Page:Poet Lore, volume 4, 1892.djvu/643

 upon human life? Which of us can step forward and show that a single life he has destroyed ever revived? Still we look on at fearful mutual murders,—quick, by means of force, or slow, by means of enervating toil and suffering.”

My friend paused as though he was going to rest for a time. Not the least whisper disturbed the dead stillness. It was evident that the speaker tried to suppress his thoughts rather than give them free play; and for this very reason his discourse made a favorable impression upon those present.

After a few moments he proceeded,—

“Neither I nor anybody else could return life to a dead body. All my art is based on quickness, and in everything I rely upon the relative slowness of thought. It is generally supposed that there is nothing faster than thought. This is a mistaken notion. Figures—those cold, merciless, but most sincere friends of reasoning—have proved the contrary. It has been ascertained that compared with the velocity of light and electricity, the velocity of thought is astonishingly small. If I touch the skin of an adult’s leg, it takes no less than about one third of a second before the sensation is reported by the spinal cord to the brain,—the central organ of consciousness; whereas in the same time light will travel over more than fourteen thousand geographical miles; electricity, conducted by a copper wire, nearly thirty-one thousand miles. Just as slowly as the sensation of touch passes through the spine, every notion evidently passes through the brain.”

Again he paused for a short time.

I must confess that up to this time I had no idea what kind of an experiment he was going to perform. His disconnected talk excited my curiosity; but mentally I had already joined those who asked for an immediate performance of the experiment. Notwithstanding this, I was unwilling to interrupt, and so kept silence.

“Along with all his other knowledge the modern man also knows how to declaim beautifully upon immortality, although he realizes too well that his final inevitable lot is oblivion. Truly he has ever been and is endeavoring with all his power to save a picture of himself or a scene for his descendants; but art in all its phases