Five Lectures on Blindness | Page 6

confidence, swords from which all the old prejudice and misconception
have been removed--swords of occupation and independence!
Of this readjustment period, Clarence Hawkes, the well-known blind
naturalist who lost his eyesight at the age of fifteen, says: "the loss of
eyesight seems, for a time, to upset the perfect working of the nervous
system. The nerves have to adjust themselves to new conditions, and
rearrange the channels of communication. On first losing one's eyesight,
one is impressed with the fact that all noises sound much too loud, and
it takes several months for sounds to get toned down to their normal
volume, and one never quite overcomes the tendency to jump at sudden
sharp noises."
As to the blind child the senses of touch, hearing and smell prove
efficient carriers of knowledge, so these senses come to the rescue of
the blind adult, and compensate, in large measure, for the loss of
eyesight. Training does not increase the sensitiveness of a sense organ.
It merely puts this capacity to better use. So the blind adult does not
suddenly come into possession of wonderful powers, but, in time, his
"acquired sense perception" enables him to do many things hitherto
considered impossible of accomplishment. But to the casual observer,
anything done without eyesight is considered little short of marvelous.
The adult soon learns to recognize voices and footsteps, to measure
distance with a fair degree of accuracy, and, in many cases, to go about
alone, with only the friendly cane for company. Many of the blind have
what is defined as a "sense of obstacles," and it is sometimes called a
sixth sense. Dr. Illingworth defines this sense as "an exceedingly subtle
kind of instinct that enables a blind individual to detect the presence or
proximity of a person or object under circumstances of absolute silence,
and very often to know the nature of the object." Dr. Illingworth
believes that this remarkable power is of electric origin and latent in
everybody. This power seems to have its seat in the nerves of the face,
and is possessed by the blind adult as well as the blind child. This sense
of obstacles, this "touch at a distance," enables a person to tell when he
is passing tall buildings, fences, trees, and many other obstructions. Mr.
Hawkes says: "The sixth sense, if such it be, probably depends upon

three conditions--sound, the compression of the air, and whether the
face be free to use its sensitive feelers. This subject is still in its infancy,
and time may reveal many interesting facts concerning it; but for our
purpose it is enough that the blind have a sense of obstacles, and let us
regard it as another proof that we are wonderfully made and divinely
led."
In a surprisingly short time, the blind adult becomes accustomed to the
new conditions, the various organs perform their new functions, and he
finds life in sightless land to be, in many respects, very like life in that
world of light and color, now only a memory. But a very living
memory--enabling him to recall the faces of his friends, the glow of
sunset, or the rosy light of dawn with the eye of the mind whose vision
is keener, clearer than mere physical sight. This ability to call up
mental pictures is yet another of the compensations, and these pictures
never fade, but come, when familiar scenes or objects are suggested.
The adult is deeply interested in form and color, and likes to have them
minutely described. This fact is not well understood by sighted friends,
and so the blind are often deprived of details which would give them
keenest pleasure, because friends fear to recall painful memories. In
this connection, and by way of conclusion, I shall give a poem written
by one of our pupils, who lost his eyes when a drummer boy in the
Civil War. This man learned to read raised type after being blind
fifty-three years. His poem follows:
A BLIND MAN'S SOLILOQUY.
What, then, is blindness? This and nothing more: The window blinds
are closed, the outer door Close shut and bolted, and the curtains drawn.
No more comes light of stars nor morning's dawn, Nor one lone ray
from day's meridian light. And men pass by and say "within is night!"
Not so; for Memory's lamp, with steady blaze, Shines on the hallowed
scenes of other days, While Fancy's torch, prophetic, flashing through
The vistas of the future, brings to view Scenes passing strange, but
scenes that yet shall be, Which I can see, but which he can not see
Whose dazzled orbs find nothing hid away Beyond the brilliant margin
of today.

To me the radiant world forever gleams With the rich halo of my
boyish dreams; The faces I have loved no wrinkles