Deafness Cures—We Forget to Listen—Science and Scent—Lip-Reading—Judging Character.

We all have our pet aversions, and with deaf people the popular candidate for this position is the man who is positive that he can cure the disease. The “hope-deferred” period comes to most of us, and for a time we try every possible remedy, only to find that the affliction is still marching steadily upon us. Then it is the part of wisdom to give up the experimenting and to dig in as a line of defense all the humor and philosophy we can muster. It is not so much resignation to our fate as it is determination to make that fate luminous with hope and good cheer. Miraculous cures which restore the wasted organs of the body may now and then be possible, but they are not probable, while it is certain that too long a period of hope-deferred will cause a sickness of the soul as well as of the heart.

Many cannot agree with this philosophy. I think they add to the terror and trouble of their lives by submitting their poor bodies to a continuous series of experiments. There was a prominent merchant in New York, blind, with a disease which the best physicians declared incurable. He made a standing offer of a quarter of a million to anyone who would restore his sight. His theory was that this constant experimenting and treatment kept hope and faith alive. My own experience with the deaf does not point that way. I truly consider it wiser to devote the spirit which may be wasted in false expectation to the task of making the silent land endurable. I know of a woman for whom a tuberculosis expert prescribed a dry, hilly country, a simple diet and a cheerful mode of life, involving little or no medicine. She settled in the country, and some local “quack” told her that a friend had been cured by taking whiskey in which pine chips had been soaked. This intelligent woman, considering her doctor’s treatment too mild, was actually ready to follow this method. As a boy I lived with people whose lives were long experiments with deafness cures. At that time the country was full of unlicensed practitioners, who went about promising to cure every possible disease, and our folks tried them all, just as they sampled every new brand of patent medicine. Even now, many deaf men, and especially those who live in the country or small towns, must expect to be regarded as human experiment stations. We can all relate remarkable experiences with the various “cures” which have been tried out on us. From skunk oil to chiropractic and back again, we know every way station. Few persons appear to aspire to curing blindness, but in every community in which I have ever lived were several individuals who were certain that they could successfully handle diseases of the ear. I have seen them stand impatient, their fingers fairly itching to get hold of me. Usually their “knowledge” of the ear is merely that they recognize it as the organ of hearing, yet they are quite ready to rush in where aurists hesitate to enter. Most of the quack remedies may be harmless, yet sometimes these practitioners have done great injury where relief might have been obtained through proper care. I think several of them injured me, and I should feel like taking a shotgun to one of these amateur aurists were I to find him operating on one of my children. I wish I knew why the community deaf man of a country neighborhood is considered so fair a subject for experimentation. Probably in some cases it is really a nuisance to communicate with him, and again he may be the object of genuine sympathy, perhaps with an admixture of curiosity. I have run the whole gauntlet, and should need an entire book to report all the remedies suggested or actually tried on me.

Perhaps the most popular “cure” is skunk oil. This theory appears to be that since the skunk has a very acute sense of hearing, he can communicate this faculty to a human, through his oil. Personally, I believe the skunk to be a lazy, stupid beast, with hearing below normal; but, at any rate, we are earnestly told that oil from a skunk, if dropped into the ears, will surely improve their hearing. No man has ever given this remedy a fairer trial than I have done. Later an aurist diagnosed my case as a disorder of the interior ear which was rather encouraged than cured by the application of the oil. Another “remedy,” based on a similar principle, is an exclusive diet of pork. Here the excellent ears of the pig are to be transmitted to the consumer! I have been several times presented with the argument that deafness is more prevalent among the Jews and other non-pork eaters than among any other class. Also, they say that the disease of deafness was rarely known among the earlier pioneers, who lived mostly on “hog and hominy.” Possibly this was due to the fact that corn grows on “ears.” At any rate, here are fair samples of the arguments which are submitted to the unfortunate deaf. One Winter, when I taught school and “boarded round,” I experienced a full course of treatments based on this remedy. It was started by the school trustee, an economical soul, who sold his butter and fed his family on pork fat. In those days we were innocent of bacteria or vitamines, and this clever adaptation of a deafness cure helped the trustee to avoid the local odium which would naturally center upon a householder who fed the teacher on lard. And with one accord the neighbors joined in the good work. I moved to a new family each week, and as the news of the projected treatment spread, each farmer killed a hog just before my arrival. I ate fresh pork every day for three months. Ungratefully enough, I did not recover my hearing, but the treatment surely roused the sporting instinct in that neighborhood. Near the close of the term this comment was reported to me:

“No, it ain’t done him no good—he can’t scarcely hear it thunder; but I’ll bet fifty dollars he’s raised bristles on his back.”

At another time one of these experimenters took me up into the church belfry, ostensibly to “see the country.” As I stood beside the bell, he suddenly struck it a hard blow with a hammer, on the theory that this sudden and violent noise would “break up the wax in my ear” and “frighten the muscle into a new grip”—whatever that may mean. He protested that his grandfather had been cured in this way. This same investigator once tried a very radical treatment on his deaf hired man. It was Sunday afternoon, and the man had sought surcease from sorrow in a nap in the haymow. The boss knew how to handle bees, so he selected one from his hives, caught it safely by its wings, and, climbing the haymow, he dropped the buzzing creature into the ear of the sleeping hired man. He was working on a supposition that the man had forgotten how to listen, and that the buzzing of the bee, and possibly his sting, would shock him into remembering. But the victim merely started up from sleep like an insane man, and rushed screaming to the brook, where he ducked his head vigorously under water and drowned the bee. For long weeks the poor fellow feared to go to sleep unless his ears were stuffed full of cotton.

I asked the boss how he ever came to devise such a treatment for deafness. He explained that some years before he had had a sick cow, who had “lost her courage.” She positively refused to stand up, though she might easily have done so. I have also had cows act this way; they seem suddenly to have become “infirm of purpose,” and will die before they will exert themselves. A horse under similar circumstances will finally struggle to regain its feet, but the cow completely loses her nerve and will not try. I have had such a cow lifted off the ground by a rope and pulley, and yet refuse to use her legs. This farmer told me that he called in a local “horse doctor,” who suddenly threw a good-sized dog on the cow’s back. The dog barked and scratched, and under the influence of sudden fear the cow scrambled to her feet and instantly regained the power to walk. This farmer really was wiser than he knew, for there are some cases of deafness, such as those caused by shell shock, which consist in the loss of the ability to listen. Of course, our use of instruments or lip-reading dulls the art of listening intently, in any case, and it finally passes completely out of use. In some instances, where the actual ear is unimpaired, this faculty may be shocked back into use.

I once had an old lady solemnly assure me that a plaster made from the lard of a white sow and the wool from the left ear of a black sheep would surely cure any case of deafness. Query: Could the black sheep of a family effect a simpler cure by rubbing on the lard and brushing his hair down over it?

These are but samples of the dozens of ridiculous “cures” which have been suggested to me, or even put into operation. I can vouch for the comparative virtues of skunk oil, vibration, or the inflation of the Eustachian tubes at the hands of a skilled aurist. And, after all, I feel that in many cases the doom is sure, and that the best alleviation for the future silent days is the store of accumulated philosophy and sunshine. It seems to me that the surgery and general treatment of the ears has not kept pace with the successful handling of diseases of other organs. Some real “cure” may be developed, but hardly in my day. I consider the study of lip-reading the most useful course for the deaf, and we may at least prepare for the next generation by having the ears of our children watched as carefully as we watch their teeth, their eyes, their hands and feet.

For lip-reading one must have good eyes and a quick brain. Some of us deaf become proficient in the use of the science, and I think its practice will extend and become far more general. I have some little knowledge of it, though I have not made it a prolonged study. It would be difficult for me to explain exactly why I have not studied the science more carefully. For many years my aurist told me that my great hope for holding such hearing as I had was to force myself to listen, even though I could get little of conversation. He thought that the constant use of instruments or of lip-reading would weaken and finally destroy my limited natural hearing, so that in time I should forget how to listen and hear. This advice was, no doubt, good, though if I were to go through life again I should make a thorough study of lip-reading, anyway. In fact, I once started seriously enough, but was switched away by a curious and disheartening discovery. I began practicing on the train, studying intently the faces of men and women, trying to take their words from their lips. Next to the ability to read thought comes for interest and excitement the power of interpreting ordinary conversation when the speaker has no thought of betraying his communications to outsiders. I succeeded only too well with one man. I had always supposed him to be a person of high character, and had been wont to envy the recipients of his conversation. I finally was able to read his lips, only to find that all of his talk was trivial, and some of it filthy beyond expression. I, in my silence, busy with my gleanings from good literature, had fancied that my companions were using a gift priceless to me, and denied, for what we may honestly call “the glory of God.” My little essay into lip-reading was thus discouraged; it seemed suddenly a waste of time. Youth is probably the best time for studying lip-reading, when the spirit for riding down obstacles and discouragements is stronger.

The inexplicable sixth sense—a sort of intuition which we deaf acquire—appears to be even stronger in afflicted animals than in men. Sometimes it leads to an amusing outcome. In a certain New England State a law was passed prohibiting exports of quail, and a well-informed scientist was put in charge of it. He knew all about the habits of quail, but little about the practical side of legal enforcement. He made a tour through the State to consult with his deputies, and in one locality he found a rough old farmer serving as game warden; an independent old fellow, very deaf, most opinionated, with small respect for professional knowledge. His constant companion was a little mongrel dog, also very deaf. A strange silent combination they made, but they carried a State-wide reputation for “spotting quail.”

The clash came at the railroad station, where the professor was waiting for his train, completely disgusted with the appearance and general attitude of the warden. The latter came slouching along the platform with the small brown dog at his heels, and the face of the learned man became as a book, in which the countryman could “read strange matters.” The deaf are prompt to act when action seems necessary or desirable. They do not join in useless preliminaries. Quickly and decisively the game warden opened the campaign.

“You’re going home to fire me, but before you leave I want to tell you before this crowd that you don’t know as much about this business as my dog Jack does. He’s deaf, too!”

There are few situations more damaging to dignity than a public argument with an angry deaf person—especially when the participator with good ears is a polished gentleman and ladies are present. Again, some men might appreciate the compliment of being associated with a large, noble-looking dog. But the professor glanced at Jack and fully realized the size of the insult. Here was just a little brown dog of no particular breed, with one ear upright and the other lying limp, evidence of previous injury in a fight. How was the professor to know that because the outer door of those ears was shut the brain had been forced to greater activity. And here was a shambling backwoodsman telling a Ph.D. that this disreputable creature was his mental superior! The professor was too indignant for words, but the game warden was ready to continue:

“I’ll prove it! I’ll prove it right here. There’s a shipment of quail going out of this town right now. Right on this platform are three farmers, an old woman with a basket, two drummers with bags, old man Edwards with a trunk, and that young woman with a fiddle case. Who’s got the quail? Here’s a case where it don’t do us no good to know how many eggs a quail lays or how many potato bugs she has in her gizzard. Who’s got the quail? Can you tell?”

“Why,” gasped the indignant professor, “do you suppose I am going to insult this young woman by intimating that she is a quail runner? And these gentlemen? It’s preposterous!”

“It is, hey? Give it up, do ye? Well, we’ll try Jack. He can’t hear nothing, but his ears have went to nose. Sic ’em, Jack!” And he snapped his fingers at the little dog.

Jack put up his one capable ear and trotted along the platform, applying his scarred nose to each package. He sniffed at the bags of the drummers, nosed the trunk and the baskets, and finally came to the violin case of the beautiful young woman. The instant his nose touched that case every hair on Jack’s back stood erect and that broken ear came as near to rising as it ever had done since the fight. Jack was undoubtedly “pointing” at the hiding-place of the quail. In spite of the young woman’s protest, the warden opened the case, and inside were thirteen quail, snugly packed. Probably the lady could not even play the “Rogue’s March” on a real violin.

And the farmer strode up triumphantly to the professor. Shaking a long forefinger, he stated an evident truth.

“Professor, mebbe you’ve got the science, but you hain’t got the scent!”

Some of you who think that the loss of hearing can never be replaced by a new sense may well be wary in your dealings with the deaf. There are those like Jack, whose “ears have went to nose” and their “scent” is quite too acute to be deceived.

I am often asked how we pass our time when we are alone or unoccupied. We cannot, of course, beguile the time with music or the conversation of chance acquaintance. In some way the mind must be kept occupied—an idle mind leads to depression, the first step of the trip to insanity. One’s eyes weary of constant reading. Perhaps our loneliest situations are found in the great crowds. I have invented all sorts of schemes to keep my mind busy. In the old days, when I crossed the Hudson daily to New York on a ferryboat, I would count the number of revolutions which the great wheel required to take us over. I had the average of many trips. I have gathered all sorts of statistics. What proportion of men in a crowd wear soft hats? How many wear straw hats after the regulation date for shedding them? Does the majority of women wear black hats? What proportion of men cross the knee when sitting? Does a right-handed man ease his left leg in this way? What proportion of the dark-colored horses one sees have the white spot or star on the forehead? I started that investigation and was astonished to find how common this white star is. Then I went through all available books to learn how this star originated. Is it the remnant of a blazed face? I have never solved my question. Such investigation is a marvelous help to the deaf.

Another of my plans is character study. I try to determine the occupation and general character of strangers from their appearance, their habits and the books they read. You would be surprised at the accuracy of the observant deaf man in detecting these external marks which he comes to understand. He finally secures a most interesting chart of humanity, for in spite of us, character and occupation will leave a stamp upon the face and actions. But we cannot always classify strangers accurately. Here is one of my curious blunders: I saw daily on the train a big, brutal-looking fellow with a red face, a flat nose, well-protected eyes, and enormous arms and shoulders. I finally classified him as a prize-fighter. One day he was reading a small book, in which he was making frequent marks and comments. I reasoned that it must be some new version of the “Manly Art of Self-Defense.” Soon my man put down his book and went into the next car. Of course, I could not resist the impulse to glance at the volume. It was “The Influence of Christian Character in College Work.” My prize-fighter turned out to be a professor in a theological seminary. At any rate, he was in the battle against evil.

No other persons can ride a hobby so gracefully and to such good purpose as the deaf are able to do. No matter what it is, however childish, so long as it can keep the mind clean and busy, it is our most wholesome mental exercise. I know a deaf farmer who late in life started to collect and properly name every plant that grew on his farm. It was not only a wonderful help to him, but he became an expert botanist. And this recalls a discussion perennial with deaf men. Will they be happier in the country or in the city? The person inexperienced in deafness will immediately decide for the country, but I am not so sure that he is right. Farming is a business in which sound is important; animals betray pain or pleasure largely through sound; a poultryman is at a great disadvantage if he cannot hear the little ones. Then, too, some deaf persons crave the sight of their fellows; it is a pleasure to them to mingle silently with crowds; to see the multitudes pass by. The country—far from the rush and struggle of humans—actually terrorizes some deaf men. For myself, I greatly prefer the country, and I have selected fruit trees as my working companions. They talk the silent language, and they do not need to cry out when they wish to tell me that they need help. Yet, of course, we are better off if we mingle frequently with our fellows.

Sometimes in public life or in crowds the right thing comes to us like an inspiration. There was a deaf man who went out to address a meeting of farmers. It was held in the open air, and a stiff wind blew straight from the ocean to the speaker’s stand. The meeting was important; the farmers were discouraged and discontented and had come to hear sound advice and fearless comment. A cautious politician gave them half an hour of unmitigated “hot air”—a collection of meaningless words and high-sounding phrases. Then a well-known scientist followed with what might appropriately be called “dry air.” The farmers disconsolately classified both addresses as “wind,” and enough of that was blowing from the ocean. Instinct told the deaf man that something was wrong, though he had sat patiently through the long speeches without hearing a word. When his turn came, he walked out of the wind into the shelter of a tree and began:

“Job was the most afflicted man who ever lived. Of course, I know that there are men who claim that Job had a bed of roses compared with their constant afflictions. But Job has the advantage of good advertising in the Bible. He spoke a great truth when he said:

‘Can a man fill his belly with the east wind?’”

A mighty roar of laughter from that audience startled the deaf man. Fortunately he had said just what was needed to explode the gloom and disappointment of that audience.