In his education there were some marked
stages which it is highly interesting and
important to know of. His enterprising and
benevolent teacher, M. Hirzel, taught him
words, by means of raised print—beginning,
of course, with nouns. He was made to
touch a file, and the word file (in French);
and the word was given him now in larger
and now in smaller letters, that he might find
out that it was the shape of the letters, and
not the size that was important.

The next word given was saw, and a saw—
a thing he was familiar with—was put into
his hand. Then came the discovery—during
the fourth lesson. His face lighted up. He
had found it out! He showed everybody
that the one word meant a saw, and the other
a file; and it was some days before he recovered
his composure. He now went to his lessons
with pleasure, and began to want to know
the printed names of things, and to like to
pick out from the case the letters composing
those he knew. It was a joke of his to put
together the letters at random, and ask what
they meant. Such were his early lessons.
His favourite amusement was at the turning-
lathe, where he became so expert that he
quizzed the new pupils (all blind) for any
irregularity in their work: plaiting straw,
or whatever it might be.

The indefatigable teacher actually thought
he would try to teach him to speak. To
speak! A person totally deaf and blind!
How could it be set about? It was
accomplished, with infinite trouble, in which the
teacher was sustained by the hope of
success, and the pupil by the only inducement
found strong enough—the promise of cigars
—a luxury which, we trust, no one will think
of grudging to a creature so bereaved. By feeling
the teacher's breath, his chest, his throat,
his lips, and by having his own mouth put
into the proper form for the vowels, by prisms
and rings of different sizes, the art of articulation
was learned; and it brought on the
next great event in Edward's experience.
Being taught the easy name (Arni) of one of
the blind pupils, he found that that boy
always came to him when he called the
name. He found that he could communicate
with people at a distance by means of speech,
and now knew what speech was for. No
doubt Arni was wanted very often indeed,
till more names were learned; and probably
Arni was glad when the others had their
turn to be called. This happened soon, for
Edward now spoke a good deal, uttering
aloud, of his own accord, the words he learned
to read. He went on pretty easily through
"The mason makes the wall," "The baker
makes the bread," and so forth, and to know
that the word wall may mean walls in general;
and it was not very difficult to teach him
"To-day," "Yesterday," and "To-morrow."
By that time, the third great event was at
hand. The weather, from being very cold,
had become mild, and Edward's tutor took
him out to feel the buds, leaves, and blossoms
of plants, and made him observe the warmth
of the sunshine, and that there was no snow,
and gave him the name "Spring," and then
taught him, "Leaves come out in spring." He
caught a glimpse of the use of the abstract
term, and in great agitation turned the phrase
to "In spring, leaves come out." He looked
brighter than ever when, he said with his
fingers that "One word means many things,"
and he actually capered with joy. It was
curious to watch his apprehension of another
abstraction. He told a falsehood once,—said
he had had no wine, when the housekeeper
had given him a glass, pleading that she
ought to have been questioned and blamed, as
she gave him the wine. Great pains were
taken to impress him with the meaning and
consciousness of the lie; but it was uncertain
with what effect. A few days after, the
pupils told him at bed time that there was
snow. In the morning, he went out to
ascertain for himself, being fond of verifying
statements. The snow was melted; where-
upon he cried out very loud, "Lie! no snow."
Thus it was clear enough that he knew his
fault, and the name of it.

The fourth great event was the clear
formation of the religious ideas that were
presented to him; and this kind of teaching
began as soon as the affair of the lie showed
him to be capable of moral training. It is
probable that his recollections of light and
all the beauties that it reveals determined
his first superstition. While strongly disposed
to fetishism, in general—venerating the wind,
for instance, because it was not tired after blowing
strongly for several days,—his particular
disposition was to worship the sun. The first
religious sentiment that he expressed was
that it does not do to shake one's fist at the
sun. He was deeply impressed, when told
by his companions, that the Maker of the sun
was like a man, only so wise and powerful
as men cannot imagine. As a necessary
consequence of this way of teaching him, he
was uneasy about what might become of
everything when God was asleep. To remedy
this, his teacher took him quietly round the
house when the inmates were asleep, and
made him softly touch their heads, and told
him (by the finger speech) that they were
now as if they were dead, being unable to
think: whereas, God was always thinking.
He now, of course, took up the idea that the
dead could dream; but he became deeply
impressed with the dignity of being able to
think. When he wanted to play with the
pupils whom he found at prayers, and then
to know why they joined their hands, he was
told that they prayed, and that praying was
thinking of God. It was after this that his
teacher heard that strange and heart-moving
sound from the dark bed-side, the loud uncouth
voice saying over and over, "I am
thinking of God!" One consequence of his
new notion of the dignity of thought was his