Elizabeth Gilbert and Her Work for the Blind Part 19

On the 13th of May the Bishop writes to give an account of the annual meeting held at St. James's Hall, and presided over by the Bishop of London.

QUEEN ANNE STREET, W., _13th May 1861_.

MY VERY DEAR BESSIE--Ford [her maid] gives a most encouraging account of your progress and walking performances, and I can reciprocate with a capital one of this day's meeting. The room was quite full, galleries and all; 2067 were stated to be present.

There were some donations, but I have not heard yet the amount of the collection.

It is clear to me the a.s.sociation has now taken its footing in London and in the nation, and that with G.o.d's blessing it will go on and become a national Inst.i.tution, and that you, my dear child, may humbly rejoice in it. I have not time for more.--Yr. ever affectionate father, A. T. CICESTR.

Such a letter would greatly help forward Bessie's convalescence, which, though slow, was beginning to show signs of progress. In July a letter from Levy must have rea.s.sured her as to the state of his health, and it is interesting as the description of a blind man at a fire, with all his wits about him, and other blind men to help him.

127 EUSTON ROAD, _3d July 1861_.

DEAR MADAM--Last night a fire of an alarming character broke out nearly opposite the Inst.i.tution, and at one time our premises were placed in great danger, large ma.s.ses of fire falling thickly over our premises for upwards of half an hour.

It is a matter of thankfulness that I was at home.

Our officers and other people hastened from their homes to our a.s.sistance. I caused the cocoa-matting to be taken from the floors, immersed in water, and spread over the roof, and every vessel capable of holding water was filled and pa.s.sed from hand to hand in regular succession, so that the stream was continually kept up on all exposed parts.

The office books were tied in blankets ready to be carried away, but providentially the wind changed and we were relieved from anxiety. Four houses were destroyed or injured, but the only damage we have received is from the water, which is very slight--I am, dear madam, yours truly, W. H. LEVY.

During the early summer of 1861 a tent was set up in the garden at Chichester, to which Bessie was carried on all suitable days. She was happy with birds and trees and flowers around her, and received visits from many old and tried friends. Her recovery was very slow, but there was always sufficient progress to point to the ultimate restoration of health.

Throughout the year the workpeople sent affectionate greetings and appreciative verses to their generous friend and patron. Bessie resumed the occupations of her youth, and in the months of her enforced absence from London and the work of the a.s.sociation she wrote long poems and gave her time to music and reading.

With a view to publication, she submitted some of her poems to her old friend, the Rev. H. Browne, asking for a candid opinion. He writes as follows:

PEVENSEY, EASTBOURNE, _15th August 1861_.

DEAR BESSIE--I have read your poems, and, as you desired, have criticised closely. The faults are chiefly in the versification.

Here and there I suspect they have not been written down correctly from your dictation. The thoughts, sentiments, and images are very pleasing, and the expression generally good. That on "The Poplar Leaves" is exceedingly pretty and gracefully expressed. It needs but a few alterations to make it all that it should be. "Spring" is striking in point of thought, but the versification should flow more smoothly, and the diction here and there needs correction.

"Thoughts Suggested by a Wakeful Night" are so good that I should like to see them made as perfect as possible, and as blank verse needs more finish than rhyme this task will need some pains. I hope you will not be discouraged at my criticism. If you think of sending any of these poems to some magazine "The Poplar Leaves"

would best lead the way. I am sorry I cannot help you in this, having no connection with that kind of periodical literature nor any acquaintance with its conductors. You will see that I have made no notes on "Jessie." There are many pleasing lines in it, but it wants unity, the introductory part having no necessary connection with the catastrophe, and the latter being only a distressing accident....

The poems, which with returning health and strength were laid aside, are very defective in form, but the thoughts and feelings that were a solace to the blind lady cannot fail to interest the reader. These poems also show what the Chichester garden was to her, and what intellectual interests and resources she had when she was incapable of the active work of her a.s.sociation.

THE POPLAR LEAVES.

The poplar leaves are whispering low In the setting summer beams; As they catch the lovely farewell glow That lights the hills and streams.

What tell they in those murmurs low, Under the rising moon?

As they wave so gracefully to and fro, I would ask of them a boon.

Have you any word for me, A word I fain would hear?

'Twas dropped perchance beneath your tree Too faint for human ear.

Ye whisper so very low yourselves, That as they lightly pa.s.s, Ye needs must hear e'en fairy elves At revels in the gra.s.s.

Then tell me, tell me, if she came Beneath the setting sun, And breathed a song, a sigh, a name Or sweet word ever a one.

Then whisper it again to me, Ye have not let it go, It thrilled the whole height of your tree Through every leaf I trow.

Yet still they whispered on and on, But never a word for me; Till, from the hill-tops, light was gone; And I left the poplar tree.

Again I stood beneath that tree When the fields were full of sheaves; But now it mattered not to me What said the poplar leaves;

For one stood with me 'neath the moon, As they dropped their whispers low, From whom I gained that precious boon, The word I longed to know.

LINES SUGGESTED BY A WAKEFUL NIGHT.

Oh sleep, where art thou? I could chide thee now That truant-like thou'rt absent from thy place; Or e'en could call thee by a harsher name, Deserter; yet I will not brand thee thus.

Oh! wherefore dost thou leave me? Haste and come, That in thy presence I forget all else.

Except thou grant me from thy precious store Some lovely dream of joy; that, like a child, Lies folded to thy breast, but which thou canst At will send forth to wander here or there, Bearing some wondrous message on its way.

Are such dreams thine? scarce know I whence they are, Yet sleep in sober earnest, I believe They are not truly thine, but dwell above In worlds of light where thou art all unknown.

Yet hold they here strange intercourse with thee, So that thy soft'ning veil is o'er them thrown, And a mist in part doth dim their brightness, And dull the melody of their sweet voice.

While, in the language of their home, they tell Of its joy and beauty, bidding our souls, As treasures, keep the whispers which they bring.

For though their sweet voice m.u.f.fled be and low, And though thy dewy mist enfold them, Yet speak they truly with such heavenly power, That in the joy and light of such a presence Doth the spirit see this world, and heaven To be more near than ofttimes we can tell In the movements of our life; when the links Uniting both, by us are left untraced; While sad and weary we do often mourn Their dreary distance, since our faithless hearts Will sunder them so far, then cannot rest In the sever'd world they make unto themselves, Since that they are inheritors of both.

And He who dwelt on earth, to prove with power That both these worlds were one, meeting in Him, Since by His mighty will of love He came To link again upon the Cross the chain Which should so closely evermore have bound them, Which, save for Him, had utterly been sever'd, He hath said, for every age to hear, Within is the Kingdom of G.o.d; blest truth, Within; and yet we look afar and gaze Around in search of somewhat we call heaven, And oft perchance thinking 'tis found, rejoice, But soon in sadness is the quest renewed.

For that we seek a kingdom of our own, No hope than this more utterly forlorn, We have no kingdom and we cannot reign, In serving only can we find our life And perfect freedom, the true life of kings.

But whom to serve we may, nay needs must, choose; And if the happy choice be made, then ours Is the glorious privilege to know That earth and heaven (howe'er Rebellion, With his sceptre point in triumph, saying Behold me, by earth's homage, king confessed), One kingdom are, rul'd ever by one King.

Who through His love will teach this, more and more Until our hearts, living His life of love, Shall know and feel His presence all their heaven.

EVENING.

1.

Ye sounds of day, why all so still, And hushed as if in sleep?

Is there some power whose sovereign will Bids you such silence keep?

I ask'd, no voice replied, it seemed The while as tho' all nature sweetly dreamed, But soon that spirit of the shade The breeze, in softest whispers, answer made.

2.

Hast thou seen the sun, with fainting beams In parting, kiss the hills and streams, Didst mark the blush of that farewell glow And how he linger'd loth to go?

For soon to the queen of the glowing west, He knew he must yield and sink to rest.

3.

He had caught the sound of her step from far, Had heard her greet her own bright star, And triumphing tell how the G.o.d of day Would yield his kingdom to her sway, And how she comes to reign alone, For he is gone, that glorious one.