All vocal expression is but an echo, the echo of a thought. Thought must precede vocal expression. It is not possible to produce a vocal sound, not the simplest, without thought. There is no such thing as a voice ipso facto, no more than there is music in a musical instrument unless it is called forth by the hand of the player. Try it. Come upon a sound suddenly, around the corner, as it were, and then express it. Do not give it a moment's time for its development; that is, do not give thought time to mould a form for it, but try to utter it in embryo, so to say, the very moment you think of it, and you will not be able to do it. You will not produce any sound whatever.

It is as necessary to form a mould for a sound as it is for any shaped and moulded material article. Out of this mould it comes forth in conformity with the form we have given it: harsh, abrupt, discordant—rhythmical, beautiful, soulful. Such as the thought is, so will be the expression. In ordinary conversation this proceeding is automatic and mechanical, in elocution or song more or less volitional and artistic. That is to say, for ordinary speech it acts automatically, for artistic utterance it acts designedly. Materially, the mould is convex, shut, for ingoing; concave, open, for outgoing sounds. It expands for the former, it contracts for the latter. Vocal sounds are a product of matter as well as mind; the act itself which produces them being a connecting link between matter and mind. The soul calls on the body to aid it in giving form to its desires and intentions; the body instantly obeys and assumes the form from which the expected sound or action is to arise.

No matter how great a soul may be, unless it can give form and consequent utterance to its greatness, it will be helpless, far more so than the simplest soul capable of giving expression to its simplicity. Confined to our own limits, like the congenital deaf, our faculties become dwarfed and useless. We do not know ourselves, do not know our own souls. We must expand, go out into the world and take it in, if we want to grow and give our faculties a chance to develop.

The greater our horizon, the more we can take in, the more we can give out. Our soul is scarcely ours when enchained; the greater its liberty, the more it belongs to us. Hence our just pity for the congenital deaf, and our desire to assist them in their efforts at expression. Those among them who are being, or have been, tutored, receive their impressions through their eyes in the form assumed by the speaker's mouth; the eye assuming the function of the ear. The form assumed by their teacher's mouth, however, not being perfect, a perfect impression cannot be made. Hence the expression of the deaf is in conformity with the impression they have obtained: mechanical, material, soulless. The exterior lines of the mouth of the teacher, or any other speaker's from which the deaf draw their inspiration, are those of the material side of the medal. Failing to see the reverse side thereof, namely, the interior of the mouth, which is its spiritual side, the lines of the latter make no impression upon them. These fine lines on the interior side of the speaker's mouth, representing the rhythm, the soul of the voice, not being seen, fail to make that impression from which alone a soulful expression could arise.

That an impression may be made through the eye will scarcely require a defense, in view of the fact that in reading aloud or in singing from notes the entire impression is made through the eye. The reader or singer, knowing the value of every sound, is impressed by the sight of a letter or a note as he would be by the sound itself. Not so with the congenital deaf, who, being ignorant of such value, cannot reproduce it. Nor will it be contended, I suppose, that the deaf knowingly, designedly, or volitionally attempt to imitate the forms assumed by the teacher's mouth, but it will be admitted that this is done spontaneously, and that vocal sounds with them arise from this imperfect mechanism, thus involuntarily reproduced.

With the congenital deaf, with persons attempting to speak a foreign language, etc., the material form, as well as the spiritual impetus, being imperfect, the expression will be in conformity therewith. In how far and in what manner these investigations may become helpful to the deaf will be a matter for the not distant future to develop. That they will eventually become of the greatest aid to them I have every reason to believe. Those who have made a study of matters of this kind understand the difficulties surrounding the same. These difficulties are increased manifold where the ear of the scholar absolutely refuses to come to his own and his teacher's aid.

There are forms in which vocal sounds move, well defined and capable of material representation, which are not fully expressed by the shape of the teacher's mouth, nor are they thus expressed by impressions taken by the aid of the camera. Regarding the latter, it is necessary to note that photographic representations of vocal sounds are the result of the combined action of the voice of the oesophagus and of that of the trachea, of material and immaterial factors. Just in how far the latter are capable of being thus represented must, as yet, remain a matter of conjecture.

An attempt at reconciling photographic representations of vocal sounds with the oscillations of the vocal cords is, at most, a one-sided proceeding. To arrive at any correct conclusion at all, it would be necessary to take the vibrations of the "vocal lip" and the frÆnum into equal consideration.

Regarding our capacity for improving the natural physical and psychical capabilities of the musical instrument of the voice, that depends upon the manner in which we play upon it. As it yields to the slightest pressure of the air, either for good or for evil, we must, above all things, learn how to guide the tip of our tongue in touching its aËrial strings or keys, which are far more sensitive than those of any instrument ever produced by the hand of man. It takes years to attain a mastery over the simplest musical instrument; yet it is often expected that the instrument of the voice should yield to the most careless efforts made in the most wilful and indiscriminate manner.

The thought of a sound, after producing an impression, guides the tongue in releasing such impression. Unless the tongue touches or moves towards the exact spot which will effect such release, the expression or the sound will not be forthcoming. That the impression, as well as its release, should be properly made, it is necessary to think of the sound which is to be produced, in the most precise and correct manner. I cannot sufficiently impress upon the reader's mind the importance this simple lesson conveys. If he will shape his manner of vocal utterance, especially his mode of singing, in conformity therewith, he will be able to improve his voice to a far greater extent than he would by following any or all of the realistic methods now in vogue. This thinking of the correct sound must be carried on for the next syllable during the production of the previous one; and care must be taken not to think of more than one syllable at one and the same time. Unless this is done, no pure sound will ever be produced, the impression made by thinking of a second or third syllable overlapping that for the next following; thus producing a muddle and a discord. Rhythm being the basis for all perfect vocal utterance, a rhythmic impression must be made in order to obtain a rhythmic expression. This cannot be done when the former is not preserved in its entire purity until it is released.

All of us, either during our ordinary speech or during our efforts at artistic expression, are guided by the process just described; unknowingly, unwittingly, properly or improperly, for good or for evil, pursuing this same course. I cannot enter upon these matters to any greater extent at this time, as it will be necessary to first treat of other matters with which they are intimately connected.

THE PHONOGRAPH

In trying the experiment of coming upon a sound unawares, simply endeavor to divest yourself of all thought, and then suddenly, without any preparation whatever, say "a," or "b," or "it," or any word you wish, and you will not be able to produce such sound or sounds—or, in fact, any sound whatsoever. Or, you may get some one to, of a sudden, produce sounds embodied in letters before your eyes; and you will find you will be unable to utter them instantly. While you cannot thus produce a vocal sound, or vocal sounds embodied in words, you can produce simple sounds without preparation. As they belong to but one hemisphere, and are consequently not the product of a compound impression, they may be uttered the very moment we think of them. While they are being uttered, our organs of speech are "shut," far more so than they are for vocal sounds.

Consonant sounds cannot be uttered "vocally" without a vowel sound. When they appear in a syllable their accompanying vowel sound carries them and permeates them. When they appear singly we add a vowel sound to them. We say: "ar," "be," "en," "ka," etc.; unless we do so we cannot pronounce them. Without such accompanying vowel sound they would be inert.

"Simple" consonant sounds are unaccompanied, not "leavened," by a vowel sound. "Simple" vowel sounds, on the other hand, are unaccompanied by the element which constitutes consonant sounds; while "vocal" vowel sounds are accompanied thereby.

The word "surd," used in connection with non-vocal sounds, does not express the meaning of what I call "simple" sounds, as all sounds may be either "vocal" or "simple," while "surd" applies only to special sounds.

The necessity of making an impression for vocal utterance also prevails in connection with motion. You cannot lift your right foot or your left arm, or make any given motion whatever, the very moment you think of making it. It requires some preparation; though you may lift part of a limb without preparation. A part of a limb in this sense may be compared to a simple, the entire limb to a vocal, sound. The thought must make an impression by expansion or contraction, which, when released, will express the desired motion; no matter whether such motion is made unconsciously or deliberately. It is more difficult to watch this proceeding in connection with sight; the operations of light being so rapid that the expression seems to be simultaneous with the impression.

Contraction and expansion for motion are of the same order as they are for vocal utterance. In fact, both are so closely connected that we cannot utter a sound unless it is accompanied by a motion. In stopping the motion accompanying a sound, we stop our ability of uttering such sound. I shall have occasion to call attention to numerous conditions under which it will be impossible to utter sounds, either separate or connected, by stopping the motion necessary to produce such sounds. It is all due to the fact that we are homogeneous beings, whose powers are interdependent upon one another.

The effect of the teacher's voice upon his or her scholar's organization is of a similar order to that made by thought upon the teacher's own organization. That it is not of the same order is due to the fact that the organization upon which it is made is but rarely constituted the same, is not as highly organized and developed or "schooled," as the one from which the voice emanated. The impression made by the singing-teacher's voice is of the same order as that made upon the deaf by the features of their instructor which are representative of his voice. We are living, breathing phonographs. Every impression we receive through any of our senses must be made in a material manner before it can have its immaterial expression. We engrave upon living tissue, instead of on rubber or wax.

I repeat that, to obtain a pure sound, the thought underlying such sound or sounds must be purely, clearly defined. We cannot obtain a clear impression from a seal whose engraving is blurred, or when the sealing-wax is not in a proper condition of softness, or when the hand is not steady which makes the impression. The same conditions prevail with vocal utterance. Thought makes the impression; the Æther, passing through its narrowed passages at a rate as swift as thought, creates the sound. The impression is made as thought progresses, the expression as sound progresses. While the impression is thoughtful, the expression is thoughtless. While we think for a sound during the impression, we do not think for it during its expression; but we think, during the latter, for the next sound. If this were not the case, consecutive speech would be a matter of impossibility. The artist's thought is embodied in the creation of the model for his statue from which a mould is made. The casting of the statue, equal to its expression, is mechanical, thoughtless.

In this connection the brain is of the same order as the tablets of the phonograph. For ordinary use, however, the lines engraved upon it are evanescent; they disappear again with the sound or thought which releases them. Impressions, however, of a deeper nature remain—some forever. The thought or sounds they represent, the same as the lines on the tablets of the phonograph, are released but for the time being and while such thought and sounds (through association) are recalled to memory. The thought and sounds are evanescent, but the lines which represent them remain for further use, the same as the lines on the tablets of the phonograph and the strings of a musical instrument. If we could read aright the lines which the voice makes on the tablets of the phonograph or on the negative plates of the photographer, we would obtain a correct insight into their character. These studies, when fully developed, may lead to a comprehension of these hieroglyphics, the same as the Greek translation on the Rosetta stone furnished the cue to the comprehension of the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian monuments.

STUTTERING, STAMMERING

What is all this I am writing?

It is an endeavor at giving expression to an impression obtained of a great subject imperfectly understood. The general ideas underlying it all are on the lines of truth, but the contours are evanescent, the lines representing special features ill-defined, while the finer shadings are almost entirely wanting. It is a stuttering, a stammering, in matters my mind is too narrow to grasp, incapable of comprehending in all their bearings, impotent to take in in their ultimate relations. Still, I am doing what I can with such material as nature has placed at my disposal. Thought failing to make a clear impression, my pen, I fear, cannot give a clear expression to it all.

Regarding the subject of stuttering proper, I must still preface it with some remarks of a general nature. The influx and efflux of streams of air into and out of our system, called breathing, is of a very complicated nature. While we designate the same by the general terms of inspiration and expiration, these streams are of as multiform a nature as the ethereal fabrics they are intended to weave, whose weft they form, and whose warp is of a more material nature. Call these fabrics what you please—actions, speech, feelings, passions, fancies, sensations, etc. While these streams form innumerable separate systems, they are all subject to one and the same law—rhythm. The more perfect the rhythm the higher the development and consequent performance.

While we always breathe, or should breathe, in the same rhythmic order (the octave) for the sustenance of life in general, we unconsciously breathe in various other measures for an endless number of other purposes. Our dual nature, and the duality of the manner in which we breathe, as a rule enable us to go through these various performances without a disturbance as to the harmonious character of our existence. It is a great orchestral performance by instruments of various kinds and orders, each performer playing his own notes, specially adapted to his particular part and instrument; yet all coming together in one harmonious ensemble. This fact finds expression, clearly defined, in the various measures in which metre and rhythm are clad for poetry and song. The introduction into our system of a rhythmic flow of streams of air for the various purposes of vocal utterance is conditioned upon a rhythmic flow of thought.

To perfectly render a poetical conception by words either spoken or sung, the performer's mind must be in accord with the rhythm underlying such conception. In that case only will he breathe and, consequently, speak or sing in the requisite manner for such production. I should have prefaced all this by saying that, in the same manner as inspiration and expiration succeed each other in regular rotation, so do the ordinary measures of long and short (¯?), or short and long (?¯), in simple forms of poetry, succeed each other in regular rotation; long (¯), or stress, always standing for expiration, short (?), or repose, for inspiration. As a matter of fact, however, inspiration is of longer duration than expiration.

All other forms are artistic, and are produced by a mode of thinking, and consequent breathing, as variable as the subject may suggest or demand. For ordinary speech, while the rhythm is not of the same order as that for poetry, a rhythmic order of some kind must be, and always is, observed. That the rhythm is not noticeable is due to the fact that, while inspiration and expiration in prose writing and ordinary conversation follow each other in regular rotation, they are not always accompanied by sound. Hence the rhythmic irregularities of speech exist only in appearance and in the inartistic manner in which speech is generally, and prose writing often, produced. A person who speaks and writes his language well, speaks and writes it rhythmically, always. Good style is synonymous with correct rhythmical expression, superinduced by correct breathing; rhythmic expression depending entirely upon rhythmic impression, and the latter upon rhythmic thought, accompanied by rhythmic breathing.

To write well (that is, a good style), to speak well (as an orator, actor, or elocutionist), to sing well, it is, above all things, necessary that the performer's mind should be in a state of conformity with the situation which is to be described. His flow of thought, and consequent breathing and mode of expression, will then correspond with the scope, drift, and circumstance underlying his performance. Unless this is the case, the latter will be unsatisfactory, unimpressive, unsympathetic. To prove that for a satisfactory performance this must be the case, it will but be necessary to call attention to the fact that under various emotions our mode of breathing undergoes great changes—as under fear, hate, jealousy, indignation, excitement, love, enthusiasm, benevolence, languor, apathy, etc. Our breathing under these different circumstances will, the same as the manner of our expression, undergo various stages of change as to time and measure, as well as to rhythm, emphasis and intonation.

The character and rapidity of the flow of our blood is of the same order as our manner of breathing. It is, in fact, as I expect to prove later on, not only of the same order, but of the same origin and regulated by the same causes. The flow of the blood is not merely of a material order, but of a spiritual one as well. While it is acted upon by the mind it reacts upon the mind.

The thought must be measured and restricted as to time, so as to enable it to make the proper impression and produce a corresponding expression before another thought comes along crowding in upon the preceding one and in so doing blurring the impression made by the latter before it had been given the time to be expressed. If the necessary time is not granted for an impression to be made and for the expression thereof to obliterate the same, the premature flow of another thought, coming on top of the first, will make a new impression over the previous one, causing confusion and making a clear expression a matter of impossibility. Unless our professor, while standing in front of his blackboard demonstrating before his class, has a sponge in his hand, and before again writing in the same place wipes out that which he had written before, the new writing will not be of such a nature that it can be understood. The slate endures; but the thought and the writing are always new. Yet, when such writing is of an impressive nature, it is like that of a palimpsest; though apparently obliterated, its lines remain, and their meaning can be recalled to memory as often as the occasion may demand it.

The "muddle" of which I have spoken is oftentimes so great that no sound of any kind can ensue, the rhythmic flow of sound-producing streams having been disturbed and prevented from assuming the necessary shape for their formation into proper sound-waves by this hasty mode of thinking. The consequence is a hiatus in the natural flow of speech, which prevents the thought from materializing in the shape of the word intended to be spoken. This hiatus the victim of such precipitate mode of thinking generally attempts to bridge over by spasmodic efforts, which but serve to aggravate the situation, increasing, as they do, the disorder in the sound-producing lines.

Stuttering being caused by a disorder in these lines, the remedy is to again restore them to order. The disorder having been caused by a too hasty mode of thinking, superinduced, as a rule, by a desire not to stutter, or a fear of stuttering, the remedy lies in allaying this fear. The fear of stuttering, or the anxiety not to stutter, which obtains while the speaker is producing thought, itself being thought, and coming on top of the thought intended to be uttered, brings about, or at least aggravates, the very difficulty he was trying to overcome. Mere thought may wander off and again return to its theme, unrestrained, and without causing disturbance; but thought which is to be vocally uttered must strictly adhere to its subject. There is no impression to be made by the former which must remain until it is released by vocal sound; impression and expression being almost simultaneous. In place of making a spasmodic effort, therefore, the stutterer should endeavor to be calm, and to then calmly think the word or sentence over again which has become a stumbling-block in his way. After doing so, he will have no trouble uttering it.

The fact that stutterers experience no difficulty in singing is a proof of the correctness of these assertions. While singing, the performer's streams of life and organs of speech are all tuned to one harmonious measure. His frame of mind being securely in accord with his theme, his thought, devoid of fear, flows evenly along with his song. There is no occasion for haste or trepidation in this instance,—there cannot be, haste being the opposite to and the enemy of harmony, the latter meaning a continuous return of the same measure and the same mode of breathing, the former irregularity and disorder in the mode of breathing.

Besides, song, belonging to the pharynx, is spiritual; it is of our inner nature, and therefore restful and continuous. While speech, which belongs to the oral cavity, is material; it is of our outer nature, and therefore subject to every impression, influence, and consequent change. Elocution, declamation, or recitation, on the other hand, partake of both our inner and our outer nature. They belong in part to the pharynx and in part to the oral cavity.

Experiments may be made by means of making these respective parts rigid which will establish the correctness of these assertions.

These experiments can also be made by the application of mechanical pressure. When pressing your hand or fingers against your throat you will be unable to speak, though it will not prevent you from singing. By pressing them against the back of your neck you will be unable to sing, though you may speak. By pressing them against either side of your neck you will be unable to recite, though you may both speak and sing. The slightest pressure, even, will produce these results. Let me remark, however, that unless the thought of the performance accompanies it, a mere mechanical pressure will not suffice.

That thought, improperly exercised, is the cause of stuttering or stammering, obtains from the fact, that the utterance of the singer, elocutionist or actor, being a matter of memory, and not of original thought, is not subject to these troubles; though the utterance of the same persons while speaking, and in so doing, thinking, may be subject thereto.

Not appreciating its significance, I used to laugh with everybody else at the anecdote of a stuttering boy in an apothecary shop, who had been sent down after some article in the cellar. Returning, pale, trembling, and stammering, his master cried out, "Sing, sing!" whereupon he delivered himself thus:

In a recent number of Cosmopolis, Prof. Max MÜller said:

While his thoughts were concentrated on his subject, which had probably been elaborated beforehand and was expressed in rhythmic language, besides being obliged to speak slowly and deliberately so as to be heard and understood, he experienced no difficulty. Still, he was under a restraint. As soon as he was by himself again, he commenced to think impulsively, as probably was his habit, and gave vent to a torrent of thoughts, which overleaped each other like waters rushing through a broken dam.

There are two main forms in which this trouble manifests itself. The one is a surfeit, a crowding together of sounds, all of which want to come to the surface at one and the same time, like a crowd of people during a panic trying to rush out through the same door, thus causing a jam. This form, creating a hiatus in vocal utterance, is generally designated by the term "stammering." That which is called "stuttering," on the other hand, consisting, as it does, in a repetition of the same sound, is due to the opposite cause. While the former is due to too great an effort, this is due to a paucity of effort. The sound-furnishing element is not under control; it leaks out against the will, it runs away with you. Hence a repetition of the form once assumed, in consequence of a lack of nerve force, of a rein to keep it in check, of a brake preventing it from rushing down-hill with you; in contradistinction to the act of stammering, in which the brake had been too forcibly applied, the watch wound up too firmly and beyond its requirements.

In the case of stammering the impression has been too quick in shaping itself into words; in the other it has been too slow in so doing. In the former case too many moulds have been formed for proper impression; while in the latter the sound is spoken before the mould has been properly and completely formed; that part only which had been formed being uttered and repeated. In the case of stammering there is a surfeit of impression but a want of sound; in that of stuttering there is a want of impression but a surfeit of sound. A stammerer is one who takes in too much, a stutterer one who takes in too little, air for his hasty way of thinking.

When this trouble happens with one and the same person—as it sometimes does—it first assumes one shape and then the other; it turns a complete somersault in so doing. The balance, the equilibrium, the point of gravitation, previously overleaped on one side, is again overleaped, and the person lands on its extreme other side. While a stammerer he had too much ballast on board, now he has too little.

A stammerer can return to the point of gravitation by throwing some of his surplus ballast overboard. His tongue being tied to his lower jaw, in which position he is constantly taking in more air than he needs, he must raise it in order to let the surplus out from beneath the same.

A stutterer, whose tongue is running away with him, owing to an insufficiency of ballast, must take in enough (inspire sufficiently) to bring him back to his point of gravitation. His tongue is in a loose state of elevation, in which position the air is constantly streaming out (expiring) from beneath the same. He must lower it to have his balance restored, as in so doing the air will stream in over and above the tongue until the equilibrium has been restored. In other words, the person who is thus agitated must calm himself, he must relax from an overstrain in either one direction or the other. The diaphragm, holding the balance of power, will be found to be in as uncontrollable a condition as the tongue, with which it always acts in unison. In restoring the tongue to a normal condition we restore the diaphragm to a normal condition.

The institutions for the cure of stuttering, stammering, and intermediate stages of the same trouble, attempt to bring about a state of restoration of the disturbed balance by means arrived at through experience. The real cause being unknown, the remedies must necessarily be restricted. If persons thus afflicted will take their own cases in hand and treat them in conformity with the precepts here laid down, the chances are in favor of their being cured where no other remedy had been of any avail.

As the preceding remarks have been made from the point of view of an English-speaking person, the standpoint of a German being diametrically opposite, the same must all be reversed to fit the case of a German, in so far as locality is concerned. For stammering, the tongue of a German is closely wedged in, in the direction of the roof of the mouth; for stuttering, it is loosely pointing downward. This is owing to the fact that a German inspires from under and beneath, and expires from over and above, his tongue; just the reverse of the manner in which this is done by an English-speaking person.

In order to efficiently cure the trouble of stuttering, it is necessary that the act of breathing and sound-production should be closely studied with every separate nationality, as these processes differ with all nationalities; this difference being very pronounced as between Germans and Anglo-Saxons. For an American to go to Germany, therefore, to be cured of this trouble, is as false a step as for a German to go to the United States or England for this purpose.

While I have in the preceding endeavored to give an account of the general causes which result in stuttering, I have not touched upon such special causes as are directly connected with the character and origin of vocal sounds; the explanation of which must be postponed to a future period.

THE CATHODE OF A VOCAL SOUND

By an accident, in some respects not unlike the one which drew Roentgen's attention to the light by whose aid we have learned to look into and through opaque bodies, I (myself an accident, an appearance on and soon to be a disappearance from the illuminated surface of the earth) have discovered eternal laws, by whose aid we shall be able to comprehend much of what has heretofore been as a closed book to us, regarding our physical and psychical nature and the exercise of our faculties and functions.

During my endeavors to overcome the difficulties which my German tongue offered to the perfect pronunciation of the English "r" sound, and during an almost frantic effort on one occasion at so doing, I was amazed by the fact that while one "r" came to the surface from over and above the tongue, another made its appearance from under and beneath the same. The latter was the "r" of the voice of the oesophagus. Of all this, however, I have spoken at length in my previous publication.

Though it occurred to me at once like a flash that this was a revelation of the greatest importance, its real significance was only made clear to me in the course of time. No matter how I view it, as time progresses it assumes greater and greater proportions. There is no event in the history of man which appears to me to be of greater significance. Through this "accident" I was induced to look closer and closer into my inner nature, where, to my amazement, I found that a world, apparently silent and mysterious, and supposed to be unapproachable, was the abode of numberless physical and psychical phenomena, clearly defined and definable.

The "r" which came to the surface from beneath my tongue by way of the oesophagus was the cathode, the negative end of this sound. The product of its combination with the simple "r" (which came to the surface from over and above the tongue by way of the trachea) I had hitherto produced when attempting to speak English, was the vocal "r" sound of the English language; the "r" I had hitherto produced having been the anode—the positive and first part of this sound only. As Roentgen's cathodic light has illuminated the physical body, so have cathodic sounds illumined for me the spiritual body of my mundane existence. I am endeavoring to show my fellowmen this "new light," whose lustre, also invisible on ordinary occasions, when once seen is so great that it will never again fade from the memory of the beholder. As time progresses, it will continue to penetrate ever more deeply into regions hitherto considered to be impervious to any kind of light; regions whose phenomena have been called supernatural, or, at least, beyond the sphere of the knowledge of man. All other anodes or cathodes of which we have obtained any knowledge belong to physical phenomena only. The cathode I have discovered belongs to our spiritual life, being a part of a living vocal sound.

Think of it! To be able to divide the essence of life and to obtain two living parts, each endowed with a life of its own! This is a nearer approach to the knowledge of life than any ever attained before. A vocal sound is an entity. From entities we cannot learn anything. They are phenomena complete in themselves. Regarding their innermost nature, they have always been to us as a closed book. They offer us no vantage-ground; no opening, no breach, through which we can enter into the mysterious process of their existence. No matter whether such life or existence be that of the minutest parasite of a minute vegetable growth, that growth itself, or the giant of the forest; whether it be that of a microbe or the microbe of a microbe; whether it be the essence of a thought, a sigh, a tear, a look, a vocal sound, or of a human being—their innermost natures are all alike mysterious to us. I have succeeded in analyzing a vocal sound, and this apparently simple proceeding has opened up to me endless vistas in endless directions. I have reduced this entity into its natural elements, and have again put these together. After resolving it into two lives I have again formed it into one. I can bring about this analysis as well as this synthesis at will at any time.

All know what is meant by vocal sounds, yet few, I repeat, know what are simple sounds, though constantly used by everybody while whispering or uttering exclamations, while surprised, alarmed, frightened, etc. My accomplishment, therefore, is but the recognition of the nature of a thing constantly before us and brought to our consciousness through our ear.

Simple sounds are the anodes, the beginnings of sounds. There is no life in them, no rhythm, no melody, no light, no grace, no beauty. These are imparted to them by the fusion of the cathode element of vocal sounds with this, the anode; the spiritual with the material. The anode is formed first. It is the passive element, the female, the patient, the waiting, which must have been before the male, the impatient, the aggressive. The thing to be fructified must have been before that which fructifies.

The anode is quiescent until the cathode comes along, joins it, and infuses life into it. The creation of a vocal sound is an act of generation. The cathode, after overwhelming the anode, penetrates it and diffuses itself throughout it, and thus forms a union whose result is the production of a vocal sound. Similar unions between anodes and cathodes are formed a myriad-fold every moment during time's progress, and result in the creation of an electric spark, or a succession of sparks, called an electric light, or any other light or fire, or of a thought, or of the embryo to a new life of any and every description, etc.; while a discord, a stutter, a smouldering fire, the sight of a thing too dimly seen to be recognized, a cut or broken limb, a suspense, a disappointment, a suppressed action or passion, etc., are anodes not joined by their cathodes. By the juncture of a cathode with an anode we exercise our faculties, we become conscious of a sight, a sound, an odor, a taste, etc.; the anode being vested in the thing to be seen, heard, smelled, or tasted,—the cathode in ourselves.

While the anode of a vocal sound may be uttered audibly, the cathode, by itself, cannot be uttered—the spiritual cannot be materialized except in conjunction with the material. The anode, the physical, is inert until the cathode, the spiritual, has formed a juncture with it, has been alloyed with it. Every phenomenon of which we become conscious is the result of a process of this nature. The more perfect the union, the more perfect the outcome or result, the phenomenon.

In our ordinary speech this alloy, this union, is of a mutable and evanescent, in oratory and song it is of a more continuous and lasting, nature. With persons speaking a foreign tongue, and with the deaf, it is superficial, imperfect; in many cases, in fact, we hear only anodes, no union having been effected. The amalgamation, the alloy of the finer with the coarser, the higher with the lower, the spiritual with the material, is not at all or but imperfectly performed; the coarser element prevails and makes its presence felt in every utterance. The more perfect the union between anodes and cathodes in vocal utterance, the higher will be the performance, the more perfect the speech, the more beautiful the song, the more stirring, the more soulful; the nearer they come to our hearts.

How do I know all this? I will tell you: By watching the beginning of a vocal sound; the performance actually going on within us, while such sound is first being created. This performance is of an inverse order as between German and English, in so far as the anode for German vocal sounds is located to the right, the cathode to the left. The cathode approaches the anode from left to right; while in the creation of an English vocal sound the anode is to the left, the cathode to the right, and the latter approaches the former from right to left. The location where the union appears to take place is in the chest, near the heart; for German sounds, to the right thereof, for English to the left. As a matter of fact, however, it is in the heart itself.

What does the motion in which anode and cathode approach each other—which is not direct as it at first appears to the observer, but vastly circuitous—signify?

The circulation through the vascular system of the elements (of the Æther) creating vocal sounds, or the circulation of vocal sounds. The proofs that this important fact actually obtains will be furnished very positively and very circumstantially at a later date in connection with that part of these expositions which treats on vocal sounds.