i have not touched the outline of a star nor the glory of the moon, but i believe that god has set two lights in mind, the greater to rule by day and the lesser by night, and by them i know that i am able to navigate my life-bark, as certain of reaching the haven as he who steers by the north star. perhaps my sun shines not as yours. the colours that glorify my world, the blue of the sky, the green of the fields, may not correspond exactly with those you delight in; but they are none the less colour to me. the sun does not shine for my physical eyes, nor does the lightning flash, nor do the trees turn green in the spring; but they have not therefore ceased to exist, any more than the landscape is annihilated when you turn your back on it.

i understand how scarlet can differ from crimson because i know that the smell of an orange is not the smell of a grape-fruit. i can also conceive that colours have shades, and guess what shades are. in smell and taste there are varieties not broad enough to be fundamental; so i call them shades. there are half a dozen roses near me. they all have the unmistakable rose scent; yet my nose tells me that they are not the same. the american beauty is distinct from the jacqueminot and la france. odours in certain grasses fade as really to my sense as certain colours do to yours in the sun. the freshness of a flower in my hand is analogous to the freshness i taste in an apple newly picked. i make use of analogies like these to enlarge my conceptions of colours. some analogies which i draw between qualities in surface and vibration, taste and smell, are drawn by others between sight, hearing, and touch. this fact encourages me to persevere, to try and bridge the gap between the eye and the hand.

certainly i get far enough to sympathize with the delight that my kind feel in beauty they see and harmony they hear. this bond between humanity and me is worth keeping, even if the idea on which i base it prove erroneous.

sweet, beautiful vibrations exist for my touch, even though they travel through other substances than air to reach me. so i imagine sweet, delightful sounds, and the artistic arrangement of them which is called music, and i remember that they travel through the air to the ear, conveying impressions somewhat like mine. i also know what tones are, since they are perceptible tactually in a voice. now, heat varies greatly in the sun, in the fire, in hands, and in the fur of animals; indeed, there is such a thing for me as a cold sun. so i think of the varieties of light that touch the eye, cold and warm, vivid and dim, soft and glaring, but always light, and i imagine their passage through the air to an extensive sense, instead of to a narrow one like touch. from the experience i have had with voices i guess how the eye distinguishes shades in the midst of light. while i read the lips of a woman whose voice is soprano, i note a low tone or a glad tone in the midst of a high, flowing voice. when i feel my cheeks hot, i know that i am red. i have talked so much and read so much about colours that through no will of my own i attach meanings to them, just as all people attach certain meanings to abstract terms like hope, idealism, monotheism, intellect, which cannot be represented truly by visible objects, but which are understood from analogies between immaterial concepts and the ideas they awaken of external things. the force of association drives me to say that white is exalted and pure, green is exuberant, red suggests love or shame or strength. without the colour or its equivalent, life to me would be dark, barren, a vast blackness.

thus through an inner law of completeness my thoughts are not permitted to remain colourless. it strains my mind to separate colour and sound from objects. since my education began i have always had things described to me with their colours and sounds by one with keen senses and a fine feeling for the significant. therefore i habitually think of things as coloured and resonant. habit accounts for part. the soul sense accounts for another part. the brain with its five-sensed construction asserts its right and accounts for the rest. inclusive of all, the unity of the world demands that colour be kept in it, whether i have cognizance of it or not. rather than be shut out, i take part in it by discussing it, imagining it, happy in the happiness of those near me who gaze at the lovely hues of the sunset or the rainbow.

my hand has its share in this multiple knowledge, but it must never be forgotten that with the fingers i see only a very small portion of a surface, and that i must pass my hand continually over it before my touch grasps the whole. it is still more important, however, to remember that my imagination is not tethered to certain points, locations, and distances. it puts all the parts together simultaneously as if it saw or knew instead of feeling them. though i feel only a small part of my horse at a time,—my horse is nervous and does not submit to manual explorations,—yet, because i have many times felt hock, nose, hoof and mane, i can see the steeds of phœbus apollo coursing the heavens.

with such a power active it is impossible that my thought should be vague, indistinct. it must needs be potent, definite. this is really a corollary of the philosophical truth that the real world exists only for the mind. that is to say, i can never touch the world in its entirety; indeed, i touch less of it than the portion that others see or hear. but all creatures, all objects, pass into my brain entire, and occupy the same extent there that they do in material space. i declare that for me branched thoughts, instead of pines, wave, sway, rustle, make musical the ridges of mountains rising summit upon summit. mention a rose too far away for me to smell it. straightway a scent steals into my nostril, a form presses against my palm in all its dilating softness, with rounded petals, slightly curled edges, curving stem, leaves drooping. when i would fain view the world as a whole, it rushes into vision—man, beast, bird, reptile, fly, sky, ocean, mountains, plain, rock, pebble. the warmth of life, the reality of creation is over all—the throb of human hands, glossiness of fur, lithe windings of long bodies, poignant buzzing of insects, the ruggedness of the steeps as i climb them, the liquid mobility and boom of waves upon the rocks. strange to say, try as i may, i cannot force my touch to pervade this universe in all directions. the moment i try, the whole vanishes; only small objects or narrow portions of a surface, mere touch-signs, a chaos of things scattered[138] at random, remain. no thrill, no delight is excited thereby. restore to the artistic, comprehensive internal sense its rightful domain, and you give me joy which best proves the reality.