“Yes, your father will feel the loss of his faithful Sancho Panza.”
“Braddie’s not going away,” I protested; “they’ll live right on here—”
“It won’t be the same; he can’t be ready at five minutes’ notice to start for the ends of the earth at any hour of the day or night!”
There was a good deal of “taking on” about the lady who had “caught” the old steward, and in order to get it over and done with, the marriage was promptly arranged. It took place in our rooms and I was one of the wedding party. There was another guest, Laura Bridgman, my father’s famous pupil. I can see her white intense face, the sightless eyes hidden by a green silk shade, the delicate fingers—that saw more than some eyes—touching the bridal gifts, hear her plaintive cry of pleasure, like the note of some forest bird, as she felt the large blue cut-glass vase that she and I admired far more than such useful presents as butter knives and pickle forks.
“Laura Bridgman—and who was she?” some one is sure to ask.
Who could have believed then that such a question would be possible? In those days her name was known all over the civilized world. Laura was the blind deaf mute for whom my father devised the marvelous scheme of education which redeemed her from the awful loneliness of her isolation, taught her language, and made her a happy and useful member of the human family. Her education was hailed as a miracle all over Europe, and to this day teachers and thinkers are still amazed by the patience and ingenuity of the man to whom Helen Keller and scores of other educated blind deaf mutes owe their deliverance from a living tomb.
Thursday was always “Exhibition Day” at the Institution. Boston people took great pride in their School for the Blind, and by eleven o’clock the visitors’ seats were filled. The pupils, dressed in their best, gathered in the great hall, the boys on one side of the big organ, the girls on the other. They occupied benches placed in tiers, one above the other, so that you saw their faces rising row behind row; between them shone the tall gold organ pipes, with the name of the donor on a blue scroll: “The Gift of George Lee.” A blind musician sat at the organ; sometimes it was my friend, Joel Smith, and sometimes William Reeves, the leader of the band. The exercises opened with an organ solo, while the visitors settled themselves in their places, facing the pupils. As the deep organ tones thundered through the hall, Laura Bridgman sounded her little ecstatic note of pleasure. She felt the vibration from the organ and was thrilled by what she called “hearing the music.” The exercises included reading aloud from the raised type of books, printed in our own press; singing, violin and piano solos by the most gifted scholars; and “selections” by our brass band, made up of the larger boys. The finale was a chorus of all the scholars. The organist struck a soaring melody, the blind boys and girls rose to their feet, their young passionless voices ringing out:
“From all that dwell beneath the skies, let the Creator’s praise arise.”
If there were a stranger present—there usually was—he was sure to be deeply moved, often to tears. Music, their greatest earthly pleasure, brings to the blind a supreme delight, whose reflection can be caught in the rapture of those upturned faces.
My father’s was a restless temperament; as far back as I can remember, our family life was diversified by frequent “movings.” “Green Peace”, our own home, was only five minutes’ walk from the Institution in which we lived part of the time; in these early days I am trying to recall, we moved perhaps every six months from one habitat to the other. There was, besides, the regular hegira to our summer home, Lawton’s Valley, in Portsmouth, Rhode Island. At that time few Boston people moved out of town before July. I can date our own summer flitting by the fact that it immediately followed the Fourth. I find a confusion of the most exquisite memories connected with this day, beginning with an early waking to the sound of bells, whistles, guns, and firecrackers. The bells were our own South Boston bells; the guns, from Fort Independence, which we felt in some special sense belonged to us. Next comes a dim memory of the procession of the “Antiques and Horribles” and the dreadful fright produced by those grotesque masks. I was allowed all the torpedoes I wanted, but forbidden firecrackers—vainly forbidden, alas! I have the feel of them yet in my fingers—those small, furry scarlet crackers with their white string fuses—and smell the good acrid smell of the gunpowder, as they popped, popped, in those early morning hours, when Papa was taking his ride, and Mama slept beside the baby that had kept her awake till all hours. After these early adventures of the pearly dawn came scorching midday hours on the wide yellow sanded paths of Boston Common. Here we bought bunches of fragrant water lilies, holding their long cool stems in our hot little hands, as we stood watching the parade of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company.