Telephone Difficulties—Seeing and Believing—Bell and the First Telephone—Choosing Intermediaries by Professions and Appearance—When the Bartender Beat the Preacher and the Farmer—The Prohibition Convention—The Hebrew Drummer as a Satisfactory Proxy.

Often I wonder if those who make such glib use of the telephone can possibly realize what it means to be unable to operate it at all. I see my wife with the instrument at her ear bowing and smiling to some invisible talker some miles away. Sometimes I ask why she should smile, frown, or nod, to some one over in the next county, and though she has never given a satisfactory answer, I take it that the mere sound of the human voice is enough to excite most of the emotions. This commonplace affair, as a matter of course conveying audible sound over long distance, becomes to the deaf marvelous, a contrivance almost uncanny.

The woman who brought me up was very deaf, and, like many of us who live in the silence, very narrow and most inquisitive. On Winter evenings she would often read aloud to us chapters from Isaiah describing some of the wonders which that poet and visionary predicted for the future. Then she would give her own version of the account, while her husband nodded in his chair and I was busied with my own dreams. I now wonder what would have happened if I had told her that some day a man would stand in the city of Boston with a small instrument at his ear and would hear a person in San Francisco talking in an ordinary tone of voice. At that time there was not even a railroad across the continent. West of Omaha was a wild Indian country, filled with cactus and alkali water. The folly of talking about delivering coherent sound across that waste! I have heard of a missionary who went to the interior of Africa and lived there with a pagan tribe. He told them stories of life in the temperate zone, and while they could not understand, they made no objection and politely listened. Finally he told them that at one season of the year the water froze—that it became so hard that people could walk on it. Here was something tangible; they understood water. The statement that people could walk on it was a lie, of course, and they threatened to kill the liar. Another man, a Vermonter, went to the Island of Java and married a native woman. He told her about buckwheat cakes and maple syrup in the Green Mountain State, and she would not believe him. Finally she came to regard him as a deceiver. He wrote me for help, and I sent him a sack of buckwheat flour and a can of syrup. They made a journey half around the world, but at last the Vermonter cooked a batch of pancakes which quite restored him to favor. The deaf and the deficient are likewise hard to convince unless the evidence is put before them in terms of their own understanding. If I had presented my humble amendment to the prophecies of Isaiah, I think it would have been decided that I possessed an evil spirit of the variety which may be exorcised by a hickory stick.

Later, as a young man, I saw Alexander Graham Bell working with the first telephone—a short line between Osgood’s publishing house in Boston and the University Press in Cambridge. It seemed then more of a toy than a device of practical value, and as I remember him, Bell was a rather shabby inventor. His messages were mostly a loud shouting of: “Hello! Hello! Can you understand me?”

Beginnings are rarely impressive or attractive, and the actual pioneer seldom recognizes himself as such. I saw one of the great men of Boston stand and laugh at Bell’s clumsy machine and at his efforts to make it work.

“Bell,” he said, “it isn’t even a good plaything. I’ll agree to write a letter, walk to Cambridge with it, walk back with the answer and get here long before you can ever get a reply with that thing.”

And Bell looked up from his apparent failure with a smile of confidence.

“I will make it work. The principle is right. We will find the way. The time will come when this boy here will be able to talk with anyone in any part of New England without raising his voice above an ordinary tone.”

And as a boy I thought that if I could ever face criticism and ridicule with such confidence, the world, or at least as much of it as is worth while, would be mine. I had faith in what Bell told us, and looked forward to the day when his words would come true. The prophecy has been more than fulfilled for others, but for us of the silence the telephone remains a mystery which others must interpret for us. Yet somehow I feel as confident as Bell that in some way out of our affliction will come a new means of communication between humans which will make the silence an enviable abiding-place.

My children have become greatly interested in radio communication. As I write this one of my boys is developing a crude outfit with which he actually takes sound waves from the air and translates them into music or speech. People tell me of great concerts and speeches sent through the air for hundreds of miles. Tonight thousands of country people, seated in their own homes, are listening while this marvelous instrument reaches up into the air and brings down treasures of sound until it seems as though the speaker or singer were in the next room. We deaf can readily understand what all this will mean for the future; it will undoubtedly do more than the automobile toward bringing humanity together and grouping the peoples of the world in thought and pleasure. Yet how little it will mean to us! It may even be an added cross, for evidently both pleasure and the business of the future are to depend more and more upon the ability to hear well.

I can remember as though it were yesterday the day that Lincoln was assassinated. I was a small youngster, but the event was printed into my brain. I know that news of this world-shaking event passed but slowly out into the country. There were lonely farms out among the hills where farmers did not know of Lincoln’s death for days. There was no way of quick communication. I thought of that during the last deciding baseball game between the Giants and the Yankees. Seated in our farmhouse beside his little radio ’phone, my boy could even hear the crack of the bat against the ball. He could hear the roaring of the crowd and the growl of “Babe” Ruth when the umpire called him out on strikes. And all this marvellous change has come about during my life! You may perhaps imagine the feelings of the deaf when they realize that they are shut away from such wonderful things.

But modern life is so efficiently strung upon wires that even the deaf must at times make use of the telephone. Some of our experiences in selecting proxies to represent us at the wire are worth recording. Every deaf man who takes even a small part in modern business must make some use of the ’phone or be helplessly outdistanced in the race. In the West they tell of a Mexican who wanted to get a message to his sweetheart. They offered him his choice between the telegraph and the telephone, and explained the difference. He chose the telephone without hesitation, for he “wanted no man in between.” The deaf man must have some one “in between,” and usually it is a matter of nice judgment to choose the person to occupy that position. From choice the deaf will take the telegram; they can read it, and the fact that each word costs a certain sum of money means a brief message. If telephone messages were paid for in the same way, all the world would gain in brevity of expression, or else the income taxes of telephone companies would soon pay the national debt.

It is remarkable how a deaf person with good eyes comes to be an expert at estimating character by appearance or actions. I find that we unconsciously analyze habits or manners, and group the possessors with some skill. Let a man come to me and write out his questions, and I am very sure that I can tell his business. A doctor accustomed to writing prescriptions frames his questions slowly and stops at the end of each sentence to make sure of the next one. A bookkeeper writes mechanically, and seldom prepares an original question. A grocer or a drygoods clerk, accustomed to writing down orders, betrays his occupation by certain flourishes with the pencil when he tries to write out a question, just as he is seized with a desire to rub his hands together during a sale. One would think that a lawyer would be very successful at this task. He usually fails. I have appeared as witness in several lawsuits, and able lawyers have completely lost their efficiency (and their patience) in trying to cross-examine me. Should any deaf person who reads this be called to the witness chair, my advice would be absolutely to refuse to answer any question that is not written out and first read by the judge. His examination will not become tedious. To the lawyer who desires a clear, straight story from a deaf person, I should say make the questions short and clear. Have most of them typewritten beforehand, and keep good-natured. A deaf man who knows the resources of his affliction can become expert at concealing evidence.

Many men tell me that they finally estimate a man’s power and character by the quality and tone of his voice. The substitute knowledge or “instinct” which we gain through observation is nowhere more useful than in selecting telephone proxies from strangers. Take this man with the stiff neck and erect shoulders. Where shall we draw the line between stupid obstinacy and firm character? Here is this shambling and shuffling person. Does his manner denote a weak, nerveless will, and inability to concentrate his mind, or is it merely superficial, easy-going good nature, when at heart he is capable of flashing out in anger or taking a bold stand? The fellow who keeps his hands in his pocket and the other who constantly waves them about—a deaf man may well beware when either approach him. And what of the man who seems to be continually looking for post, tree or wall against which he may lean? We come to know them all.

Some years ago I chanced to be in a small Alabama town, among people I had never seen before. My mission was a delicate one, demanding keen judgment and careful diplomacy. It became absolutely necessary for me to communicate promptly and privately with my wife, who at the time was on a steamship somewhere off Cape Hatteras. I could not use a telephone, but I found a man whom I could trust. So I telegraphed to Charleston and instructed my wife to call a certain ’phone number in this Alabama town. The message was repeated by wireless, and far off on the wind-blown ocean it reached the ship and was delivered. When the good lady reached Charleston she called up the number I had given, delivered her message to good ears, and it was turned over to me accurately in writing. One can readily see how tragic it would be if the interpreter for the deaf man chanced to be careless or criminal, for I should regard it as no less than a criminal act for one purposely to deceive a deaf person. I have employed strangers of all colors and conditions in this position of trust, and it is pleasant to think that most of them have been efficient and true in the emergencies. For it is an emergency when one is suddenly called upon to act as interpreter in the affairs of a stranger. This matter of using the telephone has become so simple to most people that it is hard to realize the dire complications it may involve for the deaf.

Once I was delegated to meet my sister and daughter at the old Long Island ferry in New York. They had spent the day on the island, and were to come back at night. Before the Pennsylvania Railroad dug its tunnels under the East River passengers came across from Long Island City at Thirty-fourth street. The landing and the transfer to street-cars was a jumble at best. It was about the easiest place in the world to miss your friends in daylight, while in the evening, under the dim lights, hunting for human express packages was much like going through a grab-bag. My passengers did not arrive. There was no sign of them anywhere among the masses of humans which boat after boat poured out. I began to be worried, for neither of them had been over the route before. I found that the train they had named had arrived on time. Either they had not come or the great city had swallowed them. It was plainly a case where the telephone became a necessity, but I could not go to the nearest ’phone and call up the friends with whom they had been staying. I had to find some proxy who would deliver my message and give me an honest report. All this was serious business at a time when the papers were full of stories of abductions and insults to girls. Whom could I trust in such a situation?

I looked about, and finally decided to appeal to a man who resembled a Methodist minister. At least, he wore a black coat, a white tie, and had adorned his face with a pair of “burnsides.” Also, I caught a gesture—a spreading out of the hands—which seemed to say: “Bless you, my children!” So, as an occasional occupant of the pews, I confidently approached the pulpit.

“My friend, can I ask you to use the telephone for me?”

I learned then how slight a contraction of the facial muscles may change a beneficent smile into a snarl.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” I could see the words and the unpleasant frown. “Are you too lazy?”

I tried to explain the situation and show him that I could not hear; but he took no trouble to grasp my predicament. Several women had stopped to listen, and were smiling. I have learned that no man who wears white vest and tie can feel that women are laughing at him and retain his dignity. So my clerical gentleman turned on his heel and walked away.

“I have no time to bother!”

No doubt, he was right. He could preach the Christian religion, but had no time to practice it. It has always been my blessed privilege to see the humor of a trying situation. That dignified exit made me think of the deaf woman who lived in our old town. One day a stranger called, said he was a retired minister, and asked her to board him a week free of charge, so that he might “meditate over the follies of human life.” She refused, and he became quite insistent. He roared in her ear:

“Be careful, now, lest ye entertain an angel unawares!”

She was quick to reply:

“I’m deaf, but I’m reasonably acquainted with the Lord, and I know He won’t send no angel to my house with a cud of tobacco in his mouth.”

After failing with the ministry, I approached a man who looked like a substantial farmer—a man apparently with some sense of humor, though I judged him to be a bit stubborn.

“Sir, I need your help. I must find someone to telephone for me. My sister and daughter are in the country, and—”

That was as far as I could go with him. He put one hand on his pocket as if to make sure of his wallet, and waved the other at me.

“No, you don’t! I’m no ‘come-on.’ None of your bunco games on me. That story is too old; I’ve heard it before. Get out or I’ll call the police!”

I think the last sermon I ever heard was preached from the text, “And they all, with one accord, began to make excuses.”

Unfortunately, the preacher had never been deaf, so he did not develop all the possibilities of that text. But these rebuffs did not discourage me; they are only part of the “social service” which the deaf must expect. These men merely lacked the imagination needed to show them the pleasure which would surely come from doing a kindly act. They had declined opportunity.

Near the station was a saloon. It was a warm night, and the door was open. I had just been offered the nomination for Congress on the Prohibition ticket in my home district. Of course, a Prohibition statesman has no business inside a saloon; but I paused at the door and looked in. A pleasant-faced, red-haired Irishman stood behind the bar, serving a glass of beer to a customer. I have always believed in experimenting with extremes. By hitting both ends one generally finds a soft spot at the middle. I was on a desperate quest, and, having been rejected by the pulpit and the plow, I was willing to approach the bar. So I entered the “unholy place.” The bartender ran an appraising eye over me, and like a good salesman asked:

“What’ll it be—a beer? Or you likely need some of the hard stuff to brace you up?”

“No; I want to find an honest man who will telephone for me. I cannot hear well, and I must have help. Can you do it?”

“Sure I can, me friend, sure! ’Tis me job to serve the people. I’m very sorry for ye, and ye can borry me ears and welcome. Here, Mike! You run the bar while I help this gentleman find his friends.”

And he did the job well. I wrote out my message and he went into the booth with it. Through the glass I saw him nodding his head and waving his hands in explanation. He came out all smiles.

“Sure, and it’s all right. They missed the train through stopping too long to eat. They’re on their way now safe and sound, and happy as larks—and due in half an hour. They’d have let ye know, but couldn’t tell where to reach ye!”

And he would have nothing but the regular toll for the service. But he put his hand on my shoulder and said:

“Happy to meet ye. It’s a pleasure to serve such as ye. Come, now, and have something on me!”

And right there I came as near accepting a drink as I ever did in my life. But there is one thing I did do. I declined the honor of running for Congress on the Prohibition ticket after receiving that kindly Christian service from a saloonkeeper.

I told this story to a missionary who had spent much of his life among rough-and-ready customers. His comment was:

“Many a hog will put on a white necktie, and many a saint will wear a flannel shirt, and one not overly clean at that. The best judge of a necktie is the hangman, and the final judgment over the boiled shirt is made at the washtub. He who sells beer brewed in charity is a better man than he who delivers sermons stuffed with cant and selfishness.”

I presume he is right, but how can a deaf man distinguish the virtues and vices of the dispenser of selfish sermons from those of the dispenser of charitable beer—when he cannot hear the sermons and declines to taste the beer? However, since that night I have not been able to trust the combination of white vest and necktie and a taste for “burnsides.”

My experience with this variety of costume had begun years before, when I happened to be a receptive candidate for Governor of New Jersey on this same Prohibition ticket. My boom never developed beyond that receptive stage, but I started for the convention feeling well disposed toward myself—as I presume all candidates do. At Trenton I had to hunt for the convention hall, and, as usual, tried to select the proper guide from his appearance. On a street corner stood a portly, well-filled gentleman, wearing a suit of solemn black, with a beard to match; also there was the white necktie and the voluminous white vest. In truth, he was a prosperous grocer come to town to marry his third wife, but to me he looked like the chairman of the coming convention.

“Can you tell me where the convention is to be held?”

“What convention?”

“Why, the State Prohibition convention. I thought you were a brother delegate.”

“Brother nothing.”

“But where is it to be held?”

He muttered something that was lost in that black beard. I could not get it, and finally held out my notebook and pencil. He stared at me for a moment, and then wrote—about as he would enter an order of salt fish for Mrs. Brown:

“The Lord knows. I don’t.”

It was a shock to my boom, the first of many it received that day. For a moment depression came over me. Then philosophy came to my aid and gave me the proper answer.

“Well, if the Lord really knows, I guess it doesn’t make so much difference whether you do or not! It is better to trust in the Lord.”

I left him staring after me. It is doubtful if he ever got the full sense of the incident, but I have always remembered it.

It is one of my landmarks along the road to silence. For if the Lord designs that the deaf man shall reach the convention, all the powers of prejudice and selfishness cannot keep him away. I finally found a bootblack who gave me the proper directions.

One Winter’s night I found myself in the railroad station of a small New England town, waiting for a belated train. A blizzard was raging outside, with the mercury in the thermometer close to zero. My train was far up in Vermont, four hours behind time, feebly plowing through snowdrifts. In order to obtain a berth and comfortable passage for New York on that train it was necessary to ’phone Springfield and have the agent there catch the train at some stopping place up country to make arrangements. Perhaps a prudent deaf man should have given up the effort and remained in that little town overnight. But I have found that the deaf, even more than others, need the constant stimulus of attempting the difficult or impossible.

It was necessary to find some honest proxy at once. The ticket agent had closed his office and gone home. The array of available talent spread before me on the seats was not, at first sight, promising. A German Socialist had fallen asleep after a violent discussion about the war. There was an Irishman who gave full evidence to at least three senses that he did not favor prohibition enforcement. A fat, good-natured looking colored man with a stupid moon face and a receding chin sprawled over one of the wooden benches. An Italian woman, surrounded by several great packages, was holding a sleeping child. There were two ladies of uncertain age, who evidently belonged to that unmistakable class of society—the New England old maid. At one side, figuring out his day’s sales of cigars and notions, was a typical Hebrew drummer, a little rat-faced man with hooked nose, low, receding forehead, and bald head and beady eyes.

Now, if you had been the deaf man, forced to depend on one of these agents to arrange for a sleeping place, which one would you have chosen? The negro was too stupid, the German too belligerent, the Irishman would have tried to bully Springfield, and who could think of asking the stern-faced ladies to discuss such a matter? I selected the drummer as the most promising material.

“Sure, I get it,” he said, when I gave him a statement of what I wanted. He disappeared inside the telephone booth, where I soon saw him gesticulating and shrugging his shoulders as he talked rapidly. He looked around at me, and with my slight knowledge of lip-reading, I could make out:

“This is a great man what asks this. You must help him out.”

Soon he came rushing out holding up one finger.

“It cost you one dollar!”

I paid him and back he went to his conversation. Before long he emerged with a paper, on which he had written the name of the car, the number of my berth, the name of the conductor, and the time of the train’s arrival. It was all there. How he did it I have never been able to tell. It was a marvel of speedy, skilful work.

I seldom find such an efficient proxy, but through long experience one becomes able to select some stranger with patience enough to attempt the job. One man who seemed fairly intelligent completely twisted my message, and put me to no end of trouble. Once a woman deliberately misrepresented me, but I was saved by a good Samaritan who stood by, heard part of the discussion, and set me right.

Sometimes in public places the telephone operator will send the message and report the answer, but it seems unfair to ask such service. A very dignified gentleman once asked a stranger to telephone for him, and was answered thus:

“Why not go and visit with the ‘hello girl’ over there?”

Being deaf, he lost one important syllable of the adjective, and something of his dignity in consequence. Never select a person without imagination as proxy for the deaf. In the city the colored porters who are found about public places are usually excellent telephone agents; colored waiters I have also found good. They are good-natured and imaginative, usually intelligent, and always wonderfully faithful.