CHAPTER XIV
EVERYDAY LIFE
"Ce que peut la vertu d'un homme ne se doit pas mesurer par ses efforts, mais par son ordinaire."—Pascal.
In January 1859 Bessie, with a younger sister, paid a ten days' visit to Fir Grove, Eversley, the home of her friend Miss Erskine. It was at this time that she became personally acquainted with Charles Kingsley. She heard him preach in his own church, and the sermon was one that she always referred to with gratitude as having helped and strengthened her.[7]
Miss Erskine remembers that Bessie walked and talked with Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley, and that they learnt to love her dearly. They quickly recognised the brave and faithful nature of the blind lady. "When you have medicine to take you drink it all up," said Charles Kingsley.[8] Never was there a truer remark.
She might, in the diary she was then keeping, have recorded many interesting incidents connected with that visit. But she merely makes a note of work done on behalf of the Association, and there is one solitary mention of Mr. Kingsley's name—"talked to Mr. Kingsley about the Museum." That she talked about the Association it is unnecessary to add, and as a proof of it we find in the spring that Mr. Kingsley asked the Rev. Llewelyn Davies either to preach or to lend his pulpit in aid of her work.
On her return to Chichester the remainder of January was spent in writing letters to ask for anecdotes concerning the blind, and in obtaining material for her proposed book.
An autograph letter soliciting patronage was written at this time to the blind King of Hanover. She tells how she first dictated, then copied it herself, and also wrote herself to enclose it to Miss Boyle, by whom it was to be forwarded. "Seems little enough," she adds, "but took a long time."
With regard to her biographies, Levy writes as follows:
"I think Mr. Taylor would lend any work he has; the best he has I think are all German. The translations which I have heard from them remind me of the efforts which have been made to discover the North-West Passage, you are continually boring through ice, and if perchance you do meet with a piece of clear water you are no sooner aware that it is such than you are hemmed in with ice again.
"If you were to write and ask him to lend you any work on the biography of the blind it would do good, but all that Germany has produced for the blind is not worth spending much time upon." He proceeds to tell her of a meeting held at St. John's Wood, and of the feeling that seemed to prevail that the institution there for the blind must either adopt "our views" or else come to the ground; and how in consequence of this the title had been changed to "The London Society for teaching the blind to read and for teaching the Blind Industrial Arts." He ends his letter, "It seems truly miraculous that in so short a space of time so much should be done with the various institutions. There is St. John's Wood, St. George's, Manchester, Bristol, Exeter, York, and Bath of which we know."
Bessie's friends heard of her proposed book on the blind with interest. Mr. Browne, the Rector of Pevensey, wrote in warm approval, and offered when in London to consult books for her at the British Museum. The late Colonel Fyers wrote from Dover Castle, enclosing an account of the life of a blind doctor, Rockliffe, of Ashley in Lincolnshire. Her brother Tom writes from Trinity College, sending notes on the life of the blind professor, Sanderson of Cambridge, who died in 1739. He speaks of a picture on the stairs of the library, of which he thinks she might make use. Her own note-book is filled with accounts of the lives of Holman, Gough, Huber, Laura Bridgman, and others. Many letters sent to her at this time have been preserved; one from a blind man, Elisha Bates, interested her greatly:—
Elisha Bates. I am thirty-three years of age. I was born at Coburn near Richmond, Yorkshire. My parents were agricultural labourers. I was born quite blind. I was always fond of horses. I used as a little boy to drive the horses in Mr. Fryer's threshing machine. I began this about nine years of age. I went daily to the ploughing fields, and although so young I was allowed to drive the horses for the ploughman. I could very early find my way about the village and to the different fields of the farmers. Up to eleven years of age I went with the other boys of the village to seek birds' nests, and often found my way to and from the neighbouring villages. I always had an excellent memory for recollecting the turns in the road and the variations of the surface, by which I was guided. I never had a stick up to this time, and up to the present time I rarely use one. I went to the Liverpool Blind Institution at twelve years of age, and learnt to read in the characters for the blind, and was taught the trade of ropemaking. I was so good in finding my way at Liverpool that I used to take charge of an old man [Hewell Kennedy] in our walking excursions. He was lame, deaf, and blind, and I used to take him about three miles up the London Road to the Old Swan Inn. I never forget a road I have once travelled over. I have no difficulty in avoiding obstacles. I think I do so from the acuteness of my hearing; I listen attentively to my footfall, and when approaching any object which may intercept my progress, even a lamp-post, I can discover a slight difference in the sound. If I have any doubt I tread a little louder, so as to satisfy my ear. I never fail in making it out. The difference in the sound is difficult to describe; but if I am near a wall or any object in my path I feel the sound to be more confined and not to extend itself as in an open space. It comes quicker to my ear. I left Liverpool at the age of seventeen and returned by railway to my native village. I remained a year at home and drove the farmer's horses. I then went to the Victoria Asylum at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where I earned 8s. a week in making ropes. I remained there until I was twenty-two years old. Whilst in Newcastle I got thoroughly acquainted with the streets, and used to take out and deliver goods in the town. I came home by the railway and stayed two or three months. I then found my way on foot and alone to Sunderland, 45 miles. I asked people on the way how to steer my course. I always learnt what turns I had to take and the distance from place to place. I could calculate very accurately the time it took me to complete any given distance, and knew exactly when I arrived at the end of it. I then found my way from Sunderland to Newcastle, some 15 miles of very busy road, and had a great many of the colliery railways to cross. I walked back from Newcastle to Colburn unattended and alone. I then, after remaining at home a short time, started for Leeds, and walked above 50 miles in two days. I am a very quick walker on a good road. I went in search of work. I went alone from Leeds to Bradford, 10 miles of very busy road. I returned home walking alone the whole way by Otley, Knaresborough, and Leming, about 50 miles. I married after my return from Newcastle and have two children. After my last journey from Bradford I settled down at Richmond. My wife never travels with me, I always go alone. At Richmond I commenced with a donkey and cart as a firewood gatherer. My wife and I gathered firewood and brought it in my cart to Richmond, and sold it to my customers. I next got a pony and larger cart, and have ever since regularly led coals from the railway station into the town. I can find my way to any house in the town and never have any assistance in driving my cart and going about. I get off and on to my cart as well as any other driver, and when it is empty I sit on my cart and drive with reins. With a load I go by the horse's head. I can tell instantly when any other vehicle is either coming towards me or coming past me in the same direction, and I turn my horse accordingly to avoid them. I never have any falls in walking alone, and never come in contact with anything when driving. I have never had any accident I groom my pony myself and go to purchase all the food it requires. I have always enjoyed good health. I have my amusements as well as work. I go angling in the River Swale with rod, and salmon roe as bait, and occasionally get a good dish of trout. I have also been a nut-gatherer, and found my way to the woods, and have gathered large quantities, which I have sold. I am fond of singing, and used to play the piano a little at Liverpool. I have not had any opportunities of doing so since. I do not always confine my leading coals to the town of Richmond; I occasionally take a load of coals or other articles, such as furniture, to a distance of 10 or 12 miles from the town. I was the other day employed with my horse and cart at Crake Hall near Bedale, 12 miles from Richmond. Of course I do all my work by myself and unattended by any one.
Richmond, 2d June 1859.
Bessie refers in her diary at this time to MSS. in a considerable "state of advance;" but the only part of her work actually completed by herself and now recoverable is the title-page. She was too closely occupied with the work done in the Euston Road to give much time to the writing of a book. In the midst of a record of her literary work we come upon such an entry as "sold two brushes." Indeed there was no time in which she would not gladly throw aside anything else in order to "sell two brushes."
Early in February she paid a short visit to friends at Ashling, in Sussex; and on the 26th of February we have the last entry in her diary. The full details of her busy life are at an end. There is no further detailed account of the interminable letters and appeals, the visits to blind men and women, the arrangements and plans and suggestions. They are all to go on for many a long year; but the labour of recording them is abandoned, and there is an attempt to diminish work which threatens to be overwhelming.
One of her letters at this time is to Mr. Eyre, "Rector of Marlbourne." What almost insuperable difficulties spelling must offer even to the educated blind! How much more we all learn from sight, from reading, than from the dictionary! When a word occurs for the first time to a blind person he can only spell by ear; and Marlbourne for Marylebone is a very creditable solution of a difficulty.
One of the most interesting workmen in the Institution at this time was both blind and deaf. Levy heard of, and, at Bessie's request, visited him in his own home. The poor fellow had worked to support two sisters and an aged mother until severe illness, fever, robbed him of sight and hearing. He had regained health, but sat in one corner of the room moaning "I am wretched, very wretched." Hearing no sound of his own voice he had ceased to speak to others, and sat in silence, save for these incessant moans, and in darkness; roused from time to time by a push on the shoulder and a plate of food put into his hands. The sisters did their best to support themselves and him by their needle, but he was as one living in the grave, and he was only twenty-one.
Such a case excited Bessie's deepest compassion. In a single afternoon Levy roused the poor fellow from almost hopeless despondency, and placed him once more in communication with the world around; taught him the letters of the dumb alphabet on his own hand, and spelt out the joyful information that he could learn a trade and earn his living by it. He did not readily believe this, but from that time the moans of "wretched, very wretched" ceased. He was admitted at once as a pupil at Euston Road, and learnt so rapidly that in six weeks he was able to write letters to his friends. Also he had ceased to "spoil material," which is the general occupation of learners for many months, and was earning between four and five shillings a week; whilst at the end of a year he was in receipt of excellent wages.
Bessie went frequently to the workshop "to talk to A." He would repeat aloud the letters formed upon his hand, and guess words and even sentences in a surprising manner. It was instructive to remark how soon an intelligent listener knows all you are going to say, and how unnecessary are many of our long explanations. Valuable lessons in brevity and conciseness were to be learnt from A., and the blind and deaf man soon brought you down to the bare bones of the information you had to give. An angry glance was thrown away upon him, and finger talk has no equivalent for that slight and incisive raising of the voice which implies that the speaker intends a listener to hear him to the end.
The slow, monotonous utterance of the deaf man, a pronunciation which, as years passed on, became strangely unreal, and a sense of the loneliness to which he was condemned, attracted much attention to this intelligent man.
After a time he married. His wife, a widow with a little girl, was no comfort to him; but the child soon became his inseparable and devoted companion. When work was over she used to read a newspaper to him. She uttered no sound, but sat with the paper in her lap, whilst her little fingers fluttered about his hand like the wings of a bird, and his slow monotonous voice followed her, repeating words and sentences, or telling her to go on to something else.
One day Bessie, who was often accompanied by a friend, took with her Miss Elizabeth Wordsworth, daughter of the late Bishop of Lincoln, to have a chat with A.
Miss Wordsworth sent her the following poem in memory of the visit:
A Ministry of Love to One Blind and Deaf.
Near him she stands, her fingers light
In quick succession go
Across his yielding palm, as white,
As swift, as flakes of snow.
The diamond on her hand, that gleams
And flashes when it stirs,
Toward other eyes may fling its beams,
But never gladden hers.
No word she speaks, no whisper soft
His inner mind to reach;
No glances casts, tho' looks are oft
More eloquent than speech.
The smile that gilds a friendly face
Shall never meet his eye;
Songs, footsteps, laughter, tears, give place
To dreary vacancy.
Silence and darkness, brethren twain
For ever at his side,
Still hold him in their double chain
Inexorably tied.
Yet love is stronger still, and she
Even hither wins her way,
And soothes the long captivity
Beneath that iron sway.
Such tenderness, long years ago,
The nymphs of ocean led
To stern Prometheus stretched in woe
Upon his stony bed.
Or in the shape of insect, flower,
Or bird has helped to cheer,
In later times, full many an hour
Of bondage, sad and drear.
But what can comfort, like the heart
That sorrow's self has known;
Since that has learnt the healing art
From sufferings of its own.
And casting selfish grief away
Forgets its own distress
In sorrows heavier still, that prey
On some more comfortless.
This she has learnt—the secret this
Of her calm life below;
This gives those lips that sober bliss
And smoothes that peaceful brow.
Yet more; the love of human kind,
How pure soe'er it be,
Can never fill the heart, designed
To grasp infinity.
True, when the night of grief is dark
It gladdens us to ken
The distant cottage fires, and mark
The peaceful homes of men.
But such as upward lift their eye
Will see a worthier sight,
The myriad stars, that in the sky
Seem homes for angels bright.
Thus guided they pursue their way
Thro' loneliest heath and dell,
Till on their work of mercy, they
Come where their brethren dwell.
And such as she no earthly glow
Would e'er suffice for them,
Shine on her, 'mid these dwellings low,
Thou Star of Bethlehem!
The "Song of Elizabeth" from the Saint's Tragedy was published during the year 1859, and Bessie writes to Addison and Hollier to say that instead of an engraving she will have the price-list of the Association on the title-page. This remarkable decision they seem to have induced her to abandon, for the title-page is of the ordinary kind. There were at this time about a hundred and fifty blind persons deriving benefit from the Association: sixty-three were supplied with work at their own homes; forty-seven were employed at the Euston Road; the remainder were pupils, agents, travellers, shopman, and superintendent, whilst three received pensions. So many more were applying for work and instruction that at the May meeting the Bishop of Oxford offered a donation of £20 on condition that nineteen similar donations were announced in a given time. He thus raised £400 for the relief of some of the more pressing cases amongst the applicants. The increase of workmen made an increase in the sales necessary, and the trade of the Association was assuming formidable dimensions. The buying and selling, the control of workrooms and management of stock, the care of ledgers, accounts, bills and receipts, might now with great advantage have been made over to a competent and adequately paid sighted manager. Such an arrangement would have left Bessie free to devote herself to the charitable part of her enterprise; to elevate and educate the blind, to investigate cases, and make experiment with trades. With Levy as her faithful coadjutor how much might she not have done!
She was pledged, however, to a more ambitious attempt, and felt herself bound in honour to show what the blind can do alone and unaided. A proposal was made in January 1859 to employ a "sighted" accountant, but as this was opposed by Bessie it was not carried. And yet at this very time the incessant and anxious work of past years was beginning to tell upon her, and she had urgent need of rest.
She was mainly responsible for the funds necessary to carry on the business. Being familiar with every detail of the business, she was called upon to explain its intricacies to her Committee. She had often to justify and secure the carrying out of arrangements which did not meet with general approval. Every scheme, proposal, experiment, rested ultimately upon her; upon this one blind lady, whose health had never been good, but whose strenuous energy and strong sense of duty forbade her to say no to any appeal on behalf of fellow-sufferers.
Museum, boarding-house, sick fund, musicians' association, with its classes for vocal and instrumental music, endowment fund, fund for establishing a West-end shop, fund in aid of tradesmen who had lost their sight; all these are the outcome of a single year's work. There are also letters innumerable to be written and answered, appeals to be made, applications to be replied to. She threw herself with fervid zeal into all her work, and a day was accounted lost if she had not accomplished in it something for the Association.
Two sisters were married in 1858, but the diary contains no other record of such important events than "unavoidably nothing done." Her heart beat warm and true as ever, home and friends were dear as ever, but for a time her horizon was bounded by the narrow walls of one small dark house in the Euston Road.
Herr Hirzel, director of the blind institution at Lausanne, who had visited the Association during the summer, was so well pleased with all he saw that he decided on his return to Switzerland to open workshops for the blind. At different times some six institutions had also applied for teachers or blind superintendents, but no workmen had been trained or were qualified to fill such posts. Bessie saw that this was an omission in her scheme, and at once resolved that special facilities for the training of intelligent blind men ought to be provided.
In the autumn, however, the long threatened reaction from overwork set in, and she was prostrated by weakness and depression. In November she was induced to try the effect of complete rest, and paid a long promised visit to Miss Isabella Law, at Northrepps Rectory, near Cromer.
She took with her a Foucault frame and taught Miss Law to use it, and what further employment she found during her short holiday is best told in Miss Law's letters.
Writing at Christmas 1859 she says:
It is just six weeks to-day since you left us. I can never forget that miserable morning; it is always haunting me like a dreadful dream that I try in vain to get rid of.... I hardly know what to tell you about myself; it is a very difficult subject to write about. I have been trying to do more in the school lately than I ever did before. I think of you when I am there, and try to do my best. Still I am afraid, as Madame Goldschmidt said of the clergyman, my best is very little. My sisters are going next week to spend a few days with some friends in the neighbourhood: how I should like to have you with me then. I remember so well your once speaking to me about accustoming myself to be alone whenever it was necessary, and not to depend too much on others for companionship, so now you see I am going to have a little trial in that way. You will think of me then, won't you? and I shall be thinking of you more than ever.... I took a bit of my writing this morning to show the school children, and they seemed delighted with it.... I must say good-bye now, ... and how much love I send I never could tell you.
On the 5th of January 1860 Miss Law writes:
I sincerely hope that this new year may be a very happy one to you and to all who are dear to you. It seems so strange to me to look back to this time last year. I feel somehow as if a change had come over my life since then. I mean I seem to see things in quite a new light, and to feel my responsibilities far more than I did before; and I know it is all through your influence. I feel it would have been indeed a happy year to me if the only blessing it had brought me had been your friendship, which I value far more than I can ever tell you.... My heart clings to every little remembrance of you one by one, and they are all very dear to me.
No account of her life would be adequate which did not bring out the stimulating effect of Bessie's friendship, and the way in which even an hour spent with her would have its result, and open a way to useful activity. Miss Law was specially influenced with regard to her poems, in which Bessie took a warm interest. At first they were sent for approval and criticism, but before long Miss Law was more than able to stand alone, and she published a small volume, which was well received and favourably noticed.
The following pretty lines have been preserved amongst Bessie's papers:—
Will you please tell me very truly what you think of this little poem? You know I have a great respect for your opinion, and that is why I send it.
What is Sympathy?
It is the perfect tune that lies
Underneath all harmonies.
The brook that sings in summertide
Between the flowers on either side.
It is that voiceless under part,
That, still unheard, heart sings to heart.
The interchange of thoughts that lie
Too deep for louder melody.
The breath that makes the lyre move
With silent echoings of love.
Isabella Law.
Bessie paid other short visits to old friends at this time. We hear of her with Miss Bathurst at Stanmore, and greatly interested in Miss Bathurst's most honoured friend, Lady Byron. She also stayed with Miss Butler, who remembers that one day when she was about to mount her horse Bessie stood stroking his legs, saying: "Surely this must be thorough-bred." Another time, as Bessie stood near him, the horse stretched out his head and took the rose she was wearing so gently from her dress that she did not know it until she was told that he was eating it. Bessie used to drive in a pony carriage with Miss Butler, and to puzzle her hostess by a request for a description of the scenery.
On one occasion a gentleman who had become recently blind was asked to meet Bessie at Stanmore. It was very touching to see her sit by the blind man's side, take his hand and try to encourage and comfort him. Work for others, help for others; these were the things she told him that would make life worth living, and her own ardour was able to inspire him as well as others with hope and energy.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Town and Country Sermons; 18. "Character of Peter."
[8] Page 8.