eir own loss, their own loneliness, are perpetually with them. So
their emotions go round and round in a vicious circle, from which there
is no possible escape. Never, never can they _give_. They have so
little to offer but love and gratitude. But, although gratitude is so
beautiful and so rare, it is not an emotion that we yearn to feel
always and always. We want to give, to be thanked ourselves, to cheer,
to succour, to do some little good ourselves while yet we may. There
is a joy in _giving_ generously, just as there is in _receiving_
generously. Yet, there are many moments in each man's life when no
gift can numb the dull ache of the inevitable, when nothing, except
getting away--somewhere, somehow, and immediately--can stifle the
unspoken pain which comes to all of us and which in not every instance
can we so easily cast off. Some men travel; some men go out into the
world to lose their own trouble in administering to the trouble of
other people; some find forgetfulness in work--hard, strenuous labour;
most of us--especially when our trouble be not overwhelming--find
solace in art, or music, and especially in books. For books take one
suddenly into another world, among other men and women; and sometimes
in the problem of their lives we may find a solution of our own trials,
and be helped, encouraged, restarted on our way by them. I thought of
these things the other day when I was asked to visit the National
Library for the Blind in Tufton Street, Westminster. It is hidden away
in a side street, but the good work it does is spread all over the
world. And, as I wandered round this large building and examined the
thousands of books--classic as well as quite recent works--I thought to
myself, "How the blind must appreciate this blessing!" And from that I
began to realise once more how those who cannot see depend so greatly
on books--that means of "forgetting" which you and I pass by so
casually. For _we_ can seek diversion in a score of ways, but _they_,
the blind, have so few, so very few means of escape. Wherever they go,
they never find a change of scene--merely the sounds alter, that is
all. But in books they can suddenly find a new world--a world which
_they can see_.

_Dreams_

I can remember talking once to a blinded soldier about dreams. I have
often wondered what kind of dreams blind people--those who have been
blind from birth, I mean--dream, what kind of scenes their vision
pictures