CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"Alas for him who never sees

The stars shine through his cypress trees!

Who hopeless lays his dead away,

Nor looks to see the breaking day

Across the mournful marbles play!

Who hath not learned in hours of faith

The truth to flesh and sense unknown,

That Life is ever Lord of Death,

And love can never lose its own!"

A short time after our return home, Miss Tyson, having become weary of

traveling, I accompanied her to Morrison, and after spending a few days

there left her with friends and went alone to Pecatonica, when Ida again

accompanied me in my travels. On my return I stopped at Winnebago,

Illinois, to visit the hallowed spot in which Hattie lay buried. As I

approached the cemetery mingled memories of her beautiful life came

surging through my soul, and a deep silent awe stole over me. I sent my

friends away to another part of the grounds that I might be entirely

alone with my dead, and as I knelt in the stillness of that sacred hour I

felt that the grave held only the precious clay, and that the sweet

spirit-presence was there trying to comfort me as it had always done in

earth-life, while, as the soft sound of the June wind stole through the

trembling evergreen near by, it seemed to whisper a sweet song, whose

burden sighed--

Love will dream and faith will trust,

Since he who knows our needs is just;

That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.

As I turned away I felt the strong ray of sunshine which fell upon her

grave, and rested there a halo and a promise!

Our first stop going Westward was at Kansas City, and as it was the first

of August we found the colored people out in a well-filled procession,

celebrating this, one of their great Emancipation days. Ida having seen

very few colored people during her life was furnished an amusing

entertainment. We also visited Lawrence, which is so marked in Kansas

annals, and Topeka, the capital, but as my experience in this State

differs so materially from that in any other (not making sufficient

through my sales to cover expenses), I will hurriedly pass it by.

We took the sleeping car at Topeka, but, as a "washout" had destroyed the

track for some distance, I left the train with the other passengers, and

walked with precision over culverts and places of danger with ofttimes

only a narrow plank for my track. A gentleman who kindly led me smilingly

said this was indeed "walking by faith," and it was true blind eyes never

have aught but faith "as a lamp to their feet and a guide to their path."

After leaving Salina there was nothing to be seen but a blank, desolate

plain, as monotonous as a silent, sailless sea, grimly varied by an

occasional station, with a few "dugouts" for houses. The mail on this

train was most unceremoniously delivered by being thrown from the cars,

and it was very amusing to witness the confusion and rush for its

contents, for the love-laden and business-burdened missives are as dear to

these people as to the most cultured members of society.

The frequent recurrence of the little sand-hill communities, known as

prairie dog cities, was of novel interest to us, and the habits of these

creatures a curious study. They build their sand-hill habitations as

skillfully as the beaver erects his dam, and are so untiring in following

their instinct of self-preservation that they stand as constant sentinels

at the entrance of their homes, and in any case of danger play to such

perfection the role of "the artful dodger" that they are never caught.

It is a singular fact that these animals are very rarely killed, and if by

chance some "unlucky dog" should lose his life he is hurried out of sight

by his devoted companions with so much celerity that his body is never

found.

Fifty miles before reaching Denver the snow crowned tops of Gray's and

James' Peaks are clearly revealed, while from one point alone will Pike's

Peak allow the traveler a glimpse of his glorious grandeur. We were told

that the former mountains were more frequently visible at a distance of

one hundred miles. We neared Denver just as the sun was sinking,

enthroned in purple and amber and gold, with a faint, delicate rosy flush

tinging the edge of the more royal hues. Its truly Italian beauty was so

vividly pictured to me by Ida, that I could almost realize the regal

splendor of a Colorado sunset. Completely tired out and covered with

alkaline dust, we were grateful for the rest and comfort afforded by the

elegant Wentworth House.

We spent a week in Denver, fraught with interest, for while it is a city

destitute of the charm of historical associations and musty memories,

which add so much interest to most foreign cities and many American

localities, it so abounds in youthful life with its warm and bounding

currents, its vim and vigor, that it teems with varying attractions. Its

broad avenues, softened by shade, its stately residences and mammoth

business blocks, render it as imposing as many old cities, and indicate

but little of its real primitive struggles for life, and the dangerous

aggressions of the "Red Man;" its truly western pluck having ranked these

among the things that were.

The elliptical basin in which Denver is built, sloping north and east,

gives it a picturesque and extended view; the mountains losing themselves

in one direction in the now historic "Black Hills," and in the other

merging into the "Spanish Peaks" and "Sangre de Christo Range," so named

from a natural symbol of the Christian faith, a snowy cross grandly

gleaming in the distance.

Taking the Colorado Central Railway we went through the Clear Creek Cañon,

with its rich and fertile fields to Golden, so beautifully sheltered in

the valley at the base of the mountain, and whose air was more life-giving

to me than that of any other portion of Colorado. In the vicinity of this

little Eden we climbed a rock seven hundred feet high, and while two

laborious hours were occupied in the ascent, we were amply recompensed

when we stood upon the smooth rock which crowned its summit, where the

merry picnicers pause amid their pastimes, absorbed in the sublimity of

their surroundings, for while they are basking in the soft sunlight the

sound of the distant thundering and lightning in the mountain tops

recalls the story of Sinai, where the multitude below stood silent and

breathless, and from the roar of Heaven's artillery above issued the

written tables of stone.

From this our lofty site the clear ether of the intervening fourteen miles

revealed the city of Denver looming up like a lonely vision.

Turning toward the "Gold Centres," whose wealth, if the half were told,

would seem as fabulous as an "Arabian Nights Story," we visited "Central

City" and "Black Hawk,", which are so close together that it has been

facetiously said "It is impossible for a citizen to tell where he lives

without going out doors and looking at some landmark."

These two places are really built upon foundations of gold, and many of

the houses constructed of gold-bearing quartz.

The depot at Black Hawk might justly be denominated "Porter's Folly," for

this magnificent structure was built by a reckless miner for a

quartz-mill, at an expenditure of one hundred thousand dollars, and the

miner was General Fitz John Porter.

At Central City we stopped at the Teller House, and received marked

kindness from Mr. Bush, the proprietor. Mr. Rhodes, editor of the daily

paper, aided me greatly in his well-written notices, and invited us to

dine at his house, where we were delightfully entertained by himself and

his accomplished wife.

We crossed the country by stage to Idaho Springs, over a region not only

grand and diversified in scenery, but rich in mineral wealth, the road

winding through intricate mountain heights and wild cañons. The springs

are the chief resort of this portion of Colorado, and, aside from their

wildly beautiful surroundings, furnish great facilities for the

exhilarating hot soda baths and swimming bath-houses, in which elegantly

costumed bathers of both sexes hold high carnival.

The hotel was quite romantically situated near a meandering creek, which

murmured by its side and made my pleasant room upon the ground floor

musical with its rippling flow. Days of dreamy beauty, and nights of

cool, invigorating rest, render this a watering place of remarkable

attraction.

Georgetown stands next in size to Denver, and is an outgrowth of the rich

mining wealth with which it is environed. Indeed, it seemed as if some

geni had touched all around it with a magic wand. Silver-ore was strewn in

rich profusion, piled like cord-wood in huge masses at every step; was

talked of in the street, the hotel, and the home, until it seemed as if we

thought, ate, and breathed silver.

At the beautiful town of Boulder we stopped at the prominent and luxurious

hotel known as the American House, and after a short stay took the stage

for Caribon, then the most elevated town in the State, standing

considerably over nine thousand feet above the sea-level. A romantic and

ever-ascending ride of a day's length was required to reach this eyrie,

and at noon-day the driver allowed us to stop for our dinner, when our

wayside inn was improvized from the sheltering shade of grand old trees,

our table a rock, our chairs the same.

No ambrosia could have been sweeter to the gods than was our sylvan

feast, with the appetite induced by mountain air and exercise; no nectar

finer than the crystal draught, dipped from the little stream; no

orchestra more musical than its varied tones. Although it was yet

September, there was a severe snow-storm, and, the next day, when it had

subsided, a party went out to pick raspberries, which were sweet and

delicious in flavor, while beside the deep snow-banks bloomed flowers as

beautiful as the rarest exotics.

Ladies are so vigorous in that country that they think nothing of a walk

of many miles, but the intensely rarefied air of the mountains made my own

respiration very difficult.

We returned to Denver, where our few days' visit was all too short, for it

was with painful reluctance we yielded to the demands of business

interest, and left a city which to us was fraught with so much pleasure,

and went to Colorado Springs, a place of five thousand inhabitants, and

one of the most stirring towns in the State. It is very level, being

symmetrically laid out in broad and shaded streets, and derives its name

from the fact of being the station from which tourists take the stage for

the springs at Manitou, six miles distant. It is also the point from which

pleasure parties daily leave for Pike's Peak.

One of the main features of interest in our visit to Colorado Springs, was

the presence of the great "Man of the Period," over whom the stupendous

heart of Barnum throbbed with exultant pride, and scientists waxed

wondering and eloquent. This august personage, who was no other than the

since sensational "Stone Man of Colorado," was lying in state, in all the

majesty of his marbleized grandeur, and was the magnet toward which

throngs of wonder-seekers were irresistibly drawn, all of whom, as if

entering the presence chamber of the King of Terrors, seemed awed by this

silent "representative of the dead past," and with hushed voices and bated

breath, lingered over the lineaments of one, which, if it had been known

at that time was not a real petrifaction, would perhaps have excited only

feelings of ridicule and words of derision. We were willing to be

humbugged with the rest for the sacred emotions experienced under the

silent potency of this phenomenon of the nineteenth century; nor can we

even in the light of subsequent revelations deny the fact that he was

"fearfully and wonderfully made."

We next visited Pueblo, where this giant was exhumed, but were not at all

pleased with the town or its surroundings, and suffered greatly from

thirst rather than drink the offensive water for which the residents are

so heavily taxed. It was so apparently poisonous in odor, that if it had

been in the malarious climate of Chicago, instead of the exhilarating

atmosphere of Colorado, all would have died from its effects.

We have never visited a State which held such diversified interest as that

of Colorado, a fitting resort for the invalid, the pleasure seeker,

artist, scientist or poet. No place but some haunt of the Muses could

boast the ethereal beauty of a "Glen Eyrie," and no wonder the "Garden of

the Gods" is supposed to have once been the abode of "Great Jove himself,"

and that there fair Venus bathed her beauteous form, and girdled with the

fabled "Cestus," held her court amid the immortal beauties of the sacred

spot.

We came through Kansas via the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad,

meeting with no better success than that which marked our former trip in

that region of country, and could only conclude, that while their crops

were at that time large and lucrative, the grasshopper raid had taught

them a lesson of economy which they were rigidly observing.

Before returning home we visited the only surviving sister of my mother,

who lived in Salsbury, Missouri, and who not having heard from me since

the Chicago fire, concluded that I might have perished in its flames. She

and her husband were both over seventy years old, and strange to say, were

like so many of the old people I have met in my travels, that my readers

might suppose my heroes and heroines had found the "fabled fountain" and

secured immortal youth. Be this as it may, it could certainly be said of

her husband, as of the father of Evangeline:

"Stalwart and stately of form

Was the man of seventy summers;

Hearty and hale was he

As an oak that is covered with snow-flakes."

I had a delightful visit of two days with this aged couple, during which

my aunt rehearsed to me many incidents in the early life of my mother, and

presented me with a lock of her hair, which, as a memento, is ever

magnetically associated with the "loved ones gone before."

Returning to Chicago, I found my husband, whose health was far worse than

when I saw him in Galveston. This, together with a combination of

surrounding circumstances, suggested the project of writing up "The World

as I have found it," and I spent the greater part of the winter of 1877-8

in this work.

If it should appear to my friends and readers, that I found only the

"sunny side" of life, and they should wonder why I so seldom saw the

shadow, or received the thrust of unkindness, I can simply say that I was

almost universally so well received, that the few cases of unkind

treatment became the exception and not the rule, and these were generally

so bitterly repented, and so amply amended, that I felt it would be an

act of ingratitude to note them in my experiences.

Hoping that these last missives to my kind and noble patrons will be as

well received as was the first humble effort of my girlhood--"Incidents in

the Life of a Blind Girl," I can only add in conclusion, that if any one

of the patient followers of my wanderings has found aught of sufficient

interest to while away the tedium of an otherwise weary hour, or gleaned

from the dross a single "golden grain," I will be amply recompensed.

HELP THE BLIND TO HELP THEMSELVES.

Throughout the entire length my unpretending offering my aim has been, as

far as was compatible with a personal history, to make my pages

interesting to the general public, but I cannot close without addressing

some especial words to those, who, like myself, must be content to live

with vision veiled from the world's transcendant beauties, and whose

life-paths from a variety of causes seem ofttimes utterly rayless.

Blindness has been universally regarded as one of the most terrible

afflictions of an adverse fate, nor can it be denied that it is one which

requires a great amount of grace, and all the reason and judgment one can

command, to bear the burden with any degree of patience, much less with

perfect resignation.

It is so often the result of impaired health, while the severe test of

maltreatment or even the most skillful treatment, tends to deplete the

system and depress the spirits.

Again, the blind are in the majority of cases the children of poor

parents, and subject to all the neglect and exposure incident to poverty,

while, if they are born in affluence, they are so petted and pampered, in

consequence of their affliction, that they become utterly dependent and

useless, and contract habits that should be and which under other

circumstances would be broken.

It is no more necessary for a blind child, with proper instruction and

careful training, to become awkward and ungainly, than for one in full

possession of all the senses, the drawback of blindness simply demanding a

little more patience and perseverance to attain the ease and grace, which

is as inevitable as in other children.

In all the category of first instructions for the period of childhood,

from the muscular education by which a babe is taught to take its first

tottering step or the voluntary movement necessary to grasp and hold an

object, to the lisping language of love intoned in the first sweet

prattle, the all-pervading spirit, from the first to the last lesson, is

that of self-reliance. While blind children of wealth are waited upon

until they become utterly incapable of helping themselves, and through a

mistaken kindness are so constantly ministered to, they lapse into

passive, pantomimic puppets, void of the vitality and sparkle which, by

their natural endowments, is attainable.

I have made it a guiding rule, throughout my life, never to consider there

was anything which, with the proper effort, I could not do, and my

experience proves a confirmation of the fact that there were very few

things I could not accomplish. I would fain impress this lesson upon my

blind friends, feeling as I do that it would prove of untold service to

them.

It is not at all necessary that the blind should so lose their dignity or

individuality, as to allow themselves to be addressed in word or tone at

all different from that directed to other people, and, as an illustration

of this point, I may be pardoned for relating an incident of my school

life.

A gentleman once called at our Institution in Baltimore, and, immediately

after his introduction to a group of blind girls, of which I was one, he

said: "Ladies, how would you manage to select a husband?"

Flaming with indignation, I impulsively replied: "Sir! We do not deal in

such merchandise?" and smarting with a sense of the indignity, I

immediately left his presence.

I was afterward called to account by our worthy Superintendent to whom the

person in question preferred a complaint of rude treatment. Begging

permission to explain the situation, I respectfully enquired of our

official in case this same gentleman were thrown for the first time in the

presence of an equal number of society ladies, who could see if it would

be possible for him to address a similar remark to them, without being

charged with rudeness and presumption, or if it were not even questionable

whether he would dare to address them in such a way at all--and we,

although blind, felt that we had the right to demand the same deference

and respect. It is almost needless to say that I was fully exonerated from

all blame, and honorably discharged from the presence of my interrogator.

In the course of my travels I am ofttimes asked if I desire my meals sent

to my room, presupposing, as would be naturally inferred, the possibility

of great awkwardness in my manner of eating; hence I invariably decline

this offer of privacy, as there need be nothing in our manner of eating at

all _outre_ or disagreeable.

It is of course necessary to have a graceful attendant, and my first great

care is to instruct my guide in all the phases of table ministration,

which are more varied and important than is discernible to those who can

see.

I also take great pains to instruct them in the art of walking with me

properly; never allowing them to _tell_ me how to proceed, but to give me

a tacit understanding _of_ their movements in order to direct my own, and

this system in my own experience has been reduced to a science.

Many persons feel that it is far more sad and terrible to have once

possessed sight, and afterward to become blind, than never to have seen at

all, but I cannot agree with them, and will never cease to be grateful

that until I was twelve years old, I could grasp, through sight, the

unfolding beauties of nature and art, which are now so often reproduced

that I can see all the manifold loveliness spread out before me, and for a

season forget that I am blind. Those who are born in blindness, are, to a

great extent, denied this pleasure, for it is almost impossible through

the imagination to form any adequate conception of "things seen."

One of the most deplorable results of blindness is the fact that so many

of its victims condescend to the degradation of beggary, thus bringing

disgrace upon those who try to make an honorable living. I once had

occasion to go into a prominent Express Office of Chicago upon important

business of my own. The agent discovering that I was blind, and in evident

anticipation of a draught upon his pocket, resorted to it and drew out

fifty cents. After learning my business he manifested considerable

embarrassment, and as slyly as possible deposited his money in its

original place, and no doubt hoped the movement was not observed. Thus it

so often becomes as apparent to us as to others, that the majority of

people jump at the conclusion, that if one is blind, they must of

necessity resort to begging, and I deeply regret that so many establish

this belief by their conduct.

It has been to me a serious source of annoyance that so large a number of

persons endeavor to impress upon my mind the idea that it is an act of

charity to patronize me to the extent of the purchase of a single book,

while just after me a strong man, with faculties unimpaired, a man amply

able to do other work, may enter, and they buy from him anything he may

have to sell without ever dreaming that it is a charity to do so.

But I am truly grateful to the majority of those with whom I come in

business contact for their appreciation of my energy and enterprise, as

they almost invariably consider mine a laudable way of making a living.

A great many blind persons offer as an excuse for inactivity that they

have no capital to do with, but even this obstacle may be removed, as is

so often the case with impediments in the paths of those who see.

In Marysville, California, I became acquainted with a gentleman who lost

his sight in middle life, and exhausted all his means upon oculists and

other measures intended to restore his eyes. Finding the case hopeless,

and having a family dependent upon him for support, instead of sitting

down in despair or resorting to begging, he went to a friend and borrowed

two dollars and a half. With this he bought a basket, filled it with fruit

and went out to sell it. This basket became the nucleus of an extensive

business for some years after, and, at the time I met him, he was a highly

respected citizen, possessing a comfortable home and a considerable bank

account, though still holding a large fruit-stand as a permanent resource.

Another instance could be cited in the case of a young man of the same

State who became suddenly blind, when some friend told him he had better

go to San Francisco and hold out his hat, "for he would certainly do

well." Wounded to the quick at such advice, he replied that, in case he

accepted such a suggestion, he would solicit enough to buy a dose of

strychnine and close out his business. Soon after an artist made him a

proposition to travel for the sale of chromos in the interest of a

gallery. He accepted it, and by that means soon became successful and

independent.

We do not feel it necessary to work for the sympathy of the public, for we

are already conscious of having that; but we do sincerely desire their

respect, and, if freely extended, their patronage, as do any other class

of people plying a legitimate vocation.

Among the throng with whom. I have come in contact in the course of

canvassing, the vexed question, paramount in the minds of the majority,

and one frequently addressed to me in person. It is: why I do not avail

myself of an Institution for the Blind, or--as they almost universally dub

it--an Asylum in which I will be taken care of for life, almost

invariably adding that they are taxed for this purpose.

I desire here to correct an impression which, in the main, is utterly

false. These institutions are (together with others) supported by the

States in which they are located, and in so far as every property holder

has a larger or smaller amount of State tax, they help to sustain the

Institutions for the Blind among others. These State institutions are

intended only for the education of the blind, and not for their support.

For the purpose of education there are a certain number of years allotted

to each pupil, according to their age at the time of admission. At the

expiration of this term they have no alternative but to go back to the

poor homes of their respective counties, more unfitted to endure their

privations than before they were permitted a taste of a better mode of

life, and no matter how sad their sacrifices, or how bitter their trials,

they are never looked after by the Institutions in which they graduate.

In their new life, however high may be their excellence in music or any

other accomplishment, or how great their effort to make them available,

their surroundings are all against them, consequently they lapse into a

condition even worse than before their education, because their

enlightenment renders them more keenly sensitive to their affliction.

But I am thankful there are so many who have courage to rise above all

these obstacles, and, with a heroism known only to those who have passed

through the crucible, to become noble men and women.

Another question so often arising is, can the blind distinguish colors by

the sense of feeling? To this my invariable answer has been, "I believe it

to be an impossibility." Many insist upon the point that it is not only

possible, but that they can substantiate it as a fact--having seen it with

their own eyes.

This I have, of course, no right to dispute, but in illustration of the

point in question, and in proof that one can be mistaken therein, I will

cite an incident that occurred in the Baltimore Institution.

Three gentlemen visitors to that place having completed their inspection,

were about taking leave, when they were attracted by "little Joe," a

bright, intelligent boy pupil, and immediately asked him if he could

distinguish colors in the above-mentioned way. The quick-witted little

fellow assumed the serene dignity of a sage and calmly answered, "Of

course I can," whereupon the gentlemen stood in a row and offered Joe the

tempting bait of one dollar if he would tell each one the color of his

pants. Two of them were dressed in broad cloth, and the other in a coarse,

grey suit. The boy naturally inferred that the smooth, textured fabric was

broad cloth, and would most probably be black, and being aware of the then

prevailing style of grey business-suits, he, with great ease, hit the

truth exactly.

They freely gave the promised dollar, and left fully satisfied that he did

it by the sense of touch. As soon as the door was closed, the mischievous

urchin exclaimed, "Golly, boys, suppose I hadn't guessed right?"

Upon this matter I can only say in conclusion, that I have met during my

life many blind persons, and have made this question an especial study,

while not one instance has come under my observation in which the blind

could distinguish colors by touch. By a systematic method of arrangement,

association, etc, as well as through a remarkable recollection of certain

distinguishing characteristics in objects around us, we attain to that

which serves us much the same purpose as distinction of color. Indeed, in

this, as in all things, the blind must, of necessity, be very methodical

in everything they undertake to do.

I sincerely hope that in my heterogeneous and apparently random remarks, I

may have uttered some word of comfort to the blind, some hint which may

truly aid them, some sentiment which may sustain, for my heart goes out to

them in the sympathy of a common affliction.

"SIGHT OF THE BLIND."

Since closing my preceding article I have received from the author, who is

one of the most distinguished blind writers, an essay Which I take great

pleasure in introducing below, not only because of its eminent source,

but from its confirmation of some of the points I have attempted to

illustrate, and which, together with many original and suggestive

thoughts, are given with the plenitude and the power of eloquent

rendition.

"HOW DO THE BLIND SEE?"

BY L.V. HALL.

This may be regarded by some as a paradoxical question; and yet it is not,

if we accept the word see, in its fullest and broadest sense. Webster

defines the verb see, as follows: "To perceive by mental vision; to form

an adequate conception of; to discern; to distinguish; to understand; to

comprehend." True, we do not see through the same medium that you do, who

have perfect organs of sight, but we certainly perceive and comprehend the

relation and condition of things about us. The Creator has so wisely made,

and beautifully adjusted the external organs of sense, one to another, and

each to all, that when one is lacking the others are made able, by greater

exercise, to perform the functions of the missing one. For example, if

one loses his hearing, sight is rendered keener, and the nerves acquire a

sensitiveness almost painful. Dr. Kitto, who was deaf from twelve years of

age, speaks of this peculiar sensitiveness as follows: "The drawing of

furniture, as tables or chairs, over the floor, above or below me, the

shutting of doors, and the feet of children at play, distress me far more

than the same cause would do if I were in actual possession of my hearing.

"By being unattended by any circumstances or preliminaries, they startle

dreadfully; and by the vibration being diffused from the feet over the

whole body, they shake the whole nervous system in a way which even long

use has not enabled me to bear."

In the same interesting article on percussion, he says: "A few days since,

when I was seated with the back of my chair facing a chiffonier, the door

of this receptacle was opened by some one, and swung back so as to touch

my hair. The touch could not but have been slight, but to me the

concussion was dreadful, and almost made me scream with the surprise and

pain; the sensation being very similar to that which a heavy person feels

on touching the ground, when he has jumped from a higher place than he

ought. Even this concussion, to me so violent and distressing, had not

been noticed by any one in the room but myself."

This physiological phenomenon is analagous to the sensation experienced by

the blind on approaching any tall or broad object. We feel their presence

when we are several yards from them. I have sometimes been startled by the

sudden impression produced by a lamp-post, or tree when in fact it was a

yard or more from me. The sensation is somewhat like receiving a smart

blow in the face. I am frequently aware of passing a building while riding

along a country road, and the proximity of trees, fences and other objects

is quite perceptible.

This is not a latent sense, developed by circumstances, as some have

supposed, but a wonderful acuteness of the nerves of the face, and more

particularly of the nerves of the eye-lids. These phenomena may, I think,

be explained in this way. When one of the superior senses is absent, the

perceptive force that has watched at the eye, or listened at the ear, is

now transferred to other nerves of sensation. In other words, a deaf

person is all eyes, and extremely alive to tangible percussions, as will

be seen in the case of Dr. Kitto and others. The blind are all ears and

fingers, and certain of the inferior animals are all ears and heels; I am

not sure but there is some neck in both cases. Since it has been shown

that new perceptions and conditions have been developed in the absence of

one or more of the superior senses, that the deaf are so keenly cognizant

of vibration or jar, which is the father of sound; that the blind can feel

the presence of objects at short distances, which is analogous to sight,

it should not be thought strange that we make such frequent use of the

word _see_, or that the deaf should make use of the word _hear_, and that

these words are not without significance or import. Besides this there is

a mental perception (doubtless through a magnetic medium,) of the presence

or nearness of other minds. This accords with the experience of many

persons. I have frequently entered rooms that I supposed to be

unoccupied, judging from the silence that reigned, but on taking an

inventory of my feelings I found a consciousness of some one's presence,

and this I have done when not the slightest sound aroused my suspicions.

A little incident that occurred while I was a teacher in the New York

Institution for the Blind will, perhaps, better illustrate this point.

I called one evening at the matron's room to ask her to read a letter

which had just been handed me. Supposing it to be a confidential one, and

wishing to make sure that no one else was in the room, I enquired of the

matron if she was alone. On receiving an affirmative answer, I handed her

the letter, requesting her to read it. But, feeling a consciousness that

some other mind was present--a strange mind, with which I had no

sympathy--I walked round to the other end of the table and placed my hand

on a lady's shoulder, remarking to the matron that I felt sure there was

some one in the room beside herself, and asked that the letter might be

returned to me unopened.

From the long experience of this perception, or intuition, has grown the

old adage, "The devil is always near at hand when you are talking about

him." I am not sure that this magnetic condition is more largely developed

in us than in those who see, but I am led to think it is for this reason,

eyes are of paramount importance to those who have them, and we who have

them not search for other media of communication. Mental presence is

either inspiring and assuring, or depressing and embarrassing. I have

observed that when in the presence of some people I have felt comfortable

and assured, while in the presence of others I have felt diffident and

uneasy, I allude here to persons with whom I had no previous acquaintance.

Minds are felt in a ratio proportionate to their will-power. Shallow,

conceited minds are not magnetic. I have been told by blind preachers,

public lecturers and concert singers, that they always feel the difference

between an intelligent and appreciative audience and one made up of coarse

and uncultured people, and this consciousness they have felt before any

demonstrations of applause or disapprobation were made. I have had many

opportunities to experiment on my own feelings in relation to this

magnetic influence or mental recognition. I was a concert singer in my

younger days and could always tell whether I was singing to a large or

small house, and whether my audience was in sympathy with me or not.

If it is argued that I gained this knowledge through the ear, and not

through the magnetic medium that I suppose to exist, I will add other

experiences that will be more convincing to the reader.

In pursuing my business as itinerant book-seller for many years, I have

frequently called at offices when their occupants were out, and on

entering have often said to my guide, "Oh, there is no one here, let us

go, and call again." On the other hand I have often been conscious when

entering a room that there was not only one mind but several minds

present. If I should be asked to describe this consciousness, or mental

recognition, I should not know what language to employ. These are some of

the compensations which the blind receive for the great loss they have

sustained. The sense of smell is ranked as the least important of all the

senses, yet it is of great value to the blind. Through this avenue to the

mind come many pleasurable sensations. By it we are aided in the selection

of our food, in choosing ripe and healthful fruits, in detecting

decomposition, dirt and filth, and in ascertaining much that eyes discover

to those who have them. Without it flowers would have no attraction for

us, and life would lack many of its pleasures. At the risk of being

classed among dogs and vultures. I acknowledge that I am often guided by

my olfactories in doing things that seem so very unaccountable to my

friends.

In passing along the business streets my attention is continually

attracted by the odors that issue from stores, shops, saloons, etc., and

these peculiar smells often direct me to the very place I wish to find.

From groceries come the odors of spices, fish, soaps, etc. From clothing

and dry goods stores the smell of dye-stuffs. From drugs and medicines,

the combined odor of many thousand volatile substances, such as perfumes,

paints, and oils, asafaoetida, etc. From shoe stores comes the smell of

leather; and from books and stationery the smell of printer's ink. Hotels,

saloons and liquor stores, emit that unmistakable odor of alcohol, the

prince of poisons. To me the smell of alcohol, wines, etc., has always,

since my earliest recollection, been grateful and fascinating; and had I

cultivated an appetite for strong drink, it would be as difficult for me

to pass a liquor saloon as for a man whose eyes are tempted by a

magnificent display of mirrors and bottles. I have often been made aware

of open cellar doors by a damp, musty smell that commonly proceeds from

underground rooms, and have, I think, been saved from falling by this odd

warning. I should have fallen, however, only a few days ago, into one of

these yawning horrors had it not been for my ever watchful wife who was

providentially near and called to me in time to save me from injury. Some

workmen were laying a patch of side-walk on Main street, in the town in

which I reside, and had opened a cellar-way near which some of them were

at work, but did not warn me, doubtless because they did not see me, for

workmen are always very kind to me.

I am guided and governed more by the ear, however, than by either of the

other organs of sense. If I wish to cross the street it tells me when

teams are coming, how far they are away, at what rate of speed they are

traveling, and when it will be safe to cross. If I find a group of men

conversing, it tells me who they are. If I wish to enter a store, or any

place, it tells me where the door is, if open, by the sounds that issue

therefrom, but in this I have sometimes been misled by going to an open

window, which always makes me feel awkward. Sound to me is as important as

light is to the seeing, and brings to the mind a great many facts that are

gathered through the eyes when sight is made the prime sense.

Much of my information, however, is received through the fingers. They are

properly the organs of touch. Although this sense is distributed over the

whole body, even to the mucous membrane that lines the mouth and covers

the tongue. When the finger's ends have been hardened by labor, or from

any cause, the lips and tongue are the most sensitive, and are often used

in threading needles, stringing beads, etc, very innocent uses surely to

put the tongue to. This sense of touch is of _necessity_ cultivated by the

blind until it often reaches a state of perfection seldom, if ever, found

in the seeing. Of course its development is gradual, as is the growth of

all the faculties. When I was quite a little child, and my fingers were

soft, I could readily distinguish all the variety of flowers that grew in

my sister's flower garden, and could call them by name. From touch I knew

all the common fruits, from the peach with its velvet skin, to the

strawberry in the meadow, for which I used to search diligently with my

fingers, and sometimes find, as I remember, thistles, which were never

quite to my taste. One thing among my childish sports and amusements, for

they were limited, always gave great pleasure; and does even now. I loved

to play along the brook or lake shore, to feel for smooth and odd shaped

stones, for pretty shells, etc. Their beauty to me existed only in the

great variety of shapes they presented, and in their smooth, pearly

surfaces, as they never suggested to my mind any idea of color. Winter

afforded me few opportunities for cultivating my love for the beautiful.

Summer was my heaven, with its singing birds, its tinkling brooks and its

fresh and delicious fruits.

I took great pleasure in examining, with my fingers, flowers, leaves and

grasses, because their great variety of shape and texture fed an innate

longing after something that I could not then comprehend.

When but an infant, I am told nothing amused me so well as a branch of

green leaves.

My early boyhood was spent in rambling through the woods, hunting nuts,

squirrels, chipmunks, etc., with other boys of my own age, in climbing

trees, digging for wood-chucks, skating, coasting, and in performing all

the feats common to boyhood, such as standing on my head, hopping,

jumping, whistling, shouting, &c. I shall regret to have this page come

under the eyes of my boys, for in noisy mischief they already exceed my

most sanguine expectations, and need not a record of their father's

boisterous childhood to encourage them.

This kind of life, however, has fitted me to enter upon a systematic

course of study, which I did at the age of sixteen. I was received as a

pupil of the New York Institution for the Blind in 1844. I entered in a

good, healthy condition of body and mind. Found there boys and girls like

myself, without sight, yet earnestly engaged in pursuing the various

branches of English education. Many of them were like myself, full of

life, fond of fun and mischief. Many laughable incidents and anecdotes

characteristic of such an institution are fresh in my memory, which, I

should be pleased to relate, did they illustrate the subject in hand. Here

I found sight, which I had always supposed so necessary, somewhat at a

discount. I discovered that books, slates, maps, globes, diagrams, &c.,

could be seen through the fingers, and that children could learn quite as

rapidly in this way as with sight. I was not long, either, in discovering

that the older pupils and graduates were intelligent, accomplished and

refined; that they were treated more as equals by the officers, and that

they were trotted out to show off the merits of the institution, while we

young blockheads were kept in the background. This, I think, did much

toward inspiring me with ambition. My progress at first was slow, having

to learn how to use the appliances. My fingers must be trained, my memory

disciplined and my habits of inattention corrected.

No effort was made, however, to take the mirthfulness out of me, and I

doubt if anything could have succeeded in this. My first introduction to

tangible literature was in placing my hand on a page of the Old Testament

in embossed print. At first I could feel nothing like letters or any

regular characters, only a roughness as though the paper had been badly

wrinkled. A card was then placed in my hand on which the alphabet was

printed in very large type, and my attention called to each letter. My

fingers, then soft and supple, were not long in tracing the outlines of

each character, and, my memory being naturally retentive, I was soon able

to distinguish each letter, and give its name as my finger was placed on

it. Another card was then given me in smaller type, which I mastered in

the same way, and so on till I could read our smallest print.

I have been thus minute in describing the rudimentary process of finger

training, that my readers may understand how it is possible for the

fingers to be made useful to the blind. To show how quick is the

perception through this avenue to the mind, it should be known that we

cannot feel a whole word at once, but a single letter. And yet some of us

are able to read more than a hundred words per minute, and to trace on

raised maps boundary lines, rivers, mountain chains, lakes, straits,

gulfs, bays, to find the location of towns, islands, &c.

It would seem that the fingers are capable of grasping almost everything

that the eye embraces, though of course more slowly, and from the

wonderful acuteness of which they are susceptible has grown the popular

impression that the blind can feel colors. I have been asked this question

many thousand times, and have invariably replied that we can no more feel

colors than the deaf can see sounds or the dumb sing psalms. I am aware

that it is stated by some eminent writers that the sense of touch in some

persons has reached this perfection, but I have many reasons to doubt it.

I have no personal object in contradicting this statement, other than to

correct a popular error. Should be glad if it were true. It has been

accounted for by scientific men upon this hypothesis: that colors differ

in temperature, that red is warmer than yellow, and yellow warmer than

green, and so on through the spectrum. That violet is a cold color as its

rays are less refracted, that these differences are appreciable to

delicate fingers. I have tried many experiments both with my own fingers

and with persons at our several institutions, who, like myself, were born

without sight, and, have never yet found one who could form the faintest

idea of colors from impressions received through the fingers. Indeed

there is nothing in tangible qualities that suggests color, except

differences in texture. We may feel that a piece of broad-cloth has a

harsh texture, and call it black, or a soft texture, and call it drab or

brown. In this we may guess right, for it is only a guess after all. Wool

buyers and dealers in cloth judge frequently of their quality by touch;

and it is true that we who are without sight come to be very expert in

judging of the quality of cloths, furs, &c. But, to one who has never seen

light, there is no suggestion of color through finger perception.

Between sound and color there is a much closer analogy traceable, as both

are the result of vibration. The same language is used to express the

qualities of each.

We talk of harmony in sounds and harmony in colors, of lights and shades,

of chromatics, blending, softness, sweetness, harshness, high, low,

bright, dull, &c.

May not a grand anthem or chorus be to the mind of one who has never seen

the light, what a fine picture is to one who has never heard sounds. I

should not be surprised to hear that some blind Yankee or Frenchman has

invented a telephone through which we can hear in the rippling brooks and

bubbling fountains the color of their waters, in the song of birds the

gorgeous tints of their plumage, and in the distant roar of Niagara, the

mighty grandeur of its scenery. To an imaginative mind a well tuned, well

voiced organ may be made to represent all the colors of the rainbow, from

the faintest violet of the piccolo to the darkest crimson of the sub-bass.

Some blind person on being asked what he supposed red to be like, answered

"Like the sound of a trumpet." He might have said "Like a flame of fire."

I once asked a blind boy, who had never seen light, if he could imagine a

house on fire and how he supposed it would look. He answered, "If it was a

big fire it would look like a thousand trumpets all blowing in a different

key." I then asked him what a picture is like. "Like anything in _shape_

you may wish to paint," he said, "but in color (if it is a fine picture)

like one of Mozart's grand symphonies." I have many times asked my blind

lady friends how they knew in what way to arrange their colors so as to

make their fancy work look tasty and attractive. How they knew what colors

blended and what were discordant, and I have often received this answer:

"By associating the names of the seven primary colors with the seven

sounds of the diatonic scale, placing red as No. 1 or key note, orange

next, yellow next, then green, and so on to violet. Thus red will not

blend with orange, being the first and second of the scale, but red and

yellow harmonize better, being third in the scale, red and green still

better, and so on to red and deep violet, which are sevenths in the scale

and do not harmonize. Thus we get the tetrachord red, yellow, blue and

violet, which may be represented by the flat seventh of the chord C." But

I leave this theory for some one to elaborate or refute, who has seen

color, and return to my institution life.

The ear and voice are also trained at these schools for the blind, and

music is made one of the chief arts. Piano tuning is also taught in a

practical way. If this business is not taught in all the institutions, it

ought to be, for it comes fairly within the scope of our capabilities. And

I will here say for the benefit of my brothers in the dark that I have

been very successful as a piano tuner, and the business is a practical one

for the blind. Any one with a good ear may learn to tune well, but no one

should undertake to repair so delicate a piece of machinery as a piano

action without long experience, mechanical ingenuity, great caution and

good judgment, having had no opportunity to acquire the requisite skill.

It was not my intention at the outset to write a sketch of my own life,

but to demonstrate by my own experience that the inferior senses may be

made to perform many of the offices of sight. The eyes have some

functions, however, which the ears and fingers cannot perform.

For example, if a piece of silk or woolen goods be handed me for

examination the nerves of my fingers will tell me whether it is fine or

coarse, whether it has a harsh or soft texture, whether it is highly

finished or rough and uneven, but they bring me no intelligence of color.

I may pronounce the goods beautiful, because I find in it certain

qualities that address themselves to my taste, but it is not beauty

addressed to the eye. Light and color, to one who has never seen, is as

inconceivable as music to the deaf. We may get some faint idea of what

light is as a medium of communication, or why color pleases the eye as

qualities of texture please the touch, but the conception is vague and

unsatisfactory.

I have often had the remark made to me, "Well, if you have never seen, it

is not so bad after all, you have less desire to see." This, I think, is a

mistake and a poor consolation. Has the man who has never visited the

great Niagara cataract, but has many times heard and read of its wonders,

less desire to see it than one who has witnessed those grand displays of

God's power in the flood? Has the boy who loves to read of travels and

strange adventures less desire to see the glaciers of the Alps, the skies

of Italy or the jungles of Southern Africa, than the traveler who

described them? However well we may see with our mental vision, however

well suited to our taste may be our surroundings, however pleasant may be

our family relations, and however kind may be our companions, we cannot

help that irrepressible desire to know what there is about light and

color, about the indescribable beauty of a sunset, the splendor of an

evening sky, the glory of a cloudless day, and the awful grandeur of a

storm. There is yet one thing we greatly desire to know, which the fingers

cannot grasp.

We are told in poetry and romance that the human face divine is the index

of the spirit. That its ever changing lines express every mood of the mind

and every emotion of the soul, from a smile of ineffable beauty to a

midnight frown, from the sunshine of hope, and joy, and gladness, to

clouds of wrath and hatred. That the spirit looks out through the eye and

melts you with a beam of tenderness, or pierces your heart with a flash of

electric love, or charms you by revealing in its crystal depths the pearl

of purity, or transfixes you with a glance of displeasure. Is all this

talk about sunlit faces and starlit eyes, fine sentiment only, or does the

face really express feeling as unmistakably as we hear it in voices? To

show that the deaf have as great a desire to hear the music of the human

voice as we to see the language of the face, I quote from Dr. Kitto the

following touching passages of personal history:

"Is there anything on earth so engaging to a parent as to catch the first

lispings of his infant's tongue, or so interesting as to listen to its

dear prattle, and trace its gradual mastery of speech? If there be any one

thing arising out of my condition, which, more than another, fills my

heart with grief, it is _this_: it is to _see_ their blessed lips in

motion and to _hear_ them not, and to witness others moved to smiles and

kisses by the sweet peculiarities of infantile speech which are

incommunicable to me, and which pass by me like the idle wind."

Although there are but few experiments in common between the deaf and the

blind, I am able to sympathize fully with this eminent deaf author in the

intense desire he feels to hear the sweet voices of his children. There

is no other object this side of heaven I so ardently wish to see as the

faces of my family. A feeling sometimes comes over me akin, I fancy, to

the impotent rage of a caged lion, who vainly tries to break his prison

bars and gain his liberty. The moral certainty that I must finally leave

this world of beauty without having enjoyed many of its highest blessings

and purest delights often oppresses--so oppresses me, that I can only find

relief in prayer for grace to say--"Thy will be done, O God." I hear the

merry voices of my children, know their step, figure, contour of their

heads and faces, and in my day dreams I see them around me, full of life

and health, fun and frolic, and I know their little hearts are full of

love for me; I know, too, God has given them to me as some compensation

for other blessings he has withheld. Let me trust, then, in His great

mercy, that in the far future I may see the faces of my dear ones in the

light of eternity; of her who gave me birth, but whose fond look of

affection and yearning tenderness I was never able to return; and the

face of her who is now to me even more than a mother, who helps me to bear

my many burdens with Christian patience and fidelity. Then, if I am

permitted to behold the glorified face of Him who hath redeemed us, I

shall rejoice that I have lived and suffered, and wept and wept, and

prayed that I might dwell with Him forever.

INVOCATION TO LIGHT.

BY MRS. HELEN ALDRICH DE KROYFT.

Oh, holy light! thou art old as the look of God and eternal as God. The

archangels were rocked in thy lap, and their infant smiles were brightened

by thee! Creation is in thy memory. By thy touch the throne of Jehovah was

set, and thy hand burnished the myriad stars that glitter in His crown.

Worlds, new from His omnipotent hand, were sprinkled with beams from thy

baptismal font. At thy golden urn pale Luna comes to fill her silver horn,

and rounding thereat Saturn bathes his sky girt rings, Jupiter lights his

waning moons, and Venus dips her queenly robes anew. Thy fountains are

shoreless as the ocean of heavenly love; thy centre is everywhere, and

thy boundary no power has marked. Thy beams gild the illimitable fields of

space, and gladden the farthest verge of the universe. The glories of the

Seventh Heaven are open to thy gaze, and thy glare is felt in the woes of

the lowest Erebus. The sealed books of heaven by thee are read, and thine

eyes like the Infinite can pierce the dark veil of the future, and glance

backward through the mystic cycle of the past.

Thy touch gives the lily its whiteness, the rose its tint, and thy

kindling ray makes the diamond's light. Thy beams are mighty as the power

that binds the spheres. Thou canst change the sleety winds to soothing

zephyrs, and thou canst melt the icy mountains of the poles to gentle

rains and dewy vapors. The granite rocks of the hills are upturned by

thee, volcanoes burst, islands sink and rise, rivers roll and oceans swell

at thy look of command. And oh! thou monarch of the skies, bend now thy

bow of millioned arrows, and pierce, if thou canst, this darkness that

thrice twelve moons has bound me.

Burst now thy emerald gates, O Morn, and let thy dawnings come! Mine eyes

roll in vain to find thee, and my soul is weary of this interminable

gloom. The past comes back robed in a pall which makes all things dark.

The present blotted out, and the future but a rayless, hopeless, loveless

night of years, my heart is but the tomb of blighted hopes, and all the

misery of feelings unemployed has settled on me. I am misfortune's child

and sorrow long since marked me for her own.

IS IT MORE TO LOSE THE EYES THAN THE EARS?

(From Mrs. De Kroyft's forthcoming work, entitled "My Soul and I.")

Ah no! dark and empty and lonely as the world may be to us, no intelligent

blind person could be found who would exchange hearing, and its attendant

gift of speech, for a pair of the brightest eyes in the world; while, for

myself, I have sometimes even wondered if, after all, it be, in the

strictest sense of the word, a misfortune _not to see_.

All of our other senses are certainly not only immeasurably quickened, but

is not our whole nature improved, and our immortal being greatly elevated

through this darkest of human privations?

Just imagine for a moment a touch like Cynthia Bullock's, so exquisite as

to feel with ease the notes, lines and spaces of ordinary printed music;

then add to that a hearing that almost notes the budding of the flowers,

and you will see how little one must possibly lack, even in the scale of

pleasurable existence, while perception in us becomes verily _a new

sense_. Indeed, what shade of thought or feeling ever escapes us? Almost

quicker than a thing has been uttered we have felt or perceived it. What

marvelous power, too, memory comes to possess, and how tenaciously she

clings to everything, often astonishing even to ourselves; while

imagination, that loftiest and most winged attribute of the soul, not only

becomes more fleet, but literally turns creator, reproducing before our

spirit eyes not only all that we have lost, clothed in the beautiful

ideal, but unbars the gates to every new field of intellectual research,

often enabling us to compete even more than successfully with those who

see.

Alas! if there could be only a seat of learning for the blind, with all

its lessons oral or in the form of lectures, as at most of the German

Universities, what could we not achieve?

But, as it is, enough renowned have arisen from our ranks to prove that,

while blindness fetters the hands and the feet, it verily adds wings to

_thought_. Indeed, the world has but one Homer, who sits forever shrouded

in darkness, _the veiled god_ and father of song; and but one Milton, who

gave to the world its "Paradise Lost" and its "Paradise Regained," while

he bequeathed to the blind of all ages the glory and the beacon light of

his name.

EDUCATION OF THE BLIND.

A brief description of the methods employed in their literary, artistic

and industrial education.

I should not consider this work finished without a chapter on the mode of

educating those who have been so unfortunate as to be deprived of the

readiest medium through which education is imparted--the sight. The

systems, although some of them are in use in nearly every State in the

Union, are very little understood, and are always inquired into with every

evidence of interest by visitors to the institutions, where they often

express quite as much surprise as gratification at what they see. I have

therefore, in the following, endeavored to give as full a description as

possible of the various methods and appliances employed to convey through

the sense of feeling, information to which our eyes are closed.

On entering the schools the children are generally wholly uneducated, and

have first to be taught the form and value of letters. To effect this the

letters are raised, and the pupil learns their form by passing the fingers

over them till their forms, names and their use are fully understood. With

some this is a long and tedious task, but others master it in a short

time. I mastered the alphabet in one day, but I was not a child and had a

mind sharpened by experience. By constant exercise the sense of feeling

becomes so acute that very slight differences of form are readily

detected, and reading by the touch becomes an easily mastered art. Having

thus the key of knowledge the subsequent progress of the student is in his

own hands, and, to the credit of the afflicted, it must be said it is

generally very rapid, one reason for which is that loss of sight shuts off

one fruitful source of distraction, and the mind is more easily

concentrated. Another reason is that the necessity for education is

generally appreciated, and the student is eager to acquire it.

The form and use of figures is taught in a similar manner, but the

teaching of arithmetic is largely mental, on account of the difficulty of

producing raised figures with sufficient rapidity, and the study of higher

mathematics is pursued even more strictly from oral teaching.

The art of writing, which, to those not acquainted with the educating of

the blind, is considered the most difficult task, becomes comparatively

easy. It is a two-fold art, including the art of writing for blind readers

and the ordinary Roman script. Of the "blind writing" there are several

systems, but in this I shall be content to describe but two--the pin type

and the "New York Point System." The first consists of movable types, the

letters on which are formed of pin points, and with which the writer

impresses the paper one letter at a time, producing the letter raised on

the opposite side of the paper, which, on being reversed, may be read with

eye or fingers. The point system is the arrangement and combination of six

dots on two lines. Those on the upper line are numbered 1, 3 and 5, and

those on the lower 2, 4 and 6. These are made within spaces about

three-sixteenths of an inch square each, by a styles which resembles a

small, dull awl or centre punch. To prevent the dots being confused the

writer uses a writing board, to which the paper is clamped by a metallic

guide-rule perforated with two or more rows of these squares. The pupils

make these punctured letters with great precision and rapidity, and

frequently conduct their correspondence with their friends by that means,

giving them the alphabet and key by which to learn to read them.

The writing of ordinary script is performed with more difficulty. A

grooved pasteboard is used for the purpose, the grooves being of the width

of the smaller letters. The letters extending above or below the line are

gauged by the ridge. The right hand is followed close by the left, which

guards the written lines from a second tracing of the pencil, and marks

the spaces. By these methods correspondence is maintained between the

blind and their distant friends, and it is even possible for a blind

merchant to keep his own books if necessary.

In writing the common script the pencil is always used, the pen never.

Care has to be taken to keep the pencil pointed, or much care and labor

may be lost. An incident which Mr. Loughery, founder of the Maryland

Institution, used to relate of himself, shows how necessary it is to

observe great care in this matter. When a student he wrote a long, gossipy

letter to a friend, and in a short time was surprised, and for the time

greatly annoyed, at receiving a reply asking him if he had gone mad. It

enclosed his own letter, and on examination of it the two words "Dear Ed."

were found to be its sole contents. In his absorbed condition of mind he

had not noticed the breaking of his pencil, and had proceeded with his

writing, as the scratched paper, on which the traces of the wood of the

pencil were visible, but not legible, indicated.

The most interesting things seen in an Institution for the Blind are the

apparatus for teaching geography, philosophy and physiology. For

geography miniature continents, states, hemispheres, etc., are used, in

which, the political divisions, the physical conformation and

characteristics, the rivers, lakes, seas, etc., etc., are reproduced as

nearly as possible. The boundaries are described by rows of raised dots,

the capital cities by studs of peculiar shape, the larger cities by studs

different in size or shape, the rivers by grooves in the surface, deserts

by spaces being sanded on the surface, the lakes, seas, etc., by

depressions, and the islands by spots elevated above the seas' surface.

Mountain ranges are shown by raised models or miniature mountains, and

that volcanoes may be fully understood, separate models of these and of

other remarkable formations are used, that the student, by a thorough

manual examination, may get a correct knowledge of them. In nearly every

school I have visited there were maps, the sub-divisions of which

consisted of movable blocks. Supported like a table, these maps would be

studied by the pupils taking out the blocks and returning them to their

places as they learned their names, etc. It is no uncommon thing to see a

pupil throw these blocks into a confused heap, mix them all up, and, then

picking them up one by one, put each in its place with as much accuracy as

the most accomplished pianist will strike each key in a simple march or

polka.

The philosophical apparatus consists of miniature machinery: the spring,

the simple and compound lever, the wheel, the cog, the cam, etc., even to

the miniature engine are brought into use, and the pupils examine them by

themselves, and in their various applications and relations to each other.

In teaching those who never could see great difficulty is experienced in

conveying the nature and properties of gases, vapors, etc., but with those

who have any recollection of what they have seen the task is comparatively

easy.

Where the apparatus is possessed the teaching of physiology and natural

history are comparatively easy, the pupil handling and examining

skeletons, skulls and models of the various parts of the human system,

learning their various offices, etc., but many schools do not possess

them, while others have fine collections including busts of eminent or

notorious personages, zoological collections, plaster models, etc., by

which the loss of sight is largely compensated for.

Music is taught by raised notes until the rudiments are mastered. It forms

a great part of the course in all the institutions, and is cultivated with

great assiduity. When the rudiments have been mastered and the pupil is

familiar with the instrument, the music is read to them, the notes

indicated by names and value, and they memorize the music. So thoroughly

do many of the blind master the art that several are now, within my

knowledge, successful teachers of the art to large numbers of seeing

pupils. On the other hand much valuable time is wasted in the effort to

teach music to those who have no talent for it, and whose time might be

more profitably employed in the pursuit of other studies.

In the education of the blind the greatest care is given to the

cultivation and strengthening of the memory and the success that is met

with is truly marvelous, for the amount and variety of knowledge with

which some minds have been stored is to many almost incredible.

The industrial education of the blind is perhaps the most important of

all, and all the institutions are provided with workshops, in which the

inmates learn some useful mechanical or domestic art. The female pupils

are taught to make all kinds of ornamental bead-work, to crochet and knit

woolen and worsted goods, to sew by hand and with machines, and some of

them acquire surprising skill, though my own experience does not give me a

high opinion of the efficacy of attempting to teach sewing, so very few

ever practice it after leaving school, though I have found it convenient

to sew on a button or repair a rent on occasion. Sewing by the blind,

though it may surprise the beholder for the skill acquired under

difficulties, will seldom claim their admiration for its own merit.

I have more faith in the efficiency of the industrial education of the

boys and men, because, in the course of my travels, I have found numbers

of them prospering in the pursuit of the trades learned in the

institutions, and some of them carrying on quite extensive operations.

Boys are taught to make brooms, brushes, cane seats for chairs,

mattresses, door mats, to weave carpets and do many other forms of useful

work. It looks strange to be shown a brush in which black and colored

bristles are formed into lines of beauty--initials, flowers, etc., and to

be told that a blind man made it. It looks like a miracle, but when you

learn that the forms were traced on the block by cutting grooves in its

surface to form the figures, and that the black bristles were kept in a

round box, and white ones in a square box, near the maker's hand, the

mystery disappears.

Connected with the Philadelphia Institution are extensive manufactories,

in which large numbers of workmen are employed. They are the largest in

the United States that are operated almost exclusively by the blind. These

shops enable numbers of men to support themselves and their families in

decency and comfort.

The great interest manifested in the education and training of the blind,

by thousands of noble people and earnest workers throughout the country,

deserves the gratitude of not only those who suffer the great deprivation,

but of the whole people; for the benefits they have conferred on us by

educating and rendering us useful and independent, rank in the scale of

beneficence next to giving us sight.

POEMS BY THE BLIND.

I take the liberty of introducing a few poems by blind authors, feeling

that they will be appreciated by the public. Poetry seems to possess

peculiar charms for blind people, who, deprived of material sight, seem to

love to revel in the beautiful visions presented by the imagination. Among

blind poets and rhymesters there are, of course, as many different grades

of merit as among the more favored writers, but the proportion of doggerel

writers is fortunately much smaller among the blind, and they cannot so

readily inflict their scribbling in such volume on a patient public. The

poems here presented are selected from among a number of the best

productions of the best writers.

LUCY A. LITTLE.

I take great pleasure in introducing into these leaves the following

simple poem from the pen of Miss Lucy A. Little, a young blind girl,

toward whom I have been drawn by deep sympathy and affection. She was

educated in the Wisconsin Institution for the Blind, where she graduated

with high honor.

She possesses great personal attractions and much intrinsic merit, being

the household pet in the home of her grand-parents; and, as the blind have

missions, it seems to have been especially hers to minister to those who

regard her with doting fondness, and to whom she is a bright prismatic

ray, making the shortening path of the old people radiant with, its light.

A JUNE MORNING.

Early one morn in leafy June,

When brooks and birds were all in tune,

A maiden left her quiet home

In meadows and in fields to roam.

She wandered on, in cheerful mood,

Through verdant fields and leafy wood.

At length she paused to rest awhile

Upon a little rustic stile.

She made a pretty picture there,

With her bright, curling, golden hair,

And dress of white, and eyes of blue,

And ribbons of the self-same hue.

And while she sat absorbed in thought,

A form approached. She heeded not

Until a hand was gently laid

Upon the shoulders of the maid.

Then, looking up in sweet surprise,

She saw a pair of jet-black eyes,

A perfect form of manly grace,

A handsome, open, honest face.

Then said the maid, in voice so clear:

"How did you know that I was here?"

Said he: "I sought you at your home,

They told me you had hither come,

And so, I came, this bright June day,

To say what I've so longed to say.

When first we met in by-gone days,

You charmed me with your winning ways.

Since then the time has quickly flown,

Each day to me you've dearer grown,

And you can brighten all my life

If you will but become my wife."

She raised her eyes unto his own,

And in their depths a new light shone,

While in a voice so soft and low

She said: "I _will_; it shall be so."

And then they homeward took their way,

While birds were singing sweet and gay,

Now oft they bless that day in June

When brooks and birds were all atune.

GOLD WORSHIPPERS.

BY L.V. HALL.

Within a faded volume, dim and old,

I find this musty maxim tersely given:

"The magic key to human hearts is gold,

But love unlocks the crystal gates of heaven."

Our homes are not so happy as of old,

Our hearts are not so merry as of yore,

We find that nought can purchase love but gold,

That virtue begs a pittance at the door.

There was a time when Beauty bore the sway;

There was a time when Wit the world controlled;

There was a time when Valor won the day;

But now the noble knight that wins, is Gold.

The ancient Ghebers worshipped light and fire;

The Brahmins bowed to gods of wood and stone;

But now, 'neath marble dome and gilded spire,

The deity adored is gold alone.

It overlays the altar and the cross;

It dignifies the monarch and the clown;

The wealth of moral worth is counted dross;

The million miser wears the golden crown.

'Tis time this mad idolatry should cease;

'Tis time her prophets and her priests were slain;

Let earth do homage to the Prince of Peace,

And the reign of gold shall be the golden reign.

The Christ came not with pomp and princely show;

His followers were lowly and despised;

He courted not the high, nor shunned the low;

A very God in human flesh disguised.

He brought a marvelous message from above:

A gift of grace and pardon from the King.

He claimed no tithe or tribute but of love--

A penitent and contrite heart to bring.

He banished brokers from the house of prayer;

He raised the dead and made the dumb to speak;

Unsealed the blinded eye, unstopped the ear;

He fed the poor and lifted up the weak.

The way to life, He said, is plain and straight,

It leads to joy, and peace, and heavenly light

The way to death is through a golden gate

And broad the way that leads to endless night.

Shall we accept the sacrifice he made

And enter in the Shepherd's sheltering fold?

Or, like the Judas who his Lord betrayed,

Sell soul and hope of Heaven for miser's gold?

Say, which is best, true piety or gold?

This metal worship or the living God?

Ye cannot have them both, so we are told,

See to it then which pathway shall be trod.

Array your idol in his robes of state!

Set up his image on his golden throne!

Throw open wide the temple's gilded gate,

And thus proclaim that gold is God alone!

Or else array yourselves in plain attire;

Set up the love of Christ in every heart

Let each affection feel its fervent fire,

And in this money-worship bear no part.

Now make your choice between your gold and heaven;

Buy all the sinful pleasures wealth can bring;

Increase them through the years to mortals given

And die, at last--a beggar--not a king.

Yes, make your choice between your gold and heaven;

Find peace and pardon in a Saviour's blood;

Freely bestow what, free to you, is given,

And meet, at last, the welcoming smile of God.

THE DOUBLE NIGHT.

BY MORRISON HEADY,

Of the Kentucky Institution for the Blind.

_To the shades of Milton and Beethoven_.

"Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins

From ancient Night, who nursed the tender thought

To reason, and on reason build resolve--

That column--of true majesty in man--

Assist me--I will thank you in the grave."--

_Night Thoughts_.

DARKNESS.

Go, bring the harp that once with dirges thrilled,

But now hangs hushed in leaden slumbers,

Save when the faltering hand untimely chilled

Steals o'er its chords in broken numbers.

It hangs in halls where shades of sorrow dwell,

Where echoless Silence tolls the passing bell,

Where shadowless Darkness weaves the shrouding spell

Of parting joys and parting years.

Go, bring it me, sweet friend, and ere we part,

A lay I'll frame, so sad 'twill wring thy heart

Of all its pity, all its tears

As fitful shadows round me gather fast,

And solemn watch my thoughts are holding,

Comes Memory, Panoramist of the Past.

The rising morn of life unfolding,

Now fade from view all living toil and strife;

Time past is now my present; death, my life;

All that exists is obsolete;

While o'er my soul there steals the pensive glow

Of sainted joys that young years only know,

And past scenes, looming dimly, rise and throw

Their lengthening shadows at my feet.

I see a morn domed in by pictured skies;

The dew is on its budding pleasures,

The gladsome, early, sunlight on it lies,

And to it from this dark my pent soul flies,

As misers nightly to their treasures.

And, as I look, I see a glittering train,

In airy throng, across the dreamlit plain,

Come dancing, dancing from the tomb;

Flitting in phantom silence on my sight;

In silence, yet all beautiful and bright,

The ghosts of joy, and hope, and bloom.

But passed me by; their lines of fading light

Tell of decay, of youth's and beauty's blight;

Then, like spent meteors shimmering through the night,

The vision melts in closing gloom.

Another day in sable vesture clad,

All drear with new blown pleasures blighted,

Comes blindly groping through the twilight sad,

As one in moonless mists benighted.

O! Day unhappy! could oblivion roll

Its slumberous billows o'er my shrinking soul,

Thee scarce I could, e'en then, forget:

A life, bereft of light, no memory need

To tell of night that ne'er to morning leads,

Of day that is forever set.

From yonder sky the noonward sun was torn,

Ere day dawn's rosy hues had banished;

A starless midnight blotted out the morn,

Ere childhood's dewy joys had vanished.

No slow paced twilight ushered in the night;

A spangled web, the Heavens were swept from sight;

The full moon fled and never waned;

And all of Earth that's beautiful and fair.

Became as shadows in the empty air--

A boundless, blackened blank remained!

I heard the gates of night, with sullen jar,

Close on the cheerful day forever;

Hope from my sky sank like the evening star,

Which finds in darkness, zenith never,

For scarce she knew, blithe offspring of the day,

How there to shine, where night held boundless sway;

And shapes of beauty, grace and bloom,

And fair-formed joys that once around me danced,

Bewildered grew, where sunbeams never glanced,

And lost their way in that wide gloom.

Pensylla, o'er me many sunless years

Have flown, since last the beams of heaven,

The soft ascent of morn through smiles and tears,

The sweet descent of dreamy even--

Or sight of wood and fields in green arrayed,

Vernal resplendence or Autumnal shade,

Or Winter's gloom or Summer's blaze;

Bird, beast or works that trophy man's abode,

Or he divine, the image of his God,

Met my rapt gaze.

Look, gentle guide! Thou see'st the imperial sun

Forth sending far his ambient glory,

O'er laughing fields and frowning highlands dun,

O'er glancing streams and woodlands hoary.

In orient clouds he steeps his amber hair,

With beams far slanting through the flaming air,

Bids Earth, with all her hymning sound, declare

The praise of everlasting light.

On my bared head I felt his pitying ray,

He loves to shine on my benighted way;

But ah, Pensylla! he brings to me no day--

Nor yet his setting, deeper night.

Prime gift of God, that veil'st His sovereign throne,

And dost of Him in sense remind me--

Blest light of Heaven, why hast thou from me flown?

To these sad shades, why hast resigned me?

On pinions of surpassing beauty borne,

When Nature hails the glad advance of morn,

In thine unsullied loveliness.

Thou com'st; but to my darkened eyes in vain--

My night, e'en in the noon of thy domain,

Yields not to thee, since joy of thine again

Can ne'er my dayless being bless.

SILENCE.

Next, Silence, fit companion of the Night,

In drearier depths my being steeping,

Like the felt presence of an unseen sprite,

With muffled tread comes creeping, creeping.

Before me close her smothering curtain swings,

And o'er my life a shadeless shadow flings;

Sinking with pitiless weight, and slow

To shroud the last sweet glimpse of Earth and Man,

And set my limits to the narrow span

Of but an arm's length here below.

O, whither shall I fly, this stroke to shun?

Where turn me, this side death and heaven?

Almost I would my course on earth were run,

And all to Night and Silence given!

I turn to man: can he but with me mourn?

Alike we're helpless, and, as bubbles borne,

We to a common haven float.

To Him, th' All-seeing and All-hearing One,

Behold, I turn! More hid than he there's none,

More silent none, none more remote!

Alas, Pensylla, stay that pious tear!

Now nearer come, I fain thy voice would hear,

Like music when the soul is dreaming;

Like music dropping from a far off sphere,

Heard by the good, when life's end draweth near.

It faintly comes, a spirit seeming,

The sounds at once entrance me, ear and soul:

The voice of winds and waves, the thunder's roll.

The steed's proud neigh, and lamb's meek plaint,

The hum of bees, and vesper hymn of birds,

The rural harmony of flocks and herds,

The song of joy, or praise, and man's sweet words--

Come to me fainter--yet more faint

Was my poor soul to God's great works so dull.

That they from her must hide forever?

Earth too replete with joy, too beautiful,

For me, ingrate, that we must sever?

For by sweet scented airs that round me blow,

By transient showers, the sun's impassioned glow,

And smell of woods and fields, alone I know

Of Spring's approach, and Summer's bloom;

And by the pure air, void of odors sweet,

By noontide beams, low slanting, without heat,

By rude winds, cumbering snows, and hazardous sleet,

Of Autumn's blight and Winter's gloom

As at the entrance of an untrod cave,

I shrink--so hushed the shades and sombre.

This death of sense makes life a breathing grave,

A vital death, a waking slumber!

'Tis as the light itself of God were fled--

So dark is all around, so still, so dead;

Nor hope of change, one ray I find!

Yet must submit. Though fled fore'er the light,

Though utter silence bring me double night,

Though to my insulated mind,

Knowledge her richest pages ne'er unfold,

And "human face divine" I ne'er behold--

Yet must submit, must be resigned!

TO THE SHADES.

To thee, blind Milton, solemn son of night,

Great exile once from day's dominion bright,

Whose genius, steeped in truth and glory,

Like some wide orb of new created light,

Rose, in the world, bewildering mortals' sight--

I'll sing till earth's young hills grow hoary!

For what of joy I've found in life's dark way,

And what of excellence have reached I may,

Much, much is due thy wondrous rhyme,

Which sang the triumphs of Eternal Truth,

Revealed blest glimpses of immortal youth,

Of Heaven, e'er angels sang of time:

Of light, that o'er the embryon tumult broke,

Of earth, when all the stars symphonious woke,

Till man, as if from Heaven a seraph spoke,

Entranced, hung on thy strains sublime.

Day closes on the earth his one bright eye,

That Night, her starry lids unsealing,

May ope her thousand in a loftier sky,

God's higher mysteries revealing.

So when thy day from thee its light withdrew,

And o'er the night its rueful shadows threw,

And "from the cheerful ways of men"

Thy steps cut off, thy mind, thick set with eyes,

As night with stars, piercing thy shrouded skies,

And proving most illumined then,

When darkest seeming, soared on cherub wings--

Those star-eyed wings--higher than ever springs

The beam of day, to see, and tell of things

Invisible to mortal ken.

O'er earth thy numbers shall not cease to roll

Till man to live, who to them hearkened;

Thy fame, no less immortal than thy soul,

Shall shine when yon proud sun is darkened.

Thee, now, methinks, I see, O bard divine!

Where ripen no fair joys that are not thine,

And God's full love is pleased on thee to shine,

Still by the heavenly Muses fired,

And starred among the angelic minstrel band,

The sacred lyre thou sway'st with sovereign hand,

While seraphs, in awed rapture, round thee stand,

As one by God himself inspired.

Sublime Beethoven, wizard king of sound,

Once exiled from thy realm, yet not discrowned--

Assist me; since my spirit, thrilling

With thy surpassing strains, is mute, spell bound;

For through the hush of years they still resound,

With music weird my spent ear filling.

When Silence clasped thee in her dismal spell,

And Earth born Music sang her sad farewell;

Thy mighty Genius, as in scorn,

Arose in silent majesty to dwell,

Where from symphonic spheres thou heard'st to swell,

As on celestial breezes borne,

Sounds, scarce by angels heard, e'en in their dreams;

Which, at thy bidding, wrought a thousand themes,

And pouring down in rich pellucid streams,

Filled organ grand and resonant horn;

With rarest sweetness touched each dulcet string,

Made martial bugle and bold clarion ring,

Soft flute provoked like the lone bird of spring,

To warble lays of love forlorn;

Woke shrilly reed to many a pastoral note

Thrilled witching lyre and lips melodious smote,

Till earth, in tuneful ether, seemed to float--

As when first sang the stars of morn!

Till wondering angels were entranced to chime,

With harp and choral tongue, thy strains sublime

And bear thy soul beyond the reach of time,

Heaven's halls harmonious to adorn.

Ah, me! could I with ken angelic, scan

Celestial glories hid from mortal man,

I'd deem this night a day supernal!

Could music, borne from some far singing sphere,

Float sweetly down and thrill my stricken ear,

I'd pray this hush might be eternal!

RESIGNATION.

Pensylla, look! With tremulous points of fire,

The sun, red-sinking lights yon distant spire

O'er leafy hill and blossoming meadows,

Spreads wide and level his departing beams,

Then sinks to rest, as one sure of sweet dreams,

'Mid pillowing clouds and curtaining shadows.

Night draws her lucid shade o'er sky and earth;

Solemn and bright, Heaven's starry eyes look forth;

The evening hymn of praise and song of mirth

Rise gratefully from man's abode.

O, Night! I love her sombre majesty!

'Tis sweet, her double solitude, to me!

Pensylla, leave me now! Alone I'd be

With Darkness, Silence and my God.

O Thou, whose shadow is but light's excess,

The echo of whose voice but silentness,

Whose light and music, half expended,

Would flood, dissolve the sphery frame; 'twixt whom

And man no endless night can throw its gloom

Till long Eternity is ended--

Which ne'er shall end--to thee, my trust, I turn!

To one, for whom in vain thy lamps now burn,

A hearing deign; nor from thy footstool spurn

The prayer of an imprisoned mind.

Father, thy sun is set; night veils the world,

That orbs more beauteous be to man unfurled,

Then in my Night, let me but find

New realms, where thought and fancy may rejoice;

Let its long silence ne'er displace Thy voice

From whispering hope and peace, 'twere my choice

To be thus smitten deaf and blind!

Fill me with light and music from above,

And so inspire with truth, faith, courage, love,

That Thou and man my work can well approve--

Father, to all I'm then resigned!

Harp of the mournful voice, now fare thee well!

My sad song ended, ended is thy spell.

Perchance thine echoes, memory haunting,

May oft awaken, shadowing forth the swell

Of long sung monody and long tolled knell,

And o'er the dead past, dirges chanting;

But for me, ever hang in Sorrow's hall!

Bid Night and Silence spread oblivion's pall

O'er earthly blooming joys, that seared must fall

And leave the stricken soul to weep:--

Ever, till this devoted head be hoar,

And the swart angel whispering at the door;

When I thy slumbers may disturb once more.

Ere double night bring double sleep,

Till then, I sing in happier, bolder strain:

What's lost to me is God's; what's left, for pain

Or joy still His: and endless day, His reign:

And reckoning of my Night He'll keep!

AUTUMN.

BY ELLENOR J. JONES,

Of the Indiana Institution.

Oh Autumn, sweet sad Autumn queen,

With robe of golden brown,

Our hearts are bowed with grief and pain,

As each leaf flutters down.

In every drooping flow'ret,

In every leafless tree,

By warbling birds deserted,

We find some trace of thee.

Thou'rt lovely, oh, so lovely,

And yet how brief thy stay,

Why is it all things beautiful

Must droop and fade away?

All, all thy gorgeous painted leaves,

With colors bright and gay,

Were touched by nature's magic brush,

Then rudely cast away.

And thus our dearest hopes are crushed,

By fate's relentless will,

Like withered leaves they pass away--

But peace, sad heart, be still.

Thou too must breast the adverse wind,

Be wildly tempest-tossed,

Perhaps when thou art hushed in death,

Thou'lt meet the loved and lost.

But for this sweetly, solemn thought

That thrills us with delight,

This life, so marred by grief and pain,

Could never seem so bright.

Then welcome, sweet, sad Autumn days,

Though brief the hallowed reign,

For every smile must have its tear,

And every joy its pain.

A TIME FOR ALL THINGS.

BY ELLEN COYN,

Of the Arkansas Institution.

I sat down at the window, where

I oft had calmed my ruffled feeling,

For summer evening's balmy air

Has for the wounded spirit healing.

That morning I had been quite glad,

For hope had prospects bright in keeping,

But fortune changed, and I was sad,

And there I sat in silence weeping.

'Tis vain I said to hope for good,

Or cherish bliss for one short hour,

If morn puts forth a fragrant bud,

Ere night 'tis but a withered flower.

My Bible lay upon the stand,

In which I'd ofttimes found a blessing,

I quickly took the book in hand,

In hope to learn a useful lesson.

I read upon its open page,

"There is a time and purpose given,

It has been so from age to age,

For everything that's under Heaven."

'Tis vain and wrong to wish, I thought,

That life with me be always sunny,

My cup with bitter never fraught,

But always overflown with honey

When fortune frowns I'll not despair,

I'll only weep away my sorrow,

'Twill ease my heart and brow of care,

I'll laugh when joy returns to-morrow.

DRIFTING.

BY ELLENOR J. JONES.

We are drifting on the sea of life,

Like ships we're tempest-tossed,

And 'mid this world of care and strife

How many are wrecked and lost!

Our vessels are sometimes set afloat,

'Neath a bright and cloudless sky,

But far in the distance hid from view,

The breakers are sure to lie.

Others are launched on an angry sea,

When the waves are dashing high,

And the wild winds give a ghostly tone,

To the curlew's troubled cry.

But the good ship Faith is gaily launched,

For the pilot, Hope, is there,

And Love, with his flaming lamp of light,

Maketh all things wondrous fair.

Soon Faith is wrecked by a careless word,

And beautiful Hope is dead,

And Love, with the holy light of life,

In an angry moment fled.

And thus on the wide wild sea of life,

We are drifting day by day,

Without one thought of the solemn truth,

That we all shall pass away.

End of Project Gutenberg's The World As I Have Found It, by Mary L. Day Arms