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tes crossed by thunderous
tones in the 〃Walkuere;〃 where _Wotan_ kindles the dread flames that
guard the sleeping _Brunhild_。 How wonderful is the instrument on which
a great musician sings with his hands! I have never succeeded in
distinguishing one position from another。 I think this is impossible;
but the concentration and strain upon my attention would be so great
that I doubt if the pleasure derived would be mensurate to the
effort。
Nor can I distinguish easily a tune that is sung。 But by placing my hand
on another's throat and cheek; I enjoy the changes of the voice。 I know
when it is low or high; clear or muffled; sad or cheery。 The thin;
quavering sensation of an old voice differs in my touch from the
sensation of a young voice。 A Southerner's drawl is quite unlike the
Yankee twang。 Sometimes the flow and ebb of a voice is so enchanting
that my fingers quiver with exquisite pleasure; even if I do not
understand a word that is spoken。
On the other hand; I am exceedingly sensitive to the harshness of noises
like grinding; scraping; and the hoarse creak of rusty locks。
Fog…whistles are my vibratory nightmares。 I have stood near a bridge in
process of construction; and felt the tactual din; the rattle of heavy
masses of stone; the roll of loosened earth; the rumble of engines; the
dumping of dirt…cars; the triple blows of vulca