Part 7
I repeat that, to obtain a pure sound, the _thought_ underlying such sound or sounds must be _purely, clearly defined_. We cannot obtain a clear impression from a seal whose engraving is blurred, or when the sealing-wax is not in a proper condition of softness, or when the hand is not steady which makes the impression. The same conditions prevail with vocal utterance. Thought makes the impression; the æther, passing through its narrowed passages at a rate as swift as thought, creates the sound. The impression is made as _thought_ progresses, the expression as _sound_ progresses. While the _impression is thoughtful, the expression is thoughtless_. While we think for a sound during the impression, we do not think for it during its expression; _but we think, during the latter, for the next sound_. If this were not the case, consecutive speech would be a matter of impossibility. The artist's thought is embodied in the creation of the model for his statue from which a mould is made. The casting of the statue, equal to its expression, is mechanical, thoughtless.
In this connection the brain is of the same order as the tablets of the phonograph. For ordinary use, however, the lines engraved upon it are evanescent; they disappear again with the sound or thought which releases them. Impressions, however, of a deeper nature remain--some forever. The thought or sounds they represent, the same as the lines on the tablets of the phonograph, are released but for the time being and while such thought and sounds (through association) are recalled to memory. The thought and sounds are evanescent, but the lines which represent them remain for further use, the same as the lines on the tablets of the phonograph and the strings of a musical instrument. If we could read aright the lines which the voice makes on the tablets of the phonograph or on the negative plates of the photographer, we would obtain a correct insight into their character. These studies, when fully developed, may lead to a comprehension of these hieroglyphics, the same as the Greek translation on the Rosetta stone furnished the cue to the comprehension of the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian monuments.
STUTTERING, STAMMERING
What is all this I am writing?
It is an endeavor at giving expression to an impression obtained of a great subject imperfectly understood. The general ideas underlying it all are on the lines of truth, but the contours are evanescent, the lines representing special features ill-defined, while the finer shadings are almost entirely wanting. It is a stuttering, a stammering, in matters my mind is too narrow to grasp, incapable of comprehending in all their bearings, impotent to take in in their ultimate relations. Still, I am doing what I can with such material as nature has placed at my disposal. Thought failing to make a clear impression, my pen, I fear, cannot give a clear expression to it all.
Regarding the subject of stuttering proper, I must still preface it with some remarks of a general nature. The influx and efflux of streams of air into and out of our system, called breathing, is of a very complicated nature. While we designate the same by the general terms of inspiration and expiration, these streams are of as multiform a nature as the ethereal fabrics they are intended to weave, whose weft they form, and whose warp is of a more material nature. Call these fabrics what you please--actions, speech, feelings, passions, fancies, sensations, etc. While these streams form innumerable separate systems, they are all subject to one and the same law--rhythm. The more perfect the rhythm the higher the development and consequent performance.
While we always breathe, or should breathe, in the same rhythmic order (the octave) for the sustenance of life in general, we unconsciously breathe in various other measures for an endless number of other purposes. Our dual nature, and the duality of the manner in which we breathe, as a rule enable us to go through these various performances without a disturbance as to the harmonious character of our existence. It is a great orchestral performance by instruments of various kinds and orders, each performer playing his own notes, specially adapted to his particular part and instrument; yet all coming together in one harmonious _ensemble_. This fact finds expression, clearly defined, in the various measures in which metre and rhythm are clad for poetry and song. The introduction into our system of a rhythmic flow of streams of air for the various purposes of vocal utterance is conditioned upon a rhythmic flow of thought.
To perfectly render a poetical conception by words either spoken or sung, the performer's _mind_ must be in accord with the rhythm underlying such conception. In that case only will he breathe and, consequently, speak or sing in the requisite manner for such production. I should have prefaced all this by saying that, in the same manner as inspiration and expiration succeed each other in regular rotation, so do the ordinary measures of long and short (¯˘), or short and long (˘¯), in simple forms of poetry, succeed each other in regular rotation; long (¯), or stress, always standing for expiration, short (˘), or repose, for inspiration. _As a matter of fact, however, inspiration is of longer duration than expiration._
All other forms are artistic, and are produced by a mode of thinking, and consequent breathing, as variable as the subject may suggest or demand. For ordinary speech, while the rhythm is not of the same order as that for poetry, a rhythmic order of some kind must be, and always is, observed. That the rhythm is not noticeable is due to the fact that, while inspiration and expiration in prose writing and ordinary conversation follow each other in regular rotation, they are not always accompanied by sound. Hence the rhythmic irregularities of speech exist only in appearance and in the inartistic manner in which speech is generally, and prose writing often, produced. A person who speaks and writes his language _well_, speaks and writes it rhythmically, always. Good style is synonymous with correct rhythmical expression, superinduced by correct breathing; rhythmic expression depending entirely upon rhythmic impression, and the latter upon rhythmic thought, accompanied by rhythmic breathing.
To write well (that is, a good style), to speak well (as an orator, actor, or elocutionist), to sing well, it is, above all things, necessary that the performer's mind should be in a state of conformity with the situation which is to be described. His flow of thought, and consequent breathing and mode of expression, will then correspond with the scope, drift, and circumstance underlying his performance. Unless this is the case, the latter will be unsatisfactory, unimpressive, unsympathetic. To prove that for a satisfactory performance this _must_ be the case, it will but be necessary to call attention to the fact that under various emotions our mode of breathing undergoes great changes--as under fear, hate, jealousy, indignation, excitement, love, enthusiasm, benevolence, languor, apathy, etc. Our breathing under these different circumstances will, the same as the manner of our expression, undergo various stages of change as to time and measure, as well as to rhythm, emphasis and intonation.
The character and rapidity of the flow of our blood is of the same order as our manner of breathing. It is, in fact, as I expect to prove later on, not only of the same order, but of the same origin and regulated by the same causes. The flow of the blood is not merely of a material order, but of a spiritual one as well. While it is acted upon by the mind it reacts upon the mind.
The thought must be measured and restricted as to time, so as to enable it to make the proper impression and produce a corresponding expression _before_ another thought comes along crowding in upon the preceding one and in so doing _blurring_ the impression made by the latter before it had been given the time to be expressed. If the necessary time is not granted for an impression to be made and for the expression thereof to obliterate the same, the premature flow of another thought, coming on top of the first, will make a new impression over the previous one, causing confusion and making a clear expression a matter of impossibility. Unless our professor, while standing in front of his blackboard demonstrating before his class, has a sponge in his hand, and before again writing in the same place wipes out that which he had written before, the new writing will not be of such a nature that it can be understood. The slate endures; but the thought and the writing are always new. Yet, when such writing is of an _impressive_ nature, it is like that of a palimpsest; though apparently obliterated, its lines remain, and their meaning can be recalled to memory as often as the occasion may demand it.
The "muddle" of which I have spoken is oftentimes so great that no sound of any kind can ensue, the rhythmic flow of sound-producing streams having been disturbed and prevented from assuming the necessary shape for their formation into proper sound-waves by this hasty mode of thinking. The consequence is a hiatus in the natural flow of speech, which prevents the thought from materializing in the shape of the word intended to be spoken. This hiatus the victim of such precipitate mode of thinking generally attempts to bridge over by spasmodic efforts, which but serve to aggravate the situation, increasing, as they do, the disorder in the sound-producing lines.
Stuttering being caused by a disorder in these lines, the remedy is to again restore them to order. The disorder having been caused by a too hasty mode of thinking, superinduced, as a rule, by a desire _not_ to stutter, or a _fear_ of stuttering, the remedy lies in allaying this fear. The fear of stuttering, or the anxiety not to stutter, which obtains while the speaker is producing thought, _itself being thought_, and coming on top of the thought intended to be uttered, brings about, or at least aggravates, the very difficulty he was trying to overcome. Mere thought may wander off and again return to its theme, unrestrained, and without causing disturbance; but thought which is to be _vocally_ uttered must strictly adhere to its subject. There is no impression to be made by the former which must remain until it is released by vocal sound; impression and expression being almost simultaneous. In place of making a spasmodic effort, therefore, the stutterer should endeavor to be calm, and to then calmly _think_ the word or sentence over again which has become a stumbling-block in his way. After doing so, he will have no trouble uttering it.
The fact that stutterers experience no difficulty in singing is a proof of the correctness of these assertions. While singing, the performer's streams of life and organs of speech are all _tuned_ to one harmonious measure. His frame of mind being securely in accord with his theme, his thought, devoid of fear, flows evenly along with his song. There is no occasion for haste or trepidation in this instance,--there cannot be, haste being the opposite to and the enemy of harmony, the latter meaning a continuous return of the same measure and the same mode of breathing, the former irregularity and disorder in the mode of breathing.
Besides, song, belonging to the pharynx, is spiritual; it is of our inner nature, and therefore restful and continuous. While speech, which belongs to the oral cavity, is material; it is of our outer nature, and therefore subject to every impression, influence, and consequent change. Elocution, declamation, or recitation, on the other hand, partake of both our inner and our outer nature. They belong in part to the pharynx and in part to the oral cavity.
Experiments may be made by means of making these respective parts rigid which will establish the correctness of these assertions.
These experiments can also be made by the application of mechanical pressure. When pressing your hand or fingers against your throat you will be unable to speak, though it will not prevent you from singing. By pressing them against the back of your neck you will be unable to sing, though you may speak. By pressing them against either side of your neck you will be unable to recite, though you may both speak and sing. The slightest pressure, even, will produce these results. Let me remark, however, that unless the _thought_ of the performance accompanies it, a mere mechanical pressure will not suffice.
That _thought_, improperly exercised, is the cause of stuttering or stammering, obtains from the fact, that the utterance of the singer, elocutionist or actor, being a matter of memory, and not of original thought, is _not_ subject to these troubles; though the utterance of the same persons while speaking, and in so doing, _thinking_, may be subject thereto.
Not appreciating its significance, I used to laugh with everybody else at the anecdote of a stuttering boy in an apothecary shop, who had been sent down after some article in the cellar. Returning, pale, trembling, and _stammering_, his master cried out, "Sing, sing!" whereupon he delivered himself thus:
"Der spiritus im keller brennt, Und alles steht in flammen." ("The spirits, master, are aflame, And all things are a-burning.")
In a recent number of _Cosmopolis_, Prof. Max Müller said:
"Charles Kingsley was a great martyr to stammering, and it was torture to him to keep conversation waiting until he could put his thoughts into words. Singularly enough, at church, Kingsley did not stammer at all in reading or speaking; but on his way home from church he would say to one with whom he was walking: 'Oh, let me stammer now; you won't mind it!'"
While his thoughts were concentrated on his subject, which had probably been elaborated beforehand and was expressed in rhythmic language, besides being obliged to speak slowly and deliberately so as to be heard and understood, he experienced no difficulty. Still, he was under a restraint. As soon as he was by himself again, he commenced to think impulsively, as probably was his habit, and gave vent to a torrent of thoughts, which overleaped each other like waters rushing through a broken dam.
There are two main forms in which this trouble manifests itself. The one is a surfeit, a crowding together of sounds, all of which want to come to the surface at one and the same time, like a crowd of people during a panic trying to rush out through the same door, thus causing a jam. This form, creating a hiatus in vocal utterance, is generally designated by the term "stammering." That which is called "stuttering," on the other hand, consisting, as it does, in a repetition of the same sound, is due to the opposite cause. While the former is due to too great an effort, this is due to a paucity of effort. The sound-furnishing element is not under control; it leaks out against the will, it runs away with you. Hence a repetition of the form once assumed, in consequence of a lack of nerve force, of a rein to keep it in check, of a brake preventing it from rushing down-hill with you; in contradistinction to the act of stammering, in which the brake had been too forcibly applied, the watch wound up too firmly and beyond its requirements.
In the case of stammering the impression has been too quick in shaping itself into words; in the other it has been too slow in so doing. In the former case too many moulds have been formed for proper impression; while in the latter the sound is spoken before the mould has been properly and _completely_ formed; that part only which had been formed being uttered and repeated. In the case of stammering there is a surfeit of impression but a want of sound; in that of stuttering there is a want of impression but a surfeit of sound. A stammerer is one who takes in too much, a stutterer one who takes in too little, air for his hasty way of thinking.
When this trouble happens with one and the same person--as it sometimes does--it first assumes one shape and then the other; it turns a complete somersault in so doing. The balance, the equilibrium, the point of gravitation, previously overleaped on one side, is again overleaped, and the person lands on its extreme other side. While a stammerer he had too much ballast on board, now he has too little.
A stammerer can return to the point of gravitation by throwing some of his surplus ballast overboard. _His tongue being tied to his lower jaw, in which position he is constantly taking in more air than he needs, he must raise it in order to let the surplus out from beneath the same._
A stutterer, whose tongue is running away with him, owing to an insufficiency of ballast, must take in enough (inspire sufficiently) to bring him back to his point of gravitation. _His tongue is in a loose state of elevation, in which position the air is constantly streaming out (expiring) from beneath the same._ He must _lower_ it to have _his_ balance restored, as in so doing the air will stream in over and above the tongue until the equilibrium has been restored. In other words, the person who is thus agitated must calm himself, he must relax from an overstrain in either one direction or the other. The diaphragm, holding the balance of power, will be found to be in as uncontrollable a condition as the tongue, _with which it always acts in unison_. In restoring the tongue to a normal condition we restore the diaphragm to a normal condition.
The institutions for the cure of stuttering, stammering, and intermediate stages of the same trouble, attempt to bring about a state of restoration of the disturbed balance by means arrived at through experience. The real cause being unknown, the remedies must necessarily be restricted. If persons thus afflicted will take their own cases in hand and treat them in conformity with the precepts here laid down, the chances are in favor of their being cured where no other remedy had been of any avail.
As the preceding remarks have been made from the point of view of an English-speaking person, the standpoint of a German being diametrically opposite, the same must all be reversed to fit the case of a German, in so far as locality is concerned. _For stammering, the tongue of a German is closely wedged in, in the direction of the roof of the mouth; for stuttering, it is loosely pointing downward._ This is owing to the fact that a German inspires from under and beneath, and expires from over and above, his tongue; just the reverse of the manner in which this is done by an English-speaking person.
In order to efficiently cure the trouble of stuttering, it is necessary that the act of breathing and sound-production should be closely studied with every separate nationality, as these processes differ with all nationalities; this difference being very pronounced as between Germans and Anglo-Saxons. For an American to go to Germany, therefore, to be cured of this trouble, is as false a step as for a German to go to the United States or England for this purpose.
While I have in the preceding endeavored to give an account of the general causes which result in stuttering, I have not touched upon such special causes as are directly connected with the character and origin of vocal sounds; the explanation of which must be postponed to a future period.
THE CATHODE OF A VOCAL SOUND
By an accident, in some respects not unlike the one which drew Roentgen's attention to the light by whose aid we have learned to look into and through opaque bodies, I (myself an accident, an appearance on and soon to be a disappearance from the illuminated surface of the earth) have discovered eternal laws, by whose aid we shall be able to comprehend much of what has heretofore been as a closed book to us, regarding our physical and psychical nature and the exercise of our faculties and functions.
During my endeavors to overcome the difficulties which my German tongue offered to the perfect pronunciation of the English "r" sound, and during an almost frantic effort on one occasion at so doing, I was amazed by the fact that while one "r" came to the surface from over and above the tongue, another made its appearance from under and beneath the same. The latter was the "r" of the voice of the œsophagus. Of all this, however, I have spoken at length in my previous publication.
Though it occurred to me at once like a flash that this was a revelation of the greatest importance, its real significance was only made clear to me in the course of time. No matter how I view it, as time progresses it assumes greater and greater proportions. There is no event in the history of man which appears to me to be of greater significance. Through this "accident" I was induced to look closer and closer into my inner nature, where, to my amazement, I found that a world, apparently silent and mysterious, and supposed to be unapproachable, was the abode of numberless physical and psychical phenomena, clearly defined and definable.
The "r" which came to the surface from beneath my tongue by way of the œsophagus was the cathode, the negative end of this sound. The _product_ of its combination with the _simple_ "r" (which came to the surface from over and above the tongue by way of the trachea) I had hitherto produced when attempting to speak English, was the _vocal_ "r" sound of the English language; the "r" I had hitherto produced having been the anode--the positive and first part of this sound only. As Roentgen's cathodic light has illuminated the physical body, so have cathodic sounds illumined for me the spiritual body of my mundane existence. I am endeavoring to show my fellowmen this "new light," whose lustre, also invisible on ordinary occasions, when once seen is so great that it will never again fade from the memory of the beholder. As time progresses, it will continue to penetrate ever more deeply into regions hitherto considered to be impervious to any kind of light; regions whose phenomena have been called supernatural, or, at least, beyond the sphere of the knowledge of man. All other anodes or cathodes of which we have obtained any knowledge belong to physical phenomena only. The cathode I have discovered belongs to our spiritual life, being a part of a living vocal sound.
Think of it! To be able to divide the essence of life and to obtain two _living_ parts, each endowed with a life of its own! This is a nearer approach to the knowledge of life than any ever attained before. A _vocal_ sound is an entity. From entities we cannot learn anything. They are phenomena complete in themselves. Regarding their innermost nature, they have always been to us as a closed book. They offer us no vantage-ground; no opening, no breach, through which we can enter into the mysterious process of their existence. No matter whether such life or existence be that of the minutest parasite of a minute vegetable growth, that growth itself, or the giant of the forest; whether it be that of a microbe or the microbe of a microbe; whether it be the essence of a thought, a sigh, a tear, a look, a vocal sound, or of a human being--their innermost natures are all alike mysterious to us. I have succeeded in analyzing a vocal sound, and this apparently simple proceeding has opened up to me endless vistas in endless directions. I have reduced this entity into its natural elements, and have again put these together. After resolving it into two lives I have again formed it into one. I can bring about this analysis as well as this synthesis at will at any time.