“Logic is logic. That’s what I say.”—O. W. H.
My husband, always so loving, so bonny and practical, has become sober and long-faced, no shadow of a smile. No hop, skip and jump, like Saucy Mae. Even she he passes absent-minded. If she pulls his sleeve, he does not heed, so she follows him around to find what the matter is. As she makes a body-guard, I leave her to watch him.
He has just come out of Savant’s room, absorbed in some papers, he carefully carries in his hand, assorting them as he noiselessly walks along, the genius behind failing to get a peep at their contents. Hearing me approach, he hastens to conceal them in the shrubbery, disappearing himself.
Saucy having lost him, takes up with me, and we run out and up the street, looking in at various places. Seeing familiar faces in a crowd at an opera house, we join them.
Seeing us, the crowd gives way, and gets up in front, where we become the cynosure of the audience (the performance not having commenced), who look from us to the stage, as if in connection, enigmatical to us.
Puzzled no longer, we see Charley come out and take position as speaker.
Our mouths as well as eyes open in wonder. What will happen next?
With preoccupied bearing, he explains our discovery of iron, that raised man from savagery to civilization, builds ships and houses. It was well we were before him and appreciated his discourse (the home reminiscence starts the old pain) for the audience do not understand a word he says, but connecting his gestures, they oddly imitate the latter.
He turns to us and changes to an abstruse subject, not at all congenial to him.
“Americans concede three natures to man and five senses. I will show him to possess seven natures, each represented by a sense.” We are quite attentive. “Touch, first, by his palm, denoting his acquiring nature.” I clap my hands. “Taste, second, by his tongue, denoting his sustenance nature.” I muse to myself, do we kiss because we are cannibals, and would like to eat the one we kiss?
“Social, third, by his lips, denoting his impress nature.” O yes, that is why we kiss. “Vibrative, fourth, his ear, denoting his emotional nature.” I think him quite a phrenologist. Mae is some dazed. “Atmospheric, fifth, by his nose, denoting his steam nature.” Mae sends up a prolonged shout.
“Solar, sixth, by his eyes, denoting his mental nature.” I shake my finger at him.
“Soul, by his hair, denoting electric spirit nature.” I come to my feet, raising both hands, as he proceeds.
“The hair as covering or ornament of the head has not received sufficient dignity. As telegraph lines of divine construction communes with God, raises its value.” I place my hands on each of his shoulders, as he finishes impressively.
“Above the mind, summit of senses, its own power only has revealed it even to sight.”
Remembering him coming out of Savant’s studio, I am not surprised.
But I continue the thread. Does this theory contravene the immortality of the soul, teach dissolution with the body? O, no.
The operator back of the telegraph machine does not integrate with the machine. The telegraph wires down do not signify the operator to be in the same condition.