CHAPTER XV
TIME OF TROUBLE
"Good times and bad times and all times pass over."
Bewick's Vignettes.
Bishop Gilbert's family circle was fast diminishing. His eldest son and four daughters were married. The sisterhood was broken up. Numerous home duties at Chichester and in London, together with the care of parents whose health was beginning to fail, engrossed the time and thought of the daughters at home. Bessie still received sympathy and assistance, but she lived a very independent life, and relied more and more upon the services of a confidential maid, who wrote her letters, made the entries in diary, note-book, and journal, from which we have taken extracts, and accompanied her wherever she went.
Her entire absorption in the work of the Institution could not fail to become a source of isolation; and it began to cause anxiety to parents and friends. They knew her delicacy and the need in which she stood of constant watchful care, and they followed her with apprehension as she sailed out into the ocean of labour and endeavour.
Some remonstrances from old and dear friends reached her, and the faithful Fraülein D. wrote as follows:
Don't you allow that one great interest to absorb all others.... Remember that our very virtues can become snares of sin to us if we do not watch ourselves, our purest actions may lead us wrong. One great difficulty we have to deal with, in this our so complex state of trial, is to keep within us an even balance of things. Do the one thing, but do not leave the others undone, and above all seek, in all we do, not our own but the glory of God.... Don't you show a little want of faith and trust in your own eagerness and over-anxiety about your Institution, which, though most laudable in itself, may become a snare to you if it makes you neglect duties quite as, if not more, sacred?
Bessie preserved this letter, and in her humility she would lay it deeply to heart; but she knew that the Institution was not a work in which she sought her own glory. She was labouring for the blind, who depended upon her, and whom she could not forsake. She had "put her hand to the plough," and could not draw back.
In a very different tone we find a few words from her father, written after Miss Law had paid Bessie a visit in Queen Anne Street.
Palace, Chichester, 28th September 1860.
My Dearest Bessie—They tell me it will be a doleful parting between you and poor Miss Law, especially on her side, which I can well understand, as she has not the resource in active occupation which you have. Your mistake and suffering may be in taking too much of it, without allowing yourself, or rather, taking as a part of duty also, the délassement of passing events, of social conversation and intercourse. Well, this is not exactly what I meant to say, but it may do on the principle of "a word to the wise." They tell me too you want £15, so here is my cheque for £15 and Archdeacon Mackenzie's, also on Coutts's, for £20. He says only it is a donation for your Institution in Euston Road. H. told me you have a notion he gave it for some specified purpose, the West End, for instance, but he says nothing of the kind. The cheques are each of them payable just as they are on being presented at Coutts's. I have acknowledged the £20 to the Archdeacon. Those at home do doubtless give you the chitchat news.... I suppose some one will write besides me, so I only add that I am, my dearest Bessie, yr. ever affectionate father,
A. T. Cicestr.
In the early part of 1860 Miss Bathurst wrote to congratulate Bessie on a "noble donation," coming "doubtless in answer to the law that they that seek shall find," and the donation has a pleasant history.
One day when Bessie was in Queen Anne Street a servant told her that a lady wished to see Miss Gilbert. She went downstairs accompanied, as usual, by her maid, and on entering the room found one whom she discovered by her voice to be a very old lady, whose first words were:
"My dear, I am very tired; send your maid for a glass of sherry."
This was done, and when she had finished the sherry the old lady said:
"My dear, I bring a contribution for your work. You see my relations have kept me a long time from having the control of my money, and now I am determined they shall never get a penny of it."
Then she turned to the maid who had brought the sherry: "Young woman," she said, "count these notes."
They were carefully wrapped in newspaper, ten notes for £50 each, and every note in its own piece of newspaper. They were duly counted and passed to Bessie. "You will acknowledge them, my dear," said the old lady, "in the Times and under initials."
And that was all. No more was ever heard of her, and there was no clue to her identity.
Singularly enough there was a second donation of £500, also from a lady, in October of the same year. The first announcement of it came from Levy, who writes from 127 Euston Road.
17th October 1860.
Dear Madam—In speaking finances yesterday I said that we could do nothing more than we had done unless God sent us a special blessing. God has sent us a special blessing in a donation of
Five Hundred Pounds.
His instrument in this gift is a lady, who did not wish her name mentioned, but Mr. Evans, the gentleman to whose discretion the giving or holding the donation was left, quite agreed with me that her name should be published. Her name is Miss Terry.—I am, dear madam, yours truly,
W. H. Levy.
The following letter is from the Mr. Evans alluded to:
17th October 1860.
Madam—I think it will give you pleasure to be informed that, having £500 placed in my hands yesterday for a Blind Institution, I searched out the one with which you were said to be connected. After going round Euston Square twice, calling at the wrong places, I at last traced it to the Euston Road, where I saw the Report and Mr. Levy. When I told him my object he literally cried for joy, and this I think will be interesting also to you to know. The lady who gives this handsome donation is Miss Mercy E. Terry of Odiham, Hants, through her bankers, Messrs. Child and Co. I need not say, rejoicing as I do in such charitable gifts, that it affords me very considerable pleasure in being the bearer of this intelligence to you, although a stranger, as greatly interested in the aforesaid Institution. The money has this day been paid to Messrs. Williams and Co. on account of the Society.—I am, madam, yours very obedly.,
E. P. Evans.
Bessie, in acknowledging the letter, asks if the donation is in response to an appeal for help. Mr. Evans replies: "Thanks are due to Miss Terry alone, but chiefly to a watchful Providence who so appropriately guided her charity to your Institution in need of it. Your individual application had no influence in the matter; for, in fact, applications of that kind are so numerous that it is not my practice to give them attention. I did not know that you had written until you told me; but now I find that you did so, because your letter lies amongst others put aside.
"Your wishes and prayers are, however, answered in another way, and that is very satisfactory."
These donations gladdened Bessie's heart, and were frequently referred to as coming at a time when heavy pecuniary anxiety was pressing upon her. She had applied this year to Mr. Tatton of Manchester, but he replied that it would be impossible to raise funds in Manchester for a London institution; people would feel that the many indigent blind in Lancashire and Cheshire had a stronger claim upon them. He wishes her success, and informs her that they are busily engaged in erecting a large addition to the Blind Asylum in Manchester to enable them to carry out the system of teaching trades to, and finding regular employment for, non-resident blind. "The success of your Association," he adds, "in establishing and carrying out such a system, has been one main cause of inducing us to take such steps as will enable us, although at a very heavy cost, to give the plan a fair trial in Manchester, and I feel very sanguine as to its success."
This information would give as much pleasure in its own way as the announcement of a donation of £500.
In addition to her autograph letters, a circular asking for custom for the Institution, and signed by the Rev. W. Champneys, Sir John Anson, and the Rev. Pelham Dale, was issued in 1860. These earnest, patient, importunate appeals went steadily on; they were written by herself or by any friend whose sympathy she could enlist, and sent to any and every newspaper that would consent to insert them. But in spite of all efforts stock was increasing, sales diminishing, and an augmented number of blind applicants clamouring for admission. The boarding-house began to be a source of anxiety, not only on account of the expense connected with it, but by reason of the character of many of the inmates. Blind men were sent to the London boarding-house at the suggestion and with the warm approval of persons interested in them; and in the belief that they would learn a trade and earn their own living. But in many cases the man only looked upon London as a happy hunting ground. The last thing he intended to do when he got there was to work. He wanted a comfortable home, a small and certain allowance, and to beg in the London streets. Tied up together are letters warmly recommending a man to the benefits of the Institution, detailing his many virtues as well as his needs, followed by others from the same writer sorrowfully recognising failure, and very frequently acknowledging that the man was "at his old tricks again."
Bessie's faith in her cause was unshaken even by these painful experiences. She showed infinite pity and tenderness to all blind applicants, and gave to each one who was admitted a fair opportunity to improve and reform. She believed that honesty, goodness, and habits of industry were constantly found beneath the garb of the blind beggar, and that he must not be judged by the ordinary standard, because his condition of idleness had been enforced, and was often of long standing. She learned to know all the temptations to which the blind were exposed, and whilst she fully recognised and acknowledged them, she endeavoured to show a way of escape. In spite of many failures she could point to individuals and families rescued from beggary and placed in a position to which it had seemed impossible even to aspire.
Still, with all allowances which her wide charity and large experiences were ready to make, it soon became apparent that a boarding-house for blind men and women conducted by a blind man would not answer. Abuses crept or rather leapt in, and Bessie, suffering and depressed, was unable to intervene actively, as she would have done if her health had permitted. There seemed to be no alternative, and the boarding-house was closed.
Mrs. Powell, sister of the Rev. F. D. Maurice, and twin sister of Mrs. Julius Hare, was one of Bessie's old and dear friends. She was a member of the Committee of the Association, and took keen interest in its work. We learn from her letters that Bessie was too ill to take part in the arrangements for the workpeople at Christmas 1860, or to attend the Committee meeting in January 1861. Mrs. Powell sends a prescription for a plaster "which seems to do wonders in neuralgia, and in soothing the brain after there has been any strain upon it."
Miss Bathurst also writes frequently at this time. "How earnestly I hope sleep may be given back to you," she says. "Those long nights of waking will try you sorely." She tells of a sermon preached by Mr. Maurice on the text, "Endeavouring to keep the unity of the spirit," and how he had dwelt on the change in the meaning of the word endeavour since it was first used by the translators, and that it was at that time a word full of energy, implying, "Put out all your force as for something which you are capable of accomplishing."
But Bessie was in no condition to receive encouragement from words which would at another time have roused her like the call of a trumpet.
The day of endeavour was for the present at an end; weary months passed on, and her condition was unchanged. An abscess formed in the lower jaw, and, after consultation, it was resolved to remove eleven teeth. It was also decided to perform this severe operation all at one time and without the use of chloroform. There were special difficulties on account of the condition of Bessie's throat and the adjacent tissues which seemed at the time to justify this decision; but the result was disastrous, almost fatal. It was months before she rallied from the shock of the acute and prolonged pain. When, three weeks after the operation, she was at the lowest ebb and her condition very critical, it was discovered that the spire of Chichester Cathedral was in imminent danger and must shortly fall. Just that part of the palace in which her room was situated was believed to be in danger of being crushed if the spire fell, and it was absolutely necessary that she should be removed. The Dean and Mrs. Hook made immediate preparations to receive her at the Deanery, which was supposed to be out of danger. She was taken from her bed on the 21st of February 1861, and carried to the safest room in the palace, but before she could be removed from the house the spire fell, collapsing like a house of cards, injuring no animate thing, and doing little harm to any other part of the structure. Bessie was really proud of that spire. It had been good and beautiful in life, and its fall was the type of a peaceful and appropriate end. Chichester mourned its loss; it was, as the local journal said, "the most symmetrical spire in England, on which the eye of Her Majesty and her Royal Consort when in the Isle of Wight must have sometimes rested with delight."
To the blind lady the cathedral and its beautiful spire had also been very dear. But as she had been too ill for apprehension, so she was at first spared the sharp pang of regret. Many months of prostration followed the dental operation, and it was more than a year before she was again restored to health. As soon as she could attend to letters, she received frequent reports of the work in London. The underground railway was in course of construction, and had blocked the Euston Road. Trade was annihilated there, and the blind had lost all ready-money custom. Debts were assuming ominous proportions, and Levy, upon whom the whole strain and responsibility now fell, showed signs of failing health.
Mrs. Powell wrote on the 7th of May 1861 from Palace Gardens, to give Bessie an account of the Committee meeting. She said that:
Levy was in a weakly, nervous state, soon exhausted. He said it was nervous fever from which he suffered, and that the doctor told him he must have rest. In his absence from the room it was proposed to arrange that he might spend every Saturday and Sunday out of London. Mr. Dixon, the oculist, who was a member of the Committee, said he must be careful not to go too far, as in a weak state of health people suffered more than they gained by long railway journeys. Levy came back into the room and announced that nothing could be done or thought of till "the annual meeting" was over. There was a debt of £1400 hanging over the Institution, half of it trade debt, and half from customers who could not be got to pay ready money; and Levy announced that the loss of custom from the underground railway stopping access to the shop amounted to £20 a week.
Mrs. Powell concludes by saying:
I need not add that much sympathy and regret were expressed by the Committee at your continued weakness and suffering, and all hoped soon to see you there again. I know how anxious you must feel to be amongst them; but you will remember "your strength is now to sit still," until it can be said "Arise, He calleth thee." In patience you will possess your spirit. May God bless you at all times.
On the 13th of May the Bishop writes to give an account of the annual meeting held at St. James's Hall, and presided over by the Bishop of London.
Queen Anne Street, W., 13th May 1861.
My very dear Bessie—Ford [her maid] gives a most encouraging account of your progress and walking performances, and I can reciprocate with a capital one of this day's meeting. The room was quite full, galleries and all; 2067 were stated to be present. There were some donations, but I have not heard yet the amount of the collection.
It is clear to me the Association has now taken its footing in London and in the nation, and that with God's blessing it will go on and become a national Institution, and that you, my dear child, may humbly rejoice in it. I have not time for more.—Yr. ever affectionate father,
A. T. Cicestr.
Such a letter would greatly help forward Bessie's convalescence, which, though slow, was beginning to show signs of progress. In July a letter from Levy must have reassured her as to the state of his health, and it is interesting as the description of a blind man at a fire, with all his wits about him, and other blind men to help him.
127 Euston Road, 3d July 1861.
Dear Madam—Last night a fire of an alarming character broke out nearly opposite the Institution, and at one time our premises were placed in great danger, large masses of fire falling thickly over our premises for upwards of half an hour.
It is a matter of thankfulness that I was at home.
Our officers and other people hastened from their homes to our assistance. I caused the cocoa-matting to be taken from the floors, immersed in water, and spread over the roof, and every vessel capable of holding water was filled and passed from hand to hand in regular succession, so that the stream was continually kept up on all exposed parts.
The office books were tied in blankets ready to be carried away, but providentially the wind changed and we were relieved from anxiety. Four houses were destroyed or injured, but the only damage we have received is from the water, which is very slight—I am, dear madam, yours truly,
W. H. Levy.
During the early summer of 1861 a tent was set up in the garden at Chichester, to which Bessie was carried on all suitable days. She was happy with birds and trees and flowers around her, and received visits from many old and tried friends. Her recovery was very slow, but there was always sufficient progress to point to the ultimate restoration of health.
Throughout the year the workpeople sent affectionate greetings and appreciative verses to their generous friend and patron. Bessie resumed the occupations of her youth, and in the months of her enforced absence from London and the work of the Association she wrote long poems and gave her time to music and reading.
With a view to publication, she submitted some of her poems to her old friend, the Rev. H. Browne, asking for a candid opinion. He writes as follows:
Pevensey, Eastbourne, 15th August 1861.
Dear Bessie—I have read your poems, and, as you desired, have criticised closely. The faults are chiefly in the versification. Here and there I suspect they have not been written down correctly from your dictation. The thoughts, sentiments, and images are very pleasing, and the expression generally good. That on "The Poplar Leaves" is exceedingly pretty and gracefully expressed. It needs but a few alterations to make it all that it should be. "Spring" is striking in point of thought, but the versification should flow more smoothly, and the diction here and there needs correction.
"Thoughts Suggested by a Wakeful Night" are so good that I should like to see them made as perfect as possible, and as blank verse needs more finish than rhyme this task will need some pains. I hope you will not be discouraged at my criticism. If you think of sending any of these poems to some magazine "The Poplar Leaves" would best lead the way. I am sorry I cannot help you in this, having no connection with that kind of periodical literature nor any acquaintance with its conductors. You will see that I have made no notes on "Jessie." There are many pleasing lines in it, but it wants unity, the introductory part having no necessary connection with the catastrophe, and the latter being only a distressing accident....
The poems, which with returning health and strength were laid aside, are very defective in form, but the thoughts and feelings that were a solace to the blind lady cannot fail to interest the reader. These poems also show what the Chichester garden was to her, and what intellectual interests and resources she had when she was incapable of the active work of her Association.
The Poplar Leaves.
The poplar leaves are whispering low
In the setting summer beams;
As they catch the lovely farewell glow
That lights the hills and streams.
What tell they in those murmurs low,
Under the rising moon?
As they wave so gracefully to and fro,
I would ask of them a boon.
Have you any word for me,
A word I fain would hear?
'Twas dropped perchance beneath your tree
Too faint for human ear.
Ye whisper so very low yourselves,
That as they lightly pass,
Ye needs must hear e'en fairy elves
At revels in the grass.
Then tell me, tell me, if she came
Beneath the setting sun,
And breathed a song, a sigh, a name
Or sweet word ever a one.
Then whisper it again to me,
Ye have not let it go,
It thrilled the whole height of your tree
Through every leaf I trow.
Yet still they whispered on and on,
But never a word for me;
Till, from the hill-tops, light was gone;
And I left the poplar tree.
Again I stood beneath that tree
When the fields were full of sheaves;
But now it mattered not to me
What said the poplar leaves;
For one stood with me 'neath the moon,
As they dropped their whispers low,
From whom I gained that precious boon,
The word I longed to know.
Lines suggested by a Wakeful Night.
Oh sleep, where art thou? I could chide thee now
That truant-like thou'rt absent from thy place;
Or e'en could call thee by a harsher name,
Deserter; yet I will not brand thee thus.
Oh! wherefore dost thou leave me? Haste and come,
That in thy presence I forget all else.
Except thou grant me from thy precious store
Some lovely dream of joy; that, like a child,
Lies folded to thy breast, but which thou canst
At will send forth to wander here or there,
Bearing some wondrous message on its way.
Are such dreams thine? scarce know I whence they are,
Yet sleep in sober earnest, I believe
They are not truly thine, but dwell above
In worlds of light where thou art all unknown.
Yet hold they here strange intercourse with thee,
So that thy soft'ning veil is o'er them thrown,
And a mist in part doth dim their brightness,
And dull the melody of their sweet voice.
While, in the language of their home, they tell
Of its joy and beauty, bidding our souls,
As treasures, keep the whispers which they bring.
For though their sweet voice muffled be and low,
And though thy dewy mist enfold them,
Yet speak they truly with such heavenly power,
That in the joy and light of such a presence
Doth the spirit see this world, and heaven
To be more near than ofttimes we can tell
In the movements of our life; when the links
Uniting both, by us are left untraced;
While sad and weary we do often mourn
Their dreary distance, since our faithless hearts
Will sunder them so far, then cannot rest
In the sever'd world they make unto themselves,
Since that they are inheritors of both.
And He who dwelt on earth, to prove with power
That both these worlds were one, meeting in Him,
Since by His mighty will of love He came
To link again upon the Cross the chain
Which should so closely evermore have bound them,
Which, save for Him, had utterly been sever'd,
He hath said, for every age to hear,
Within is the Kingdom of God; blest truth,
Within; and yet we look afar and gaze
Around in search of somewhat we call heaven,
And oft perchance thinking 'tis found, rejoice,
But soon in sadness is the quest renewed.
For that we seek a kingdom of our own,
No hope than this more utterly forlorn,
We have no kingdom and we cannot reign,
In serving only can we find our life
And perfect freedom, the true life of kings.
But whom to serve we may, nay needs must, choose;
And if the happy choice be made, then ours
Is the glorious privilege to know
That earth and heaven (howe'er Rebellion,
With his sceptre point in triumph, saying
Behold me, by earth's homage, king confessed),
One kingdom are, rul'd ever by one King.
Who through His love will teach this, more and more
Until our hearts, living His life of love,
Shall know and feel His presence all their heaven.
Evening.
1.
Ye sounds of day, why all so still,
And hushed as if in sleep?
Is there some power whose sovereign will
Bids you such silence keep?
I ask'd, no voice replied, it seemed
The while as tho' all nature sweetly dreamed,
But soon that spirit of the shade
The breeze, in softest whispers, answer made.
2.
Hast thou seen the sun, with fainting beams
In parting, kiss the hills and streams,
Didst mark the blush of that farewell glow
And how he linger'd loth to go?
For soon to the queen of the glowing west,
He knew he must yield and sink to rest.
3.
He had caught the sound of her step from far,
Had heard her greet her own bright star,
And triumphing tell how the god of day
Would yield his kingdom to her sway,
And how she comes to reign alone,
For he is gone, that glorious one.
4.
O'er sounds she holds entire sway,
When she wills silence all obey,
Soon as her coming draweth near,
Many are hush'd, that she may hear
Those only which she makes her own,
Whose music breathes a lulling tone.
5.
The streams that flow in melody,
The soothing insect-hum,
The green leaves whispering softly
While I, on light wings come,
And with low murmurs lull the groves,
These all make music which she loves;
All these, when the stirring day doth end,
To give her sweet welcome their voices blend.
6.
Then ceas'd the voice, but all around
Floated a gentle murmuring sound;
While fragrant breath of greeting rose
From flowers sinking to repose,
To welcome evening's peaceful reign,
The while responding to the strain,
Their willing tribute of thanks and praise
My heart and voice at once did raise:
7.
Oh evening, I will sing to thee,
Thou silent mother of thought;
My heart shall breathe the melody,
With glowing rapture fraught;
Yes, I will sing to thee, and tell
How I love thy solemn hour,
How in thy stillness lies a spell
Of soothing holy power.
8.
Thou comest in calm majesty
To thy bowers in the west;
And weary nature blesseth thee,
For she knows thou bringest rest,
She waits thy coming anxiously,
And all the lovely flowers
Droop their leaves in thanks to thee,
For life-renewing showers.
9.
Well may they bless thee, for I trow
When the joyous morn doth wake,
And with its beams their slumbers break,
All fresh and bright their leaves shall glow;
And to the deep feeling heart,
That which can love thee best,
How beautiful thou art!
Cradle of peace and rest.
10.
It loves thy presence, and to thee
By chains of deepest thought is bound.
Such thought as sets the spirit free
Hallowing all around.
11.
Then wakes in man his nature high,
He feels his immortality;
And in the peace at evening given
Bethinks him he is heir of heaven.