CHAPTER IX

REMOVING STUMBLING-BLOCKS

"Give unto me, made lowly wise,

The spirit of self-sacrifice."—Wordsworth.

Throughout 1856 Bessie was mainly occupied in writing letters to all and sundry. She wanted money, and more even than money, she wanted custom. From the very first she saw that customers were of greater importance to her than subscribers, for it was customers who could ensure the stability and permanence of her scheme. If the blind were to be employed, there must be a sale for the articles produced; and the greater the sale the larger would be the number of workmen required. Hence the sale of goods, the appointment of agents in country towns, and the sending out of price lists, were important matters.

She received help and encouragement from many friends. Letters, which came from those who had known and loved her as a child, gave her great pleasure, and were carefully preserved.

The following is from a former fellow of Brasenose, the Rev. J. Watson:

Oxford, 2d June 1856.

My dear Bessie—I fear I shall not quite respond to your wishes exactly in the way you desire. But I will do something; I am not fond of annuals, I forget them; and arrears are discreditable. Nor indeed am I sure but that the enclosed (£10) may be more effectual than an annual £1. Vita brevis.

All nations have some prudential maxims about present possession. La Fontaine has a fable to the point, but I cannot call it up. There is our own famous English proverb, the very Magna Charta of prudential security. A bird actually in grip is worth the more abundant but doubtful contingencies of the distant bush. I am glad, however, of the opportunity of being able to do so much in the way of donation, following in a modest way the example of our most gracious Queen and governor.

Thankful too I hope that, being reduced myself to almost a state of helplessness by the same calamity, I am not obliged to appeal to the charity of others; and have even something to give to relieve the necessities of fellow-sufferers.

So much for request second. As to request first, I will do what I can. But I am a bad beggar, and people are not very easily persuaded (far from it); 6d. in the pound property tax, poor rates, champagne, lighting, anything will do to stop the mouth of a petitioner. I doubt not in the range of your philanthropical experience you have met with many a cold shoulder. I believe you might disperse a mob more effectually by the exhibition of a subscription list than by reading the Riot Act. It is very useful in clearing your room of officious visitors. Produce a list for the conversion of somebody to some thing which he was not before (to wit, the Pope to a coadjutor of Dr. Cumming or Lord John Russell to an honest statesman), and, presto! the whole scene changes. "Well, Watson," says one, "I must be off, I have several calls to make." "Bless me," says another, taking out his watch, "it's getting on to half-past five (the clock has just struck three) and it's my week to read in Chapel." Helter-skelter away they go, like Leonora pursued by the ghosts.

Der Mond scheint hell,
Hurrah! die Todten reiten schnell.

Well, Bessie, you have called up old times. Merry days they were, and have left no sting. I sometimes see Mary. I go occasionally to Didcot, where there are nice children; but Milton Hill is just a mile and a half too far off. I can't walk as I could in those days when we used to saunter through the scented glades of the happy valley, or penetrate the mysterious horrors of Bagley. The last fragment of those excursions was with Fanny and Henrietta to Headington and round by Marston (as intended), but time was getting on, and your good uncle would be waiting for his dinner. So in an evil hour we made a short cut across the fields and verified the proverb,—Hedges without a gap; ditches without a plank; gates guarded with chevaux de frise of prickly thorns. It was then that Henrietta, madly pushing at an impracticable passage, uttered that famous parody:

I'll brave the scratching of the thorn,

But not a hungry uncle.

But I am spinning out a double-thrummed homily, and you have better things to attend to. My love to you all. Believe me, my dear Bessie, vuestros hasta la muerte,

J. Watson.