ferocity and treachery of Akbar Khan’s character, arose from the
extraordinary frequency of earthquakes in the region in which they were
confined. Lady Sale is one of the very few human beings who has ever
made such an entry in a journal as this: “3d and 4th March. Earthquakes
as usual.” Under other dates such expressions as “Earthquakes in plenty”
are frequent; and hardly less significant is the entry, under the date
of 19th April, “No earthquakes to-day.” The earthquakes were of a most
formidable character. Lady Sale had a narrow escape of destruction from
one which took place in February. She was on the roof of the room she
lived in, hanging out some clothes to dry, when the whole building began
to rock; she felt the roof was giving way, and rushed down the stairs,
just in time to save her life, as the building fell with an awful crash
the instant she left it. Lawrence writes: “We all assembled in the
centre of the court, as far from the crumbling walls as possible, ...
when suddenly the entire structure disappeared as through a trap-door,
disclosing to us a yawning chasm. The stoutest hearts among us quailed
at the appalling sight, for the world seemed coming to an end.”
Almost the only angry words that appear in Lady Sale’s journal are
caused by attempts of the officers to negotiate a ransom for themselves
and the rest of the party, without consulting the ladies as to the terms
to be agreed upon. Women’s suffrage had not been much talked of in 1842,
but Lady Sale appeared to hold that taxation and representation ought to
go hand in hand; for she says, “A council of officers was held at the
General’s regarding this same ransom business, which they refer to
Macgregor. I protest against being implicated in any proceedings in
which I have no vote.” In the end the Indian Government paid the sum
that it was agreed to give to Saleh Mahomed for effecting the
deliverance of the prisoners. Another source of irritation to Lady Sale
was the dread lest the military authorities should hesitate to proceed
vigorously against the Afghans at the right moment because it might
endanger the lives of the hostages. “Now is the time,” she wrote on the
10th May, “to strike the blow, but I much dread dilly-dallying just
because a handful of us are in Akbar’s power. What are _our_ lives
compared with the honour of our country? Not that I am at all inclined
to have my throat cut; on the contrary, I hope I shall live to see the
British flag once more triumphant in Afghanistan.”
Allusion has already been made to Lady Sale’s power of extracting grim
fun out of the discomforts of the situation. The Afghans are great
thieves, and one of the minor troubles of the captives lay in the fact
that their captors calmly appropriated articles sent to the prisoners.
They took possession of a case in which Lady Sale had left some small
bottles. “I hope,” she writes, “the Afghans will try their contents as
medicine, and find them efficacious: one bottle contained nitric acid,
another a strong solution of lunar caustic.” Twice she was incapacitated
by severe attacks of fever, which had proved fatal to several of the
party; but her courage never deserted her; and she shook off fever and
all other ills when she heard her husband was near. Saleh Mahomed had
already agreed, for a sum of money, to remove them from Akbar’s power,
and they had left the place in which they had been confined; but Akbar
would probably have recaptured them had not Sir R. Sale and Sir R.
Shakespear with their brigades joined them just at the nick of time.
Who can tell what the meeting must have been between the gallant husband
and wife? The narrative can best be given in Lady Sale’s own words: “Had
we not received assistance, our recapture was certain.... It is
impossible to express our feelings on Sale’s approach. To my daughter
and myself happiness, so long delayed as to be almost unexpected, was
actually painful, and accompanied by a choking sensation which could not
obtain the relief of tears. When we arrived where the infantry were
posted, they cheered all the captives as they passed, them, and the men
of the 13th” (her husband’s regiment) “pressed forward to welcome us
individually. Most of the men had a little word of hearty congratulation
to offer each in his own style on the restoration of his colonel’s wife
and daughter; and then my highly-wrought feelings found the desired
relief; I could scarcely speak to thank the soldiers for their sympathy,
whilst the long-withheld tears now found their course.”
Footnote 2:
A crore of rupees is a million. At that time a rupee was worth 2s.;
therefore a crore of rupees would equal £100,000.
XIV
ELIZABETH GILBERT
ELIZABETH GILBERT, daughter of the Bishop of Chichester, was one of the
blind who help the blind. It is true, physically, that the blind cannot
lead the blind; but, perhaps, none are so well fitted as the blind, who
are gifted with courage, sympathy, and hope, to show the way to careers
of happy and active usefulness to those who are suffering from a similar
calamity with themselves.
The Bishop’s little daughter, born at Oxford in 1826, was not blind from
her birth. She is described in the first years of infancy as possessing
dark flashing eyes, that, no doubt, were as eager to see and know as
other baby eyes. Her sight was taken from her by an attack of scarlet
fever when she was two years and eight months old. Her mother had lately
been confined, and, consequently, was entirely isolated from the little
invalid. The care of the child devolved upon her father, who nursed her
most tenderly, and, by his ceaseless watchfulness and care, probably
saved her life. But when the danger to life was passed, it was found
that the poor little girl had lost her sight. Everything was done that
could be done; the most skilful oculists and physicians of the day were
consulted, but could do nothing except confirm the fears of her parents
that their little girl was blind for life.
With this one great exception of blindness, Elizabeth Gilbert’s
childhood was peculiarly happy and fortunate. Her parents wisely
determined to educate her, as much as possible, with their other
children, and to avoid everything which could bring into prominence that
she was not as the others were. There was a large family of the Gilbert
children, and Bessie, as she was always called, like the others, was
required to dress herself and wait on herself in many little ways that
bring out a child’s independence and helpfulness. She used to sit always
by her father’s side at dessert, and pour him out a glass of wine, which
she did very cleverly without spilling a drop. When asked how she could
do this, she replied it was quite easy—she judged by the weight when the
glass was full. She learnt French, German, Italian, and music, with her
sisters, and joined them in their games, both indoors and out. When she
required special watching and care, they were given silently, without
letting her find out that she was being singled out for protection. When
she was old enough, the direction of the household and other domestic
duties were entrusted to her in her parents’ absence, in turn with her
other sisters. Thus her ardour, self-reliance, and courage were
undamped, and she was prepared for the life’s work to which she
afterwards devoted herself—the industrial training of the adult blind.
In 1842 an event happened which doubtless had a good effect in
developing Miss Gilbert’s natural independence of character, which had
been so carefully preserved by her parents’ training. Her godmother died
and left her a considerable sum of money, of which she was to enjoy the
income as soon as she came of age. It was, therefore, in her power to
carry out the scheme which she formed in after years for the benefit of
the blind, without being obliged to rely at the outset on others for
pecuniary support. She never could have done what she did if she had
been obliged to ask her parents for the money the development of her
plans necessarily required. They were most kindly and wisely generous to
her, but it would have been impossible to one of her honourable and
sensitive nature to spend freely and liberally as she did money which
was not her own. The saddest and most desponding period of her life was
that which came after she had ceased to be a child, and before she had
taken up the life’s work to which reference has just been made. She was
one of a bevy of eight sisters; and they naturally, as they passed from
childhood to womanhood, entered more and more into a world which was
closed to their blind sister. At that time, even more than now, marriage
was the one career for which all young women were consciously or
unconsciously preparing. It was hard for a young girl to live in a
social circle in which marriage was looked upon as the one honourable
goal of female ambition, and to feel at the same time that it was one
from which she was herself debarred. Those who saw her at this time, say
she would often sit silent and apart in the drawing-room of her father’s
house in Queen Anne Street, with the tears streaming down her face, and
that she would spend hours together on her knees weeping. “To the
righteous there ariseth a light in darkness.” The light-bringers to the
sad heart of Bessie Gilbert were manifold; and as is usual in such
cases, the light of her own life was found in working for the welfare of
others. The most healing and cheering of words to those who are sick at
heart are, “Come and work in My vineyard.”
Small things often help great ones; and a clever mechanical invention by
a Frenchman named Foucault, for enabling blind people to write, was not
an unimportant link in the chain that drew Miss Gilbert out of her
despondency. By means of this writing frame, she entered into
correspondence with a young blind man, named William Hanks Levy, who had
lately married the matron of the St. John’s Wood School for the Blind.
Levy entered with great zeal, enthusiasm, and originality into all the
schemes Miss Gilbert began to form for the welfare of the blind. Her
thoughts were further turned in the direction of working for the blind
poor, by a book called _Meliora_, written by Lord Ingestre, the aim of
which was to show how the gulf between rich and poor could be bridged
over. But most important of all, perhaps, of the influences that were
making a new outlook for her life, was her friendship with Miss
Bathurst, daughter of Sir James Bathurst. This lady was deeply
interested in all efforts to raise up and improve the lot of women, and
especially devoted herself to opening the means of higher education to
them. She was one of those who hoped all things and believed all things,
and, consequently, she rebelled against the impious notion that if a
woman were not married there was no use or place for her in the world.
It was her clear strong faith in women’s work and in women’s worth, that
helped more than anything else to give dignity, purpose, and happiness
to Bessie Gilbert’s life. The life of the blind girl became ennobled by
the purpose to work for the good of others, and to help both women and
men who were afflicted similarly with herself to make the best use of
their lives that circumstances permitted.
Very little, comparatively, at that time had been done for the blind.
The excellent college at Norwood did not exist. The poor blind very
frequently became beggars, and the well-to-do blind, with few
exceptions, were regarded as doomed to a life of uselessness; in some
instances, as in Miss Gilbert’s own, kindly and intelligent men thought
it neither wrong nor unnatural to express a hope that “the Almighty
would take the child who was afflicted with blindness.” What was
specially needed at the time Miss Gilbert’s attention was directed to
the subject was the means of industrial training, to enable those who
had lost their sight in manhood or womanhood to earn their own living.
The proficiency of the blind in music is well known, but to attain a
high degree of excellence in this requires a training from early
childhood. To those who become blind in infancy a musical education
affords the best chance of future independence; but thousands become
blind in later life, when they are too old to acquire professional skill
as musicians; and, besides these, there are those who are too completely
without the taste for music to render it possible for them to become
either performers or teachers of it. It was especially for the poor
adult blind that Miss Gilbert laboured. She studied earnestly to
discover the various kinds of manual labour in which the blind stood at
the least disadvantage in comparison with sighted persons. Her efforts
had a humble beginning, for the first shop she opened was in a cellar in
Holborn, which she rented at 1s. 6d. a week. She was ably seconded by
Levy, and by a blind carpenter named Farrar; the cellar was used as a
store for the mats, baskets, and brushes made by blind people in their
own homes. A move was, however, soon made to a small house near
Brunswick Square, but the work soon outgrew these premises also, and a
house was taken, with a shop and workrooms, in what is now the Euston
Road. Miss Gilbert exerted herself assiduously to promote the sale of
the articles made by her clients. The goods were sold at the usual
retail price, and their quality was in many respects superior to that of
similar goods offered in ordinary shops; in this way a regular circle of
customers was in time obtained, who were willing to buy of the blind
what the blind were able to produce. It must not be supposed, however,
that this process, which sounds so easy and simple in words, was really
easy and simple in practice. The blind men and women had to be taught
their trades; in the case of many of them, their health was below the
average, and, in the case of a few, they were not quite clear that
working had any advantages over begging, for a living. Miss Gilbert and
her foreman, W. Levy, had industrial, physical, and moral difficulties
to contend with that would have daunted any who were less firmly
grounded in the belief in the permanent usefulness of what they had
undertaken. Miss Gilbert found that many of the blind people she
employed could not, with the best will in the world, earn enough to
support themselves. The deficiency was for years made up from her own
private means. W. Levy had what appears a mistaken enthusiasm for
employing none but blind persons in the various industries carried on in
the workshop. There are some industrial processes for performing which
blindness is an absolute bar, some in which it is a great disadvantage,
others in which it is a slight disadvantage, and a few in which it is no
disadvantage at all. The aim of those who wish to benefit the blind
should be, in my judgment, to promote co-operation of labour between the
blind and the seeing, so that to the blind may be left those processes
in which the loss of sight places them at the least disadvantage. The
blind Milton composed _Paradise Lost_, and other noble poems, which will
live as long as the English language lasts. He never could have done
this if the mechanical labour of writing down his compositions had not
been given over to those who had the use of their eyes. This is an
extreme instance, but it may be taken as an example of the way in which
the blind and the seeing should work together, each doing the best their
natural faculties and limitations fit them for. Levy had an intense
pride in having everything in Miss Gilbert’s institution done only by
the blind. So far did he carry this prejudice that it was only with
difficulty that he was induced to have a seeing assistant for keeping
the accounts. Previous to this, as was natural and inevitable, they were
in the most hopeless confusion. Levy was, however, in many ways an
invaluable leader and fellow-worker. His courage and energy were
boundless. On one occasion he undertook successfully a journey to France
in order to discover the place where some pretty baskets were made. He
and his wife landed at Calais almost entirely ignorant of the French
language, and knowing nothing except that certain baskets, for which
there was then a good demand in England, were being manufactured in one
of the eighty-nine departments of France. After many wanderings, both
accidental and inevitable, he discovered the place. He was received with
great kindness by the people who made the baskets, and, having learnt
how to make them himself, he returned to England to communicate his
knowledge to his and Miss Gilbert’s company of blind workpeople. A
letter of Levy’s to Miss Gilbert, describing a fire that had broken out
close to the institution, and had for some time placed it in great
danger, is a wonderful instance of a blind man’s energy and power of
acting promptly and courageously in the face of danger.
Little by little the work Miss Gilbert had begun grew and prospered. A
regular society was formed, of which the Queen became the patron, and of
which Miss Gilbert was the most active and devoted member. This
association received the name of the Society for Promoting the General
Welfare of the Blind. Its present habitation is in Berners Street,
London. Its founder, for several years before her death, was obliged,
through ill-health, to withdraw from all active participation in its
business; but so well and firmly had she laid the foundations, that
others were able to carry on what she had begun. The Society is one of
the most useful in London for the poor adult blind, because it provides
them with industrial training, according to their individual capacities,
and secures them, as far as possible, a constant and regular market for
the goods they are able to produce. The wages earned are in some cases
supplemented by small grants, and pensions are, in several instances,
given to those blind men and women who have survived their power of
work. The result of Miss Gilbert’s life has been to ameliorate very much
the lot of the blind poor by substituting the means of self-supporting
industry for the doles and alms which at one time were looked upon as
the only means of showing kindness and pity to the blind. Miss Gilbert
herself was keenly sensible of the value and life-giving power of work.
Surrounded as she had been from childhood with every care and kindness
which loving and generous parents could suggest, she yet found that when
she began to work, the change was like a passing from death to life. The
book from which all the facts and details in this sketch are taken[3]
tells that soon after she began her work one of her friends “hoped she
was not working herself to death.” She replied, with a happy laugh,
“Work myself to death? I am working myself to life.” It is just this
possibility of “working to life” that she has placed within the reach of
so many blind men and women.
Miss Gilbert’s health was always very fragile. After 1872 she became by
degrees a confirmed invalid, and after much suffering, borne with
exquisite patience and cheerfulness, she died early in the year 1885.
Footnote 3:
_Elizabeth Gilbert and Her Work for the Blind._ By Frances Martin.
Macmillan and Co.
XV
JANE AUSTEN
THERE is very little story to tell in the life of Jane Austen. She was
one of the greatest writers of English fiction; but her own life, like
the life she describes with such extraordinary and minute accuracy in
her tales, had no startling incidents, no catastrophes. The solid ground
never shook beneath her feet; neither she, nor the relations and
neighbours with whom her tranquil life was passed, were ever swept away
by the whirlwind of wild passions, nor overwhelmed by tragic destiny.
The ordinary, everyday joys and sorrows that form a part of the lives of
all of us, were hers; but nothing befell her more sensational or
wondrous than what falls to the lot of most of us. This even tenor of
her own way she reproduces with marvellous skill in the pages of her
novels. It has been well said that “every village could furnish matter
for a novel to Miss Austen.” The material which she used is within the
reach of every one; but she stands alone, hitherto quite unequalled, for
the power of investing with charm and interest these incidents in the
everyday life of everyday people which are the whole subject-matter of
her six finished novels. A silly elopement on the part of one of the
five Miss Bennets in _Pride and Prejudice_, and the fall which stuns
Louisa Musgrove in _Persuasion_, when she insists on jumping off the cob
at Lyme, are almost the only incidents in her books that can even be
called unusual. Her novels remind us of pictures we sometimes see which
contain no one object of supreme or extraordinary loveliness, but which
charm by showing us the beauty and interest in that which lies around us
on every side. There is a picture by Frederick Walker, called “A Rainy
Day,” which is a very good instance of this; it is nothing but a village
street just by a curve in the road; the houses are such as may be seen
in half the villages in England: a dog goes along looking as dejected as
dogs always do in the rain, the light is reflected in the puddles of the
wet road, one foot-passenger only has ventured out. There is nothing in
the picture but what we may all of us have seen hundreds and thousands
of times, and yet one could look and look at it for hours and never
weary of the charm of quiet, truthful beauty it contains. This is one of
the things which true artists, whether their art is painting pictures or
writing books, can do for those who are not artists—that is, help them
to see and feel the beauty and interest of the ordinary surroundings of
everyday life. Robert Browning makes a great Italian painter say—
We’re made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better painted—better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,
Your cullion’s hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me, but you should, though! How much more
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior’s pulpit place,
Interpret God to all of you.