France in eighteen hundred and two

The Abbé Sicard[1] is a man who, as a classical, humane and scientific instructor of the deaf and dumb, inspires the liveliest emotions of admiration and respect. I was present at one of his lectures. The abbé commenced by explaining the cause of dumbness to be the privation of hearing (which precludes the possibility of imitating sounds)—and not any absolute defect in the organ or instrument of speech. Such have been the labours of the immortal Abbé de l’Epée and his successor, the Abbé Sicard, that they have actually taught deaf and dumb persons how to communicate by speech, as well as signs, with the rest of humanity.

They have taught some to pronounce aloud any sentence written for them. This pronunciation is the effect of a compelled mechanical utterance, produced by the abbé placing his lips and mouth in certain positions and appearing to the scholar to make certain motions, which motions necessarily bring forth a sound more or less like that required.

The degree of force which it is necessary the scholar should apply to pronounce distinctly any word is regulated by the abbé pressing his arm gently, moderately or strongly.

I attended a lecture at which the Abbé Sicard showed to an audience the first mode of communication with the deaf and dumb. A boy about thirteen years of age, whom the abbé had not even seen, was sent out of the institution. A sheet of paper was brought on which were painted many of the most common objects, such as a horse, a carriage, a bird, a tree, and so on. Upon the abbé pointing these pictures out to the boy, the latter appeared delighted to show by signs that he fully comprehended the representation. These signs, attentively observed by the abbé, formed the basis of future conversation. To prove that speech is merely a matter of imitation, the abbé produced a girl about seventeen years old, who had lost her hearing at the age of six. She had, therefore, acquired a small vocabulary of words and ideas such as might be expected from a child of six years of age. Her mode of enunciation was that of a young child. She pronounced “chat” “sa.” There had been a dog in the house where she passed her infancy, whose name was Toutou—she remembered the word and called every dog Toutou. This girl was a curious instance of the primary effects of education.

At this lecture the abbé stated a curious occurrence. He was once told that a blind man, on being asked to describe the sound of a trumpet, said he believed it to be of a red colour. He himself asked one of his deaf and dumb pupils to define his idea of scarlet, the pupil immediately replied: “The blast of a horn.”

As soon as the lecture was ended, our party proceeded to the top of the building in order to take a peep at the “Sauvage d’Aveyron.” When M. P——, the gentleman who introduced us to Abbé Sicard, made the proposal I was not aware that he was going to show us anything human. Accordingly I followed close at his heels, and after I had entered the room, perceiving only a man, a woman and a boy, I inquired for the savage. “This is he,” said M. P——, pointing to the boy, “Kiss him.” And without waiting for me to recover myself, he actually pushed me on to the lad, and in this attitude of kissing I was discovered when the ladies entered the apartment, the little savage holding me at the same time by the arms. I was not a little confused at this involuntary fraternal buss, which I was obliged to make, and which has been ever since a subject of merriment.

However, the savage no sooner saw ladies at the door than he sprang from me, went to the window, and, after looking out for a few moments, turned suddenly round and moved (for it could not be called walking) very fast up and down the room, without seeming to pay them the least attention.

I had by this time recovered myself, and grasped him firmly by the arm; but he took no manner of notice of me. He had a vacant countenance, but not an idiotic one. He broke out in a most extraordinary manner, however, a few minutes later, stamping with both his feet, rolling his body from side to side, and howling in a strange and dreadful tone.

This savage phenomenon was found in the forest of Aveyron, and here his history begins and ends. During the two years of his captivity he has not made any progress in knowledge or speech, and though in the possession of his senses he does not seem to have a human idea.

Civil society has no charm for him, and nothing has been known to attract his attention. Every effort has been made to impress him with some kind of sentiment. A good deal has been published respecting this “child of nature,” as he has been foolishly nicknamed by the Parisian wits; and the wretched condition of his mind has furnished several philosophists with arguments in which they have attempted to reason away the understanding and virtue of mankind. But this is a ridiculous mode of reasoning, and what Dr. Paley[1] has said in his Elements of Moral Philosophy, respecting Peter the Wild Boy of Germany, may be applied with equal force to the Wild Boy of France.

The conversations into which I have been led in consequence of my visit to this young savage have been very interesting, chiefly because they were carried on with avowed atheists, members of the National Institute. It is really astonishing to what extremities they push their subtle sophisms; and while they affect to discard everything that is not material and appurtenant to this globe, they are continually soaring extra flammentia mœnia mundi.

In a solemn discussion I had the other day with a man who is considered one of the first natural philosophers in the world, he told me gravely that Lagrange, Lacroix and several members of the Institute had sent a German to the interior of Africa to request he would make the experiment of uniting an ourang outang to a negro woman, and that he looked forward with eager expectation to the result of these nuptials!

Such a project is worthy of the philosophers of the National Institute.