of my hands。 And they learned their
cunning from the wise hand of another； which； itself guided by
imagination； led me safely in paths that I knew not； made darkness light
before me； and made crooked ways straight。
THE HANDS OF OTHERS
II
THE HANDS OF OTHERS
THE warmth and protectiveness of the hand are most homefelt to me who
have always looked to it for aid and joy。 I understand perfectly how the
Psalmist can lift up his voice with strength and gladness； singing； 〃I
put my trust in the Lord at all times； and his hand shall uphold me； and
I shall dwell in safety。〃 In the strength of the human hand； too； there
is something divine。 I am told that the glance of a beloved eye thrills
one from a distance； but there is no distance in the touch of a beloved
hand。 Even the letters I receive are……
Kind letters that betray the heart's deep history；
In which we feel the presence of a hand。
It is interesting to observe the differences in the hands of people。
They show all kinds of vitality； energy； stillness； and cordiality。 I
never realized how living the hand is until I saw those chill plaster
images in Mr。 Hutton's collection of casts。 The hand I know in life has
the fullness of blood in its veins； and is elastic with spirit。 How
different dear Mr。 Hutton's hand was from its dull； insensate image！ To
me the cast lacks the very form of the hand。 Of the many casts in Mr。
Hutton's collection I did not recognize any； not even my own。 But a
loving hand I never forget。 I remember in my fingers the large hands of
Bishop Brooks； brimful of tenderness and a strong man's joy。 If you were
deaf and blind； and could have held Mr。 Jefferson's hand； you would have
seen in it a face and heard a kind voice unlike any other you have
known。 Mark Twain's hand is full of whimsies and the drollest humours；
and while you hold it the drollery changes to sympathy and championship。
＇Illustration： Copyright； 1907； by the Whitman Studio
The Medallion
The bas…relief on the wall is a portrait of the