Deaf and Dumb! / Third Edition

by Elizabeth Sandham

In the mean while, the happy party arrived at nurse Goldsmith's cottage, highly pleased with their ride and the kind reception they were sure to meet with. It was between four and five miles from the town, and situated on the side of a common, part of which belonged to Mr. Rawlinson's estate, and on which he had formed several plantations of firs. Before the house was a neat little garden, sheltered from the north wind by a small coppice of hazel trees, through which ran a murmuring brook, that supplied the family with water. The good woman, with all her children, was at the wicket gate to receive her guests; and all who could speak, expressed pleasure at seeing them. But, alas! all could not, for two of them were deaf and dumb!

Do my young readers fully consider the extent of this misfortune? and are they truly sensible of the blessings of speech and hearing? Oh, what a pity that they should ever misapply the gift of speech, in murmuring and complaints, because they have not always every thing they wish; or in that which is still more wrong, speaking of the faults of others, or in telling untruths.

Having never heard the sound of the human voice, nor indeed any sound at all, these poor children could not frame their mouths to speak; they could never add to the pleasure of their parents, by repeating what gave pleasure to themselves; nor could they speak their wishes, or their simple thanks, when they were complied with. Let the little ones who read this tale, reflect upon what it is that makes them in any measure agreeable to others. Is it not their conversation? and do they not express themselves, as they think will be most likely to induce their friends to comply with their request, whenever they have a favour to ask of them? Alas! those children who labour under the misfortune here described, have no such power; and many such, I am sorry to add, there are! What, then, is the reply of the benevolent heart?—"It is our duty to speak for them, to alleviate their distress, as much as possible, and, if in our power, to contribute to the removal of it." I hope this is the language of all my readers. It has been (and I have seen it with pleasure) that of not a few children, who, on hearing of the Asylum for those of their own age that are thus unfortunate, where they are taught to speak, and to understand others, have contributed their small donations; while some, even by a penny a week, collected from a number, have, within a few months, added no inconsiderable sum to the fund which is raised for the support of this charity; and their pleasure is increased by it, in proportion as the gratification of contributing to the relief of such distress, is superior to that obtained by toys or sweetmeats.

Caroline and Henry were soon out of the cart, and greeted with an affectionate kiss from Mrs. Goldsmith; particularly the latter, who returned her caresses with equal affection. He then shook hands with his foster brother, who had been named after him, and began asking after the health of some rabbits he had left in his care, while Caroline offered a present she had brought for the eldest girl. She spoke to all the rest; but William and Lucy, one ten, and the other five years old, stood on one side. Caroline took the hand of the eldest, and would have kissed little Lucy, but feared distressing her, as she could not recollect her former visits to them. The poor mother's eyes bore witness that she felt her kindness to the unfortunate child: "It is of no use to tell her who you are, Miss," said she, "or I know she would not be afraid of so good a friend, for she is not insensible of kindness." A tear shone in Caroline's eye, as she handed her some sugar-plums and cakes she had brought in her pocket; and the little girl was the only one whose pleasure, at that time, was not mixed with regret. She was too young to feel her situation; and though she often found herself at a loss to express her meaning, she had not yet observed that others had not the same difficulty. But this was not the case with William, he severely felt the difference between himself and his brothers, though he could not understand what made it: he saw their lips move, and he moved his, unconscious whether he uttered a sound or not. In every other respect his senses were perfect, and perhaps more keen from this deficiency. Hardly any thing escaped his notice: he was even more useful to his mother than any of the rest; and whatever she wanted, he was the one most likely to find it out, and bring it to her, though he could not hear her say what it was. Her tears, as on this morning, were often mingled with her smiles, on observing his affectionate attention; and a sympathetic feeling would excite the same in him, though he could not judge from what cause it proceeded. He would wipe his eyes, and kiss the tears from hers, and then, with his arms around her neck, endeavour to comfort her with his inarticulate expressions. Happily for him, he was not conscious that the very attempt added to her distress.

He had this morning seen his mother's face enlivened by a smile, without any appearance of sorrow, and this was enough to make him happy. He had also seen his eldest brother preparing the cart to fetch their young visitors; and his memory, which was very retentive, immediately recurred to their former visits, in which he had often experienced their good-nature. Harry, the namesake and foster brother of little Rawlinson, was one year younger than he, but William had long given up the seniority, and allowed him to take the lead in all their amusements. On seeing their guest, he recollected that the rabbits which he had often fed in Harry's absence, belonged to him, and pointing to the place in which they were kept, endeavoured to draw him to them. The two Henrys immediately followed him; and Caroline was as eager to notice the baby Mrs. Goldsmith held in her arms. This again produced a sigh from the poor woman: "I am afraid," said she, "that this dear child is as unfortunate as my poor William and Lucy: it is now nine months old, and yet it does not seem to know its name. If I speak ever so loud, it does not turn its head, and I am very much afraid I shall never have the pleasure of hearing it answer me: only when it sees a thing, does it seem to notice it! Ah, my poor dear," continued she, "what shall I do with you?" "Oh, I hope you will not be so unfortunate, Mrs. Goldsmith," returned Caroline, and she again kissed the child and called it by its name. He saw her look of kindness, and smiled at her in return, but the sound of her voice did not reach him.

The servants, who had by this time unpacked the provision with which they were loaded, saw there was ground for the poor woman's fears, but Caroline would fain have persuaded her they were without foundation. The rest of Mr. Goldsmith's family consisted of the boy who drove them, then about fourteen; Mary, the eldest girl, two years younger; and Jane, who was between Harry and little Lucy; a boy still younger, in petticoats; and the little one in arms: seven in the whole; and three of these, my young readers, would have been incapable of getting their bread, had it not been for the Asylum I have spoken of: their parents being poor, and having no means of procuring for them such instruction as would make them useful, and which is provided for them there.

Master Goldsmith was a day-labourer, and at this time came home for his breakfast, which his cleanly wife had prepared for him before the company came: the bread and cheese and cold bacon were on the table when he entered. The kettle was also boiling, and all the party sat down to eat their meal together. Master Goldsmith and his eldest boy at one table, and the children and the maids, with Mrs. Goldsmith, at another. The little ones, who, on other mornings, had bread and milk for their breakfast, were on this occasion treated with tea and bread and butter, as Mrs. Rawlinson had sent enough for all to partake of.

It was pleasing to see the attention which William paid to his sister Lucy: it seemed as if he considered her as doubly endeared to him, by their both sharing in the same misfortune; and yet those who noticed it were at a loss to account for his knowing it.—Nature had taught it him, and the sorrow of their mother was much alleviated by perceiving it. He watched every thing that was given to her, and appeared more anxious that she should have enough, than for himself. When the rest of the children had had two cups of tea, and hers was not given to her immediately, he held up one of his fingers, (the way in which his mother had taught him to distinguish numbers,) and pointed to Lucy, as if to tell her she was neglected. Caroline saw his meaning, and touching his hand to draw his attention, offered him hers to give to his sister. With an eye as quick as lightning, he looked to his mother, as if to ask if that were proper, and seeing her disapprove, he shook his head, and again pointed to Lucy's cup, which when Miller had once more filled, he nodded his thanks, and quietly drank what was in his own. His father also was another object of his attention: he would have carried some tea to him, had not the good man preferred the more substantial food he was taking, and by signs made him understand so.

When the breakfast was ended, he and his son went again to their work; and Mary, after looking in vain to her mother, to introduce the subject for her, begged Miss Caroline to accept of a squirrel she had been taming purposely for her: "My brother made the cage, Miss," said she, "and you will be kind enough to excuse the rough work; but the little fellow in it, is what I hope you will like." William seemed to know what she was speaking of; he watched her motions, and when he saw her bring the cage into the room, he discovered as much pleasure that he had understood what she intended to do with it, as that Miss Rawlinson should have it. He took some nuts out of his pocket, and showed her those were what it was to eat; and then running to his mother, with a look which she as perfectly understood as if he had spoken to her, asked if she were not glad Miss Rawlinson was going to have it. But little Lucy, who had been often entertained by the squirrel's tricks, was not so willing it should be parted with: she thought something was going to be done with it, and, as well as she could, expressed her enquiries and dissatisfaction. William saw her distress, and by motions, understood only by themselves, made her know it was what he approved of, and if so, he concluded she could have no objection. In this conclusion he was right, for the countenance of Lucy immediately cleared up, and she appeared perfectly content.