Perhaps the most peculiar sensation in all our affliction comes when we sit in a room where skilled musicians are playing, and observe the effect of sound upon our companions. They are moved to laughter or tears. Their eyes brighten, their hands are clenched, or are beating time to the music; their faces flush as waves of emotion sweep over them. To us it seems most commonplace. We can merely see nimble fingers dancing over the piano keys or touching the strings of the violin. Perhaps we see the singer opening and shutting her mouth—much as she would eat her food—and this is all we know. The mechanical processes may even be grotesque. So far as any effect upon our emotions may be considered, the flying fingers might as well be sewing or knitting, the mouth might be talking the ordinary platitudes of conversation. The thrill is not for us. Large audiences rise while “America” is being sung or played—men and women listen with bowed heads. I stand up with them, but I hear no sound. I feel a thrill—for it is _my_ country, too; yet can I be blamed for feeling that life has denied me the power to be as deeply stirred with that great emotion, and has given me no substitute? The mighty charms which may “soften rocks or bend the knotted oak” are made powerless by the little bones which have grown together inside my ear, and they are the smallest bones in the body. I have talked with deaf persons about their conception of heaven. What will be the physical sensation when what we call “life” is finally stolen away? I have given much thought to that. Most deaf people tell me without hesitation that, according to their great hope and belief, some great burst of music will suddenly be borne in upon them when: “The casement slowly grows a glimmering square.” They can conceive of no greater joy or reward; no existence more sublime than that which is filled with the noblest music.