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[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation have been
retained as in the original.]

[Illustration: MARY L. DAY ARMS]



THE WORLD AS I HAVE FOUND IT.

SEQUEL TO
Incidents in the Life of a Blind Girl.

BY MARY L. DAY ARMS.

WITH AN INTRODUCTION

By Rev. Charles F. Deems, LL.D.

BALTIMORE:
PUBLISHED BY JAMES YOUNG,
112 West Baltimore Street.





ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by
MARY L. DAY ARMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



INTRODUCTION.


Mrs. Arms has asked me to write an introduction to her book. It hardly
seems to need it. The title-page shows that it was written by one who is
blind. It is a sequel to another volume. That volume has been widely sold,
and all who read it will, I am sure, have some desire to see how the
stream of the life of its writer has been flowing since her first book was
written. Her patient perseverance under privations has won her a large
circle of personal friends, who will take pleasure in procuring and
preserving this fresh memento of the Blind Girl.

Such a book as this has a value which, probably, has not occurred to its
author. She has put on record the phenomena of her life as she has
recollected them, with great simplicity, merely for the entertainment of
her readers, without attaching any importance to the value which every
such memoir has in the department of science. But it is just from the
study of such phenomena as these that the students in mental and moral
philosophy learn the laws of mind and the operations of a human soul under
a divine, moral government. As a matter of taste we might omit the
writer's description of her husband, whom she never yet has seen, p. 45,
and her account of her love affairs, p. 49; and if we had discretionary
editorship, and the volume had been written by one having always had her
sight, we should unhesitatingly exclude such passages. But, as the records
of the impressions, consciousnesses and general mental phenomena of a
blind girl _in love_, they stand to be, perhaps, quoted hereafter in some
abstruse scientific treatise, or bloom out in some perennial poem.

There is an immediate practical usefulness in such a book as this. It has
its wholesome lesson for the young. It shows what strength of character
and vigor of purpose will accomplish under even extraordinary
embarrassments. The young lady had a hard early life. She had neither
friends nor money nor sight, but she unwhiningly took up the task of
taking care of herself, and discharged it so nobly as to make for herself
a wide circle of friends, and keep for herself that sense of self-reliance
as toward man, and of faith as toward God, which are worth more than all
the dirty dollars that wickedness can give to weakness.

Let our young women who are in straitened circumstances, in circumstances
that seem absolutely exclusive of all hope of retaining virtue and keeping
life, read this book and its predecessor, and pluck up faith and hope. Let
all our young ladies, daughters of loving parents, daughters who have no
care for the morrow, daughters of delicious ease and happy opportunity,
read this book, and then let their consciences ask them how they are to
carry their idleness to be examined at the judgment sent of Christ, in
contrast with this blind girl's industry, fidelity and perseverance.

CHARLES F. DEEMS.
CHURCH OF THE STRANGERS,
New York, 4th July, 1878.




CHAPTER I.

    "Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
    And what they do, or suffer, men record;
    While the long sacrifice of woman's days
    Passes without a thought, without a word:
    And many a holy struggle for the sake
    Of duty, _sternly_, _faithfully_ fulfil'd;
    For which the anxious soul must watch and wait,
    Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
    And leaves no _memory_, and no trace behind!
    Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells
    In one meek heart that braves an adverse fate,
    Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells,
    Warmed by the fight, or cheered through high debate.
    The soldier dies surrounded; could he _live
    Alone_ to suffer, and alone to strive?"

So was rendered the sad soul-music of one of the legion,

    "Who learned in sorrow
    What they taught in song."

and the weird words have been echoed by the voice of many a woman all
along, whose weary wanderings have burned the sacrificial fires; amid the
ashes of whose dead hopes the embers have flickered and faded only to
rekindle the lurid, lustrous light of added, and still added offerings.
There, waiting and watching the deep tracery "upon the sands beside the
sounding sea," find wave after wave wash away the mystic hand-writing.

The ebbing tide carries afar the ships freighted with aching, anguished
hearts; when borne upon the swell of the flowing sea, come the swift sails
of Argosies richly laden with hope, full with fruition.

Within the heart of all there lies deeply imbedded the "Black Drop" of
which the Mahometan legend tells, and which the angel revealed to the
Prophet of Allah. 'Tis in aching anguish this drop must be probed and
purified, to be healed only through the endless eloquence of duty done.

The sightless eyes have vivid visions. Theirs is the light in darkness
which stirred the soul of a Milton with a "gift divine;" inspired a Homer
with the "fire and frenzy" which crowned an Iliad and an Odyssey, the
master pieces of Epic verse; gave to the antique and traditional
literature of the Celtic race its meteoric brilliancy, and produced the
weird, wondrous sublimity of an Ossian.

All who have read the Invocation to Light by the blind authoress, Mrs. De
Kroyft, must have realized the luminous light of a soul sublimated by
sorrow and swelling and soaring in eloquent strains.

'Tis but a simple song I must sing, a bird-note amid cathedral tones; but
may not its minstrelsy meet the heart and search the soul of many a
sorrowing one, or rise like the song of the nightingale to the throne of
Him who sees the lives enthralled?

If this little lesson of life can find a single searcher for the truth it
tells, or bear on the breath of the breeze "one soft Æolian strain," may I
not hope that it may help to swell the harp-notes of the heavenly
harmonies?




CHAPTER II.

    "I remember, I remember
      How my childhood fleeted by--
    The mirth of its December,
      And the warmth of its July."


In a former volume I have recounted the varied scenes of an eventful
childhood, whose auroral dawn was tinted with the rose-hue and perfumed
with the breath of light-winged moments; even as the Goddess of the
Morning ushers in the new-born day with her flower-laden chariot, and the
bright Morning Star lends its light ere it sinks under the horizon.

Having my birth on the rich soil of a Southern land, and cradled under its
tropical skies and sunny smiles, I was early transplanted to colder climes
and ruder blasts, yet through the nurture of a mother's gentle hand, and
the ministrations of a loving band of sisters and brothers, whose
talismanic touch toned every note, softened every sorrow and heightened
every hope, I could but bloom like an Alpine flower in its bed of snow.

But in the golden chain there came to be, in time, a "missing link;" the
mother's life went out, and from the darkened fireside vanished the little
flock, scattered through various ways to various destinies.

My own was a slippery path to tread, and ofttimes led my weary feet into
the shadow, and gloom, and darkness. Through sickness, neglect and
maltreatment came all too soon "sorrow's crown of sorrow;" when over the
young life fell a dark pall, and eyes so used to light no longer held the
prisoned sunbeams, and passed forever under the relentless bond and cruel
curse of blindness. Then indeed my soul grew dark! And could my restless
eyes wait in thraldom for the dawn of an eternal day, and must my
wandering feet pass through the "valley of the shadow," ere I could see
the light "around the Great White Throne?"

Through a singular complication of circumstances I was led to the home of
a sister in Chicago, from whom I had long been separated; and by equally
singular ways I was also there reunited to three of my brothers (Charles,
William and Howard). Then my veiled vision could not shut out the loved
lineaments living in the pictured halls of memory--the vision of a
love-hallowed home, and a mother's face crowning all. Scenes and faces
gone, passed like a panorama before my mind's eye, and

    "So the blessed train passed by me,
    But the vision was sealed upon my soul."

Through the agency of family friends I returned to my birth-place, and
with strange and mingled emotions was welcomed back to Baltimore, with
kind greetings from relatives and friends. Some had passed beyond the
portal of earthly existence, and others unexpectedly reappeared, among
whom was my father, whose face I could not see, but whose emotion
betokened great anguish at the sight of his blind daughter. Oh how many
memories must have passed through his mind, as he clasped to his heart his
chastened, motherless child, and, while other loves and other ties were
his, "the shades of friends departed" as told by Longfellow must have
entered a weird train, and amid other angel footsteps must have come--

    "That being beauteous
      Who unto his youth was given;
    More than all things else to love him,
      And is now a saint in Heaven."

Notwithstanding so many former attempts at the restoration of my sight,
another effort was made, involving a trip to New York, where a most
painful operation was undergone. But, alas! although a brief period was
accorded me, in which I saw with rapture objects around me, it was only to
be shut out into utter and hopeless sightlessness. As the wounded hare
seeks some cover remote from the human ken, so did my sinking soul seek
the solace of solitude, where for twenty-four hours I searched my nature
to its depths, and made resolves for my future course, known only to God
and pitying angels. They alone comforted me then, and they have sustained
and soothed through every succeeding trial!




CHAPTER III.

    "The saddest day hath gleams of light,
      The darkest wave hath bright foam near it.
    And, twinkles o'er the cloudiest night,
      Some solitary star to cheer it."


In the year 1855, my heart still heavy with its burden of blindness, I
entered the Baltimore Institution for the Blind. With kind friends to aid
and cheer me, high hopes, rich resolutions and ambitious aims to inspire,
I commenced the course of study which was to fit me for my new avocations.
Ofttimes was I found in the deep valley of humiliation, where I sat me
down and sighed; and in many a "Garden of Gethsemane" were seen the
trickling "tears of blood." The cross and the crucifixion came, but
afterwards came the resurrection of dead hopes and angels bearing the
crown.

I must say with undying gratitude to all connected with the Institution,
that it is to them I am indebted for the might and the mastery; for while
many a daisy was crushed in my path, many a rose bloomed upon a thorny
stem, and these kind ones led me at last to the sun-crowned mountain-tops
and clear blue skies.

After being in school for three years, without consulting with any friend,
I wrote, with much difficulty, a letter with pin-type, to Governor Hicks,
asking a three years extension of time. I preserved secrecy in this matter
in the fear of disappointment, and determined if it came to bear it alone.
One day a professor called me to him and said: "You have written to the
Governor, and his reply has come." With anxious, nervous silence, I
"waited for the verdict," and when it came in an affirmative, how happy
and joyous I felt! How determined to push on to the bright goal before me!

Meantime I had written a history of my life, and through assistance from
ever kind friends had succeeded in securing its publication. A copy of it
was sent to the Governor, as a tiny token of my appreciation of his
kindness. I afterward accompanied a delegation from our school to
Annapolis, where we gave an entertainment. The Governor, coming up to our
little group, said, in cheerful tones, "I am going to see if I can
recognize the one who wrote the book." And in pursuance of this
announcement, easily selected me, and with kindly tones and hearty grasp
of the hand, spoke many words of comfort, which are still carefully held
in my casket of gems as

    "Treasures guarded with jealous care
    And kept as sacred tokens."

Continuing my course of studies, I graduated in 1860 with, I hope, a fair
degree of honor to myself and my instructors. Just previous to this time
there came among our many visitors a good friend from Loudon county,
Virginia, named Richard Henry Taylor, who promised if I would visit his
home he would furnish me every facility for the sale of my book; and of
him I shall have more to say hereafter.

Now commenced the real struggle of life. Alone I must brave the world, and
with patience bear its frowns or enjoy its smiles, as the case might be.
Alone I must earn my bread.

Meagre were many times the means and scanty was the allowance, yet they
came in the hour of need as manna in the wilderness, ofttimes wet with the
dews of heavenly love; and ever, in my laborious pilgrimage, I have been
allowed to stand upon Mount Gerizim, to bless the people and the "rulers
of the land."




CHAPTER IV.

    "Let us then be up and doing
      With a heart for any fate;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
      Learn to labor and to wait."


Deeming it proper to inaugurate my work in our nation's capital, I left my
"Alma Mater" with all the trepidation of a child going out from the
home-roof, and rushed into the exciting and excited vortex, where
centralize our national interests, and where, as it were, throbs the great
national heart, the city of Washington. I was kindly received at the house
of my cousin, Mrs. Reese, in which sanctum my heart took fresh hope and
courage. This was during the administration of Mr. Buchanan, and I first
repaired to the bachelor President, who received me in his private
audience-room with all of his characteristic and chivalrous courtesy.
Taking both my hands in his, he said, with deep emotion--"I am so sorry
for your deep affliction, but so glad that you have had the energy to
write a book and the courage to make it a resource for support. I pray
that God may bless and prosper you, and I know he will."

After this expression of his faith he showed his works by buying a book,
for which he paid me two dollars and a half, more than double its price.
So spoke, so did, the noble man, in whose heart was enshrined the memory
of one cherished love, the idolized object of which precluded the
possibility of a second affection, while the grand heart of the statesman
went out in kindness and sympathy to all.

My second call was at one of the government offices, where my nervous
excitement rendered me so nearly speechless that I could only silently and
tremblingly tender a book to a young man who was one of the clerks. Seeing
the movement, he asked:

"Do you wish, to sell the book?" to which I nodded an affirmative.

He turned jocularly toward me, and asked: "Were you ever in love?"

Speech suddenly followed in the wake of offended dignity, and I promptly
replied: "Sir, I try to love every one."

"But," said he, in soaring strain, "suppose a young man should say to
you--'You are the cherished idol of my worship, the one sweet flower
blooming in my pathway, etc., etc.' what would you think?"

I quickly responded: "Sir, I should think he had more poetry than good
sense in his composition."

Pleased, and apparently thoughtful, he turned from me, and going among the
other employees, returned with the money for a dozen copies of my book in
his hand, and on his lips a penitent and evidently heartfelt assurance
that he meant no harm or insult by his words, humbly craved my pardon for
the offense, and closed by wishing me many God speeds.

My next effort was in the Treasury Department, where the first person I
approached exclaimed:

"Mary Day! where did you come from?" This exclamation was followed by many
other expressions of joy and surprise. Suddenly the loving arm of a young
girl encircled me. Kisses fell upon my forehead, cheek and lips, and words
of endearment came in copious pearly showers. At the first lull in the
sweet confusion I asked: "Who are you all?"

The first proved to be a brother of Mrs. Cook, of Michigan, who had been
so kind to me in the past, and the second was her daughter, who rapidly
recounted by-gone scenes, and lovingly lingered upon the many cherished
memories my presence had evoked. They took me to their home in the city,
and lavished upon me all the kindness and attention love could suggest.
Among the many reminiscences came the one sad story of the father's death.
In one of the darkest, sternest hours of my childhood he had held out to
me the kind, paternal hand, and welcomed me to the protection of his own
roof, and the story of his death deeply interested me. It was in substance
this:

The family had returned from some festive scene on Christmas eve, and the
father, leaving them to stable his horses, was so long absent as to
arouse anxiety. They sought him everywhere, but found him not. After a
night of untold suspense the morning revealed to them the shocking sight
of his dead body lying in the corner of an adjoining lot, his face smiling
and peaceful in death, his arms folded and limbs outstretched. He had been
cruelly gored by a creature he had fed and fostered, cherishing it as a
pet among his domestic animals, and it had turned upon him as many
so-called human creatures repay those who have protected and loved them!

They knew not whether his wounds or the intense cold had been the final
cause of death, but such was the sad dawning of their Christmas day, and
so, amid the joy of my reunion with those dear friends, came the sad
thought that--

    Ever amid life's roses
      Will the sombre cypress be twined,
    And wherever a joy reposes,
      A dream of sorrow we find.

I feel it due to the various government officials at Washington to give
them an expression of gratitude for the great facilities afforded me in
the way of permits to canvass in the many public departments, knowing
their strict rules and rigid restrictions in this regard.

I was volunteered an entrée everywhere, from the humblest government
office to the Capitol and White House, and in each and all was courteously
received. In subsequent years I had also great reason for gratitude to Mr.
Colfax, who not only gave his own patronage, but presented me to Congress,
the members of which vied with each other in liberality.




CHAPTER V.

    "Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
    The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
    Thus, from afar, each dim discovered scene
    More pleasing seems than all the rest hath been;
    And every form that fancy can repair
    From dark oblivion, glows divinely there."


My nature, in its first struggle with the world, shrank, like Mimosa, from
every human touch; but the kind words of love and gentle acts of kindness
already received transformed and ripened within me a more trusting and
hopeful character, and I almost unconsciously accepted as immutable and
inevitable the great law of compensation.

It is well that it was in the season of youth that my career began, that
season which Jean Paul so poetically designates as "The Festival Day of
Life," in which period friendship dwells as yet in a serenely open Grecian
Temple, not, as in later years, in a narrow Gothic Chapel.

My heart accepting as genuine these pure expressions of friendship, I
turned from Washington toward Virginia, and after a visit at Leesburg, in
which I had good success, I wrote to Mr. Taylor, the friend I have before
mentioned, asking him to meet me at Hamilton, which point was reached by
the old-time stage-route. Some doubt may have entered my mind as to his
remembrance of the promise to meet me, all of which must have been
dispelled when, upon the arrival of the stage, a cheery, gentle voice, in
a tone which would have filled the darkest moment of doubt with the
sun-ray of trust, exclaimed: "How does thee do, Mary?" Miss Rachel Weaver,
my companion, was a bright-eyed, sunny-hearted, English girl, whose
presence irradiated the atmosphere around her. She was presented to him,
and received the same quiet yet cordial greeting. His carriage was in
waiting for us, and a refreshing drive of three miles brought us to his
cozy home. The reception given us by his excellent wife was characterized
by all the depth and warmth of her expanded and exalted nature, and we
were at once domiciled as truly "at home."

The next day was the beginning of their Quarterly Meeting, and the
impressions of a life-time can never efface the varied pictures stamped
upon memory by each phase of that religious gathering. Not in a gorgeous
chapel of Gothic architecture, frescoed nave and highly wrought transept;
no stained glass windows of rainbow hue; no gorgeously draped altar or
elaborate organ; but in a simple wooden meeting-house, upon a gently
sloping grassy seclusion, came the feet of those "who went up to the
worship of God." No robed priest with consecrated head was there, but
_all_ were privileged to express with the lips the heart's devotion.

Mr. Taylor carried to this meeting a number of my little books, and I am
safe in saying that each member of that community bought one of them.

At noon we partook of a collation upon the lovely green sward, where sweet
words solaced and kind hands tendered me hospitality. Prominent among the
guests was Mrs. Hoag, a lady of lovely character and cultured mind, who
insisted upon having us accompany her to her home, a mansion rich and
elegant in its appointments, and, above all, its halls resounding with the
music of innocent mirth, and hung with the "golden tapestry" of love.

We remained in this community four weeks, a sweet "season of refreshment,"
which so gently glided away that we awoke, like those aroused from
peaceful sleep and dear dreams of pleasure, renewed and buoyant.

Our farewell was not unmingled with sad regret at parting, but upon my
return to Baltimore my friends failed not to note the favorable change in
my physical and mental condition. So talismanic is the touch of love, so
inspiring and life giving! and 'tis to this dear community of Louden
county, Virginia, I shall ever trace the first impetus which has given
momentum to all the subsequent movements of my life.




CHAPTER VI.

    "The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
      The soldier's last tattoo:
    No more on life's parade shall meet
      That brave and fallen few;
    On fame's eternal camping ground
      Their silent tents are spread,
    And glory guards, with solemn round,
      The bivouac of the dead."


After a short period of reunion with friends in Baltimore, I resolved,
notwithstanding the agitated condition of the country, to wend my way
southward, for I restlessly yearned for an active continuation of duty.

Miss Weaver having other engagements, it became necessary for me to seek
another traveling companion. Trusting to the good fortune which had
hitherto favored me in that regard, I engaged the services of Miss Mary
Chase, who proved a valuable attendant, combining in her character so many
graces and endowments, possessing, among her numerous attractions, a
voice of rare, rich and mellow flexibility.

My uncle, Mr. Heald, having an interest in the Bay Line of steamers, his
son, my cousin, Howard Heald, attended me to the steamer Belvidere,
introduced me to the captain, and took every precautionary measure to
enhance the pleasure of my trip. Subsequent events proved how salutary
were these efforts. The captain did all that polite attention and study of
my comfort could suggest, attended us to the table, pointed out the
workings of the engine, the complications of the machinery and propelling
power of the steamer, which so airily and so gracefully "walked the
waters," directed attention to every object of note on the route and their
charm of historic interest, thus making the trip one replete with
instruction. Miss Chase, with the melody of a song-bird, drew around us a
circle of charmed listeners, and her voice became a source of constant and
soothing solace to me.

Arriving at the city of Richmond at the untimely hour of four o'clock in
the morning, at the solicitation of the captain we remained on board until
a later and more convenient time, when we found the streets of the city
alive with soldiers and filled with sad sounds of sword and musketry, the
first low reverberation of the din of war, the opening of the battle-song,
whose weird refrain has been echoed by so many sorrowing ones, its mad
music adapted to the thousands of crushed and broken hearts!

The little war-cloud, at first "no larger than a man's hand," was growing
deeper and darker, and the stern rumble of the conflict becoming
irrepressible. Every avenue in the way of business was closed, and being
told that if I desired remaining north of Mason and Dixon's line I must go
at once, I retraced my steps, and returned by the James river, since so
memorable in the history of our civil conflict, and sought shelter in
Baltimore, where I remained for the winter; and while so many relatives
and friends would have welcomed me to their homes, I felt impelled to
accept an invitation to the institution in which I had been educated, and
could enjoy the association of those who had first directed my tottering
steps, and my schoolmates, who were friends and co-workers.




CHAPTER VII.

    "But if chains are woven shining,
    Firm as gold and fine as hair,
    Twisting round the heart, and twining.
    Binding all that centres there
    In a knot that, like the olden,
    May be cut, but ne'er unfolden;
    Would not something sharp remain
    In the breaking of the chain?"


Spring came with its "ethereal mildness" and budding beauty, and the ties
which bound me to the Monumental City must, although with convulsive
effort, be broken.

Miss Chase was but "a treasure lent," her sweet, loving nature having won
the heart of one who made her his life companion; hence it became
necessary for me to find another to fill her place. She came in the person
of Miss Kate Fowler, a lovely young girl of seventeen years, who possessed
great charms of person, mind and soul, as the sequel will show.

We traveled together throughout Delaware, New Jersey and Pennsylvania,
meeting with greater success than we could have hoped for while the din of
war was raging, always making sufficient for our support.

At Hollidaysburgh, Penn., I learned of the presence of General Anderson,
and resolved that I would offer a tangible evidence of my appreciation of
the "Hero of Fort Sumter." Entwining one of my little books with red,
white and blue ribbons, I sent it to him with a little note, asking its
acceptance from the authoress, a Baltimore lady, in behalf of her native
city, then under a cloud, the Massachusetts troops having been stoned by a
mob collected from various points, and for which she bore the undeserved
odium. These I sent in their tri-colored dress, expecting only a silent
reception. But, as I sat at dinner in my hotel, there came a singular and
unexpected response in the person of the General himself. He was
introduced by the landlord, and was accompanied by his little daughter,
holding in her hand my token, as she smilingly approached me in her
fairy-like beauty. A delightful chat ensued, and an urgent request upon
his part that I should visit Cresson Springs, to which he had resorted
with his family in order to recuperate his health, shattered by the
protracted and gallant defense of one of our national citadels.

With a kind "good bye" he left, and as I passed out of the dining-room
door I received an evidence of his great delicacy in a token he would not
publicly tender. The landlord handed me a box from him containing a
handsome plain gold ring, ever since cherished as a memento; and, although
worn by time, there is still legible the name engraved within this shining
circlet, even that of General Anderson.

After canvassing Altoona I went to Cresson Springs and was no sooner
registered than I received a card from the General. Meeting me in the
parlor, he gave me a cordial welcome, after which he said: "Now I am going
to assist you in your sales." He drew together three of the parlor tables,
and, taking one hundred of my books, he placed them thereon, together with
specimens of my bead work, which he artistically arranged in the national
colors. It needed but a wave of the magician's wand, for such he seemed,
to evoke the spirits of generosity and love, and through these all of my
volumes vanished, as well as much of the bead work. At General Anderson's
request I took my work to the parlor, and amid a group of wondering ones,
many of whom were members of his own family, I showed them how the blind
could deftly weave these little trinkets, the fashioning of the "bijou"
baskets needing no sight to arrange the colors, with celerity and skill. I
was also, at his request, seated at his family table, and time will never
erase the memory of words which fell from the lips of the warrior, as
gently, as lovingly, as if a woman's voice were breathing words of comfort
and affection. In after time, when tidings of his death were borne from a
foreign land, when the perfumed breath of sunny France received the last
sigh of our hero, I dropped many a tear, which truly welled up from the
depths of a sorrowing heart.

In the winter I made Philadelphia my head-quarters, stopping at the home
of Mr. and Mrs. Mack, both of whom were blind when married, and who both
possess great musical talent, which they utilized by teaching piano music,
thus earning a handsome support and purchasing the home they then
occupied, a tasteful, comfortable domicile. It was well for me I selected
this spot, for it afterward proved "a City of Refuge." I was soon
prostrated with a severe typhoid fever, and was so kindly cared for by
this dear family, who, by tender ministration, nursed the little spark of
hope, and brought me from death unto life. Their two sweet children and
their musical prattle will ever be recalled as illuminated pictures upon
the red-lettered page of life's history.

Of the tender care of Miss Fowler too much cannot be said. It was to her
assiduous attention I was also, in a great degree, indebted for my
recovery.

During this illness I could also number two other ministering spirits, Dr.
Seiss, a Lutheran minister, who constantly visited me, and gave me many a
word of comforting support, and Professor Brooks, who was called to my
bedside as medical attendant.

He had been for many years an eminent allopathic physician, and was then a
professor in the Homeopathic College of Philadelphia.

He also faithfully and unremittingly ministered to me during the many
weeks of fever and prostration.

When I was almost well I one day said to him: "Doctor, what do I owe you?"
The sweet serenity of his face merged into a benevolent beam, and in the
vernacular of the Society of Friends, of which he was a member, he said:
"Mary, Rachel and I have been talking it over, and we have concluded that
thee will be too delicate to travel this winter, and will need all thy
money; so thee does not owe me anything."

Choking with grateful emotion, as soon as I could command control I said:
"Doctor, I could not expect you to give me such kind attention without
remuneration, but since you have so willed it, I can only say I thank you
for having saved my life." Whereupon there came the same luminous look,
and the gentle voice said: "Mary, it was not I that saved thy life; it
was thy Heavenly Father."

As soon as I was well enough to ride he made arrangements for me to visit
his house. I took the street car, but by pre-arranged plan, he met me at
his door, lifted me from the car, and carried me in his arms into a
luxurious bed-chamber, where I was met by the sweet-voiced Rachel, who
gave me a reviving draught of rare old wine, and in every way studied my
wants during the day's visit, after which the Doctor drove me home in his
carriage.

How do our hearts go out in gratitude to such true and loving natures, and
how fondly do we recall in after years the sweet sounds of sympathy, whose
melody pervades life's measured music.

Once again I found myself in Baltimore, where I received a letter from my
brother William, urging me to spend the winter at his home in Pecatonica,
Ill. This, together with a meeting with my cousin Sammy Heald, determined
me to go West. My cousin was about to visit Iowa City, Iowa, where dwelt
his betrothed, and he offered to pay all my traveling expenses if I would
accompany him. The temptation of seeing one from whom there had been an
eight years separation made my cousin's entreaties irresistible, and I
yielded, receiving from him all the devoted attendance his kind nature
could dictate. So, after the lapse of so many eventful years, I turned my
face westward. I spent the winter at the home of my brother, and shall
never forget his kindness and that of his family, as well as other
residents of Pecatonica, who did so much to lighten the leaden-winged
hours, which, in a little hamlet, drag so slowly in comparison with the
din and bustle of city life, and the excitement of business and travel.




CHAPTER VIII.

    "So where'er I turn my eyes,
    Back upon the days gone by,
    Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me;
    Friends who closed their course before me,
    Yet what links us friend to friend,
    But that soul with soul can blend.
    Love-like were those hours of yore,
    Let us walk in soul once more."


The dreary winter had passed away, one in sad contrast with the mild
southern season, and known only to those who have realized its storms and
wind and snow.

The birds of spring were caroling their first songs of the season, and the
white mantle of snow disappearing under the sun-rays. These tokens told me
I must be "up and doing." Selecting a companion among the kind group of
Pecatonica friends, Miss Sarah Rogers, a lady of sterling virtue and
pronounced character, I went to Chicago. The war conflict being still at
its height, I could do little in the way of book selling, but managed to
dispose of sufficient bead work to be entirely self-sustaining. In my
business route in Chicago I entered a millinery establishment, and was
surprised by a greeting from the familiar voice of my sister Jennie, and
they alone who are members of a scattered household can realize what must
be such a meeting. In the lapse of years since our separation, our paths
had so diverged that we had lost trace of each other. I sat down and
eagerly listened to a recital of an experience fraught with varied
incident. They had moved from Chicago to Monroe city, Missouri, a place
which (as most will remember) received the baptism of fire, being utterly
destroyed by the Northern troops. My sister not only lost her home, but
was separated from her family for several days. As soon as they were
gathered together, and had gained sufficient strength to travel, they
returned without a resource to Chicago, there to begin life anew, my
sister lending a helping hand by opening this business. Her daughter Cora,
whom I had left a little girl, was then a graceful young lady, has since
married and is living in the city.

My brothers, Charles and Howard, both entered the ranks of the army,
returned with health impaired from service, and afterward yielded up their
lives.

My father had settled with his new family at Farmington, Ill., and thither
my brother Howard repaired when utterly broken down in health. No mother
could have more tenderly and steadfastly ministered to him, than did my
father's wife; she, her two bachelor brothers and a maiden sister
attending him, in the lingering, languishing hours of suffering, and
gently smoothing his "pathway to the grave."

I must not fail to mention among Chicago friends the name of Mrs. Dean,
which has been written in letters of light upon a hallowed life page,
standing out in bold relief upon the background of years. Her house was my
home, and she was ever a fond mother to me.

Her lovely little daughter, Ada, has since matured to womanhood, assumed
the relations and duties of a wife, and is now presiding over an elegant
home in one of the flourishing towns of Iowa.




CHAPTER IX.

                   "And when the stream
    Which overflowed the soul was passed away,
    A consciousness remained that it had left.
    Deposited upon the silent shore
    Of memory, images and previous thoughts,
    That shall not die and cannot be destroyed."


For three years longer lowered the lurking war-cloud, and I, among so many
others, felt its baneful shadow. During this time I made Chicago my
headquarters, taking occasional trips upon the various railroad routes
converging there.

Finally I ventured upon a trip to Louisville, Ky., and, while it was my
first introduction to that place, so cordially was I received by its
citizens, so much was done to place me at ease, that I could but feel that
I was revisiting a familiar spot and receiving the greetings of old-time
friends; and, in spite of the heavy war pressure, it was financially the
most successful visit I ever made, having sold five hundred volumes in
the short space of two weeks, a fact in itself sufficient to exemplify the
pervading spirit of its society, not one of whose members gave grudgingly,
but with unhesitating and cheerful alacrity.

Thence I repaired to the "Blue Grass Country," the garden spot of
Kentucky, and to the city of Lexington, the reputation of whose beautiful
women has reached from sea to sea and from pole to pole, and the name of
whose hero, Henry Clay, has made the heart of our nation throb with
exultant pride. I was also a stranger there, yet I resolutely repaired to
the Broadway, its principal hotel, trusting to the hospitality of its
citizens. Nor did I "count without a host," for Mr. Lindsey, the
proprietor, received me with courtly cordiality, installing us in an
elegant suite of rooms upon the parlor floor, assigning us a servant in
constant attendance, and urging us to feel at home. At breakfast the
succeeding morning he greeted us with the pleasant tidings that he had
already sold sixteen volumes of my book, after which he came to our
apartment with a huge market basket, which he insisted upon filling with
books, adding that _I_ was too delicate to go out with them myself. This
was a second time filled and emptied, and before dinner there was placed
in my hands the proceeds of the sale of one hundred books.

My companion, amazed at his success, begged of him to let her know the
secret, whereupon he said, laughingly: "Well, you see, I am a Democrat and
a Free Mason. I talked politics to one, gave the society sign to another,
and mixed a little religion with all. So I could not fail to succeed."

I could but feel, however, in spite of his jest, that his innate goodness
was the Midas like touch, and that he bore in his own heart the
"philosopher's stone," transforming all into gold.

It did not become necessary for me to appear in the streets of Lexington,
yet I reaped a rich harvest of gain, and, above all, found a mine of
wealth in the warm, true, loving, chivalric souls. Nor did the kindness
cease at the fountain-head, for the little ones of Mr. Lindsey's family,
laden with bead work, walked the streets of the city, trafficking for my
benefit, returning with little hands empty of trinkets, but filled with
money.

To crown all this kindness I was only allowed, upon leaving, to pay half
the usual price for board, receiving letters of introduction to the
Capital House, of Frankfort, whose proprietor extended the same liberality
of terms, and whose citizens kindly and freely patronized me.

Going to Paris, I received so many favors that I never think of Kentucky
and its noble sons and daughters without a thrill of loving gratitude.

Mr. Lindsey requested me to write to him upon my return, and, after the
lapse of a long time, I did so, receiving a reply bearing the painful
tidings that, by security debts, he had been bereft of all his earthly
possessions, but was hopeful of regaining all. Surely such noble souls
should not be left in the cloud while so many sordid, selfish natures sail
upon a sea of success.




CHAPTER X.

    "Hope like the glimmering taper's light,
      Adorns and cheers the way;
    And still as darker grows the night,
      Emits a cheerful ray."


Upon our return from Kentucky we were received by motherly Mrs Dean, with
her ever warm welcome; but after the usual greeting a mischievous smile
was seen lurking on her face, and she archly told us that she had a very
attractive addition to her family, in the persons of two bachelor
boarders. This served but as a pastime of the moment, and I gave it little
further thought, until I was presented to Mr. Arms, a gentleman of medium
height, head of noble mould and fine poise, dark hair and luxuriant beard,
large brown eyes expressive and scintillating, quiet, unobtrusive manner
and somewhat low voice.

Methinks that I can trace a meaning smile upon the faces of some of my
readers at the detailed description of one they deem too blind to see. Not
so, there is a strange mysterious masonry in human souls, and while

    "Few are the hearts, whence one same touch,
    Bids the sweet fountain flow,"

an indescribable consciousness of mutual interest came with this meeting;
and while I little dreamed that this stranger would in after time stand by
my side in the _nearest_ and _dearest_ relation of life, even that of a
husband; his face, his form, his voice, his soul were all to me an open
volume, which by that inner sight, I read in every minute detail, and then
and there were all these photographed upon my heart.

Before I had taken my next leave of Chicago I had passed through all the
phases of doubt, in which I deeply questioned my own heart, seeking there
the solution of why I had inspired an interest in this stranger. Ever
since my sickness in Philadelphia I had been a comparative invalid,
devoting much of my time to the restoration of health, and above all the
recovery of that sight which was still so dear to me, and so hard to
relinquish without a struggle. So with my depleted strength, moderate
means and somewhat darkened hopes, I seemed to myself a very unattractive
object. Be this as it may, while no formal engagement bound us, we parted
as acknowledged lovers.

Miss Rogers entered into business for herself, and I went unattended to
Ypsilanti, Michigan, to be under the charge of a physician, who was to
test the effect of electrical treatment as a means of restoration to
sight. While he was deeply imbued with interest in my case, and gave me
every care and attention while I remained under his roof, he was
unfortunately wedded to one whose cold, unsympathetic suspicious nature
made a pandemonium for all within the circle of her baleful influence. Of
such unions Watts has truly said:

    Logs of green wood that quench the coals,
    Are married just like sordid souls;
    With osiers for a bend.

To her I am indebted for many a dark and tearful hour, when not only my
heart, but my eyes, needed perfect repose.

But beside this thorn-tree in the home garden bloomed for me, and for all,
a beautiful flower, in the person of her niece, Josie McMath, who, with
her loving, gentle touch, toned down the inequalities and smiled away the
frowns.

She and I became fast friends, and afterward freely exchanged confidences,
telling to each other a mutual tale of girlish hope and trustful
affection.

During my stay in Ypsilanti I received a letter from Rachel Weaver, who
had been bereft of her mother and had lost every means of support. She
earnestly desired to return to me; and as the letter brought with it the
magnetism of a former attachment, I wrote to her to come to me.

Finding the prospect of recovery through my present treatment hopeless, I
went to Ionia, Michigan, repairing to the house of Dr. Baird, where I
awaited tidings of Rachel Weaver, and whom I met at Detroit, when we
returned to Chicago, where I was met by Mr. Arms, and who, soon as an
opportunity offered, rehearsed to me the workings of his own mind during
my absence.

He told me he had been seriously thinking over the matter, and after
carefully reviewing his own feelings he could arrive at but one
conclusion, viz, that I had become necessary to his happiness, and that he
hoped for a mutual plan for speedy union.

He owned a farm in Iowa, which he proposed to sell, and invest the
proceeds in a home in Chicago.

He also begged a promise that I would never make another attempt to
recover my sight, which gave me an assurance that my blindness was no
barrier to his love.

With a strange flutter of emotion my heart responded to his sweet
assurances, and, as a weary child confidingly rests upon its mother's
breast, so did my tired soul trustingly repose in the safe haven of his
manly love, and cast its anchor there! safe amid the lowering clouds of
life, serene amid its surging seas and wildest waves; for arching all was
the Iris of bright-hued hope.




CHAPTER XI.

    "Visions come and go;
      Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
    From angels' lips I seem to hear the flow
      Of soft and holy song."

    "'Tis nothing now--
      When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
    When airs from paradise refresh my brow,
      That earth in darkness lies."


Leaving Chicago I traveled via Michigan Southern Railroad to the little
town of Jonesville, Michigan, the home of my childhood and the scene of so
many fond and sad recollections.

Stopping at the village hotel for some preparation, I wended my way to the
little cemetery. There was a picture in memory of a green hill-side slope,
which, whenever the dark funeral day was recalled, formed a vivid and
prominent feature of the scene; and so, upon that day, I found within the
little "city of the silent" the identical hill-side, but, with the most
scrutinizing search, failed to find the sacred mound holding the most
hallowed form of the home group, and over which were shed the bitter tears
of childhood's grief, more poignant and more lasting than we usually
attribute to that period of life.

In the hope of eliciting some information I entered a cottage near by,
which I found inhabited by aged people; but as they had been residents
only seven years, and twenty-four years had elapsed since my mother was
laid to rest, they could give me no light or aid, save the simple
suggestion that there were a number of graves covered by the undergrowth
of shrubbery, and perchance hers might be one of them. Accepting the
possibility I found the one I sought, which could not fail to be
recognized, for strange to say, time had dealt so gently that the slender
picket fence was undecayed by his "effacing; lingers," and the name
painted upon the little wooden head-board was distinctly visible. Grouped
in quadrangular growth were four little trees, gracefully arching in a
bowery drapery over the grave, as if nature in strange sympathy with the
mourners left behind had offered this tribute to the noble mother. How
vividly came back again the long lost childhood home, and as the wind
sighed through the leafy boughs, seemed to sob a sad requiem for the dead.
There was a little song I had learned in the Institution, and had so often
sang, when unknown to those around me every chord in my sad heart seemed

    "As harp-strings broken asunder,
    By music they throbbed to express."

Then the sweet, sad words come back in memory,

    "I hear the soft winds sighing,
      Through every bush and tree;
    Where my dear mother's lying,
      Away from love and me.

    Tears from mine eyes are weeping,
      And sorrow shades my brow;
    Long time has she been sleeping--
      I have no mother now."

After a long, lingering look, I turned sadly away, going to the little
marble yard in the vicinity, and seeking the proper person, I
communicated to him the desire for a head and foot-stone for the grave,
together with marble corner stones to support an iron chain for an
enclosure, asking him for an estimate of the cost.

Looking at me with almost tearful emotion, he said, when the blind girl,
after the lapse of twenty-four years, comes back to offer a tribute to the
memory of her mother, the result of her own unaided earnings, I can but be
generous, and offered to do all for half the usual price. Knowing
instinctively that I could trust him, I left all in his hands, and have
never had occasion to feel that I had misplaced my confidence.

Before leaving the village I visited a clothing store which had formerly
been the tin shop in which my father worked; and again I was a child, my
little form perched upon the wooden work-bench, and my ears soothed by the
melody of my father's song, for ever as he sat at his daily labor he lent
it the charm of his sweet voice.

Strange to say, there was no one there who knew the "blind girl." All my
mother's friends had vanished, and "they were all gone, the dear familiar
faces." I fondly bade adieu to Jonesville with the consciousness of having
performed a sad duty, and proceeded with my avocation, with my wonted
success, until we reached Toledo, Ohio, where Miss Weaver was attacked
with a serious illness which kept me in constant attendance upon her for
several weeks.

Her physician assuring me that she would be unable to resume her duties
for some time longer, we decided it best for all to send her East.
Procuring her a ticket, and placing her under kind protection, I sent her
to her friends in New York.

I supplied her place with a lady I found in my boarding house, and who I
regret to record was in strange contrast with my former companions. Going
to Pittsburg we stopped at the Merchants' Hotel, near the depot, where,
after a singularly short time, she was visited by a gentleman whom she
represented to be a cousin, and while their whispered conversation in my
room (a place where I deemed it expedient for them to meet) aroused some
suspicion in my mind, I hushed all thought of wrong and hoped for the
best.

She further stated that she had an uncle in Alleghany city, and thither
she went to spend the Sunday, leaving me in the hotel unattended; and from
subsequent revelations I must fain believe the time was devoted to the
so-called cousin.

Upon her return on Monday she suddenly declared her intention of leaving
me, adding that she cared not what became of me. I calmly awaited a lull
in the excitement of this announcement, and told her kindly that if she
would remain with, me another week I would take her to her mother in Ohio,
and leave her in her hands, but she haughtily and peremptorily declined,
and so left me alone, and, as she supposed, uncared for.

But I was so confident of protection that I felt not even a rankling pang
at the cruel injustice she had done me, but quietly waited until assured
she was gone, when I left my room, groped my way through the unfamiliar
hall and knocked at the first door I found, which fortunately proved to be
that of a lady named Harris. In as few words as possible I told her the
story of my desertion, and had sympathy and congratulation from all in the
house at my escape from one who had seemed to them so coarse and
unsympathetic.

The clerk of the hotel, being a brother of Mr. Loughery, my old time
teacher, it was thought best to appeal to him. He met me with an
unmistakable expression of sorrow on his face, and as soon as he could
command language to do so, communicated the tidings of the sudden demise
of his brother in Greensburg, Pa., he having fallen dead in the street. As
he was about leaving, assistance from that source became impossible; yet,
overwhelmed as he was with this crushing sorrow, he urged me to accompany
him to the funeral, an invitation I could not accept, for a renewal of the
sad memories of my instructor and friend would have been _more_ than I
could bear, so I bade him adieu, and committed myself to the tender mercy
of Mrs. Harris, who kindly accompanied me to the post office and depot,
and started me safely toward Chicago, a letter being received which I knew
to be from Mr. Arms, from whom I had been awaiting tidings for three,
anxious, weary weeks.

With a consciousness of some impending cloud, yet unable to read the dear
pen tracery, I never before so deeply felt the blight of blindness, for
the contents were too sacred for the desecration of stranger's sight.

So all through that weary journey, softened as it was by the unremitting
kindness of all the railroad officials and attendants, I carried a
crushing weight of anxiety and suspense, until I reached Chicago, and dear
Mrs. Dean, who at once revealed to my waiting heart the contents of the
letter.

Mr. Arms was in Indiana, and very ill at the time of writing (three weeks
previous) and earnestly desired my presence. The weary hours of night
dragged their slow lengths away, and the morning found me speeding on as
fast as steam could carry me, toward Indiana, yet all _too slow_ for my
fears and forebodings.

I found him scarcely able to be carried to the post of duty, where, at the
mill being built under his superintendence, he watched the progress of
the work.

'Tis needless to say how joyous was my welcome and how soon the invalid
gave signs of convalescence, under the influence of my long hoped for
presence.




CHAPTER XII.

    "We strive to read, as we may best,
    This city, like an ancient palimpsest,
    To bring to light upon the blotted page
    The mournful record of an earlier age,
    That, pale and half-effaced, lies hidden away
    Beneath the fresher writings of to-day."


After spending a fortnight with the invalid, in which "the golden hours on
angel's wings" sped on and away, bringing a returning glow of health to
his cheeks, strength to his steps and hope to his heart, so with renewed
resolution I started upon my mission, first going to Pecatonica to visit
my brother William and family, and to complete my plans for travel.

Soon after my arrival I was introduced by my sister-in-law to Miss Hattie
Hudson, and by that inward sympathy which unites all kindred natures into
one, and the strange recognition of soul with soul, we were at once
friends.

She was indeed

    "A perfect woman, nobly planned,
    To warn, to comfort, and command."

One who, aside from her physical attractions, possessed all the charms of
inner grace and beauty, idealizing and spiritualizing her nature.

We at once also agreed that she should remain with me, and with such rare
companionship I started East. Stopped at the beautiful city of Cleveland,
so rural and yet so metropolitan in its characteristics, where, following
fast upon the din of business and the rush of trade, steals the sweet
murmur of waters, the "wave of woods" and flow of fountains, the shaded
park and perfumed pasture.

Here, aside from the cheer of business success, my heart was gladdened by
a meeting with my old friend, Mrs. Bigelow, and little Willie, the whilom
blind boy I had met in New York city, and toward whom I had been drawn by
that "touch of nature" which "makes the whole world kin."

He was now an elegant, educated gentleman, who, among his many
accomplishments, numbered that of music, a science he had so thoroughly
mastered, and with the "concord of sweet sounds" he helped us all to while
away many an otherwise weary hour.

I visited the various places of note upon the New York Central Railway,
thoroughly and successfully canvassing all, and reaching New York city,
was received by my uncle Henry Deems with such a welcome as only a noble,
soulful man can extend. After a short, sweet respite from care, we turned
toward New England, the truly classic ground of America, every foot of
whose "sacred soil" has been trod by pilgrim feet and hallowed by their
hearts' devotion.

Went to Plymouth, Massachusetts, and spent almost an entire day at Pilgrim
Hall in researches and study of its musty and time-worn relics.

It was against the rules to open the cases containing these treasures of
the past to spectators, all of whom were forced to look at them through
doors of glass, even as the bereft ones are ofttimes allowed to look at
loved lineaments only through the lid of a closed casket; but the
gentleman in charge made mine an exceptional case, and, to use his own
language, as my sight lay in the sense of feeling, I should certainly
touch these relics.

All the interest of varied historical association was imparted to me, and
my fingers allowed to rest upon everything. I closed this day, so rich in
research, with gratitude to him for his thoughtful kindness.

There was in process of erection a monument upon Plymouth Hock, and I
stood upon that granite shrine, where first knelt the Pilgrim Fathers, and
pictured in my mind's eye the landing of the Mayflower and the grouping of
her freight of human souls, majestically towering above them all the
stalwart form of Miles Standish, with his "muscles and sinews of iron,"
and close by the lithe, clinging, delicate form of

    "That beautiful rose of love
    That bloomed for him by the wayside,
    And was the first to die
    Of all who came in the Mayflower."

These and all their attendants passed through my fancy as they knelt upon
Plymouth Rock, and with the surging sea for a symphony, sent up their
first song of praise and deliverance, and in that hour of reverie there
was to me, indeed,

    "A rapture by the lonely shore;
    A society where none intrudes.
    By the deep sea--and music in its roar."

Then again I moved away in almost rapt entrancement, and soon stood in the
old cemetery beside the moss-grown memorial stones which had stood amid
the flight of over two centuries, and emotions deep and strange struggled
in my breast, sealed by that _golden, sacred_ silence which sanctifies the
unutterable.

Prominent among other objects there, was the resting-place of the Judsons,
to whose memory a suitable tomb had been erected.

Going to Boston I spent three delightful weeks at the home of Mr. and Mrs.
Little, a dear old couple who had been married long enough to have
celebrated their "Golden Wedding." The old gentleman was wont to say, that
these fifty years were all links in the "honey-moon," but that he had not
as yet reached the end of the first "honey-moon." So these two old lovers,
like "John Anderson my Joe," and his devoted companion, had climbed the
hill and were standing "thegither at its foot" in happy contentment,
looking toward the golden sunset and catching the gleam of the light
beyond.

I of course visited "Boston Common," "Bunker Hill Monument," "Old South
Church," the museums and galleries of painting, rare collections of
statuary, and even heard the "Great Organ." These localities are all
fraught with interest, but too familiar to tourists to require description
or comment; but I cannot leave the readers of this chapter without a
tribute of praise to the high attainments of this "Athens of America," and
a word of gratitude for their kindness. I found not the cold, phlegmatic
nature which had been depicted as that of the Yankee, nor did I see the
tight purse-grip so often attributed to them, for I have nowhere met
warmer hearts and more generous patronage than there, and indeed all New
England was pervaded by an equal spirit of liberality and kindness.
Lowell and the other manufacturing towns I visited were to me objects of
wonderful interest, the music of whose looms and shuttles, belts and
wheels, engines and flame, will ever come in vivid variety amid the many
voiced memories of life and its mystic music.




CHAPTER XIII.

    "There is an old belief that in the embers
    Of all things, their primordial form exists;
    And cunning Alchemists could recreate
    The rose, with all its members,
    From its own ashes--but without the bloom,
    Without the least perfume.
    Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science
    Can from the ashes of our hearts
    Once more the rose of youth restore?
    What craft of alchemy can bid defiance
    To time, and change; and for a single hour,
    Renew this phantom flower?"


Taking New Hampshire in my route, I was pained to find the season too far
advanced to admit a trip to White Mountains, and among the great objects
of interest I must of necessity omit this "Noblest Roman of them all," and
pass silently by the grandeur of this rugged mountain scenery.

I went to Waterbury, Vermont, the birth-place of Mr. Arms, and, after a
short rest at the hotel, walked through the meadow, and crossed the clear
trout-stream he had so often pictured to me as most prominent among the
reminiscences of his boyhood. Going to the homestead now hallowed to me as
his birth-place, I was kindly received by the widow of his brother, who
needed only the knowledge of my acquaintance with her friends in the West
to place me upon a familiar footing, and I became an earnest, attentive
listener to her well rendered rehearsal of the pranks of his urchin-hood.
So was this day marked as memorable in the calendar of life. From
Waterbury I went to Burlington, and thence to Montpelier, and finding the
Legislature in session the sale of my books was greatly enhanced by the
liberal patronage of its members; and here as elsewhere I had reason to to
thank our national convocations.

The rigor of the approaching New England winter warned me of the necessity
for going South. While on the Hudson River Railroad I was accosted by a
gentleman who asked me if I could read the raised letters, and learning
that I could, he begged me to accept a copy of the Bible in that style of
lettering; I of course did so, and have this volume still in my
possession.

Going to Chicago I found Mr. Arms established in business, which gave me
an additional hope for future happiness, and 'tis needless to say,

    "I built myself a castle
      So _stately_, _grand_ and fair;
    I built myself a castle,
      A castle in the air."

Delicate lungs and irritating cough, sent me still further South, and I
reluctantly left Chicago and all I held so dear.




CHAPTER XIV.

    "There is a special Providence
    In the fall of a sparrow."

    "There is a Divinity that shapes our ends,
    Rough-hew them as we will."


I have never had occasion so especially to note the over-ruling majesty of
a supreme power as in my next journey, the circumstances of which I am
about to relate.

I went via Indianapolis, Ind., and Louisville, Ky., to Memphis, Tenn. The
latter place rivals its sister cities in generous patronage, for, although
the whole southern country was so thoroughly devastated, I met with
success throughout its length and breadth.

I was luxuriously entertained at the Southern Hotel of Memphis and, as I
had been over most of the railroad routes, I felt anxious to go to New
Orleans by water, and for that purpose sought the general agent of the
river line of steamers, anticipating the same liberality which had
characterized the railroads in granting passes.

I was most haughtily received by this official, rudely addressed, and
decidedly and irrevocably denied a pass.

Nothing daunted, I walked to the levee, where lay the steamer Platte
Valley, almost ready to leave, and besought Hattie, who was ever my
counselor, to pay our passage, and, in spite of repulse, enjoy the river
scenery. In her judgment it seemed better not to do so, but to use our
railroad passes, as usual. I cheerfully accepted her decision. The Platte
Valley started on her trip with brilliant prospects for a safe and
successful passage, but seven miles below Memphis she sank in the deep
waters of the Mississippi. Many of her passengers, especially the female
portion, were taking supper in the lower cabin, and, having no means of
escape, perished. Hence I had reason to be thankful to Hattie's decision,
to the agent's rude rebuff, and to that over ruling power which ofttimes,
in our blindness, we fail to discern.

At Chattanooga I, of course, visited the National Cemetery, where lie the
ashes of so many fallen heroes. Ascended Lookout Mountain to the scene of
the "Battle in the Clouds," and I could almost evoke the presence of
General Joe Hooker, with his once grand proportions and noble mien, so
deservedly famed as The Hero of Lookout Mountain. I afterward ascended
another hill, which, although a pigmy in comparison with the Leviathan
Lookout, would, in the monotony of our prairie country, be ranked as a
mountain. It was upon its top were constructed the government water works,
and upon which my brother William was employed for two years, occupying as
a residence during that time a little cabin on the height, which was
plainly perceptible from the window of my hotel quarters, but which I
desired to visit in person, a source of real pleasure, perhaps enhanced by
the obstacles I had to surmount in the ascent.

At Vicksburg, Miss., I was followed by the same tidal wave of success, in
spite of the sad stringency of the times and the cruel effects of war.

While there a gentleman took us in his carriage to the earthworks
constructed by the soldiers as a fortification, taking great pains to
explain all to me, and allowed me to use the usual sense of feeling, which
so often served in lieu of sight.

At Jackson, Miss., I was a guest of the same hotel in which lived General
Beauregard, who was Superintendent of the Jackson and New Orleans Railway,
and who, aside from other acts of kindness and civility, freely tendered
me a pass over his road.

My stay at the "Crescent City" was not only marked by great business
success, but the three weeks of sight-seeing was a "continued feast."

Although it was now the middle of January, flowery spring "seemed
lingering in the lap of winter." The perfume of the violet, the scent of
the rose, the gladness of the sun-beam and the brightness of the skies
will ever linger in memory, while the geniality and goodness of its people
will, in the "dimness of distance," glimmer like a soft love-light in the
life of the blind girl.

I visited the French market, and drank a cup of the famed and fragrant
Mocha; went to its cemeteries, which, in their flowery beauty, robbed
death of its terrors; took a drive upon the shell road to Lake
Pontchartrain; walked in Jackson Square; and, indeed, visited all
localities of note in and around the city.

Should my curious readers wish to know how I could enjoy and describe all
these, the answer will be found in my companion and friend, Hattie, who,
with her wonderful adaptation and ingenuity, added to her remarkable
descriptive powers, vividly pictured all to me, and, through an unwritten,
indescribable language known only to ourselves, it became a system of
mental telegraphy and soul language.

There is in Europe a blind man, whose name I cannot recall, who is led
from Court to Court and from palace to palace by a frail young girl, and
between these there exists the same mystic yet unerring language. What
this little fairy is to him such was Hattie Hudson to me, or, to use the
language of another:

               "She was my sight;
    The ocean to the river of my thoughts,
    Which terminated all."




CHAPTER XV.

    "Devotion wafts the mind above,
    But Heaven itself descends in love;
    A feeling from the Godhead caught.
    To wean from earth each sordid thought;
    A ray of him who formed the whole,
    A glory circling round the soul."


Leaving New Orleans with the fervid fire which the warm hearts of its
people had kindled still burning in my breast, and the many memories of
its fragrance and sunlight, and beauty, forever embalmed and enshrined in
my heart, I crossed in one of the great gulf steamers to Mobile, the home
of the celebrated Madame Le Verte; but, as her continued travels call her
so often away from the city in which she so gracefully and so heartfully
dispensed the hospitalities of home-life, and opened wide her doors to the
stranger, I was not privileged to meet her; nor can I note many of the
manifold celebrities of the city. I can only say I found it as beautiful
as a dream; its skies of sweet Italian softness; its waters clear and
pure as "Pyerian Springs;" its winds gentle as the whisper of an Angel;
its flowers gorgeous in tint and redolent with fragrance; the spirits of
its people attuned to harmony with their beautiful surroundings, and
overflowing with generous sentiment.

Without the slightest intimation upon my own part, I was presented with
passes over the Mobile and Ohio Railway, by which I went to Cairo, and
thence by the magnet, which so often drew my spirit toward the pole to
Chicago.

After a brief respite and rest I went to Minnesota, in whose life-giving
climate I spent the summer. Passing over the oft-told tale of financial
success, I must address myself to those who--

    "Love the haunts of nature,
    Love the sunshine of the meadow,
    Love the shadow of the forest,
    Love the wind among the branches
    And the rushing of great rivers
    Through their palisades and pine trees;
    And the thunder of the mountains,
    Whose innumerable echoes
    Flap like eagles in their eyries."

To these I must revert to the many beauteous haunts and hidden retreats
of nature, whose varied phases of quiet sweetness and sublime grandeur are
heightened and intensified by the charm of legend and of song.

I visited the falls of "Minne-ha-ha," and could almost fancy the silvery
song and light laughter of the Indian girl in the happy purling music of
the waterfall, and, as it glided off into the gentler murmur of the
stream, below, I could imagine the still sadder song of the spirit
speeding to rest in

    "The Islands of the Blessed,
    To the Land of the Hereafter."

Minneapolis and St. Paul were visited, but they are all too celebrated to
need note.

Back again to the "Garden City," and to the one who had so patiently
waited for the sunshine of success and the consummation of our plans for
the future; but, as "the best made plans of mice and men aft gang aglee,"
we found ourselves no nearer the goal. One day he said to me: "Mary, we
have waited to be richer, but have still grown poorer; so is it not best
that, in defiance of our apparently adverse fate, we unite our interests
and our lives?" So hand in hand we resolved to share the joys and sorrows
of life, each catching the burden of the old refrain--

    "Thy smile could make a summer
    Where darkness else would be."

We repaired to the house of Dr. O.H. Tiffany, and, in the presence of a
few friends, were quietly married, after which we made an unostentatious
wedding trip to Wisconsin to visit some of his family friends.

With them all the "wonder grew" why it was that, among the many smiles
hitherto lavished upon him from beautiful eyes, he should have chosen the
blind girl. His reiterated assertion of faith in the purity and
unselfishness of the life, and the inner light of the soul, found in them
a ready acceptance of his choice, and they warmly extended to her all the
confidence and affection of kindred hearts.




CHAPTER XVI.

    "To know, to esteem, to love, and then to _part_,
    Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart."


A short time after our marriage Mr. Arms was offered a contract to
superintend the construction of a mill at Woodbine, Iowa, which it seemed
best for him to accept; and finding there were no comfortable
accommodations for a lady in that place, he left me in a boarding house in
Chicago, with Hattie for a companion. It was indeed hard for us to part so
soon, and the pang was rendered more bitter by the fact of his impaired
health, for he had never entirely recovered from the effects of the
malarial fever contracted in a miasmatic district in Indiana.

After his departure time hung so heavily upon my hands, my present
aimless, carefree life being in such striking contrast to the activity and
excitement of travel, that I secretly resolved, as separation was
inevitable, to resume my old life, and thus be of assistance to my
husband. Unknown to him I wrote to my publishers for a fresh supply of
books, and started for Michigan, the State which held within its
boundaries the first scenes of sorrow my young life had known, when, amid
helpless and hopeless hours of persecution, my girlhood seemed rayless and
forsaken, but when kind friends had come in the hour of need, and helpful
hands had lifted me from the dark depths. From there I wrote to Mr. Arms,
communicating to him my intention to travel. He sent me a touching reply,
saying he had never intended me to battle with the outside world again,
but, if I deemed it best, it was perhaps well.

I had cherished a desire to visit the place in which I lived with the
family of Ruthven, for then I could look above and beyond the clouds of
early days, and discern the many golden gleams and rosy rays, the many
halcyon hours of happiness and hope. So, after the spirit has passed
through the purifying fires of persecution, it can calmly look back with
a triumphant soul song. But these old scenes were in places so remote and
inaccessible that I was forced to forego the pleasure of visiting them;
but in many other places I found the old familiar landmarks gone, and the
transformations of time had placed in their stead forms and faces new and
strange.




CHAPTER XVII.

    "A generous friendship no cold medium knows,
    Burns with one love, with one resentment glows."


After remaining in Michigan until late in the winter, we crossed over to
Canada via the Grand Trunk Railway. Our first stopping place was at Saint
Mary's, where at the depot we found a nice sleigh awaiting us with, all
the necessary appurtenances for comfort, in the way of robes and blankets.
Deposited at the hotel in safety, we handed the driver seventy-five cents
and were astonished at having fifty cents returned. Supposing there was
some mistake, we demurred, when he said, "My charge is two York shillings
or twenty-five cents United States money." Surely we thought the spirit of
Yankee greed has not yet penetrated the Provinces, when two women, three
trunks, satchels, &c., can be comfortably transported for so small a sum.
At the hotel we were at once ushered into a warm and comfortable suite of
rooms, a pleasant contrast to the usual season of weary waiting for a
room. Indeed during our entire stay in the town there was not one omission
of attention to our comfort.

At Port Hope we were guests of Mr. and Mrs. Mackey, of the Mackey House,
and received from them such kindness as we could scarce expect from old
friends. Just here let me say that I had heard so many sneering allusions
to the character of the "Canucks," that I was quite unprepared for the
universal polish, elegance, cordiality and kindness of the Canadians.

We went from Port Hope to Toronto, the home of the celebrated Canadian
Oculist, Doctor Roseborough, whose fame had been heralded in every portion
of the Provinces I had visited. My past experience had so disgusted me
with eye surgeons that for one week I had daily passed his house,
instinctively avoiding an entrance. One day, however, I quite as
instinctively sought an interview with the Doctor, impelled by some
strange impulse I could not well define. I was familiarly but courteously
greeted with these words, "You have been in the city an entire week, and
yet have not called to see me." In reply I frankly confessed that I
avoided upon principle the members of his branch of the surgical
profession.

His subtle magnetism would soon have dispelled all feeling of repulsion;
and before I was conscious of the degree of confidence he inspired, I
found myself almost persuaded to accept his cordial invitation to tea. The
only barrier I could interpose was want of acquaintance with his wife, and
that obstacle was soon removed. We found her a most intelligent and
charming person, and her mother, Mrs. Reeves, who was present, a
dignified, stately English lady of "the old regime."

In a few moments after our meeting all her reserve vanished, and she
impulsively and almost tearfully drew near. She told in trembling tones of
a blind sister who had passed away some time before, and while she had
come in contact with so many who had resorted to her son-in-law for
treatment, she had never before met one who resembled her sister, while
in me she seemed to have found her counterpart.

This became at once a bond between us, and throwing off all her usual
reserve, she insisted upon having us leave the hotel and spend the
remainder of the time of our stay with her. So pronounced was her
character and so peremptory her demand, there was no room for refusal, and
when in a succeeding conversation with her son I expressed some
compunction at our stay, I was at once silenced by the remark that his
mother was a woman of marked idiosyncracies, and when she so distinguished
an individual as to make them a guest the decision was final, and I must
not wound her by an expression of possible impropriety. It is needless to
say I left this family with deep regret, carrying letters from Doctor
Roseborough; and in my visits to the various places en route to Montreal I
found these credentials of great service.

On arriving at Montreal we were handsomely domiciled at St. Lawrence Hall.
Our room was large and airy, and our bed stood in one of those quaint old
alcoves so peculiar to the English bed-chamber; while the table d'hote,
with its savory roast beef, plumb pudding, etc., was equally
characteristic of British comfort.

This was during the blustering month of March, and all who have visited
that city at the season in which it becomes necessary to cut away the ice
from the streets will remember the pitfalls and realize how difficult it
would be for the blind, even with the kindest and most careful attendance,
to avoid danger. I escaped without any greater mishap than a fall into one
of these excavations, attended by a wetting of my feet, as well as a
thorough soaking of five books and their consequent loss. I had, however,
four weeks of successful canvassing, and during that time the condition of
the streets had quite improved.

As my payments were made in the current coin of Canada, and I had the
advantage of easy access to the States, I exchanged my silver at a premium
of thirty-five per cent, and my gold at forty per cent., thus greatly
enhancing my profits. In this connection I must acknowledge the kindness
of the residents of Montreal, as well as their more than liberal
patronage, which I will ever gratefully remember.

Returning to Toronto I rejoined my friends, and, after another short
season with them, I went to Ottawa, the delightful Capital of Ontario,
then Canada West, arriving there about two days after the news of the
assassination of D'Arcy McGee, his household being in mourning, and the
whole community convulsed and sobbing in responsive sorrow.

This martyred man seemed to have had a singular premonition of death,
which came foreshadowed in a dream. He was visiting some intimate lady
friends, and after dinner threw himself upon a lounge for a short siesta,
when, suddenly springing up from a disturbed slumber, he exclaimed: "I
believe I am going to be murdered!" Whereupon he related his dream. He
said he thought himself in a little boat, floating upon a stream, and
accompanied by two men, who, in spite of his convulsive efforts to near
the shore, persistently allowed him to float down the stream to the falls
below, over which his boat was madly hurled, when, by his imaginary fall,
he was awakened with a strange and premonitory dread in his heart. His
devoted wife survived him but a short time, and was found dead at her
bedside in the attitude of prayer, where, as her spirit was wafted away
upon the wings of devotion, her face was left placid and smiling in its
last sleep.

    "So united were they in life,
    And in death were not divided."




CHAPTER XVIII.

    "Howe'er it be, it seems to me
    'Tis only noble to be good,
    Since hearts are more than coronets,
    And simple faith than Norman blood."


The various localities in Ottawa being so familiar to so many readers and
tourists, I will not dwell upon them at length, but suffice it to say I
visited the various Government Departments, and could not fail to be
deeply impressed by the truly elegant manners and courtly bearing of the
officials.

In one of these Departments I found an elderly gentleman, slightly
afflicted with deafness. According to the etiquette of their business
regulations I was received in standing attitude, and in the few moments'
interview were condensed the thoughts and feelings of years. He bought my
book, for which he paid two dollars and a half in gold, and, as he bade me
good-bye, he stooped and kissed my forehead with the stately grace of a
cavalier of the Crusades, which act of emotional deference was heightened
by the hot tears which fell from his eyes and dropped upon my cheeks, and
the fervor of his repeated--"God bless you, my child."

At Hamilton we called at the Mute and Blind Asylums, which were then
combined in one, where we were received with great kindness, every
possible attention being lavished upon us to heighten our interest and
render our visit enjoyable. Going to Buffalo we had a social, cozy visit
with an aunt of Hattie's, after which we proceeded to Niagara Falls.

It is no wonder that, as a nation, we are proud of Niagara, which, in
grandeur and sublimity, rivals any waterfall of note in the world. Taking
a carriage we drove to the Canada side, where are so many localities of
historical interest, and where, at certain points, are found the finest
views of the falls. I remained in the carriage while Hattie went under the
dashing, roaring, maddening sheet of water, which feat, as well as the
usual one of a trip in the Maid of the Mist, seems necessary, in its
apparent peril, to a full appreciation of the awful and stupendous
grandeur of this phenomenon of nature.

I walked over Suspension Bridge in order to realize its construction
through the sense of feeling, and our driver seemed much amused at my
manner of seeing. Dismissing our carriage, we walked over Goat Island, in
order to better take in the diversified beauty. The old man at the bridge,
in consideration of my affliction, refused to accept the usual fee; so
hard-hearted as they seem, in their spirit of gain, they have still some
vulnerable point, some avenue left open to the heart, thus confirming the
humanitarian sentiment, that no nature is utterly depraved.

Entering into conversation with the old bridge-tender, I was amused and
surprised at his fund of anecdote and wealth of wit. Among other playful
jests he declared he could define the exact condition of heart in each
individual who crossed over, as accurately as we note the mercury in the
barometer for atmospheric probabilities, even going so far as to say that
he could guess the "Yes" or "No," and consequently the engagement or
non-engagement of each returning couple.

We followed the meandering paths and shaded seclusions, where tree and
flower, rock and stream make up the fairy realm, and crowned all by
standing in the tower on Table Rock, our hearts awed and reverent and our
lips inaudibly whispering "Be still, and know that I am God."

Leaving by the Great Western Railway we stopped at London, Canada, where
Hattie had friends, and where I found a letter from my husband, who had
returned from Woodbine, and being about to establish himself for a time in
Milwaukee, where he was to build a mill, he desired me to return at once
and accompany him. Without delay we sped on in the lightning train to
Chicago, my impatient heart keeping time with the winged flight of the
cars.




CHAPTER XIX.

    "And the night shall be filled with music,
      And the thoughts that infest the day
    Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
      And as quietly steal away."


Our hearts beating with high hopes and expectant joys, we once more
settled down to happiness in Milwaukee. A joyful trio were we, my husband,
Hattie and myself. Our location in the Lake House, then one of the most
popular little hotels in the city, augured well for a pleasant sojourn.

Mrs. Towle, the proprietress, was one who had deeply drank of the cup of
sorrow, the first draught coming from the hand of one who had vowed her
his love and protection, and who, after twenty-five years of wedded life,
deserted her. When, with apparent penitence, he returned to her, he was
received to her forgiving heart, and then came the draining of the bitter
dregs in a second desertion.

With her two children as her only dower, she patiently took up the burden
of life, and bravely bore all, supporting and educating her two daughters,
and never losing dignity or caste.

No more delightful summer resort could be found than Milwaukee, familiarly
known as the "Cream City," from the light straw or creamy tint of the
brick, which forms so large a part in the architecture of that city, and
gives an air of charming cleanliness to the buildings. This shade is said
by chemists to be the result of the want of the usual element of iron in
the clay of which it is made, and so curious is it to strangers that it
has become a familiar saying that few people leave Milwaukee without
carrying away "a brick in their hats," this being doubtless in part a
jesting allusion to the apparently all-pervading spirit of the gay
Gambrinus apparent there and the numberless manufactories of the foaming
lager. Yet methinks this is no longer a more striking characteristic there
than elsewhere, in spite of the predominant German element.

The word "Milwaukee" signifies rich land, and the truthful significance of
the appellation is amply testified by the rare flowers, green gardens,
fertile fields and towering forests in and around it, all of which are the
outgrowth of its soil of rich alluvial loam.

Milwaukee is a city whose animus is in striking contrast to the daring,
dashing spirit of Chicago, but its substantial wealth, cash basis, and
slow, careful, steady progress, have led it on to sure success, so well
attested by the quiet and substantial elegance of its business buildings,
the palatial proportions and exquisite finish of its private dwellings,
with their appropriate appointments of cultivated conservatories, gorgeous
gardens and rare works of art. The well stored libraries evince an
advanced degree of cultivation, and the literary coteries a prevailing
element of the dilletante spirit, while the plain, rich habiliments, and
the elegant turnouts with liveried attendants, indicate a degree of
fashion and style unknown in many larger cities; and their manufactories
and business houses suggest great mercantile advancement, their elevators
and shipping a high order of commercial greatness.

Their harbor is one of the finest in the world, and by travelers is said
to resemble that of the beautiful Naples. Indeed, the extended view from
the drive upon Prospect Street is without a rival. Beautiful Boulevardes
were then in quite advanced process of construction, and in time must rank
among the most shaded, flowery walks and drives in the world.

Swiftly sped the summer hours in fair Milwaukee, with its gay gladiolas
and blue skies, its crystal waters and grand old forests, until it ceased
to be a wonder why so many health and pleasure seekers made it a resort,
and that it became, during the warm season, a fashionable watering place.

One of our most frequent rendezvous was upon the lake shore, where, in a
sweet secluded spot, far away from the throng which resorted there, a
rough log for a seat, we were wont to sit for hours, listening to the
music of the bands upon the excursion boats as they came and went with
their scores of pleasure seekers, and the still more harmonious melody of
the waves as they rose and fell at our feet in low, soft, musical murmurs.

Among the many attractions of Milwaukee is that of one of the several
noble institutions erected by our Government and known as National
Soldiers' Homes.

It is located four miles west of the city, and is accessible both by
Elizabeth Street and Grand Avenue, two of the most delightful drives of
Milwaukee.

Its eight hundred acres are beautifully enclosed and finely cultivated,
being laid out by one of its former chaplains, according to the most
artistic rules of landscape gardening; every coil and curve of avenue
being a line of beauty, and its fifteen miles of drive startling the eye
with its grouping of lake and garden, bridge and stream, fern-clad ravines
and sunny heights.

Amid its dense groves are fairy pavilions, in which its maimed and scarred
veterans discourse sweet music by a silver cornet band, without one
grating sound or discordant note.

Without the rigid discipline of active array life, these veterans have
sufficient military discipline for comfort and order, and one cannot fail
to remark the systematic precision which characterizes the performance of
their daily duties.

I cannot say all I should like to say in regard to these institutions, but
suffice it to say that I found many sympathizing and some old friends
among the blind, and was glad to learn that these soldiers, as a class,
ranked among the most cultivated inmates.

I cannot close my chapter upon this subject without alluding to the
magnanimous generosity of the Milwaukeeans in their donation of one
hundred thousand dollars to the National Home Fund, the proceeds of a
Sanitary Fair, in which white hands and deft fingers, faithfully and
patriotically wrought, for the benefit of the disabled soldiers, and few
cities could boast of a nobler donation. I must also allude to the high
appreciation in which the Homes are held by foreign dignitaries.

Miss Emily Faithful, the fair amanuensis and confidential friend of Queen
Victoria, while visiting America in an official capacity, spent a day in
socially visiting and carefully inspecting the Soldiers' Home of
Milwaukee. Astonished and entertained she pronounced it the most
pleasurable day she had spent in this country.

The Grand Duke Alexis left upon its register the only autograph written in
person in a public place, bestowing upon the institution the most
extravagant encomiums, both himself and his suite of traveled and titled
gentlemen pronouncing it a wonder and a marvel!

The Reverend Doctor Smythe, of Dublin, Ireland, when in attendance upon
the Evangelical Alliance, visited the Soldiers' Home of Dayton, Ohio.
Examining its magnificent libraries, seventy thousand dollar chapel and
its hospital, the finest in the world, he was spell-bound. Going to its
music hall and listening to its band, inhaling the perfume of its
conservatories, visiting its grottoes, bowers and springs, rowing on its
lakes, seeing its aviaries with birds of all varieties of plumage and
song, and driving in its parks inhabited by buffalo, elk, antelope and
over five hundred deer; he exclaimed with evident fervor, "In the _Old
Country_, libraries, conservatories, bands and parks are for the nobility;
in the new world they are for the soldiery." And what nobler compliment
could he have paid to our country and its institutions?




CHAPTER XX.

    "Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been;
    A sound that makes us linger; yet farewell."


The summer being ended, we visited the friends of Mr. Arms in Wisconsin,
after which he went to Grinnell, Iowa, in pursuit of his usual avocation.
My own delicate health made it necessary for me to be again winging my way
southward. Going to Atlanta, Ga., and making that my headquarters, I
visited with marked success all the towns of importance on the various
railroad routes diverging from this centre. I then made Macon another
headquarters, after which I canvassed the greater part of the State.

The forests were filled with flowering shrubs and trailing vines, the
towering trees hung with the wild, weird drapery of the southern moss, and
the mocking birds sang their sweet songs from "early morn 'til dewy eve."
These scenes "vibrate in memory" with quivering, throbbing power, and come
back like odors exhaled from fading flowers or "music when soft voices
die."

Selma, Alabama, became my third headquarters, where I boarded with Mrs.
Cooke, a lovely woman of the purely southern type, who, before the great
conflict, was a millionaire, and was afterward forced for her own support
to convert a large mansion into a huge boarding house, which, with its
hundred guests, was a cheerful, happy home; permeated as it was by the
sunshine she diffused, and lighted by the fairy face of her lovely
daughter, who was named for her native State, Alabama.

As in the aboriginal tongue this signifies "here we rest," and it became
to us a name deeply fraught with significance, for in this pure untainted
heart we found "rest! sweet rest!"

"En route" to Rome I met with my usual good fortune in finding another
friend in a lady resident of the country, who fondly urged me to leave the
hotel and make my home with her, where she lavished upon me every luxury
and kindness. Her husband was the only man in that region of country who
voted for Abraham Lincoln; and when General Sherman made his "March to the
Sea," she concealed none of her stores or treasures, but went to him and
asked protection for her property and home, when a guard was immediately
furnished her by the commander.

She afterward married an officer of this guard, in consequence of which
she was disowned by her family and associates, but in the noble and
sterling qualities of her husband found ample compensation as well as a
subsequent reconciliation with friends.




CHAPTER XXI.

        "'Tis a little thing
    To give a cup of water; yet its draught
    Of cool refreshment, drained by fervid lips,
    May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
    More exquisite than when nectarian juice
    Renews the life of joy in happiest hours."


In order to reach Montgomery I took passage in one of the high-pressure
steamers of the Alabama river, and during the two days and nights of the
trip I was surrounded by a throng of sympathizing, interested passengers,
whose tender tones and gentle touch was as a cool, refreshing draught to
parched lips, a sweet morsel to the tongue, for human hearts ever hunger
and thirst for affection. How utterly unendurable would be this life, with
its desert wastes and hot siroccos, but for the sweet, verdant spots
dotting the sandy sea, whence spring the "fountains of perpetual peace"
and issue the healing waters.

These loving ones surrounded me as I sat busily occupied with my bead
work, and not only delighted and entertained with their curious questions
and familiar chat, but freely bought my books and fifty dollars worth of
baskets, while they would doubtless have doubled the amount had not this
exhausted my little store.

As we steamed in sight of Montgomery a gentleman came into the cabin and
requested me to make for him eight of the handsomest bead baskets before
we landed; and, seeing an amused and incredulous smile upon my face, he
said: "You work so dexterously and so rapidly that I did not realize that
my demand was unreasonable." Explaining to him that it would require eight
hours of the closest application to accomplish that amount of work, he
apologized and left me. Nor did this specimen of the "genus homo" evince
any unusual ignorance of woman's work, whose endless routine and
diversified drudgery ofttimes require the patience of a Job and the wisdom
of a Solomon. In the labyrinth of domestic entanglement more is needed
than the silken clue of Ariadne, and the vexed question of domestic
economy requires the unerring skill of the diplomatist, the subtle tact of
the politician, and the sure strength of the statesman. The "Poet of
Poets" has shown his appreciation of the character and life of woman in
the following lines:

    From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive;
    They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
    They are the books, the arts, the academies,
    That show, contain and nourish all the world.

After a pleasant and successful visit to Montgomery we went via the Mobile
Railroad to Evergreen, a little town fitly named from its deeply shaded
evergreen surroundings. We reached this little hamlet at two o'clock in
the morning, and those who are familiar with the cold and penetrating
dampness of a southern night, even in mid-summer, could realize our
condition and desire for rest and warmth, and know something of our
disappointment at finding the one poor little hotel of the town without a
vacant room. Seeking the office for a resting place, we found the case
equally hopeless, for congregated within its narrow limits were men,
women and children, every one of whom was stretched in various attitudes
upon the floor, as peacefully enfolded in the arms of Morpheus, and,
perchance, as sweetly dreaming as if resting upon beds of down and
pillowed upon fine linen and gossamer lace.

Sleep is indeed to such "tired nature's sweet restorer," and to those
whose healthy bodies and unambitious natures know no perturbation it is
balmy and refreshing.

Turning from the unconscious, slumbering group for one friendly face, we
were greeted by Major Lanier, of the Confederate Army, whose manner and
tone not only betokened the gentleman, but whose acts of kindness evinced
the true and chivalrous heart so characteristic of the southern character.
After failing in repeated efforts to find us a room, he gave us his
blankets and great coat, and all through the dreary watches of the night
fed the fire with wood, which with one hand he chopped, while with the
other he fought off the rabid attacks of fierce and barking dogs, which
persistently assailed him. Had we been distinguished ladies, or had there
been any probability of the gallant major being praised, complimented, or
in any way preferred for this act of gallantry, it might have been less
appreciated, but it was an act of purely chivalrous courtesy to two
strange ladies in humble position, and his only reward was our poor thanks
and the approval of his own generous heart. It must have had its comic
side, too, to see a major of the regular Confederate service, who had done
battle on the field where glory was to be won, groping in the dismal dark
of the night and running the risk of being severely hurt, possibly of
being killed, by dogs, practicing war with one hand, and dispensing a
noble if not an ostentatious charity with the other.

We had been promised the room opening into the office as soon as it was
vacated, and at the first streak of coming dawn the Major stationed
himself near the door, listening for the slightest sound; and when from
the carefully guarded chamber the faintest rustle came he would jocularly
exclaim: "Ladies, prospects are brightening!" and so he helped us to
while away the weary hours until we secured the promised room and bed,
where we rested until noon.

When we arose from this refreshing rest we found that the session of court
had brought this throng, and we were soon surrounded with visitors, who
kept us constantly conversing and almost incessantly weaving baskets for
their amusement. These people not only bought large stores of my work, but
their talk sent crowds of people from far and near, all of whom made
purchases of some kind. Such was the interest of every member of the bar
and every attendant upon court that the four days I spent there completely
exhausted me, physically and mentally.

Finding there were no other important towns beyond Evergreen, I returned
to Montgomery and repaired to Savannah, Georgia, where I was treated with
the most genial generosity, and should have been repaid for a trip to that
place in a visit to its cemetery, whose reputation has been spread
throughout the length and breadth of our land, and whose strange, sad
beauty is so infinitely beyond the conceptions of imagination, but
which--

    "To be remembered
    Needs but to be seen."

Its grounds are densely grown with trees of live oak, whose huge and
spreading branches, seeming to bear the size and strength of a century's
growth; with the dark, drooping moss, which, as it mingles its weird,
fantastic drapery with the bending, swaying, weeping willow, seems like a
pall for the graves hidden in its sombre shades; while the millions of
birds which dwell therein lull their warbling notes to the measure of a
low funeral song; and every sound of Nature's many-voiced music seems to
murmur a requiem for the dead. As I sat subdued and listening, the low,
rustling sound of the wind seemed as a sigh of sorrow escaping the breast
of the bereaved, and I could picture in the far away land of Palestine
that sacred spot which had so often been described to me, even the "Church
of the Holy Sepulchre."

This most benevolent city of Georgia, without solicitation, presented me
passes to Jacksonville and Tallahassee, Fla. The former was at that time
quite an unimportant place, but has since become a popular resort.

While in Tallahassee I met with great sympathy and kindness from Governor
Rood, who bought a book and handed me five dollars. When change was
tendered to him he quietly and respectfully declined, and said with his
usual delicacy that it was worth that much to him.

The Sheriff of the county was also very generous. Wishing to present me
with ten dollars, and fearing to wound me by so doing, he ordered that
amount of bead-work.

Tallahassee was certainly the most quiet Capital City I had ever visited,
resting in its placid loveliness apparently undisturbed by the usual
wrangle of legislation.

We returned via Live Oaks, at which place we encountered one of those
severe thunderstorms known only to tropical lands, and in which the angry
"war of elements" strikes terror to the hearts of those unschooled to it.
All through its thundering and lightning, its wind and torrent, I was in
such a state of nervous excitement, that when the last lurid light faded,
the last crash was echoed by a low reverberating moan and died away, I
gave one deep sigh of intense relief and sank exhausted from the reaction.




CHAPTER XXII.

    "I lay upon the headland heights, and listened
    To the incessant moaning of the sea
    In caverns under me,
    And watched the waves that tossed,
    And fled, and glistened;
    Until the rolling meadows of amethyst
    Melted away in mist."


My visit to Charleston combined little of eventful note, and this city is
to well known as a seaport to require a detailed description. There, as in
all places in close proximity to the ocean, I was spell-bound amid the
ceaseless ebb and flow, the endless melody of the waves glowing and
scintillating with myriad gem-like hues from the amethyst, the emerald and
the diamond, to the many-hued opal, its varied and changing beauty bearing
all the brilliant glory of the fabled dolphin, born in its depths.

In this sea-girt city I found the home of Mrs. Glover, and above all her
hallowed presence there. She is an accomplished lady, and once wrote an
attractive novel, more for pastime than from any literary aspirations.

Vernon, the hero of her story of Vernon Grove, was blind, and as this
depiction of character was so much more true to nature than the
pen-pictures of other gifted delineators, even that of the shrewd searcher
of the human heart, Wilkie Collins, that she had won the sympathy and
interest of all at the Baltimore Institution, at which, in former years,
she had been so cheerfully greeted.

Vernon possessed none of the melancholy, inanimate, suspicious
characteristics supposed by many to belong of necessity to the blind, but
was a brilliant, cheerful, high-minded person, who filled every position
in life with dignity, accepted every sorrow and disappointment with
resignation, in every struggle was a lion-hearted hero, and in every
contest a conqueror.

This gifted lady was a sister of Mrs. Bowen, of Baltimore, who, as well as
her husband, was a warm, true friend to the blind, and ever joyously
hailed as a guest in the institution.

After traveling through the Carolinas I went to Richmond, Virginia, the
Rome of America, and like that ancient city built upon seven hills, while
in its patrician pride and family loyalty it possessed much of the essence
of the old Roman spirit.

My visit there was during the most fervid heat of the summer solstice,
when through the sultry days all living creatures are panting and
breathless, yet withal the stay of three weeks' duration passed away with
delightful rapidity, and time stole upon us and stole from us almost
imperceptibly.

Leaving Richmond for White Sulphur Springs, I stopped at all important
intervening points. At Staunton I devoted an entire day to the inspection
of the Institution for the Blind, and in pleasant acceptance of
hospitalities dispensed both by inmates and officials.

Arriving at White Sulphur after dark, we found the mountain air so cold
that we could almost imagine ourselves suddenly transported from the
Equator to the Pole, and were as thoroughly chilled as one unacclimated
would be from so great and sudden a transition.

The mammoth hotel of this watering place, comfortably seated in its
dining-hall twelve hundred guests, and all its appointments were in
equally grand proportion. We occupied, from choice, one of the cozy little
cottages, nestling like a dove-cot in some bowery shade, with its patch of
green-sward and flower-garden in front and purling brook behind, holding
the double charm of rural simplicity and home-like air. Hattie led me
through every path and grove, nook and glen of this sweet seclusion, this
valley embosomed in mountains, and my thoughts reverted to the days when
the belles and beaux of our American court sought these sylvan shades;
when Washington and the successive Chief Magistrates of the Great Republic
had gracefully glided through the stately minuet and invested this spot
with a now classic interest.

Prominent among the visitors was the leonine General Lee, a Colossus in
person and in mind. In spirit brave as a true hero, but in manner gentle
as a woman. In the sweet solace of sympathy his heart went out to the
blind girl, and assumed the tangible form of solid favors, for by his
personal efforts under the magic influence and royal mandate of his
imperial power many a little volume was appropriated that would have been
otherwise unnoticed.

George Peabody was also a guest, but in this, his last visit to his native
country, he was too ill and prostrate to receive friends. I felt for him a
strong personal sympathy for his beneficence to my native city, to which
he ever acknowledged himself indebted for his first business success; and
in which the pure, white marble structure, with its magnificent library
and other appointments, so well known as "The Peabody Institute," stands
as a monument of his munificence.

Returning to Richmond, we took the James River route to Baltimore, a trip
fraught with varied interest.

At Yorktown, that city of eld, we landed to take in a cargo of freight,
not neglecting the usual store of oysters, of which we had at supper a
sumptuous feast and it was from no fickle epicurean fancy that all
pronounced these delicious bivalves the finest in the world, for,
certainly, never before or since have we partaken of them with such rare
relish and absolute gusto.




CHAPTER XXIII.

    "Sweet is the hour that brings us home,
      Where all will spring to meet us;
    Where hands are striving as we come,
      To be the first to greet us.
    When the world has spent its frowns and wrath,
      And care been sorely pressing;
    'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path,
      And find a fireside blessing;
    Ah, joyfully dear is the homeward track,
    If we are but sure of a welcome back!"


Home again in dear old Baltimore, where over my cradle was sung my
mother's first lullaby, and where so many localities were invested with
the charm of loved association. I of course visited the Institution for
the Blind, which would not, in its many changes, have seemed at all like
home but for the music of a familiar voice and the presence of dear Miss
Bond, who still with loving dignity presided as matron, throned in the
majesty of noble humanity, and crowned with purity and goodness.

Dr. Fisher, Mr. Trust and Mr. Newcomer still faithfully held their
positions as Directors, and cordially welcomed me home. Mr. Morrison, the
new Superintendent, and his most estimable wife, although they had never
seen me, brought me near to them by the bond of sympathetic kindness, and
seemed not like strangers but friends.

It seemed singular to those who had known little Mary Day to have her go
back to them a married woman, and indeed, for the moment, time seemed to
have gone backward in its flight; the dignity of the matron was forgotten,
and I was a child again, even little Mary Day. I felt glad of an assurance
from Miss Bond, that so fondly had my name been cherished, even by those
in the institution who had never met me, that it was regarded as a
"household word," and that enshrined in the most sacred niche of the
temple of love was the image of Mary L. Day. As a testimony of this
continued affection I was fondly urged to remain in the institution while
in the city, but, as I had so many resident relatives, I declined.

My cousin, William Heald, who had by his kindness infused light into some
of my darkest hours, had won a lovely woman for a wife, and certainly no
one more richly deserved such a consummation. Cousin Sammy Heald had also
married his fair fiance, of the West, who in her sweet purity of
character, beauty of person and a life fragrant and blossoming with good
deeds, could justly be called a "prairie flower." He had been ordained a
Methodist minister, and was winning true laurels in his little charge in
Iowa, to which conference he belonged. He had chosen his proper vocation,
for as a preacher he was "Native, and to the manor born," for when a wee
boy, he had written and declaimed many a sermon, and had his mimic
audience been a real one these efforts would have produced electrical
effect.

Among the many changes in my Baltimore circle was the vacant chair at the
fireside, once filled by my uncle Jacob Day, whose memory and whose life
was pervaded by the odor of true sanctity. It could truly be said of him
at the sunset of a beautiful life, that

    "Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,
      Records some good deed done;
    Some flower cast along the way,
      Some spark from love's bright sun."

He had been a great leader in the Sabbath School movement, and a prominent
feature of the funeral cortege was a procession of his pupils in pure
white raiment, who, in token of their love and bereavement, strewed his
grave with flowers.

I cannot close my home chapter without an expression of exultant pride for
my classmates who have done so nobly in their various vocations. Two had
entered the literary ranks as book-writers, and had met with marked
success in the acceptance and sale of their works; three stood high as
teachers; one earned a good living by tuning pianos; several were engaged
in various departments of the institution; and two ranked high as
musicians, which profession has seemed an especial field for the blind.

To use the musical measure of poetic prose as rendered by Mr. Artman, one
of the most renowned blind authors--"There is a world to which night
brings no gloom, no sadness, no impediments; fills no yawning chasm and
hides from the traveler no pitfall. It is the world of sound. Silence is
its night, the only darkness of which the blind have any knowledge. In it
every attribute of Nature has a voice; the beautiful, the grand, the
sublime, have each a language, and to me, whose heart is in tune, every
sound has a peculiar significance. Sounds fill the soul, while light fills
the eye only. 'In the varied strains of warbling melody,' as it winds in
its graceful meanderings to the deep recesses of his soul, or of the rich
and boundless harmony, as it swells and rolls its pompous tide around him,
he finds a solace and a compensation for the absent joys of sight."

And so I close with a blessing upon the members of my class, and may the
God of light and love illumine their paths, and glorify their lives, is my
earnest, heartfelt prayer.




CHAPTER XXIV.

    "The prayer of Ajax was for light;
    Through all that dark and desperate fight,
    The blackness of that noonday night,
    He asked but the return of sight,
    To see his foeman's face.

    "Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
    Be, too, for light--for strength to bear
    Our portion of the weight of care,
    That crushes into dumb despair
    One half the human race."


From Baltimore I went to Westminster, Maryland, to visit my cousin,
Charles Henniman, and my stay there was characterized by all the joy of
sweet reunion and eager acceptance of hospitalities so lavishly bestowed.
It was with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain I greeted my old friend,
Carrie Fringer. In person she was of a peculiar type of beauty, a face
regular in features as a Madonna, beaming with the soft, love-light of
rare, sweet eyes, in whose depths were imprisoned not only an intense
brightness, but the still deeper glow of a soul of love and truth. Curls
of soft brown hair fell upon her symmetrical shoulders and softened the
face they framed into an almost spiritual sweetness. From an affliction in
her childhood she had almost ever since been unable to walk, and indeed
none of the beautiful limbs were available for voluntary motion. Thus
deprived of more than half of life's joy, its sweet activity, many would
have lapsed into a morbid, nervous condition, over which we might justly
have thrown the mantle of charity, but this dear friend was so lovely and
chastened in her affliction, that she seemed almost a Deity in her
attributes of tender love and patient self-abnegation, united to a heroic
endurance of pain with which she was daily, hourly and momently tortured.
Surely

    "The good are better made by ill,
    As odors crushed are sweeter still."

Going to Washington I accompanied an excursion down the Potomac to Mount
Vernon, that sacred spot whose mention sends a thrill of patriotic pride
through every American heart, hallowed as it is by memories of George
Washington. So I became one of the zealous pilgrim throng who wended their
way to this our Mecca, dear to us as that sacred place in the old world to
the most devout worshiper of the Prophet Mahomet.

Reaching our destination we first repaired to the tomb, and with bowed and
uncovered heads all reverently gazed upon the mausoleum of departed
greatness, and turned to the mansion, each department of which had its own
peculiar charm.

Prominent among other relics were his war-equipments, the paraphernalia of
Revolutionary times; and as we ever associate him with his character as
general, these were especially significant from the sword so often wielded
with masterly power, to the little canteen, from which, after long and
weary marches, he refreshed his parched lips.

In his bed-chamber, with its antique air and quaint garniture, there stood
a bedstead, the fac-simile of the one upon which he died. Here we lingered
long and lovingly, and turned to another department, in one corner of
which stood a harpsichord, once belonging to his niece, Miss Lewis. In
fancy I could see her fairy fingers as they swept in "waves of grace" over
its strings, and with the "concord of sweet sounds" ministered to a circle
of distinguished listeners. I could not resist the impulse to pass my
hands over the long neglected strings, and recalled the sentiment of the
old song,

    "As a sweet lute that lingers
      In silence alone;
    Unswept by light fingers.
      Scarce murmurs a tone;
    My own heart resembles,
      This lute, light and free,
    'Til o'er its chord trembles
      Sweet memories of thee."

The garden still remained as arranged by his taste and dictation, and at
one corner of the house the magnolia tree, planted by his own hand, still
bloomed in fragrant beauty.

In the yard was the old well, with "its moss-covered, iron-bound bucket,"
and at the door the gray-haired negro, the inevitable servant of "Massa
Washington," who will doubtless, like a wandering Jew, out live all time,
and for centuries to come remain an attaché of our country's father.

Several gentlemen present evinced and expressed great surprise that a
blind woman should go to _see_ Mount Vernon, yet I very much doubt if any
eyes really saw more than my own. When we reached the boat, each gentleman
carried in his hand a cane cut from the woods of Mount Vernon, and one and
all returned to Washington with the consciousness of having spent a
pleasant and profitable day.

We soon left for Lynchburg, Virginia, after which we visited the towns en
route to Knoxville, Tennessee. At the latter place we had a very enjoyable
visit to the home of Parson Brownlow. He was absent in attendance upon the
Legislature, but his daughter gracefully and cordially dispensed the
hospitalities of their home, and did everything within the bounds of her
warm, sympathetic intelligence to heighten the pleasure and interest of
our visit.

Back again to Chicago, we were welcomed by Mr. Arms, whom we found
engaged in erecting machinery in the Gowan Marble Works, the largest of
the kind in the North-west. Resting in the sweet haven of home, we passed
the winter in this sanctum.




CHAPTER XXV.

    "I love not man the less, but nature more,
      From these our interviews, in which I steal
    From all I may be, or have been before,
      To mingle with the universe, and feel
      What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal."


Renewed and refreshed from our long winter rest, with the migration of the
birds we winged our way westward, alighting in many a lovely locality in
the flourishing State of Iowa, whose soft undulations of prairies were now
swelling in billows of gorgeous green, and touched with the varied tints
of flowery bloom.

Our last resting place was in Council Bluffs, so celebrated for the
grandeur of its location at the foot of the beetling bluffs of the
Missouri River, and for its flourishing and progressive spirit, aside from
which it holds a place in our historic annals dating back to aboriginal
days. When this century was in its early infancy, and the shadowy dawn of
our young nation was still wrapt in the mists which enshrouded its first
struggling efforts; when the little far-away fur station of Astoria, near
the whispering waves of the Pacific coast, held not the mellowing memories
of time or the living light with which the genius of an Irving has since
invested it; when the great explorers, Lewis and Clarke, were leaving
their foot-prints on the land bordering the Columbia River, they held a
council with the Red Man at Kanesville, Iowa, ever since known as "Council
Bluffs."

Thence we went to Omaha, which is one of the most flourishing places in
Nebraska, and from the improvised post-office of early days, the "plug"
hat of Mr. Jones, its first post-master, has grown the large distributing
office of the department.

It was also a military post and winter garrison for our troops in
transitu, its cheerful barracks, well-kept roads and clean parade ground
converting it into a favorite drive and walk, where resort many strangers
to witness the dress parade of "The Boys in Blue."

The Platte River Valley is well known to most of my readers from its
romantic association with the struggles of the vast army of emigrants, who
not only braved the dangers of its uncertain fords and deceitful
quicksands, but the tomahawk and scalp knife, ofttimes leaving a nameless
grave beside its waters; and, were it not for a laughable incident in this
connection, I would pass it by unnoticed.

There are so many heroes of the Don Quixote school, who are so brave in
fighting wind-mills, who, in time of peace, are "soldiers armed with
resolution," but in the real conflict what Shakspeare designates as
"soldiers and afeard." There was in our train a young prig, who "played
the braggart with his tongue," telling of his brave exploits, like a very
Othello recounting the "dangers he passed," ending with a defiant show of
how he should act in the event of an attack from marauding Indians, to
which the trains were at that time so subject, after which he fell into a
profound slumber, resting upon his imaginary laurels. While he slept the
train had changed conductors, and it became necessary to see his ticket.
This new official passing by, and finding himself unable to arouse the
snoring sleeper by ordinary means, gave him a lusty shake, whereupon our
hero gave a hideous yell of "Indians! Indians!" his lips quivering and his
frame palsied with fear. The sound was so startling that the affrighted
passengers imagined themselves for the moment in the merciless grasp of a
band of Red Men.

The conductor gave this quaking coward another energetic shake and an
imperious demand for "your ticket, sir!" and the quondam man of war
"smoothed his wrinkled front," and humbly subsided into a semblance of
sleep, while the conductor was no doubt astonished at the loud laughter
that followed a brief silence, during which the passengers recovered their
composure, and realized the full ludicrousness of the incident. In my
experience in life I have met a great many people who were ready to tell
what they would have done "had they been there;" but this priggish gascon
was the first I had ever seen put to the test, and I believe him to be a
fair sample of that smart class who could, if you take their words for it,
have done better on any given occasion than those whom the occasion found
"there."

Emerging from the Platte Valley, we realized the fact that we were fairly
on our way to the far West, ready to take in with insatiable avidity all
the immensity and grandeur of our territorial scenery.

Arriving at Cheyenne, we were surprised to find a comfortable
hotel-omnibus in waiting, and most of the concomitants of a metropolis,
notwithstanding the oft-expressed surprise and fear of friends at the
daring venture of two unprotected women in going alone to this lawless and
God-forsaken country.

Alas for the demoralizing influence of so-called civilization! While in
the elegant counting-rooms of polished millionaires in more eastern
localities we had occasionally met with insults and snubs; in this place
of reputed "roughs" we received not one rebuff, and were greeted not
merely with respect, but with unbounded generosity. While we found rough
diamonds, they were diamonds nevertheless.

Over this city has since swept the tidal wave of reform, and a great
temperance awakening evoked by one of the great workers in that movement,
Mr. Page, who, with gentle yet royal mandate, has said to the many
"troubled waters," with their sad wrecks of human souls--"peace! be
still!"

We find it vain to depict by our feeble word-painting the many-hued,
many-voiced phases nature assumes in this almost boundless domain, and the
yet untold, undeveloped depths of our territorial resources. Mountains
looming up in imperial grandeur, their snow-crowned summits melting into
cloud and sky; weird cañons, in which the whispered words of worship from
a myriad devotees seem to echo and re-echo through their dark depths;
giant trees:

    "The murmuring pines and hemlock,
    Bearded with moss and in garments of green,
    Indistinct in the twilight,
    Stand like Druids of Eld,
    With voices sad and prophetic."

Among the many military posts Fort Bridger, named for the famous trapper
and guide of oft-written and oft-told fame, is also renowned as one of the
posts of our gallant frontier officer, Albert Sydney Johnston, who won his
first laurels amid the first Mormon troubles, and gallantly fell at Shiloh
early in the Civil War.

Many of the most romantic places have been named for some fair maiden of
the pioneer families, as Maggie's Creek, Susan's Valley, etc., while one
of the most noted and poetic spots is known as "The Maiden's Grave," the
once rude resting place of a gentle girl, whose remains were left there by
her mourning friends on their way to their home on the Pacific Slope. It
was afterwards found by a party of graders on the railway, and these rough
but sympathetic men erected a fitting mausoleum of solid masonry,
surmounted by a pure white cross of stone, whose symmetrical proportions
are prominently visible to every traveler upon the Union Pacific Railroad.

One of the most interesting objects to me was the "Thousand Mile Tree,"
whose towering height I could imagine and long to behold as described to
me by my companion and friend, its strange isolation sending a peculiar
thrill of loneliness through the heart of one who was fifteen hundred
miles from home. This old tree, through some strange freak of nature,
stood a solitary sentinel, a guide-post of nature to tell the traveler he
was a thousand miles from Omaha.

As we neared Weber River our well known and popular conductor came into
the cars, and in a voice of deep, rich melody, sang the words of the then
favorite song:

    "Yes, we will gather at the river.
    The beautiful, the beautiful river;
    Gather with the Saints at the river,
    That flows by the throne of God."

The passengers, as we neared the kingdom of the Saints, catching the
magnetism of his song, joined in the sweet refrain until it swelled into a
soaring, reverberating harmony.

We reached Ogden City just as the sun was setting in royal hues, and
repaired at once to the White House, the only gentile hotel in the place.




CHAPTER XXVI.

    "Westward the star of Empire takes its way;
      The four first acts already past,
    A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
      Time's noblest offspring-is the last."


Our first emotion upon our introduction to Utah was one of fear and
foreboding, for our landlord seemed so assured that we should meet with no
success, selfishness being the established character of the Mormons, who
never allowed their hearts to go out in sympathy to any one outside of
their own church or community.

Far away from home, "a stranger in a strange land," felt like those
old-time wanderers who sat them down by the "waters of Babylon," and
hanging their harps upon the willow, sang sad songs and wept bitter tears.

I gathered sufficient courage to call upon the editor of the daily paper,
and his gentlemanly reception was very reassuring. He gave me a lengthy
and commendatory notice, and this emanating from a man with five wives
gave me a more charitable sentiment than I had formerly maintained toward
Mormon institutions, and it likewise gave me courage and a better opinion
as to my prospects. We remained there two days, and met with such
unexpected success that we turned in a more hopeful mood toward Salt Lake
City.

On the road to that city is a celebrated sulphur spring, whose presence is
indicated for miles before it is reached by somewhat infernal fumes. A
woman in the car, overcome by the unpleasant odor, exclaimed, in evident
disgust: "Is that the way the Mormons smell?" She seemed so impressed with
the nearness of his Satanic Majesty, whom she intimately associated with
Mormondom, that it recalled the somewhat vulgar story of the "Teuton,"
who, in nearing the Virginia White Sulphur Springs, with the same fumes in
his nostrils, cried out: "Mein Gott! pe shure, hell is not more as a mile
off!"

Arriving at Salt Lake City at the close of a beautiful day, the western
sky gleaming with the royally gorgeous hues of a clear, bright sunset,
while the delightful surroundings and stimulating atmosphere lured us to
walk from the depot.

Salt Lake being at that time a city of twenty thousand souls, and this
being prior to the opening of the mines, it was probably in the hey-day of
its beauty, and could boast of but one saloon, whereas they are now very
numerous. Its broad, regular avenues were shaded with trees of such
immense growth as are known only in our western lands, the coolness and
shade of whose leafy, spreading branches invitingly appeal to the
passer-by. Streams of limpid, crystal water, born in the pure mountain
snows, gurgle down each street, and, in their beautiful borders of
nature's green enamel, impart an almost marvelous beauty to the city.

The twenty-third of July being the twenty-third anniversary of the
founding of the "City of the Saints," I had the pleasure of going to their
Temple and listening to the earnest oratory of their representative men,
and among them the "Prophet" himself. George Francis Train being also a
visitor in the city, gave a characteristic oration, in which he rehearsed
the pilgrimage of this people, their persecution, privations and pains
before reaching their haven, which seems, in its rare beauty, an almost
magical city, rising up in the wilderness as a lovely refuge, for, after
all, what magic is so potent as industry and perseverance, and how much of
both of these elements must have been brought to bear in the
accomplishment of so much in the short space of twenty-three years.

The Honorable George Cocannon, the able editor of their daily paper,
representative in Congress, and one of their distinguished elders, gave me
a telling editorial, which, from its influential source, benefited me very
greatly, and could not fail to facilitate my sales.

We called at the residence of Brigham Young, and he kindly gave us a half
hour of his valuable time, a favor much appreciated, and one which threw
great additional light upon their institutions.

We visited their public schools, found the system of graded departments,
high schools, etc., very similar to our own, and all in an equally
flourishing condition. My companion was peculiarly attracted by the
uncommon beauty of the pupils, never having seen in an equal number of
children so much personal fascination. I also visited the public market,
where a man in one of the stalls bought a book, remarking at the same time
that he supposed he ought to buy four, as he had that number of wives. A
bystander asked if this did not sound very strangely in the ears of one so
unaccustomed to a plurality of wives. I quickly responded that the men of
Utah must have large hearts to be capable of taking in four wives, or even
more, when our men had scarce courage to marry one. My reply evidently
touched some responsive chord, for all at once bought books. Their system
of co-operative trade ofttimes leaves them destitute of ready cash, but
all who had money gave me the most liberal patronage.

There is a peculiar feature of Salt Lake society which is truly worthy of
note, and that is the fact that even in social gatherings they open and
close with prayer.

Thus, with the highest respect and gratitude for its citizens, I left
Salt Lake and returned to Ogden, where I hoped for a new supply of books.

Finding neither letters nor books, and board being four dollars per day, I
began to feel symptoms of the "blues." Going to the landlord and stating
the case, he bade me have no fear, for no more would be demanded of me
than I was able to pay; and cheered by this unexpected kindness, I
resolved to patiently wait the issue of events. The next day being
election, it was strange to witness the procession of women voters wending
their way to the polls; but here, as in Salt Lake, the utmost order and
quiet prevailed, nor was bolt or bar necessary for protection at night,
when we were permitted to rest in sweet security from harm.

On going to the express office we were approached by a gentleman, who,
pointing to me, handed Hattie an envelope with the simple words, "If you
please;" few indeed, but fraught with mystery to us, our only solution
being that the envelope contained election tickets, and we were supposed
voters.

With a sense of relief we found the books at the express office, and we
took that opportunity to open the mysterious package, in which we found
five dollars. Describing the gentleman to the express agent, he said he
was a clerk in an eating house near by, a bachelor, and very liberal.
Certainly this act spoke nobly for the fraternity of bachelors, who are
supposed to go about armed with a coat of mail, especially invulnerable in
the region of the heart, while this unsolicited kindness unquestionably
indicated a large degree of tenderness of nature.

We sent him a note of acknowledgment, which we felt to be but a feeble
expression of our gratitude, and, as "all seemed to work together for our
good," we left Utah with a benediction in our hearts and a silent but no
less earnest prayer on our lips, and turned toward the setting sun.




CHAPTER XXVII.

    "The quality of mercy is not strained;
    It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven
    Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed,
    It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
    'Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes
    The throned monarch better than his crown."


Leaving Ogden we followed the line of the Central Pacific Railroad, making
no stops until we reached Elko, Nevada. It was the county seat of Elko
county, and, although at that time a place of comparatively small size and
population, it had an air of business activity known only to localities
alive with the excitement of railroad traffic. The mammoth depot and
freight-house gave it an air of importance; the pine trade, then so
active, and the busy stage-line to the neighboring, warm, mineral springs
and mines of purest silver, imparted to it an additional business
activity.

We were delightfully entertained by Mr. Treet, the gentlemanly proprietor
of the Railroad House, and were presented by him with a letter of
introduction to Mrs. Van Every, of Sacramento. Thus did so many kind hands
smooth down the inequalities incident to a life of travel, and pleasantly
pave the way to so many warm friendships.

On arriving at Sacramento on August 5th, a day of intense, almost stifling
heat, we went at once to Mrs. Van Every, who kept the most elegant
boarding house in the city, whose spacious apartments seemed filled with
the breath of Paradise, which added a grateful welcome to our travel-tired
bodies. Mrs. Van Every's mien of pure and native dignity, her voice of
silvery sweetness, gave the charm of a welcome and ease to her greeting;
and without delay we presented our letter, which was the "open sesame" to
her heart.

We were at once assigned to a nice, clean and even luxurious apartment,
and after some real rest and quiet we sauntered out, as usual seeking the
most prominent editors, and found two, both of whom did us full justice in
the way of editorial notices of our presence and mission.

One day, almost at the close of a two weeks' canvassing tour, we entered
the office of the Honorable N. Green Curtis, who, at the first glance,
declined to give us his patronage, but after a short conversation, in
which he learned that I was a native of Baltimore,

    "A moment o'er his face
    The tablet of unutterable thought was traced,
    And then, it faded as it came,"

he instantly arose, and, as if impelled by some new and life-giving
impulse, he took from my hand a book, and left in its stead a five dollar
bill, saying in hurried words, I never refused to assist a Southerner.

Thus the memories of our native land are balmy with recollections of
childhood, and cling to us through a lifetime of sorrow and change. The
humblest Scottish shepherd boy can never forget that

    "'Twas yonder on the Grampian hills
    His father fed his flock."

Judge Curtis afterward revealed the fact that he was a native of South
Carolina, and the mere mention of the sunny land of his boyhood gave to
each latent sympathy new life and power. It was also probable that he was
not at first aware of my affliction, for he added the remark that he could
not refuse a favor to a blind person. When we were leaving his office he
arose and inquired if I needed aid in any other way; stated that he was a
widower and without other ties, hence had no claims upon his purse, and
hoped I would feel as free to ask as he was to give.

I replied that I was doing too well in my legitimate business to require
direct pecuniary aid, and unless he could assist me in securing railroad
passes I had no requests to make.

How kindly he did this was manifest from the fact that I afterward
received from Ex-Governor Stanford, who was President of the Central
Pacific Road, a yearly pass, and with this introduction the favor was
readily extended by all the railroads on the coast.

A few evenings before I left Sacramento Mrs. Van Every, from her ever
overflowing goodness, improvised an entertainment for my pleasure and
benefit. It became necessary to initiate Hattie into the secret, but I
remained in blissful ignorance until one evening I received a not unusual
summons to go down to the drawing rooms, when I found myself the centre of
a charmed circle of the elite of Sacramento, the easy flow of whose
conversation was laden with love and sympathy for me, and then was
revealed the fact that each invited guest had received a card, upon which
Mrs. Van Every had traced the words "for the benefit of the blind lady."

"Music with its golden tongue was there," and the halls resounded with
melody, which, with love's sacred inspiration, is sweet as Apollo's lute.

Among the gathered guests was Mr. Charles Cummings and lady, Mr. Cummings
being one of the officers of the Central Pacific Railroad, of whom I shall
speak hereafter. A most sumptuous supper was served, each choice viand
being the result of Mrs. Van Every's culinary lore, which the most
epicurean taste could not but relish.

The light-winged hours brought all unconsciously the time for parting,
and the beauty and chivalry of Sacramento, left laden with books and
baskets which had been spirited from my own room and tastefully disposed
in the parlors; and each good night was blended with a kind wish and
gentle benediction.

Mrs. Van Every, and her sister, Mrs. Fulger, who lived with her, were
ladies of the noblest representative type of the Society of Friends, of
which my life already held such blessed memories. In general society, with
deferential etiquette, they adopted the usual form of speech, but in the
privacy of the home circle they used the "plain language" of their own
organization, hence it became to me doubly musical in its sacred
character.

Before starting again upon our travels, we made Sacramento our home, to
which we could turn for rest in our wanderings.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

    "And this our life--exempt from public haunt,
    Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
    Sermons in stones, and good in everything."


We next visited San Jose, one of the most romantically, beautiful towns in
California, which would require the subtle gift of genius, a touch of
poetic fire, and, above all, the fullness and richness of descriptive
power, to enable me to give any adequate conception of its charms. It was
almost a fairy realm, with its fields of waving grain, then golden with
the glow of the harvest season; trees laden with fruitage, and vineyards
drooping with their ripe, purple clusters.

One of the prominent attractions of the place was the residence of General
Negley, nestling in the centre of extended grounds, combining the richly,
blending beauties of nature and art. Groves and streams, rustic bridges
and flowing fountains, shrubby labyrinths and flowery dells, were grouped
in happiest harmony. Received by the General with the genial hospitality
which should characterize the presiding spirit of such an Eden, dispensing
itself in so many pleasant ways, we were led from house to garden, and
from vineyard to wine press, where all were temptingly lured to taste the
freshly pressed grape juice.

It was a novel sight to those accustomed only to white or negro labor, to
see the efficient corps of Chinese employees who had proven themselves
such valuable servants. It is with some degree of trepidation that I
follow a desire which impels me to describe a bunch of grapes I saw in
this vineyard. I must beg my readers to free me from any taint of the
spirit of the renowned Baron Munchausen, whose intensely magnifying vision
threw its impress upon all objects, but, without the faintest degree of
exaggeration, I can say, that while I am no Lilliputian in size, I stood,
holding with great difficulty, the weight of a single bunch of grapes in
my extended hand, while the other end of it rested upon the ground, nor
would I dare to tell this grape story unless many of my readers were
familiar with the mammoth fruits of California.

After this delightful visit we took the horse car to Santa Clara, and
certainly the world cannot boast of a public route so redolent with beauty
as this. Both sides of the road are shaded with trees of almost a
century's growth; for this "Alameda" was planted by the Jesuit Fathers in
1799. These left the vines and olives of their native Spain, and planted
upon the soil of their new home this grove, which was, doubtless, intended
as a sacred haunt, never dreaming that its sanctity would be invaded by
the sacrilegious sounds of modern civilization, and, above all, by the
rumble of the horse car.

All along this beauteous line of shade, musical with the melody of birds,
are elegant villas, evidently the abodes of wealth and fashion.

Back again to Sacramento, we met Mr. Charles Cummings, who gave us a
general pass over the various stage routes of that portion of the State,
and we at once went to Stockton by rail, where we took the stage for the
celebrated Calevaros trees. So stupendous appeared every tree upon the
route, that a score of times we fancied ourselves nearing the world famed
giants, but how did these monsters dwindle into comparative insignificance
when we found the real grove.

After this tedious, tiresome stage ride, it was indeed a luxury to find
ourselves safely ensconced in the large, elegant hotel in the midst of the
Calevaros, the season being quite advanced, and in consequence the hotel
less crowded. This being one of the few places in the State in which we
found cool water, we luxuriated in draught after draught of this crystal,
ice-cold beverage, and no fabled fountain of rejuvenating power could have
been more exhilarating.

Next morning, in eager anxiety, we took an early look at the great trees,
all of which are named for some person of distinction. We stood first
beside General Grant, and, as Hattie laid her hand upon the side of the
hero, she bade me start around him and see what a distance it would be to
find her again. When I was upon the opposite side I felt quite isolated
and lonely, and when I regained her companionship it seemed to have been
after a long separation. We next took a reverent look at the "Mother of
the Forest," which is eighty-seven feet in circumference and four hundred
feet in height, and we must confess that these proportions made her look
quite like an Amazon. The "Father of the Forest" was quite prostrate, his
huge bulk, as he lay upon the ground, seeming that of a fallen hero. Thus
in the vegetable as in the animal world, the female has the greater power
of endurance. Man, in spite of his conceded superiority of physical
strength and supposed mental supremacy, bows before the tornado of life,
while woman ofttimes stands erect and fearless amid the storms and winds
of years.

The heart of the Father had been bored out, and the hollow converted into
a drive, admitting a horse and rider for eighty-seven feet, and allowing
them room to turn and go back. I had the pleasure of taking this novel
ride, allowing my horse to be led.

Many of my readers have seen, and most of them have heard of the novel
dancing-hall in the heart of one of these denizens of the forest, which
admits four quadrilles upon its floors, and can imagine the romance of
"tripping the light fantastic toe" amid such surroundings. Another tree
had been sawed into tablets, upon which each visitor left a name or
record. The day previous to our visit, a little boy of eight years old had
visited the grove. When his bright eyes rested for a time upon the tablet,
his little fingers grasped a piece of chalk, and he readily wrote: "And
God said, let there be a Big Tree, and there was a Big Tree."

We looked admiringly upon the "Twin Trees" named for Ingomar and
Parthenia, and perhaps like these lovers of old, embodied "two hearts that
beat as one." During our three days visit we left no tree unexamined, each
one being fraught with individuality, and each in living language
addressing our hearts in its own characteristic sentiment.

These veterans varied in age from twelve hundred to twenty-five thousand
years, and for their accumulated cycles commanded veneration.

After fully satisfying our love of sight seeing, and taking time to fully
contemplate the beauty and sublimity of the wonders, we returned by way of
Sonora and Columbia to our temporary home in Sacramento, not only
satisfied but highly gratified by our tour.




CHAPTER XXIX.

    "Dared I but say a prophecy,
    As sang the holy men of old,
    Of rock-built cities yet to be
    Along these shining shores of gold,
    Crowding athirst into the sea;
    What wondrous marvels might be told!
    Enough to know that empire here
    Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star;
    Here art and eloquence shall reign
    As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
    Here learned and famous from afar,
    To pay their noble court, shall come,
    And shall not seek or see in vain,
    But look on all with wonder dumb."


Once more away from Sacramento we visited Marysville, which is a beautiful
brick town, laid out with great regularity and width of street, each house
nestling in flower-garden and shade, and is a place of extensive
manufactures and trade. We went from there to Colusa, where I reaped a
rich harvest of gain. Indeed I never found a people more lavish in the
expenditure of money, seeming to value it only for the good it dispensed.

Leaving Colusa, elated with the success we had met, we journeyed to
Marysville in a very happy state of mind that was doomed to undergo a
severe reverse on our arrival. When we started there were three hundred
dollars in "hard money" in my trunk, and when we arrived in Marysville my
heart sank within me and I could feel the blood leave the surface and my
face grow deadly cold when I learned that my trunk, which we had seen
stowed in the "boot" of the stage on starting, was not there on our
arrival. After a few moments, in which I considered what should be done, I
went to the stage agent, who telegraphed back to Colusa, and, after an
hour of deep and painful suspense, the answer came back that the trunk was
safe. By some singular omission the straps of the boot had not all been
buckled and my trunk had fallen out. It was picked up by some honest
farmer, who, believing that it belonged to a passenger in the stage, had
sent it to the office. The next morning it came to me, and I was amply
compensated for the delay in the kindness of the agent, who not only
expressed great regret for the mishap, but voluntarily defrayed all extra
expense incurred.

We next visited Chico, at that time the terminus of the Central Pacific
Railway, where I hoped to meet Elder Hobart, the friend I had so loved in
my childhood. After some search I found his daughter, from whom I was
pained to learn that he had closed his earthly pilgrimage but a short time
before. My pain was not for him who rested from such faithful labors, but
for those bereft. The daughter, although married, forgot not the friend of
early days; and I accepted with alacrity her invitation to visit her
house, where we had a season fraught with pleasant reminiscence.

We took the stage here for Red Bluff, the rain pouring in torrents and the
night dark as Erebus, it being the beginning of the regular rainy season
of this country. During the night we reached the Sacramento River, which
we could almost have imagined to be the Styx, with the sombre Charon for a
ferry-man, for we soon learned that we were obliged to cross upon a flat
boat. The wind was blowing in so fierce a gale that the boatmen could not
near the shore, and called upon the passengers for assistance. All the
gentlemen responded but one passenger, who, although a man, was not
gentle, settled himself upon the back seat and declared he would not pay
his passage and work it too. All attempts of the ladies to shame him into
activity were useless. He could not be induced to leave his snuggery, and
even as we talked he was lustily snoring. So do some selfish natures
smoothly slip through the emergencies of life, leaving to others the
responsibilities and exertion; and this man I was afterwards told was a
professional humorist, actually a humorous writer for the press, and I
must accept this as one of his jokes.

After three weary hours we drifted to the shore, and next day went to Red
Bluff, a wild, uncanny place, but abounding in wealth and replete with
generous hearts, of whose bounty I was a rich recipient.

Thence we went to Shasta, where Mr. Hudson, a cousin of Hattie, had rooms
in readiness for us at the American Hotel. The meeting of the cousins,
after a separation of nineteen years, was a joyous one, their animated
conversation keeping time with the quick, impetuous throbbing of their
hearts. The pleasure of our day there was also much enhanced by the
sprightly--even brilliant conversation of the hotel proprietress, Mrs.
Green, whose three-score years and ten were worn as gracefully as many a
maiden's sweet sixteen.

As a protracted rain seemed inevitable, and all business possibilities
were precluded, we assented to Mr. Hudson's proposition to visit his
bachelor quarters in the country, which we found to be one of the most
romantic, sylvan shades imaginable, with its little three roomed-cot
embowered in vines and running roses, then in full bloom, and after the
storm, radiant in color, freighted with perfume and sparkling with liquid
gems. Alone he had occupied this secluded spot for nineteen years, and in
his isolation--

    "Had made him friends of mountains;
    With the stars and the quick spirits of the Universe,
    He held his dialogues,
    And they did teach to him
    The magic of their mysteries."

He was as familiar as a hunter, with every trail in the vicinity, and he
took us through every romantic, winding path, one of which led us to an
elevation commanding a view of Mount Shasta, the highest peak of the Coast
Range.

Reluctantly we left this "pleasure dome," which, although less stately
than that "in Xanadu of Kubla Kahn," held all the fairy charms of a bright
Eutopia; and with the vain regrets which all must feel who leave some
fancy realm for the cold regions of reality, we took the stage route for
Weaversville, forty miles farther up the mountain heights, whose crests
were now white with snow, and the road in many places running within six
inches of the ragged chasms, thousands of feet in depth.

Our stage was drawn by four horses, and, at one time, the snow accumulated
around the foot of one of the leaders until it formed a huge ball, and
with this impediment he was partially precipitated over the edge of a
precipice. This noble animal exhibited more presence of mind than would
have characterized many human beings under similar circumstances, and,
with great judgment, gradually extricated the foot from its snowy burden,
and resumed his journey, but not before the face of every passenger was
blanched with terror.

After a few days at Weaversville, we returned to Sacramento, feeling that
we had enjoyed a pleasant and profitable trip.




CHAPTER XXX.

    "A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays,
    And confident to-morrows."


We made a trip to San Francisco at a time when life seemed a continued
carnival season, for there winter is the most delightful portion of the
year. We rented apartments in a delightful New England family, named
Collins. This, at that time, was the most comfortable way of living, for
in no part of the United States did restaurants furnish such good and
liberal fare at such reasonable rates. The characteristic cheerfulness of
California became intensified in San Francisco, where every face looked
radiant and happy as if all who entered the Golden Gate found a City of
the Sun.

We had so often asked the reason of this, and were as often told that "it
was all owing to the climate." We finally concluded that the climate
carried an unusual weight of responsibility; indeed, according to Joaquin
Miller, among "the first families of the Sierras," every unusual
phenomenon of nature, whether it came in the form of a fascinating widow,
a spooney man, a premature birth, or a fish with gold in its stomach, was
all owing to "this glorious climate of Californy."

Although San Francisco is pervaded by the business activity of a great
commercial metropolis, it is not possessed of the spirit of excessive
drudgery in the hot pursuit of the "almighty dollar" which prevails in
many other places. Every Saturday afternoon there is a lull in the labor
routine, business being entirely suspended, and the fashionable
promenades, Montgomery and Kearney Streets, are thronged with pleasure
seekers; husbands and wives, lovers and sweethearts, happy children, gay
colors and brilliant equipages.

Among the beautiful resorts is that of the Woodward Gardens, with
zoological and floral departments, parks, lakes, dancing halls and skating
rink. A friend kindly accompanied us to the Cliff House, a delightful
resort upon the beach, about six miles from the city, and too well known
to require description.

We remained in San Francisco about three months and a half, became every
day more fascinated with its charms, and would fain have rested longer
under the spell, but duty called us to many places on the coast, among
them the floral Oakland, a perfect bijou garden and grove, and, like
Alemeda, a beautiful, suburban home for the merchant princes of San
Francisco.

We visited San Rafael and Santa Cruz, the Newport of California. At the
former place there was an incident, which, although of a personal nature,
we mention as illustrative of the magnanimous character of the
Californian, prone to err, but ever ready to confess a wrong. We entered
the office of the County Clerk and offered him a book. Without removing
his feet from the counter, upon which they were elevated at an angle of
forty-five degrees, he threw down a dollar and bade us "go along."

We "stood not upon the order of our going," but went, taking care to leave
the dollar. A bystander said to me: "Take it! he is rich!" I quietly
assured him that I never accepted money without rendering an honest
equivalent, and as I left I heard the ejaculation: "She's plucky, isn't
she." On entering a livery stable on the opposite side of the street, a
gentleman took the proffered book and opened to a page containing the name
of Aunt Nancy Lee. With an exclamation of surprise he said: "I have an
aunt of that name." This led to further conversation and a better
acquaintance, the person really proving to be his aunt. While we were
talking, the four gentlemen from the office of the County Clerk came in,
and I being introduced in a new light they each bought a book, and the
clerk made an ample apology for his abruptness, which I readily accepted
as an "amende honorable."

We went to Santa Barbara by steamer and greatly enjoyed the sail. Finding
no pier upon our arrival, we had to descend an almost perpendicular ladder
to a small boat. In this apparently perilous process, the boatmen were
actively assisted by Captain Johnson, whose mellow toned voice softened
and cheered the transit. In the descent, a woman dropped her baby into
the water, and, although it was quickly rescued by the seamen, her
continued screams even after its safe delivery quite intimidated me, but
with the usual sure-footedness of the blind, I went down with so much ease
that I was greatly complimented by the astonished captain. Our skiff-ride
to shore was a pleasant episode, and the romance was much heightened by
the floating sea plants around us, which could be easily touched with our
hands. There were no good hotels in Santa Barbara, but we were comfortably
accommodated in a private family. The climate is finer there than in any
locality in the State, the thermometer most of the time standing at
seventy degrees, hence it is so greatly sought by consumptives.

It was to me a delightful pastime to spend an occasional hour with the
fishermen on the coast, who are so happy to impart any information
regarding their own calling, and from whom I learned many a valuable
lesson.

From Santa Barbara we went down the coast to a little railroad landing and
took the train bound inland; after leaving the beach the road passes
through dense, fragrant orange-groves and rich, fruitful vineyards. A ride
of twenty-five miles brought us to Los Angeles, a town with the same
beautiful surroundings. It was, at that time, a quaint, old, dilapidated
Spanish place, with an air of shabby gentility, but the subsequent tide of
immigration and trade has doubtless transformed it. We returned to the
coast and took the steamer to San Diego, which, with its arid, sandy
waste, has little to recommend it to the visitor, save its truly, palatial
hotel, which must have been built in anticipation of the many projected
railways diverging from this point.

While there, our hearts were rejoiced by a meeting with Dr. Baird and his
wife, a pleasure known only to those who, exiled from home, see a "dear
familiar face."




CHAPTER XXXI.

    "All that's bright must fade,
      The brightest, still the fleetest;
    All that's sweet was made,
      But to be lost, when sweetest."


We returned to Sacramento with minds refreshed and spirits brightened by
the delightful scenes through which we had passed during our coast trip.
My life seemed to have received new radiance, and all things wore the
bright "couleur de rose," when one day there seemed something in Hattie's
touching tone which, like the "shadow of coming" events, sent through my
heart a strange, premonitory thrill of sadness. She paused as if for
prayerful preparation, ere she said: "Mary, I have something _sad_,
something _terrible_ to tell you, and I wish to prepare you to bear it
with patience, even as I for five months have borne the burden with silent
submission." She then carefully, calmly, quietly revealed to me the fact
that there was feeding upon her dear life one of those horrible vampires
of human disease--a cancer, which was slowly but surely drawing her nearer
the close. Suddenly all brightness and beauty died out for me, while cloud
and gloom gathered around me, deep, dark and impenetrable; for so had
Hattie entwined herself about my heart, that to my darkened days there
seemed for me no light, no life without her. Surely--

    "Sorrows come not single spies,
    But in battalions,"

And while I felt myself overwhelmed by this one deep grief in quick
succession came another. One morning while at our breakfast, and without
the slightest preparation, tidings was brought to me that Chicago was
destroyed by fire.

My husband had just completed our new home, a comfortable resting place,
with lovely garden and pleasant surroundings, and thither I had hoped ere
long to go and rest from my labors. Daily, as the diagrams of the fire
reached us, we traced upon them the loved site of our home, as in the
burnt district.

All telegraphic and mail communication being cut off, we could receive no
direct news, and in the intensity and terror of suspense pictured our home
desolated, and friends perished in the horrible holocaust.

Feeling that a resumption of our life of labor was inevitable, we parted
with the dear Sacramento friends, who had so kindly clung to us for
fourteen months, with many a sigh and tear, and went to all the towns of
importance between that place and Reno, Nevada, at which point we took the
stage for Virginia City, and reached it after two weeks of inexpressible
agony, during which time food had scarce passed our lips or sleep visited
our eyes. On our arrival we were overjoyed to find awaiting us seven
letters from home. Oh the eternity that elapsed before the seals could be
tremulously broken! and the halcyon sweetness of relief of the happy
tidings of friends in safety and health. Although the fire-fiend had swept
his destructive wings over the property within a hundred yards of our
home, through a sudden shifting of the wind its course had been changed,
thus saving us from what would have seemed to me ruin. Gratefully we
resumed our business and remained for seven weeks in Virginia City and
vicinity, where we had most abundant success, for in spite of rock and
ledge, sand and tornado, the country abounds in full purses and warm
hearts.

At Carson City we found an United States Mint, where a gentleman
designated Saturday afternoon, when the machinery was stopped, as a proper
time to give us the benefit of a full examination, allowing me to touch
everything, and giving a satisfactory explanation of the "modus operandi"
of money making.

We went to Battle Mountain, where we took the stage for Austin, ninety
miles distant. We had nine passengers and twelve hundred weight of bullion
in the bottom of the stage, together with innumerable satchels, umbrellas
and brown-paper parcels. In this cramped position we traveled from one
o'clock in the afternoon until nine o'clock the next morning, an
infliction that was only rendered endurable by having a relay of horses
every fifteen miles, and being permitted to rest upon terra firma during
the changes.

At Austin we unexpectedly met in the family of the hotel proprietor
friends of Hattie, from Illinois. The kind host proved to me a "Good
Samaritan," for finding myself unable to walk he carried me in his arms to
the hotel, and safely entrusted me to the ministering care of his kind
family.

Desiring to cross over the country to Eureka, and the stage not venturing
to the eminence upon which stood our hotel, we were obliged to go to the
express office to take passage, where we were shocked at the sight of
three maudlin men in an advanced stage of inebriety, throwing showers of
silver money upon the ground, and ostentatiously allowing the crowd to
gather it up; while we were still more shocked to find that they were to
be inside passengers, and our only companions.

With these three men and their "fade mecum," "the whiskey bottle," we
started on our journey that bleak, winter morning. Two of them soon became
so beastly drunk that their bottle fell out of the stage door and was
lost beyond recovery. Their companion remained for a time sufficiently
sober to prevent them from falling upon us in their constant oscillations,
but, by the time they had reached the convalescent stage, he became so
nauseated that it was necessary to hold his head out of the window for
relief, and, finally yielding to the soporific influence of his drams, he
laid himself at full length upon our feet.

Meantime a most gentlemanly person, of whose presence we were at first
ignorant, would occasionally descend from the stage top, look at us
compassionately, ask if anything was wanted, and take leave. At one of his
calls I asked him if we were not near our dining place, when, much to our
discomfort, he informed us of the impossibility of finding anything to eat
on the road. We had provided no lunch, and, having partaken of a meagre
and untimely breakfast, were fast becoming exhausted. He politely offered
to share with us his store of provisions, and at the next stopping place
escorted us to the rude log cabin with the air of a Knight Errant, took
off our rubbers, placed them before the fire, and after other
indescribable and delicate attentions opened his basket and spread before
us a lunch of truly, royal viands, which, in spite of our rude
surroundings, was eaten with unrivalled relish.

Arriving at Eureka, we stopped at the Parker House, in which Mr. Hinckley,
the proprietor, made every exertion to secure our comfort. It had rained
for a week, and the streets were in such a horrible condition that we were
filled with forebodings of failure. Quite unexpectedly we again
encountered our cavalier, who insisted upon lifting us over the deep mud
of the crossings, placing us entirely at ease by the assurance that it was
the custom of the country, after which he offered his assistance in the
sale of books, and, going into a faro bank, he sold twelve copies at a
dollar and a half apiece.

We described this gallant gentleman to Mr. Hinckley, who informed us that
he was Pete Fryer, the most noted gambler of the Pacific coast, whose
unrivalled success and universal popularity were in a great degree owing
to his sobriety, his elegant presence and polished manner.

Our next move was to Gold Point, where we spent a day. We met there a
Virginia physician with whom we had a long and interesting conversation.
We were boarders at the same hotel, and at the tea table he came over to
Hattie, and placing in her hand a ten dollar gold piece, said it was for
the blind lady, and he wished her to buy with it a keepsake. We went to
Palisades in a mud-wagon, the only means of transportation at our
disposal, and we found it highly appropriate, the mud being over the hubs
of the wheels.

In this primitive style we reached our destination upon Christmas Eve,
weary and homesick; yet our Christmas dinner in this insignificant town
was choice and _recherche_, the quality and variety of the wines being
worthy of the cellar of a connoisseur. Our business success here was
greater than in many larger towns.

We visited the places en route to Ogden, and on our arrival there found
snow almost two feet deep, and hundreds anxiously waiting for the arrival
of the Union Pacific train, which had not been in for two weeks. The
hotels were so intensely crowded that we were forced to wade through snow
over our knees for half a day to find a comfortable place to stay, and
were very thankful for a third rate boarding house.

The next day, when almost in despair, we heard in the distance the welcome
sound of a locomotive whistle. The gentlemen rushed to the depot and soon
bore us the pleasant tidings that the train would leave in two hours and a
half. We hurriedly gathered together our baggage and sufficient supplies
for a week, arriving at the train just in time to secure a section in the
sleeping-car. Hoping for no more delay, we started, but ere long found
ourselves landed in a snow bank, with five trains ahead of us, in the same
predicament. A three-days stand-still of this kind, with its trying
tedium, can be imagined only by those who have been similarly situated,
and its tedium is equaled by nothing but an Ohio River sand bar
imprisonment on a stern wheel steamer.

My sensibilities had quite a reawakening jog from an incidental abrasure,
received by coming in contact with one of the acute angles in the person
of Miss Susan B. Anthony, who honored us with her distinguished presence.
She was in company with the family of the Honorable Mr. Sargent, United
States Senator from California. This gentleman evinced great native
delicacy in his quiet, unobtrusive attentions. Miss Susan had been very
impatient at the long delay, and constantly berated the male sex and their
inadequacy to great emergencies, and was offered by the complimented
parties the privilege of engineering the train, an honor she respectfully
declined. One day I was saluted by a voice, not sweetly feminine in tone,
while an impetuous hand pitched, at me one of my own books. The voice
asked:

"Were you ever in Michigan? Are you married? I knew a blind woman there
who had five children, and they were all deaf and dumb! _I think_ Congress
ought to pass a law to prevent these people from marrying and bringing
such _creatures_ into the world!"

These burning words came with the fierce force of the tornado and the
horrible heat of the simoon. So abruptly had she taken her leave, that
she was beyond hearing before I could sufficiently recover to reply. Words
I would have spoken burned upon my lips, and emotions welled up from the
depths of an affection as deep, true and unfathomable as ever struggled in
such a heart as that of Susan B. Anthony.

Long did I dwell upon the cruel words, wondering if they could have
emanated from a woman who advocated the inviolable rights and bewailed the
deep wrongs of her own sex, or if Congress had the power to exclude the
blind from loving and following the holiest impulses of their natures,
like other human beings!

After our extrication we sped on to Sherman, the highest of the mountain
towns, and the Railroad Company treated us to a dinner, which, although
poor, was much relished, after our protracted dieting. After leaving
Laramie we had another delay of two days' length, after which we went via
Cheyenne to Omaha, rejoicing, and after eleven days of weary travel felt
ourselves really homeward bound.




CHAPTER XXXII.

    "'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark,
    Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw
          Near home;
    'Tis sweet to know there is an eye
    Will mark our coming, and look brighter
          When we come."


We reached home in mid-winter, and found a scene of indescribable
desolation, the fire having devastated so many familiar spots in the
city's approach; depots in ashes and entire streets a wide waste. Finding
no one to meet us, with the longed-for, loving welcome, we were tortured
with fear, and went at once to Mr. Arms' place of business, where we
learned that he was at home and sick. Thither we hurriedly wended our way,
and, although we found the invalid unable to leave his bed, we thought it
sweet to find ourselves in this our _first_ home, which, having been
reared in my absence, seemed like a magic castle bridging over the sad
separation.

My husband soon convalesced and we began to lay plans for furnishing our
new abode. I still suffered from a cold upon my lungs contracted from the
long exposure on the plains, and it fell to the lot of Hattie to assist
Mr. Arms in the selection of our household goods. She had become eyes and
hands for me, and I never so fully realized how the touch of sympathy
could blend _two_ tastes in _one_, for every article met my entire
approval. I will not dwell upon the joys of our new home; but well has the
poet said--

    "Each man's chimney is his golden mile stone,
    Is the central point from which
    He measures every distance
    Through the gateway of the world
    Around him.

    "We may build more splendid habitations,
    Fill our rooms with paintings
    And with sculpture;
    But we cannot buy with gold
    The old association."

In every Paradise since the first Eden the inevitable trail of the serpent
has been over all, and too often it comes in its halcyon hours.
Insidiously and surely came the stealthy trail of our serpent in the
declining health of my husband, and the impending danger to the dear life
of Hattie.

I took her to every physician who made her disease a specialty, going far
and near to consult them, each one of whom would shake their heads in
despair, yet all seeming willing to undertake her case. But to me she was
too precious to be submitted to experimental treatment. Finally the fame
of Dr. Kingsley reached us. He was known as the Great American Cancer
Doctor, and we went at once to his cure, in Rome, New York.

The same ominous shade came with his examination, and he too failed to
promise a cure. Passing through the wards of his hospitals, with their
agonizing and appalling scenes, the shrieks of pain ringing like
death-knells in our ears, decided us, neither of us being willing she
should submit to a fate so fraught with fearful contingencies.

We were stopping with a family named Crawford, who were friends of Hattie,
and whose unremitting kindness will be a life-long memory.

We returned to them in deep despair, when we heard of Mr. Golly, a
neighboring farmer, who was performing almost miraculous cures, and we at
once took the stage and went to him.

A few moments conversation inspired us with confidence in the man, whose
frank face was an index to his character, and whose sympathetic soul
breathed through every intonation of his gentle voice.

He advised her to remain for treatment, assuring her, that if she was
unable to pay, it would cost her nothing.

We were willing to remunerate if certain of cure, and, knowing the dread
uncertainty of the case, this noble man revealed in his offer his true
magnanimity. I remained with her two months, when home demands became
imperative, and I longingly left one who, through nine years of _close_
and _dear_ relationship had become a life link hard to sever.

With undying gratitude to good Mr. Golly, I left her confided to his
fatherly care, knowing he could not prove recreant to the trust.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

    "There was a time when meadow,
    Grove and stream,
    The earth and every common sight
    To me did seem
    Appareled in celestial light,
    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
    It is not now as it has been of yore,
    Turn where soe'r I may,
    By night or day,
    The things that I have seen
    I now can see no more."


Upon our return to Chicago I found my husband so ill that he yielded to
the advice of his physician to go to the Mineral Springs of St. Louis, and
there being a heavy drain upon our finances, I felt it necessary to resume
my travels. Disagreeable as was the task, it was tolerable only for its
benefit to loved ones.

Ida, the young daughter of my favorite brother, had just graduated, her
laurels still green and her heart full of girlish enthusiasm. With the
sanction of her parents she kindly consented to accompany me. Kindred ties
are deep and strong, and her society was like a ray of sunshine in my
clouded pathway.

Mr. Keep, the Manager of the North-western Railway, presented us with a
general pass, and we started for the Lake Superior country, first visiting
many of the beautiful towns of Wisconsin, among which was Peshtigo, then
but partially rebuilt from its recent ravages from fire. In canvassing we
called at the house of Mrs. Armstrong, who kept a book, and asked us to
call in the afternoon for the money.

During the day her little daughter had become so interested in the "story
of the blind girl," that she insisted upon going out to buy her a dress,
which she presented in person. Little Nellie's gift of simple calico was
as precious to me as if of silken texture and Tyrion dye, and "waxed rich"
with the royalty of sympathy and love.

We visited Escanaba, a beautiful summer resort upon Lake Michigan,
spending a delightful week in the elegant hotel, which rests in the shaded
seclusion of park and garden, and gaining renewed health and vigor.

We had a short, sweet stay at Marquette, saw the "Isle of Yellow Sands"
with its luring light, the "Pictured Rocks" bearing the tracery of the
Divine Artist, and all the well-known beauties of Lake Superior.

On our way to Ishpenming we were presented with tickets to the concert of
"Blind Tom," the musical prodigy and whilom slave boy, through whose
God-given talent the former master had amassed quite a fortune.

We heard his improvised and memorized melodies, and were struck with awe
and wonder.

After the concert we went to the Commercial Hotel, where I was suddenly
and violently attacked with a congestive chill, in which emergency Mrs.
Newett, the landlady, proved a ministering angel, her thorough knowledge
of the disease and prompt devoted attendance no doubt saving my life.

We next visited L'Anse, the terminus of the Marquette Railroad, and found
a delightful hotel, bearing the euphonious name of Lake Linden House,
suggestive of the beautiful grounds gracefully sloping to the edge of the
lake, whose "wide waste of waters" seemed a "sapphire sea" set with
emerald gems, from one of which verdant spots gleaming in the picturesque
distance rose the symmetrical spire of a cathedral, whose cross stood out
like a beautiful "bas relief" from the violet background; and the solemn
voice of the convent bell told the hour when orisons arose like holy
incense to the skies. A fitting resort for the student, and the recluse
was this secluded spot, where nature opened her fairest page, and beauty
planted her altars on earth, in air and sky, and where "devotion wafts the
mind above."

We crossed in the steamer to Houghton, beautifully located upon a winding
stream, and we were pleasantly entertained at the Butterfield House.

We remained some time, lingering among the towns in its vicinity, and
returned home improved in health and finances.

Before settling down for the winter I resolved to visit a few towns in the
vicinity of Chicago, and among them Sycamore, where there was an
unexpected episode in my hitherto eventful career, a touching incident
and "words fitly spoken," which the good book says are as "apples of gold
in pictures of silver."

My husband having once been engaged in business at Sycamore, I was in
constant expectation of meeting some of his old associates; hence, was not
so much surprised when, upon entering a store, a gentleman stepped down
from his desk, and warmly grasping both of my hands, exclaimed: "I know
you." I quickly and inquiringly responded, you are perhaps a friend of my
husband? Oh no, he replied, I do not know your husband, but I have great
reason to remember you, for you were the cause of my salvation!

Moved and wondering, I tried in vain to recall the time when I could have
been an humble agent in the hands of the Heavenly Father, even to the
salvation of a human soul.

Shakspeare has said that--

    "Ofttimes to win us to our harm
    The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
    Win us with honest trifles, to betray us
    In deepest consequence."

And why should not the same "honest trifles" win us to good.

He then explained to me that eight years previous he was in Burlington,
Wisconsin, having wandered far from the fold in which a patient, loving,
Christian mother had faithfully tended her flock, teaching them the wisdom
of divine truth and loving lessons of duty to God and man.

He had entered a saloon and sat down to a card-table with a congenial
companion, when suddenly lifting his eyes a lady stood beside him offering
him a little book, and something in the expression of that face riveted
his attention and penetrated the depths of his soul, inspiring resolves
_new_ and _strange_. While years had passed since that time, he had never
forgotten the lineaments which had changed the whole tenor of his life.
Both his companion and himself bought books, threw down their cards, and
from his own assurance he has never since been tempted to indulge in a
game.

The next winter he made his peace with God and became a consistent and
steadfast member of the Congregational Church.

The following spring he was married to one who was in every way fitted to
minister to his higher impulses and lead him to a holier life, and while
he has ever since been actively engaged in every good "word and work," he
is especially engrossed with Sabbath School duties, in which field he has
planted many a seed, from which has been reaped richest harvests and
fairest fruitage.

Their cozy, little home, is a fair and faithful mirror, reflecting the
unostentatious, goodness, purity and love which characterizes every act of
their private lives, whose peaceful, even tenor is indicated in the
tasteful apartments, pervaded with purity and touched with the delicate
tracery of taste. Fair flowers grace almost every nook of this truly
Eden-home, and its bright blooming garden is a fitting type of their
lives, blossoming with goodness and fragrant with the incense of holiness.

It is not strange that these dear people seemed to me like loved
relations; our meeting like a reunion with some pure spirits with whom my
heart had held communion in other days, their voices coming to me like
some sweet strain of unforgotten music.

I left them, feeling grateful that my little book had been the humble
instrument of so much good, and was happy in the thought that it had been
so thoroughly read and discussed in the little Sabbath School, that I had
many warm friends in Sycamore.

Before I left he pleadingly besought me never to pass by a saloon in my
canvassing tours, for I little knew the good my presence might bring
about. I have faithfully followed his advice, ever buoyed by the hope of
some equally happy result, and never having met with an indignity or
repulse, this class of people ranking among my most generous patrons.

As from every event in life we gather some golden lesson of wisdom, from
this I learned to--

    "Think nought a trifle
    Though it small appear
    Small sands make up the mountain,
    Moments make the year,
    And trifles life!"




CHAPTER XXXIV.

    "While, O, my heart! as white sails shiver,
      And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide;
    How hard to follow with lips that quiver,
      That moving speck on the far-off side!
    Farther, farther--I see it--I know it--
      My eyes brim over, it melts away,
    Only my heart, to my heart shall show it,
      As I walk desolate day by day."


At home for the winter, I was joined by my husband, who had entered into
business, and constant tidings of Hattie's convalescence cheered me. Ida
being obliged to visit home, I was left in entire charge of my house,
daily bewailing the fatal effects of inexperience, when, as ever, a friend
was furnished me in the hour of need. Mrs. Leavitt, my neighbor "over the
way," was a lady of great personal attraction, whose beautiful head was
crowned with the glory of prematurely white hair. She ministered to me in
so many ways. In reading or conversation her melodious voice lent a charm
to the most ordinary theme. Nor did she deem it degrading to enter the
domestic realm, and there as everywhere she reigned a queen.

The flutter of a handkerchief at the window blind was my "signal of
distress," and when my "Ship of State" seemed sinking amid the breakers of
domestic storms, her strong arm ever saved. When, the dread emergency of
dinner demanded more skill than my amateur art supplied, she came to the
rescue, and as she presided in the kitchen, teaching to compound some
savoury sauce or delicate dish, the process was interlarded with some sage
sentiment from Bacon and other profound philosophers; while, like Joe's
practical sermon over the "plum pudding" came her comments "My dear!
_knowledge_ is _power_," thus deeply impressing me with the potency of her
presence even in the culinary department.

Hence from this dear friend I received not only the "fullness of
knowledge," but the richness of affection also. She finally drifted away
from me to the sunny, flowery land of Florida, whence sweet memories are
wafted to me through her love-laden letters, under whose sentiment there
flows the same deep under-current of thought.

In the dreary month of January, Hattie came with the snow drifts, bringing
with her presence a bright sun-ray, for she was buoyant with the hope of
health, and I rejoicing that her life could be lengthened, perhaps saved,
hence the winter passed in mapping out plans for the future. But, with the
early spring, the dread disease reappeared with such intensity that I felt
her doom to be irrevocably sealed, while "hope fled and mercy sighed."
Prompted by a hope of enhancing her interest, I accompanied her to
Morrison, Illinois, where she was awaited by two loving sisters, who,
together with their noble husbands, so tenderly cared for her that it in
some degree appeased the sad reluctance of giving her into other hands.

Mr. Arms' health had now become so seriously impaired that he had
determined to seek the benefit of the Hot Springs of Arkansas, and, after
he left, I secured the services of Miss Josie Tyson as traveling
companion, and started for the lead mining regions of Wisconsin, making
Mineral Point my headquarters. This town is the shipping-place for the
ore, and I was surprised to find it with several thousand
inhabitants--abounding in wealth and greatly advanced in culture, while it
became afterward endeared to me by the extreme kindness of its people. My
little jaunts from this place by private conveyance made a pleasant
variety in the monotony of travel, after which we visited Mendota and
South Western Iowa, where we spent a delightful summer.

We returned to Morrison the day before Thanksgiving, and I lingered two
weeks with Hattie. Surely "blessings brighten as they take their flight,"
and with us the sadly, blissful moments flew all too fast, both silently
impressed that it might be our last communion. In my absence her delicate
and refined taste had designed a gold ring which she had made as a parting
gift. As she placed it upon my finger she leaned her head upon my shoulder
and wept bitterly, telling me in tenderest tones her sorrow at leaving one
who so much needed her, pleading with me to have patience to bear the
separation. These tears from fountains deep and pure must have been as
potent at the throne of grace as the one so graphically described by
Sterne; even that of the Recording Angel, who, in the bright Empyrean,
dropped a tear upon the word left by the Accusing Spirit "and blotted it
out forever."

Physicians agreeing that she might live at least a year, I yielded to her
persuasion to go South for the benefit of my own health, and--

    "In silence we parted, for neither could speak;
    But the trembling lip and the fast fading cheek
    To both were betraying what neither could tell;
    How deep was the pang of that silent farewell."

After a short season devoted to the arrangement of home matters, I started
South via the Chicago and Alton Railroad. At Dwight, Illinois, we stopped
at the McPherson House, where we had a delightful suite of rooms. The
proprietor had attained to the years allotted to man, yet was so
wonderfully preserved that he seemed a stalwart man of fifty. He spent an
evening in our parlor, feasting us with the richness of his reminiscence.
He had served in both the regular army and navy, his travels leading him
to lands afar, and his naval service landing him at almost every port in
the world, yet he had never carried a more dangerous weapon than a
penknife, always having been unharmed and unmolested. His creed consisted
of six words, viz.: "Deal mercifully, walk humbly before God." These
"articles of faith," simple as the "new commandment" which Christ gave to
his disciples, I give unto you, and beautiful as the "Golden Rule" of
Confucius, were certainly in my own case carried out both "in the letter
and the spirit;" for he at first peremptorily refused any remuneration for
our elegant accommodations, but, finding me inexorable, very reluctantly
consented to accept half pay.

The weather grew so cold, and the times so dull, we did not halt again
until we reached St. Louis, where we both had relatives and friends who
helped us to while away the holiday hours. While there we visited the
Institution for the Blind, our pleasure being much enhanced by the rare
music we heard and the polite attention of Professor Workman, the
Superintendent.

The Superintendent of the Iron Mountain Railway presented us with a pass,
jocularly remarking that it was equal to an eighty dollar New Year's gift.

Mr. C.C. Anderson, of Adams' express, upon the strength of our old
Baltimore acquaintance, gave me letters of introduction, which afterward
proved of infinite value.




CHAPTER XXXV.

    "With the fingers of the blind
    We are groping here to find
    What the hieroglyphics mean
    Of the _unseen_ in the _seen_.
    What the thought which underlies
    Nature's masking and disguise,
    What it is that hides beneath
    Blight and bloom, and birth and death."


We left St. Louis with its noble depot and stupendous bridge, and reaching
Iron Mountain we seemed to have emerged from dense darkness into dazzling
light. Going to the clean, elegant hotel, our faces, covered with St.
Louis soot, were in such grim contrast with our sunny surroundings, that
we had to go through an elaborate course of ablution before we could feel
ourselves presentable. Iron Mountain is a _monster_ mass of iron, one of
the largest and purest of the kind in the world. In 1836 it was bought
for the insignificant sum of six hundred dollars, and now its worth is
incalculable.

Being unwilling to brave mud and small towns, we made no stops until we
reached Little Rock, Arkansas, where, at the untimely hour of three
o'clock in the morning, we went to the Central House, the only hotel which
had survived their recent fires, and which we found so crowded that even
the doors were closed against us.

Our party of five went out in quest of shelter, the night pervaded by "the
blackness of darkness," and the rain pouring in torrents. One of the
gentlemen was a member of the Legislature, and quite an invalid. Growing
faint from exhaustion, he fell into a mud hole, and was fairly immersed in
its slimy depths. After a long search we finally found a poor refuge and
an execrable bed, but in the morning were favored in securing comfortable
private accommodations.

While at Little Rock we visited all the State institutions, and among them
that for the blind. After ten days of business success, we went to all the
towns on the Arkansas River, and were charmed with its scenery, for while
the classical meander, it winds in graceful beauty through forests which,
although too low and ragged to please the eye, clothe a country otherwise
picturesque in character. A strange peculiarity of the Arkansas River is
that of the emerald green color which deeply tinges its crystal clearness,
a fact which I found no one able to explain satisfactorily.

Fort Smith is nominally at the head of river navigation, but is really
accessible by steamer only during a very small portion of the year, when
the water is at an unusually high stage. It is beautifully located, and
has a main street known as "The Avenue," which is between two and three
hundred feet in width. This avenue is a great business centre, and at
almost all times a scene of animated interest, while at its head stand
prominently a cathedral and a convent.

The swift passing panorama of the avenue is ofttimes varied by a
picturesque group of Chocktaws or Cherokees, with grotesque costume, this
place being their principal rendezvous. Just at the edge of the town is a
National Cemetery of great natural beauty, with but little of the stiff
regularity which usually characterizes such places.

We found a great lack of educational advantages throughout the entire
State of Arkansas, there being no public schools, and the private ones few
in number and poor in character; but it has never been my good fortune to
meet kinder hearts than were encountered among the masses.

At Arkadelphia we had a regular Arkansas deluge, and the first class hotel
of this flourishing town of two thousand souls would indeed have been a
poor ark for Father Noah and his family. Its walls were lathed but not
plastered, and from our apartment we had an extended view of the entire
floor.

Our furniture consisted of two wooden chairs, a box turned upside down for
a toilet-stand, a rickety bedstead, with unmusical creak, a tumble-down
lounge, and dismal, but genuine tallow dip. In these quarters we spent
four days, during which time the rain poured with unremitting constancy.

In the parlor of the same edifice was an elegant piano, and magnificently
dressed ladies, and our constant amazement was, how, in this strange
country, extremes could so amicably meet.

I found in Arkadelphia two blind gentlemen, who were prosperous merchants;
and to me, this spoke volumes for a community who would so generously
sustain the afflicted rather than allow them the condescension of beggary.

We next visited Hope, a town of three thousand inhabitants, yet having
numbered but three years of existence; and while these people are
considered so slow in progression, this fact indicated a considerable
degree of Yankee go-a-head activity. This town is one of the important
cotton markets of the State, which branch of trade imparts an additional
business activity.

We turned toward Hot Springs, the Baden of America, and when within twenty
miles of this wonderful place we encountered a throng of that class of
human pests known as "hotel runners," thick as bees, and more stingingly
annoying, for they especially abounded in low jests and ribald stories
which grate so harshly upon sensitive ears. It would certainly be an act
of philanthropy, both to the hotels and their patrons, to take some
measure for the suppression of this nuisance.

The approach to Hot Springs, and the first glimpse of the stream, smoking
as if its bed rested upon some subterranean fire, are in themselves
awe-inspiring. The valley is narrowed to the limits of three hundred feet,
and the road winds gracefully around the base of the mountain, upon whose
top the cold spring furnishes a better beverage than iced champagne; while
close by its side bubbles the boiling spring, in which eggs can be cooked
to perfection; and with a little seasoning of salt and pepper, the most
luscious soup can be improvized, while the boiling water _au naturale_ can
be drunk in copious, life-giving draughts.

The hotels are ranged upon either side of the road, and have all the
necessary bathing appointments. Among the many novelties to a stranger was
the process of dressing chicken, which was their staple article of food.
The hot stream was the only necessary cauldron for the scalding process,
while the feathers were thrown into the swift current, and rapidly carried
away by the natural sewerage, a decidedly labor-saving process, and
somewhat characteristic of the locality and its native cooks.

The various forms of treatment consist of hot, cold, vapor and mud baths,
and have been so often described that a repetition would be monotonous;
their efficacy being almost unfailing, except in cases of pulmonary
disease, in which they would soon prove fatal. One who has ever enjoyed
these baths will always long for the luxury years after leaving them
behind.

We reluctantly left this valley, teeming with rich quarries of valuable
stone and various ores, luscious fruits, and the trifling drawbacks of
rattlesnakes, centipedes and tarantulas, and went to Texaskana, which is
located at the junction of the three States of Texas, Arkansas and
Louisiana, hence its name.

It is a great railroad centre, and it is very curious to visit the depot
amid the rushing thousands who daily pass through this place on their way
to Texas. It is a wildly romantic place, built upon a clearing of forty
acres without any decided plan, streets running at random very much like
the old cowpaths of Manhattan, and houses grouped in picturesque
confusion. Finding the main hotel crowded, the proprietor manifested an
unheard-of disinterestedness in a two hours search to find us suitable
accommodations elsewhere, an act of magnanimity worthy of especial note
and remembrance.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

    "Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour,
      I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
    I never loved a tree, or flower,
      But it was first to fade away.
    I never nursed a dear gazelle,
      To glad me with its soft black eye,
    But when it came to know me well
      And love me, it was sure to die."


We reached Jefferson, Texas, when the excitement was rife over the murder
of Bessie Moore, the terrible details of which sent a thrill of horror
over the entire United States. It rained during the several days of our
stay there; but thanks to the earnest endeavors of Mrs. Frazer, of the
Frazer House, I did very well in my business. Many of the fairest portions
of the town had been laid waste by the destructive ravages of incendiary
fires, and had never been rebuilt.

Marshall is one of the most enterprising towns in the State, being a great
railroad centre, and settled almost exclusively by Northern people.

We had a most delightful visit to Shreveport, Louisiana: It lies at the
head of Red River navigation, and is the port of entry for New Orleans
steamers, being a place of great wealth and equal generosity. The editors
worked with great zest to aid me, and among the many people I met very few
failed to buy books. The genial skies and bright sunshine made it hard to
realize that it was the winter season; and I shall ever revert to its
warm-hearted people not only with pleasure but with gratitude.

At Longview--in the dilapidated prison-like room of my hotel, I received
tidings of the death and burial of Hattie. My surroundings were in such
sad accord with my feelings, that I wondered if the sun would ever shine,
or the flowers bloom again, so much light went out with her dear life.

At Longview we took a branch of the International Railroad to
Palestine--Mr. Smith, the Vice-President of the road, not only largely
patronizing me, but presenting me with a six months' pass and the
assurance that if I ever again visited the State a letter addressed to him
would ensure a repetition of the favor.

Thence we went to Galveston, where Mr. Arms had been for three months
trying the efficacy of sea-bathing. This city is beautifully located upon
a fertile island in Galveston Bay. The streets are lined upon either side
with oleander trees, which, arching over at the top, form a very bower of
bloom, while every breath of the clear bright air is balmy with the odor
of orange blossoms.

The Mesquite trees, with attenuated leaves and gracefully drooping pods,
adorn all the parks of the city, the beans forming a delicious dish either
cooked or raw.

No wonder Texas is called "The Happy Hunting Ground," for the five
delightful weeks we spent in Galveston seemed like a dream of Paradise.
Its many pleasures were varied by sailing and bathing, every morning
finding us upon the pure, white beach, where the waves whispered the
sweetest melodies.

We went back to Houston in the month of bloom, and no "vale of Cashmere"
could have been more beautiful in its "feast of roses."

The street car ran to the depot, and we found in it but one passenger, a
gentleman who carried a rose in his hand. Noticing at once that I was
blind, he arose and said to me, "Although you cannot see the beautiful
flowers you can inhale their sweetness," at the same time asking me to
accept the rose. His delicate kindness and urbane manner struck a deep
chord in my heart, and I never think of Houston without recalling the
gentle touch and tone.

I must not omit to mention an act of generosity upon the part of the
railroad office at Galveston. Leaving there I had paid fare to Houston,
and the agent refunded five dollars, adding that I should never be allowed
to pay railroad fare.

After remaining two weeks at Houston I took the Sunset Route to San
Antonia, and stopped at the Central House on the main plaza. This is the
oldest town in Texas, and is called "The Stone City," its antique
buildings and narrow winding streets giving it a quaint, time-worn air.

San Antonia River rises from a low spring, four miles distant from the
city, and gracefully winds through its streets, and is here and there
spanned by beautiful rustic bridges.

The "City Gardens" are one block distant from the main plaza, and are
located upon an island of great natural beauty, romantically approached by
a floating bridge. The air is cool and refreshing from the river breeze,
fair flowers, bloom and sweet voiced birds rival the musical instruments
which lead the merry feet of the dancers.

A mile from the city are the San Pedro Springs, a lovely park often acres
in area, where springs flow out into crystal purling streams, forming
islands, lakes, and ponds white and fragrant with their lily bloom, while
shining green lizards and other reptiles peep curiously out from the rocks
and glide away into the stream.

Just across the main plaza stands the old Spanish cathedral, with its
musical chime of bells sending out on the perfumed air melodies sweet as
vesper songs.

We went to the old Alamo, felt the antique cannon used by the Mexicans,
were shown the room in which Bowie died and the spot where fell the brave
Colonel Crockett, who, with his handful of men, so gallantly held the
citadel, at which time he was taken alive, together with five other
prisoners, and ordered by Santa Anna to be killed.

Just before the fatal sword-thrust, which ended a life so fraught with
daring and danger, he sprang like a tiger at the throat of Santa Anna, his
face wearing even in death this expression of fiendish, scowling hatred.

San Antonia being the great market for the frontier, is a place of great
business activity. While there I was struck with amazement to see a dirty,
ragged man mounted upon a jaded, dilapidated horse, a very Sancho Panza
and Rezinante, smilingly asking alms of the passer-by.

I had often heard of, but never before saw a veritable "beggar on
horseback."




CHAPTER XXXVII.

    "Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness,
    And o'er all
    Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether
    Raining down
    Tranquility upon the deep hushed town
    The freshening meadow and the hillside brown."


We went from San Antonio to Austin, the capital of Texas, where I had a
delightful interview with Governor Hubbard, who, although much engrossed
with the cares of State, seemed for the time to lay them all aside, and
gave me his undivided attention. Certainly if "all the world's a stage,
and men and women merely players," this versatile gentleman appeared as
well in the role of courtier as in that of the statesman.

The Government Buildings are of finished architectural art, and stand amid
cultivated grounds, upon a commanding eminence. At the State House door is
a monument to the memory of Colonel David Crockett and the brave
companions who foil with him at St. Alamo.

The public Institutions of Austin are a credit to "The Lone Star" State,
especially that for the Blind, at which I spent a day, and was charmingly
entertained by Dr. Raney and his accomplished wife. The matron also
dispensed hospitalities with so much true dignity and grace, and I never
visited an institution in which the inmates were so pre-eminently refined,
its sixty-five pupils numbering so many accomplishments.

In response to a solicitation from Dr. Raney I addressed the school. This
was done through a social chat, in which the little group circled close
around me, and while I never so longed for "the poetry of speech" to
render the deep emotion of my heart, I really believe no elocutionist,
with all "the charm of delivery," could have had a more attentive
audience.

Waco is known as the Athens of Texas, and among its many Institutions of
Learning is the Baptist University, open to both sexes. It is under the
charge of Doctor Burlison, who extended to me an invitation to meet the
school at their chapel exercises.

The "sweet hour of prayer" being over, he disposed of many of my books and
baskets among the pupils. This gentleman was deeply engrossed with the
educational interests of the State, and had traveled over its length and
breadth to enhance its prosperity, being more especially engaged in the
public school system. The next day twenty-five of the young lady pupils,
chaperoned by their teachers, called upon me at the McLennan House. They
were all characterized by discreet and lady-like deportment, and as there
was a fine toned piano in the parlor, there was no lack of artistic music.
We had also an equally kind reception from the Reverend Mr. Wright and
lady of the Methodist College.

Waco is on the Brazos River, which is spanned by a graceful suspension
bridge, the pride of the town. During my visit they held their celebrated
fete known as "The Maifest," which lasted two days, and the gay and
fantastic procession in which all professions and trades were represented
made it almost as gorgeous as a carnival.

From Waco we went to Dallas, which is located upon Trinity River, and is
the Metropolis of Northern Texas. There was little to note in my stay
there, except the amusingly antagonistic reasons assigned by two men for
not giving me their patronage. Their business houses were upon the same
side of one street, and not very remote from each other. One refused
because my book was not sufficiently religious in its tone, and the other
because he saw the name of the Lord upon one of its pages. It was plainly
evident in both cases that the name of the "Almighty Dollar" as its price
was the most probable impediment.

It was now the last of May, and the intense heat induced me to go
northward; indeed those who hope to enjoy a visit in that part of Texas
must go at some time between the months of September and May, for during
the remainder of the year the inhabitants do nothing but "try to keep
cool."

We stopped over one train at the beautiful town of Sherman, and then
hurried on to St. Louis, where I found my old friend Mrs. Anderson, who,
having visited Baltimore the previous summer, had learned all the
particulars of the death of the beloved Superintendant of our Institution
during my life there.

Mr. Charles H. Keener was the son of Christian Keener, the founder of
Greenmount Cemetery of Baltimore, a sweet resting place which could fitly
receive the appellation given their cemeteries by the Turks--"A City of
the Living." He was the brother of Bishop J.C. Keener, of the Methodist
Episcopal Church South, who is quite celebrated as a Divine. His life was
characterized by a succession of shining acts of self-sacrifice and
affection, and his nature, so quiet and unobtrusive, shrunk so sensitively
from ostentation, that greatness must have been "thrust upon him" ere he
held a name emblazoned upon the roll of fame. His character in contrast
with publicly great men has been most graphically told by the German poet,
who sang--

    "One on earth in silence wrought,
    And his grave in silence sought;
    But the younger, brighter form,
    Passed in battle, and in storm."

As the Superintendent of our Institution, he held the hearts of every
inmate. His younger brother, in a letter of response to some queries,
said--"He was an Engineer in the United States Navy during the War of the
Rebellion, a devoted son, a true patriot, and an earnest Christian man."
He was afterward stationed on the "Island of Navassa," one of the West
India Group, within one hundred miles of Cuba, and was acting as
Superintendent of a Phosphate Company which owned, and worked the Island.
He had been there during eighteen months, when, in September, 1872, the
yellow fever broke out in the Island. After several weeks' resistance he,
too, succumbed to this terrible scourge, and, after a six days' illness,
died on the 9th of November, 1872.

His brother also feelingly makes mention of his last letter, written upon
the day of his attack, as "a marvel of calm resignation." It runs thus: "I
am fast getting ready to be counted among the sick. When you know I am
really dead write to--(here follow the names of many friends) and tell
them to meet me in Heaven. One by one we are passing over, why should we
hesitate? why should I with no one to care for? Surely I have seen trouble
enough in this life! May I feel as little dread of dying at the last
moment as I do now."

His last words were addressed to his second officer, who had been addicted
to dissipation, but who had pledged himself to reform. As he was carried
out to look upon the sea which he loved so well, he said: "Mawson,
remember your pledge," when his head immediately dropped and he entered
into the life eternal.

So did the life of this good man pass gently away while he was still in
the prime of manhood. He was carried to beautiful Greenmount for burial,
near the city in which his name will be coupled with loving memories for
long years to come.




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