a work of the same kind, published in the French language. I wrote to
London at once, and ordered the book.



"Wednesday.--Is there some mysterious influence, in the silent solitude
of my life, that is hardening my nature? Is there something unnatural in
the existence of a man who never hears a sound? Is there a moral sense
that suffers when a bodily sense is lost?

"These questions have been suggested to me by an incident that happened
this morning.

"Looking out of window, I saw a brutal carter, on the road before the
house, beating an over-loaded horse. A year since I should have
interfered to protect the horse, without a moment's hesitation. If the
wretch had been insolent, I should have seized his whip, and applied the
heavy handle of it to his own shoulders. In past days, I have been more
than once fined by a magistrate (privately in sympathy with my offence)
for assaults committed by me in the interests of helpless animals. What
did I feel now? Nothing but a selfish sense of uneasiness, at having been
accidentally witness of an act which disturbed my composure. I turned
away, regretting that I had gone to the window and looked out.

"This was not an agreeable train of thought to follow. What could I do? I
was answered by the impulse which commands me to paint.

"I sharpened my pencils, and opened my box of colors, and determined to
produce a work of art. To my astonishment, the brutal figure of the
carter forced its way into my memory again and again. It (without in the