I   HAVE spoken of the numerous jars and which daily minister to my . The loftier and grander which appeal to my emotions are and abundant. I listen with to the roll of the thunder and the of sound when the sea flings itself upon the shore. And I love the instrument by which all the diapasons of the ocean are caught and released in surging floods—the many-voiced organ. If music could be seen, I could point where the organ-notes go, as they rise and fall, climb up and up, rock and sway, now loud and deep, now high and stormy, anon soft and solemn, with vibrations between and running across them. I should say that organ-music fills to an the act of feeling. There is delight in other instruments, too. The violin seems beautifully alive as it responds to the lightest wish of the master. The distinction between its notes is more delicate than between the notes of the piano.
 
I enjoy the music of the piano most when I touch the instrument. If I keep my hand on the piano-case, I detect tiny quavers, returns of melody, and the that follows. This explains to me how sound can die away to the listening ear:
 
... How thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
 
I am able to follow the spirit and mood of the music. I catch the dance as it bounds over the keys, the slow , the reverie. I thrill to the sweep of notes crossed by thunderous tones in the "Walküre," where Wotan the flames that guard the sleeping Brunhild. How wonderful is the instrument on which a great musician sings with his hands! I have never succeeded in distinguishing one composition from another. I think this is impossible; but the concentration and strain upon my attention would be so great that I doubt if the pleasure would be commensurate to the effort.
Nor can I distinguish easily a that is sung. But by placing my hand on another's throat and cheek, I enjoy the changes of the voice. I know when it is low or high, clear or muffled, sad or cheery. The thin, quavering sensation of an old voice differs in my touch from the sensation of a young voice. A Southerner's drawl is quite unlike the Yankee twang. Sometimes the flow and of a voice is so that my fingers quiver with pleasure, even if I do not understand a word that is spoken.
 
On the other hand, I am exceedingly sensitive to the harshness of noises like grinding, scraping, and the creak of locks. Fog-whistles are my vibratory nightmares. I have stood near a bridge in process of construction, and felt the tactual , the of heavy masses of stone, the roll of loosened earth, the of engines, the dumping of dirt-cars, the triple blows of vulcan hammers. I can also smell the fire-pots, the and cement. So I have a vivid idea of labours in steel and stone, and I believe that I am acquainted with all the fiendish noises which can be made by man or . The of heavy falling bodies, the sudden shivering splinter of chopped logs, the crystal shatter of pounded ice, the crash of a tree to the earth by a hurricane, the , of noise made by switching freight-trains, the explosion of gas, the blasting of stone, and the terrific grinding of rock upon rock which precedes the collapse—all these have been in my touch-experience, and contribute to my idea of , of a battle, a waterspout, an earthquake, and other enormous accumulations of sound.
 
Touch brings me into contact with the traffic and manifold activity of the city. Besides the and crowding of people and the nondescript grating and electric howling of street-cars, I am conscious of exhalations from many different kinds of shops; from , drays, horses, fruit stands, and many varieties of smoke.
 
Odours strange and musty,
The air sharp and dusty
With lime and with sand,
That no one can stand,
Make the street impassable,
The people irascible,
Until every one cries,
As he trembling goes
With the sight of his eyes
And the of his nose
Quite stopped—or at least much diminished—
"Gracious! when will this city be finished?"[B]
 
The city is interesting; but the tactual silence of the country is always most welcome after the din of town and the irritating of the train. How noiseless and undisturbing are the , the repairs and the , of nature! With no sound of hammer or saw or stone from stone, but a music of and ripe on the grass come the fluttering leaves and fruits which the wind tumbles all day from the branches. Silently all , all , all is poured back into the earth that it may recreate; all sleeps while the busy architects of day and night their silent work elsewhere. The same when all at once the soil yields up a newly creation. Softly the ocean of grass, , and flowers rolls surge upon surge across the earth. Curtains of drape the bare branches. Great trees make ready in their sturdy hearts to receive again birds which occupy their to the south and west. , there is no place so lowly that it may not some happy creature. The meadow its icy with notes, gurgles, and runs free. And all this is wrought in less than two months to the music of nature's orchestra, in the midst of balmy .
 
The thousand soft voices of the earth have truly found their way to me—the small in tufts of grass, the silky swish of leaves, the buzz of insects, the hum of bees in blossoms I have plucked, the flutter of a bird's wings after his bath, and the slender rippling of water running over . Once having been felt, these loved voices rustle, buzz, hum, flutter, and in my thought forever, an undying part of happy memories.
 
Between my experiences and the experiences of others there is no of mute space which I may not bridge. For I have endlessly varied, instructive contacts with all the world, with life, with the atmosphere whose radiant activity enfolds us all. The thrilling energy of the all-encasing air is warm and rapturous. Heat-waves and sound-waves play upon my face in infinite variety and combination, until I am able to what must be the sounds that my senseless ears have not heard.
 
The air varies in different regions, at different seasons of the year, and even different hours of the day. The odorous, fresh sea-breezes are distinct from the fitful breezes along river banks, which are humid and freighted with inland smells. The , light, dry air of the mountains can never be mistaken for the salt air of the ocean. The air of winter is , hard, compressed. In the spring it has new . It is light, mobile, and with a thousand palpitating odours from earth, grass, and leaves. The air of midsummer is dense, , or dry and burning, as if it came from a furnace. When a cool breeze brushes the sultry stillness, it brings fewer odours than in May, and frequently the odour of a coming tempest. The avalanche of coolness which sweeps through the low-hanging air bears little resemblance to the stinging coolness of winter.
 
The rain of winter is raw, without odour, and . The rain of spring is brisk, , charged with life-giving warmth. I welcome it delightedly as it visits the earth, enriches the streams, waters the hills abundantly, makes the soft with showers for the seed, a perfume which I cannot breathe deep enough. Spring rain is beautiful, , lovable. With pearly drops it washes every leaf on tree and bush, ministers equally to salutary herbs and growths, searches out every living thing that needs its beneficence.
 
The senses assist and reinforce each other to such an extent that I am not sure whether touch or smell tells me the most about the world. Everywhere the river of touch is joined by the of odour-perception. Each season has its odours. The spring is earthy and full of sap. July is rich with the odour of grain and hay. As the season advances, a crisp, dry, mature odour predominates, and golden-rod, tansy, and mark the march of the year. In autumn, soft, fill the air, floating from , grass, flower, and tree, and they tell me of time and change, of death and life's , desire and its fulfilment.