s embodied in a
sculptured form. Although, compared 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 becomes 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 becomes 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 completeness. 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