Elizabeth Gilbert and Her Work for the Blind

by Frances Martin

She bore her grief alone. She could not speak of it even to those she loved most dearly, and entirely trusted. She could not consciously add to the pain she knew they felt for her. But in those early years she would often sit silent and apart in the drawing-room at Queen Anne Street, tears streaming from her eyes. Sometimes she would spend hours together upon her knees, always silent; but the flowing tears spoke for her, and with an eloquence which she little realised. The sense of want and suffering was to be for her as it is for many, the great instrument of education. Whilst so many around her were craving for something to set them above their neighbours, some gift of fortune, some distinction, she was learning the need of that which should place the poor blind on the same level as others, learning to renounce for herself and for them any higher ambition than that of being like the rest of mankind.

The distress of her parents, who could only stand apart, watch and pray for her, was very great. They did not see how help was to come, but they continued in the old course. There was no aid for the blind, no invention which they did not eagerly inquire into, since it might be the appointed means of deliverance. Their sympathy was doubtless a great comfort to Bessie in this time of trial. They may not have been able to meet her in words, but she knew their hearts, knew that they never despaired; that their past, present, and future, were alike irradiated by hope for her, and, if for her, then for all those under like affliction. There were many, doubtless, who at this time would have justified the assertion of Mr. Maurice:[5] "The first impulse of most is to say, in such circumstances, 'Hold your peace. We are very sorry for you; but in the press and bustle of the world we have really not time to think about you. We are very fortunate in possessing our senses; we must use them. To be without them is no doubt a great calamity, but it has been appointed for you; you must make the best of it.' That appears to be a very natural and reasonable way of settling the question. If the votes of the majorities ruled the world, that would be the only way."

Bessie cannot have failed to meet and speak with many of the "majority," whose quiet acquiescence in a misfortune that did not come near them, would often "give her pause."

Social questions also attracted her attention at this time. A sister remembers reading Lord Ingestre's Meliora to her, and the intense interest she took in the question of bridging over the chasm between the rich and the poor. It was not a new question to her, this bridging over a chasm. It was that which, under another aspect, was engrossing so much of her attention. The discovery of a method, or even the suggestion of the possibility of such a discovery, would be a sign of hope.

The first ray of light, however, came through a very small chink, and not at all in heroic form.

During the Great Exhibition of 1851 her parents learnt that a Frenchman was showing a writing frame of his invention, and that by means of it the blind could write unaided. The inventor, M. Foucault, was invited to Queen Anne Street. Bessie learnt to use the frame, and soon found that it made her independent of supervision and assistance. She could write and address a letter herself; and here at last she stood in one respect on an equal footing with those around her.

She used in later years to date from the time she had the Foucault frame. A medal was awarded to the inventor, but owing to some mistake it was not sent to him. Bessie was instrumental in procuring and having it forwarded to a man whom she looked upon as her benefactor.

Her friendship with Miss Isabella Law, which lasted throughout her life, was inaugurated over the Foucault frame. A correspondence was carried on between them with regard to it, and Miss Law, blind daughter of the Vicar of Northrepps, who was preparing a volume of poetry for the press, found it very helpful, and at the same time found a dear and valued friend.

Another use which Bessie made of the frame was to write, in 1851, to a young blind man named William Hanks Levy, of whom she had heard at the St. John's Wood School for the Blind. He was an assistant teacher there, and in 1852 married the matron of the girls' school, with whom Mrs. Gilbert had corresponded in Bessie's childhood, and who had sent embossed books to Oxford. Levy did all the printing for the St. John's Wood School, and Bessie wanted an explanation of the Lucas system in use there. She could read every kind of embossed printing, and when she heard of any new system, always inquired into it. She knew at this time the triangular Edinburgh in which the first books she possessed were printed, Moon, Braille, the American, and several shorthand types. She could read Roman capitals and the mixed large and small hands. She always considered the Edinburgh type the simplest; but when she found how many adults lose their sight, and how slowly their sense of touch is developed, whilst in some it is not developed at all, she thought that, on the whole, it might be best to use Roman capitals for the blind, that this would offer greater facility than any other system for those who had previously learnt to read, and would present no greater difficulty to those born blind. She made no effort for the advancement of her view on this subject, and in later years always advocated the use of Moon's type for those who lose sight as adults.

Her own keenness of touch was marvellous, but then it had been carefully trained from the time that the little child sat beside her father at dessert, and poured out his glass of wine. She always knew the hands of her sisters, could tell them apart by touch, and though they would sometimes try, they were never able to deceive her. She also remembered by touch people whom she had not met for years. But she recognised that her power and that of some of the born blind was exceptional, and the development of it due to careful training.