th lighter
vibrations interspersed between and running across them. I should say
that organ-music fills to an ecstasy the act of feeling.

There is tangible 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 hush 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 dominant spirit and mood of the music. I catch
the joyous dance as it bounds over the keys, the slow dirge, the
reverie. I thrill to the fiery sweep of notes crossed by thunderous
tones in the "Walkuere," where _Wotan_ kindles the dread 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 derived would be commensurate to the
effort.

Nor can I distinguish easily a tune 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 ebb of a voice is so enchanting
that my fingers quiver with exquisite 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 hoarse creak of rusty locks.
Fog-whistles are my vibratory nightmares. I have stood near a bridge in
process of construction, and felt the tactual din, the rattle of heavy
masses of stone, the roll of loosened earth, the rumble of engines, the
dumping of dirt-cars, the triple blows of vulcan hammers. I can also
smell the fire-pots, the tar and cement. So I have a vivid idea of
mighty labours in steel and stone, a